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 THE HISTORY A HD MYSTERY OF THE PANTOMIME: 
 
 WITH SOME CURIOSITIES AND DROLL ANECDOTES CONCERNING CLOWN AND 
 PANTALOON, HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE. 
 
 LONDON: J. H. THOMSON, 49 FLEET STREET, E.C. 
 
 1863. 
 
LONDON: PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Introduction .. 
 
 Chapter I.—The Invention of the Pantomime. 
 
 Roman Pantomime—Quarrels of the Players—Early Amateurs— 
 A Peep at a Classical Theatre—Masks—Acoustic Contrivances— 
 Machinery for the Gods—Blondin’s Predecessors. 
 
 Chapter II.—The Italian Pantomime 
 
 Harlequin appears — Character of Harlequin — Columbine — The 
 Famous Carlin—The Modern French Harlequin. 
 
 Chapter III—Introduction of the Pantomime into England .. 
 
 Cibber’s Apology for Pantomime—Attraction of Pantomimes—Rich’s 
 Pantomime—Garrick and Kemble in Pantomime—A Speaking 
 Harlequin—The ‘ Coronation ’ hissed—Pantomime Plot. 
 
 Chapter IY.—The Grimaldi Era .. 
 
 Grimaldi’s First Part—Young Joe and the Earl—The New Era— 
 Change in Harlequin’s Costume—Grimaldi’s Clown’s Dress— 
 ‘Mother Goose’ — The Rival Clowns — Traits of Grimaldi — 
 Managerial ‘ Fix ’ — Grimaldi’s Merits— Grimaldi’s Style—Gri¬ 
 maldi’s ‘ Advice to his Son’—Openings of the Early Pantomimes. 
 
 Chapter Y.—Pantomime of the Present 
 
 Mr. Planchd’s Improvements—Transformations—Pantomime and 
 its Rivals—Acrobatism—Elements of the Genuine Pantomime. 
 
 Chapter YI.—The Reading and Rehearsal of the Pantomime 
 
 Official Portraits—The Reading of the Pantomime—The Rehearsals. 
 
 Chapter YII.—Some Mysteries of the Pantomime 
 
 Clown—Pantaloon—A Pantaloon Story—Harlequin—'Harlequin’s 
 Dress— C olumbine. 
 
 Chapter YIH.—Conclusion.. 
 
 Thoughts behind the Curtain—The Red-hot Poker—‘ Properties ’— 
 Stage Management—Risks of the Performers—‘ Comic Business ’ 
 —Pantomime Profitable. 
 
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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2018 with funding from 
 Getty Research Institute 
 
 https://archive.org/details/comicalfellowsorOOhall 
 
COMICAL FELLOWS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Wise men of all ages have affirmed that laughter is a 
 good thing. It clears the lungs, shakes up the dia¬ 
 phragm, and loosens the fetters of the brain. How, 
 then, shall we get a good hearty laugh? Shall we 
 apply to the wit for his subtle refinements, and caustic* 
 jokes ? They but make us smile. Shall we seek the 
 broader drolleries of the humorist ? They only tickle 
 us. If we want a good roar, if we want to make our 
 lungs crow like chanticleer, we must go and see a 
 Christmas Pantomime. There is no fun like it after all. 
 What verbal joke that ever was uttered can equal the 
 exquisite comicality of popping a red-hot poker into 
 the palm of the Pantaloon when he innocently and 
 trustingly holds out the hand of fellowship to the 
 Clown ? Where is the witticism that can compete with 
 sitting on a baby, and flattening it to the shape of a 
 pancake ? Even Materfamilias roars at that, though if 
 anybody were to sit upon her baby she would faint and 
 go into hysterics. Is there a more ludicrous object in 
 the world than a policeman with his hat knocked over 
 his eyes ? Who laughs more heartily at that than the 
 xeal policeman who keeps order in the gallery ? Can 
 you find us in the whole range of the drama a more 
 telling situation than where the butterman slips 
 down and hurts himself on the slide which the clown 
 has made with his own pound of butter ? Pantomime 
 has the power of giving a comic aspect to everything. 
 It makes even crime amusing, and yet without con¬ 
 veying a bad moral. The clown cuts off the head of a 
 
6 
 
 FUN AND CRUELTY. 
 
 dandy who is proud of his whiskers, and the children 
 clap their hands with delight. There is a moral, d’ye 
 see ? He was inordinately vain of that figure-head of 
 his, and he was punished. Serve him right. The 
 clown is an arrant thief. He robs unwary tradespeople 
 right and left, and their discomfiture is the greatest fun 
 in the world. He is dreadfully cruel, and is for ever 
 burning pantaloon with red-hot pokers, slapping him in 
 the face, and shutting his head into boxes ; but how we 
 enjoy it all! We will not stop to inquire why cruelty 
 is so exquisitely funny; but it is exquisitely funny; 
 nothing more so. And, burning with pokers, and jam- 
 ming fingers into doors, and stealing legs of mutton, 
 and squashing babies, are all such very good jokes, that 
 we can bear to see them repeated year after year with¬ 
 out feeling weary of them, or voting them stale and 
 dull. Tell us a verbal joke that will bear such frequent 
 repetition. We think we could go on and prove that a 
 pantomime is the best of all dramatic entertainments. 
 Of what does a pantomime consist ? Action. And is 
 not action the life and soul of every dramatic entertain¬ 
 ment, from a tragedy downwards? There were some 
 ancient mimes who spoke so intelligibly with their 
 hands and arms that an intelligent spectator could 
 translate their story ‘word for word’ into language. 
 In those days (though it may have been very bad taste) 
 the pantomime was infinitely preferred to the tragedy. 
 And, by-the-way, it is said that the dramatic taste of 
 the present day is somewhat in the same condition. In 
 this little volume, however, it is not our intention to 
 deal in odious comparisons. We set out with the con¬ 
 viction that there are a great many worthy people, both 
 old and young, who love to see a good Christmas panto¬ 
 mime, and who are therefore sufficiently interested in 
 all that appertains to that favourite species of entertain¬ 
 ment as to be desirous to have, within the boards of 
 one cheap little book, a succinct and readable account of 
 pantomimical performances from their first introduction 
 
THE INVENTION OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 7 
 
 down to the present day. In following out this task, we 
 purpose to glance, first, at the pantomime of the 
 Romans; secondly, at the pantomime of the Italians in 
 the middle ages; thirdly, at the pantomime on its 
 introduction into England ; and finally, to take the 
 reader behind the scenes, and show him all the pene¬ 
 tralia of the pantomime as we have it at the present 
 day. We begin, then, with 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE INVENTION OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 It is very possible that pantomimic performances were 
 practised at feasts or merry-makings among the Jews 
 and ancient Egyptians, and we know that the early 
 Greek drama largely partook of the nature of panto¬ 
 mime ; but pantomime as a regularly organized thea¬ 
 trical entertainment was first introduced at Rome in 
 the reign of Augustus. Indeed, that exalted personage 
 is said to have been the inventor of it. It is certain, at 
 any rate, that he patronized it most liberally, and that 
 splendid pantomimes were produced in Rome during his 
 reign. Maecenas, Virgil, Horace, Ovid, and most of the 
 literary men of the day, frequented the theatres to wit¬ 
 ness them; and in some of their works we have criti¬ 
 cisms of the pieces and of the actors who performed in 
 them. There were two great rival pantomimists at this 
 time in Rome, Bathyllus and Pylades. The former was 
 originally a slave in the household of Maecenas ; but his 
 master was so delighted with the way in which he used 
 to amuse his guests with mimicry and other antics at 
 table that he gave him his liberty, and procured him an 
 
$ 
 
 THE INVENTION OF THE PANTOMIME, 
 
 -engagement at the theatre. Bathyllus was a grotesque 
 and funny dog, who trode the lighter walks of panto¬ 
 mime ; but Pylades was of a serious turn, and excelled 
 in representing stories of a tragical kind. This Pylades 
 actually wrote a treatise on his art, in which he de¬ 
 clared that no man could be a good pantomimist 
 ( chironomist ' he was called, from the practice of 
 expressing himself chiefly by the motion of the hand) 
 who did not understand music, geometry, natural and 
 moral philosophy, rhetoric, painting, and sculpture. 
 
 All which the poets have feigned,’ wrote Pylades, the 
 clown, ‘ all which the mythologists have taught, all 
 'which the historians have recorded, must ever be 
 present to his recollection.’ The pantomimes in those 
 days generally represented the loves or exploits of the 
 gods and goddesses. The skill of the performers seems 
 to have been perfectly wonderful. The snarling old 
 cynic, Demetrius, after witnessing the pantomime of the 
 4 Loves of Mars and Yenus ’ (in the time of Aero), said, 
 4 1 hear all that you are doing, for it is not only my 
 sight that you address, but your hands appear to 
 speak.’ The people of Rome were quite mad at this 
 time about pantomimes and pantomimists. When Nero 
 requested Demetrius to name what gift he desired, the 
 old gentleman asked for a pantomimist, and assigned as 
 a reason that he had many neighbours of whose lan¬ 
 guage his own people were ignorant, but that if he were 
 in possession of one of the performers in the pantomime 
 he need not provide himself with interpreters. The 
 Emperor Augustus was extremely partial to the panto¬ 
 mimists. By his command they were exempted from 
 that corporal punishment to which mimics and players 
 
ROMAN PANTOMINE. 
 
 9 
 
 were exposed, and they were indulged moreover by a 
 release from certain civil prohibitions. This, however, 
 caused the fraternity to presume upon their privileges. 
 Bathyllus and Pylades became jealous of each other, 
 and their partizans got up rows in the streets, and this 
 caused some of their privileges to be withdrawn. Shortly 
 after this Bathyllus died, and Pylades had the field all 
 to himself, which made him intolerably conceited and 
 overbearing. On one occasion, when a critic hissed him, 
 lie stopped in the middle of his performance and 
 pointed the man out to the indignation of the audience. 
 Por this he was banished; but the populace soon brought 
 him back again. Another rival to Pylades now ap¬ 
 peared in one Hylas, a pupil of the deceased Bathyllus. 
 Pylades and Hylas contended together in the same 
 theatre, and the passages of wit between them seem to 
 have been exceedingly smart. In trying to represent 
 the character of Agamemnon, in a particular line which 
 termed him 4 the great/ Hylas stood up on his tiptoes. 
 
 4 That,’ said Pylades, 4 is being tall, not great.’ The 
 audience called upon him to do it better himself, and 
 when he came to the line he threw himself into an 
 attitude of meditation, thus giving an idea of the first 
 characteristic of a great man. Augustus became alarmed 
 at these disputes, possibly thinking them a little too 
 political, and calculated to excite the populace; but 
 Pylades argued with him, and pointed out the advantage 
 which the emperor gained, as long as the attention of 
 the Bomans could be diverted by pantomimes from the 
 consideration of their political subjection. 4 Sire,’ he 
 said, 4 you are ungrateful: the best thing that can 
 happen to you is that they should busy themselves about 
 
10 
 
 QUARRELS OF THE PLAYERS. 
 
 us . 9 Pylades "was evidently better versed in statecraft 
 than the emperor. Hylas seems to have been a very 
 irritating rival of the old favourite. But he paid the 
 penalty of his provocations at last. A partizan of 
 Pylades caught him one night, and gave him a sound 
 horsewhipping on his own door-step. 
 
 In the reign of Tiberius the quarrels of the players 
 grew yet worse. Blood was shed in the theatres, and 
 not only were the lives of some spectators sacrificed in 
 the squabble, but several of the emperor’s guards were 
 killed. It was consequently proposed in the senate to 
 subject the pantomimists to corporal punishment; but it 
 was eventually considered disrespectful to the memory 
 of Augustus to repeal his act of exemptions. Begula- 
 tions, however, were made for reducing the enormous 
 sums which had hitherto been granted for producing 
 pantomimes, and some provisions were made for di¬ 
 minishing the arrogance of the performers. Senators 
 were forbidden to enter their houses. Boman knights 
 were not allowed to follow in their suite, and their exhi¬ 
 bitions were prohibited elsewhere than in the theatres. 
 But in the course of a few years the disorders arising 
 from these theatrical performances increased to such a 
 pitch that all the actors were banished from Italy. 
 
 They crept back again, however, in the reign of 
 Caligula, and soon acquired all their old licence. Nero 
 found much amusement in their squabbles, and often 
 took part in them. On one occasion, when stones and 
 benches were ffying about in the theatre, Nero actively 
 participated in the fray, and broke the praetor’s head 
 with a footstool. The pantomimists under this reign 
 were once more the delicise (the delights) of the 
 
EARLY AMATEURS. 
 
 11 
 
 Eomans. Again, however, they were banished; and 
 again they were brought back at the demand of the 
 Roman youth, who could not exist without their panto¬ 
 mimes. Under Domitian their performances became of 
 a*; very profligate character. The great performer of 
 these days, Paris, was accused of being too intimate 
 with some of the high-blooded dames of Rome. He 
 devised and acted a pantomime called the ‘Amour 
 of Leda,’ which won great applause, chiefly, it would 
 appear, because it was not very decent. The emperor’s 
 wife, Domitia, fell in love with this handsome panto- 
 mimist, and was divorced in consequence. 
 
 The Roman pantomi mists were employed at this 
 time not only upon the stage, but to amuse the guests 
 at great houses during dinner. They appeared as 
 carvers, and the flying knife which they brandished was 
 directed with a different movement to each dish. He 
 was considered to know little of his art who could not 
 vary his flourish as he operated upon a hare, or a hen, 
 or a lark. 
 
 There were amateur pantomimists in those days. 
 Stage-struck Roman youths paid large sums of money 
 to be allowed to play, and their friends seem to have 
 countenanced and supported them. Pliny tells a story 
 of two youthful Romans of equestrian rank who died 
 while exhibiting in the same pantomime. The scandals 
 which arose in consequence of these unseemly proceed¬ 
 ings led to the final suppression of the pantomimists by 
 Trajan. 
 
 The pantomimes of the Romans were called Fabulse 
 Atellanse , from Atella, the name of a town, where they 
 were first introduced on a small scale. The actors wore 
 
12 
 
 A PEEP AT A CLASSICAL THEATRE. 
 
 masks and high-heeled shoes, furnished with brass or 
 iron heels, which jingled as they danced. Latterly the 
 fabulrn were designed to admit of a good deal of horse 
 play and knocking about, and it is not by any means 
 improbable that the actors may have been in the habit 
 of burning each other with red-hot pokers. It is very 
 certain that a lack in a certain place was held to be a 
 very good joke, and was always rapturously applauded. 
 The Fabulse Atellanse and the Chironomists are therefore 
 fairly entitled to be regarded as the first examples of 
 the pantomime and its modern performers—clown, pan¬ 
 taloon, harlequin, and columbine. 
 
 Before we come to the middle-age Italian period, where 
 we find the pantomime assuming more directly the 
 features which characterise it in the present day, it will 
 perhaps be interesting to take a peep into a theatre of 
 the ancient classic times, and see what sort of a place 
 it was. Every one knows that the first 4 home of the 
 drama ’ was a cart, where the first actor, Thespis, stood 
 and declaimed his poetry to an audience of rustics, who 
 disposed themselves round him on the grass. Shortly 
 after this, TEscliylus built a theatre of wood and con¬ 
 structed a regular stage. But in reading the Grecian 
 pieces—the comedies of Aristophanes for instance—we 
 must not associate our own stage with that of the Greek 
 theatre, or the light in which we shall view them will 
 be a very false one. The theatres of the Greeks were 
 quite open above, and their dramas were always acted 
 in the day, and beneath the canopy of heaven. When 
 a storm or a shower of rain came on, the play was of 
 course interrupted, and the spectators sought shelter in 
 a lofty colonnade which ran behind their seats; but 
 
MASKS—ACOUSTIC CONTRIVANCES. 
 
 13 
 
 they were willing rather to put up with such occasional 
 inconveniences than to be stifled in a close and crowded 
 house. The theatres of the ancients were, in comparison 
 with ours, of colossal magnitude, partly for the sake of 
 containing the whole of the people, with the concourse 
 of strangers who flocked to the festivals, and partly to 
 correspond with the grandeur of the dramas represented 
 in them, which required to be seen at a distance. The 
 seats for the audience were formed of ascending steps, 
 which rose round the semicircle of the orchestra (our 
 pit), so that all could see without inconvenience. The 
 diminution of effect by distance was remedied by the 
 use of large masks, and it is said that the acoustic con¬ 
 trivances enabled every one to hear even at the greatest 
 distance from the stage. The lowest tier of the amphi¬ 
 theatre was raised considerably above the orchestra, 
 and opposite to it was the stage at an equal degree of 
 elevation. The stage consisted of a strip, which stretched 
 from one end of the building to the other, its breadth 
 being in very small proportion to its length. The 
 middle of it was the place where the performers spoke. 
 The front, towards the orchestra, was ornamented with 
 pillars, and small statues between them. The stage, 
 which was erected on a stone foundation, consisted of a 
 wooden platform resting on rafters. The scenic decora¬ 
 tions were contrived so that the principal and nearest 
 object covered the background, and the prospects of 
 distance were given at the two sides—the very reverse 
 of the mode adopted by us. This arrangement had 
 certain rules. On the left was the town to which the 
 palace, temple, house, or whatever occupied the middle 
 belonged; on the right the open country, landscape, &c. 
 
14 
 
 MACHINERY FOR THE GODS. 
 
 The side-scenes were composed of triangles, which 
 turned on a pivot beneath when a change was required. 
 The decoration was for the most part architectural, but 
 occasionally, also, a painted landscape was introduced. 
 In the back wall of the stage there was one main 
 entrance, and at each side a door. As the middle 
 scene was generally a palace, in which the great people 
 resided, they naturally came on through the main 
 entrance, while the servants and inferior persons came 
 on at the side doors. Beneath the seats of the specta¬ 
 tors a flight of stairs was constructed (called Charon’s 
 stairs), by which the infernal personages of the drama 
 ascended into the orchestra and thence to the stage. 
 The machinery for the descent of the gods through the 
 air, or taking up persons from the earth, was placed 
 aloft behind the walls of the two sides of the scene, and 
 consequently removed from the sight of the spectators. 
 Constant use was made of this machinery. In his 
 4 Prometheus,’ ZEschylus, in the first theatre ever built, 
 carried Oceanus through the air on a griffin. He also 
 presented a whole choir of sea nymphs in a winged 
 chariot. There were also traps in the stage for the 
 actors to disappear through, and contrivances for imitat¬ 
 ing thunder and lightning, the fall and burning of 
 houses, &c. In fact, in the very infancy of the stage, 
 there was all the machinery for producing what is 
 known in these days as £ Adelphi effects.’ 
 
 The Boman theatres were very similar to the Greek, 
 and exhibited few improvements. At first, by a decree 
 of the senate, which was strangely opposed to all kinds 
 of theatrical entertainments, no one was allowed to sit 
 down in them. The audience stood all the time. The 
 
blondin’s predecessors. 
 
 15 
 
 first large theatre erected at Eome was built by M. 
 iEmilius Scaurus. It contained 80,000 persons, and 
 was adorned with great magnificence. We are very much 
 inclined to think, however, that some of the stories about 
 the Roman theatres of this time are not to be taken 
 without several grains of salt. For instance, Pliny tells 
 us of a huge theatre erected by Curio (in Csesar’s time), 
 which consisted of two parts suspended on hinges, and 
 formed either one or two theatres. ‘ In both they acted 
 stage plays in the day, and at night they wheeled them 
 both round and formed one grand amphitheatre.’ They 
 must have had some very wonderful machinery in those 
 days. Fancy drawing Drury Lane and Covent Garden 
 together every evening! It is not a little curious that 
 at this time, when pantomime was all the rage at Rome, 
 rope-walking was also a favourite entertainment. A 
 performance similar to Blondin’s was given in Pompey’s 
 theatre in the presence of 700,000 people. The rope- 
 walkers were called Funambuli. It is certain, too, that 
 something like the trapeze was known at this period. 
 Juvenal tells us of Petauristse, who darted their bodies 
 from a machine called the jpetaurum. The pay of 
 players at this time was from five to ten gold pieces, 
 but never more. Any reward that they received over 
 and above this consisted of crowns of laurel-leaves or 
 flowers. 
 
 In ancient Rome the pantomime died out with all 
 the arts and sciences, great and small—in fact, with 
 Rome itself and its civilization. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ITALIAN PANTOMIME. 
 
 The revival of the drama took place in Italy in the 
 time of Leo X., in the fifteenth century. The 4 Sopho- 
 nisba ’ of Prince Trissino was the first regular tragedy 
 produced in Europe after the long interregnum of 
 barbarism. The first comedy was 4 Calandra,’ written 
 by Cardinal Bibiena. But the Italian taste, like the 
 Roman, was decidedly in favour of the comic in its 
 broadest and most practical form. Even their tragedies 
 had comic scenes, as we learn from a description of the 
 tragedy of 4 Radamistus and Zenobia.’ The piece begins 
 with a combat of more than a hundred persons. The 
 personages fight on the stage, besiege a place, and 
 carry it by assault; and though the whole drift of the 
 tragedy is intended to be as affecting as possible, 
 Punchello is one of the warriors who frightens the com¬ 
 batants, parodies the best speeches, makes a jest of the 
 hero, and behaves with all the ridiculous buffoonery of a 
 puppet. Here we clearly have the first germ of the 
 character of Harlequin. And in this same play, that 
 the heroine might not want as striking a contrast as the 
 hero, Zenobia’s nurse is represented by a man with a 
 black beard and a whig made of sheepskin, with the 
 wool on. This tender female talks of virtue and 
 
HARLEQUIN APPEARS. 
 
 17 
 
 delicacy, and is dreadfully frightened lest some one 
 should offer violence to her charms. 
 
 In process of time this comic portion of the tragedy 
 was separated from the graver events of the story, and 
 became a distinct piece of itself. At first the satire of 
 Punchello was directed against persons and things 
 indiscriminately, but in the new form of comedy the 
 satire and fun arose out of the comic types afforded by 
 the inhabitants of the various districts of Italy. The 
 Venetians, the Neapolitans, and the Bolognese were all 
 us distinct as English, Scotch, and Irish, and each one 
 had a similar peculiarity. It was, then, to satirize and 
 make fun of these local peculiarities that the characters 
 of Italian comedy were invented. The original charac¬ 
 ters were Pantalone, a Venetian merchant; Dottore, a 
 Bolognese physician ; Spaviento, a Neapolitan bragga¬ 
 docio ; Pullicinella, a wag of Apulia; Giangurgoto 
 and Coviello, two clowns of Calabria; Gelsomino, a 
 Koinan beau; Beltramo, a Milanese simpleton; Bri- 
 ghella, a Ferrarese pimp, and Arlecchino, a blundering 
 servant of Bergamo. The principal and most active 
 -character of this set was Arlecchino, or harlequin. The 
 others were nearly all his butts, and he seems to have 
 conducted his waggeries much in the manner Fof the 
 clown of the present day. He combined great stupidity 
 and loutishness with much cunning and practical wit. 
 This originally illustrated the character of the Berga- 
 mese, but in the subsequent development of his 
 character Harlequin became universally entertaining 
 without any reference to Bergamo. Addison, who saw 
 a real Italian Arlecchino in his native land, describes 
 him with characteristic magniloquence: 4 Harlequin’s 
 
 c 
 
18 
 
 CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN. 
 
 part is made up of blunders and absurdities; be is to 
 mistake one name for another, to forget his errands, to 
 stumble over queans, and to run against every post that 
 comes in his way.’ It will be seen from this that the 
 character of the original harlequin closely resembled 
 that now assumed by clown and pantaloon. He had, in 
 fact, the attributes of both combined. He was not a 
 mere pirouetter and dancer, as he is at the present day; 
 he was the principal character in the piece. This is 
 attested by the nomenclature of pantomime. It was 
 always ‘ Harlequin this,’ or ‘ Harlequin that,’ and this 
 form is maintained to the present time, though harle¬ 
 quin no longer retains his old importance. The clown, 
 in fact, now fills the place originally occupied by harle¬ 
 quin ; and how this pantomimic transformation was 
 effected will appear when we find pantomime trans¬ 
 planted to England. 
 
 Marmontel gives a minute description of Arlequino, 
 as he appeared when transferred to the French stage : 
 e He is a mixture of ignorance, simplicity, wit, stupidity, 
 and grace; he is a half-made-up man, a great child with 
 gleams of reason and intelligence, and all his mistakes 
 and blunders have something arch about them. The 
 true mode of representing him is to give him supple¬ 
 ness, agility, the playfulness of the kitten with a certain 
 coarseness of exterior which renders his actions more 
 absurd; his part is that of a faithful valet—greedy, 
 always in love, always in trouble, either on his master’s 
 account or his own, afflicted and consoled as easily as a 
 child, and whose grief is as amusing as his joy.’ 
 
 There is no prototype of our clown among the original 
 characters of the Italian comedy. Giangurgoto and 
 
COLUMBINE. 
 
 19 
 
 Covielio did not fulfil the functions of clowns in our 
 sense ; they were merely minor characters, 4 supers ’ in 
 fact. Our pantaloon, however, seems to correspond 
 with the Pantalone of Venice, and in the Colombina of 
 the old comedy we have at least the name of the short- 
 petticoated lady who dallies and pirouettes with our 
 harlequin. Colombina, however, was originally a wait¬ 
 ing-maid in the piece, and did not dance. The various 
 characters spoke the dialect of the district to which 
 they were supposed to belong, and all wore masks 
 except Colombina and the two other waiting-maids, 
 Smeraldina and SjpilleUa. At first the pieces— 4 Comedia 
 dell’ Arte ’ they were called — were trusted to the 
 extempore wit of the performers, but subsequently 
 plot and dialogue were written for them. It will thus 
 be seen that these Italian farces were not, strictly 
 speaking, ‘ Pantomimes.’ The actors all spoke, but the 
 fun was chiefly of a practical kind. 
 
 Harlequin became a very important personage on the 
 French stage. He still maintained his Italian character, 
 but he greatly extended the range of his satire. He 
 did not confine himself to practical jokes at the expense 
 of the other characters with whom he was engaged, but 
 launched out into biting sarcasms at the follies of the 
 day. Pie became the censor both of morals and politics. 
 Harlequin and his companions were introduced between 
 the scenes of dramas and comedies in the time of 
 Moliere exactly in the same way that we find them 
 figuring in the early Italian tragedies. The most cele¬ 
 brated of the French harlequins was Carlo Bertinanzi, 
 or Carlin as he was more familiarly called. His special 
 excellence lay in the serious and stolid manner in which 
 
 c 2 
 
yo 
 
 THE FAMOUS CAIMAN. 
 
 he would do something exceedingly grotesque and 
 humorous. His gestures are said to have been almost 
 as intelligible as speech, and when he spoke, a single 
 word was enough to set the audience in a roar. Carlin 
 indulged in a great deal of the practical fun which is 
 now the principal feature of our pantomimes. ‘ When 
 he slipped as he came on the stage, or, in a night 
 scene, stumbled over a post or ran up against a wall, it 
 was done with such a natural air that his audience 
 could scarcely refrain from crying out to him to take 
 care. The black mask, the little cocked hat, and the 
 bat were then, as now, the insignia of the part. Not¬ 
 withstanding the mask, Carlin’s power of expressing 
 himself was such that it was common to find yourself 
 fixing your eye-glass on the black, senseless pasteboard 
 and fancying you were watching an endless succession 
 of comical expressions. As for the hat, he turned it to 
 the most marvellous account as a means of denoting the 
 various “moods of his changeful spirit. When it was 
 straight upon his head, with the edges turned up all 
 round in the r form of a diadem, it gave him an air of 
 audacious defiance. A little on one side, with the 
 corner drawn down towards the shoulder, it gave him a 
 -tender, graceful air, and signified that he was waiting 
 for columbine, and that love was busy with his thoughts. 
 If both corners hung like drooping ears on each side of 
 his mask, he had encountered or was anticipating some 
 misfortune, and the spectator might fancy tears rolling 
 down his black cheeks ; but if his spirit was elated with 
 joy, both corners were cocked up with a swaggering, 
 triumphant twirl that seemed to throw scorn in the 
 teeth of fate.’ Such is the testimony of Carlin’s country- 
 
THE MODERN FRENCH HARLEQUIN. 
 
 21 
 
 man, Fleury. English admirers of pantomime have 
 spoken in similar terms of Joe Grimaldi; and, by-the- 
 way, Carlin and Grimaldi were both of Italian origin. 
 The Arlequin of French comedy eventually merged 
 into the roguish and witty valet, who plays in the 
 carpenter’s scenes with the saucy waiting-maid. As 
 Arlequin he exists no longer. In England he was 
 reserved for, let us say, a better fate, for he still pre¬ 
 serves some ghost of his identity at the present day. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 INTRODUCTION OF THE PANTOMIME INTO ENGLAND. 
 
 The pantomime was first introduced into England by 
 Mr. Rich, the manager of Covent Garden Theatre. The 
 first entertainment of this kind was produced in 1717, 
 at the theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and was called 
 f Harlequin Sorcerer.’ It was quite a novelty at the 
 time and was thus described: 4 A species of dramatic 
 composition consisting of two parts, one serious and the 
 other comic. By the help of gay scenes, fine habits, 
 grand dances, appropriate music and other decorations, 
 Mr. Rich exhibited a story from Ovid’s “ Metamor¬ 
 phoses” or some other fabulous work. Between the 
 pauses, or acts, of this serious representation, he inter- 
 w r ove a comic fable, consisting chiefly of the courtship 
 of harlequin and columbine, with a variety of surprising 
 adventures and tricks which were produced by the 
 magic wand of harlequin; such as the sudden transfor¬ 
 mation of palaces and temples to huts and cottages ; of 
 men and women into wheelbarrows and joint-stools ; of 
 trees turned to houses; colonnades to beds of tulips, 
 and mechanics’ shops into serpents and ostriches.’ The 
 fertility of Rich’s invention in devising entertainments 
 was very extraordinary. Of all the pantomimes which 
 he produced between 1717 and 1761 scarcely one was a 
 
cibber’s apology for pantomime. 
 
 23 
 
 failure. It is not a little odd that pantomime should 
 have found its rise at the time when the public was 
 entertained with a larger share of theatrical talent than 
 had been known for many years. Garrick, Quin, 
 Mrs. Cibber, and Mrs. Pritchard were at Covent Garden ; 
 Barry, Mrs. Woffington, Mrs. Clive, and Mack!in at 
 Drury Lane. Yet Bich had no sooner started pan¬ 
 tomime at Covent Garden than Lacey followed his 
 example at Drury Lane. A few years after the pro¬ 
 duction of 4 Harlequin Sorcerer,’ Thurmond the ballet- 
 master brought out ‘ Harlequin Dr. Faustus ’ at Drury 
 Lane. Bich regarded this as an encroachment on his 
 prerogative, and immediately produced tf Harlequin 
 Necromancer; or, Dr. Faustus.’ This rivalry was 
 celebrated in the epilogue to 4 Edwin ’:— 
 
 £ Yon rival theatre, by success made great, 
 
 Plotting destruction to our sinking state, 
 
 Turn’d our own arms upon us, and woe be to us, 
 
 They needs must raise the devil to undo us. 
 
 Straight our enchanter gave our spirits v 7 ing 
 And conjured all the town within this ring.’ 
 
 Cibber thought it necessary to make an apology for 
 admitting pantomime to the boards of a great Temple 
 of the Drama. ‘ I would never have consented,’ he 
 says, £ if there had not been a second theatre; but they 
 were obliged, at Drury Lane, either to comply with the 
 public taste or starve.’ Pope had a fling at the pan- 
 tomimists as a matter of course :— 
 
 1 When lo ! to dark encounter in mid air 
 New wizards rise—here Booth, and Cibber there ; 
 
 Booth in his cloudy tabernacle shrin’d, - 
 On grinning dragons Cibber mounts the wind.’ 
 
ATTRACTION OF PANTOMIMES. 
 
 24 
 
 & Cibber replied to this: ‘ If you figuratively mean that 
 I was an encourager of these fooleries you are mis¬ 
 taken, for it is not true : if you intend it literally that 
 I was dunce enough to mount a machine there is as 
 little truth in that too.’ When a number of gentle¬ 
 men in a coffee-house thanked Booth for the great 
 pleasure they had received the night before from his 
 performance of Yaranes, and at the same time blamed 
 him for tacking to so fine a part the senseless stuff of 
 4 Perseus and Andromeda,’ Booth frankly said that lie- 
 thought a thin audience a much greater indignity to 
 the stage than the fooleries they had mentioned, and & 
 full one was most likely to keep up the spirit of the 
 actor, and consequently heighten the representation. 
 He also begged them to consider that there were more 
 spectators than men of taste and judgment, and if by 
 the artifice of a pantomime they could entice a greater 
 number to partake of a good play than could be drawn 
 without it, he could not see any great harm in it; that 
 as these pieces were performed after the play they were- 
 no interruption to it, and for his part, he considered 
 profit as well as fame, and agreed, with Aaron Hill, 
 that it was not the business of managers to be wise to* 
 empty benches. 
 
 Such was the attraction of pantomimes at this time 
 that the price to the boxes was always doubled when 
 they were played, and the receipts at the end of the 
 week instead of being 500 1 . were often 1,000Z. When 
 it was objected that those who were desirous to see a 
 play were obliged to pay an advanced price for what 
 they did not want to see, the managers inserted in 
 their bills a notice to the following effect: 4 The? 
 
KlCIi’s pantomime. 
 
 25 
 
 advance money to be returned to those who choose to 
 go out before the overture to the entertainment (or 
 pantomine.)’ This silenced the clamour, and the 
 managers did not find their receipts much lessened. 
 
 The pantomime which Rich introduced was to a 
 great extent a faithful copy of the Italian. Harlequin 
 still preserved his proper place as the hero of the story. 
 But Rich made one important alteration—he closed har¬ 
 lequin’s mouth, and made him speak only in dumb show. 
 Perhaps Mr. Rich had his own private reasons for this, 
 and these reasons may be gathered from the following 
 description of that celebrated person: 4 His education 
 had been grossly neglected, for though his under¬ 
 standing was good his language was coarse and ungram¬ 
 matical. From an habitual inattention he had contracted 
 a habit of calling every one mister. This appellation 
 having been on several occasions repeatedly addressed 
 to Foote, the latter grew warm, and asked him the reason 
 * he did not call him by his name. “ Don’t be angry,” 
 said Rich, “for I sometimes forget my own name. :> 
 “ I know,” replied Foote, “ that you can’t write your 
 own name, but I wonder you should forget it.” 5 
 
 Rich, however, though vulgar and uneducated, had a 
 great deal of natural cleverness, and though brusque 
 and insolent in his business connections, was a very es¬ 
 timable man in private life. He gave away a great 
 deal of money in charity, and had many theatrical 
 pensioners entirely depending upon him. As a manager 
 he had but one rule in judging of a play, and one rule 
 in estimating the qualities of his actors. If a play 
 drew money, and showed a profit in the books at the 
 end of the week, it was a good one; so Rich judged 
 
26 
 
 GARRICK AND KEMBLE IN PANTOMIME. 
 
 the actor to be good who brought down the applause 
 of the house. It was the fashion in literary circles to 
 abuse Rich for haying brought degradation upon the 
 drama by following such sordid principles; but better 
 men, or those who accounted themselves better men, 
 while they decried the policy of Rich, did precisely the 
 same thing. Mr. Garrick himself was not above 
 calling in the aid of pantomime, and it will be seen 
 by-and-by that the stately John Kemble was in despair 
 one night when Joe Grimaldi was taken ill and was 
 unable to play in 4 Harlequin Hoax.’ 
 
 As Mr. John Rich could not write his own name, we 
 may well believe that he did not write his own pan¬ 
 tomimes ; nor is it likely that he had much to do with 
 openings, seeing that they were for the most part taken 
 from Ovid and other classical authors of whose works 
 Rich could have known little or nothing. Yvhat Mr. 
 Rich did was to introduce pantomime to the English 
 stage, and invent what is called the comic business. 
 Mr. Rich was not only a very clever contriver of pan¬ 
 tomimic scenes and tricks, but he was himself a very 
 admirable actor of harlequin. Mr. Davies, while eu¬ 
 logising Garrick, cannot help bestowing a word of 
 praise upon one who was the chief enemy of the high 
 class of art which Garrick professed. Speaking of 
 Rich, he says: 4 Nor can we boast of any one man who 
 has, during the space of fifty years, approached to his 
 excellence; his gesticulation was so perfectly ex¬ 
 pressive of his meaning that every motion of his hand 
 or head, or any part of his body, was a kind of dumb 
 eloquence that was readily understood by the audience. 
 Mr. Garrick’s action was not more perfectly adapted to 
 
A SPEAKING HARLEQUIN. 
 
 27 
 
 his characters than Mr. Rich’s attitudes and move¬ 
 ments to the varied employment of the wooden-sword 
 magician. His leave-taking of columbine in one or 
 two of his pantomines was at once graceful and affect¬ 
 ing. His consummate skill in teaching others to 
 express the language of the mind by action was evi¬ 
 dent from the great number of actors he produced to 
 fill up the inferior parts of his mimic scenes. Pan¬ 
 taloon, pierrot the clown, and all the other various 
 characters he formed himself, and to his instructions we 
 owed Hippisley, Mvelon, La Guerre, Arthur and 
 Lalanse—all excellent performers in these mummeries.’ 
 
 We have seen that in Mr. Rich’s pantomimes the 
 harlequin was the principal character, the hero, in fact, 
 of the story, and that he did not speak, but conveyed 
 his meaning by dumb show; we have seen, also, that 
 the clown was a very inferior part, less in importance 
 than even pantaloon and pierrot. Oddly enough, the 
 first innovation upon Rich’s plan was introduced by 
 no less a person than Mr. Garrick. In his 4 Harlequin’s 
 Invasion ’ Mr. Garrick introduced a speaking harlequin, 
 and in a prologue passed an eulogium upon Mr. Rich:— 
 
 ‘ But why a speaking harlequin ? ’Tis wrong, 
 
 The wits will say, to give the fool a tongue. 
 
 When Lun* appeared, with matchless art and whim 
 He gave the power of speech to every limb ; 
 
 Tho’ masked and mute, conveyed his quick intent, 
 
 And told in frolic gestures all he meant; 
 
 But now the motley coat, and sword of wood, 
 
 Require a tongue to make them understood.’ 
 
 This was certainly a very high compliment. But 
 possibly Garrick would not have been so ready to make 
 
 * The name adopted by Rich when he first appeared as harlequin 
 at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. 
 
28 
 
 THE 4 CORONATION ’ HISSED. 
 
 a public acknowledgment of Mr. Rick’s excellence Lad 
 the pantomimist been alive to dispute the field with 
 him. Garrick had entered into rivalry with Rich on 
 his own ground, and almost invariably came off second 
 best. The rival spectacles produced at King George’s 
 coronation afford an amusing illustration of this. 
 Garrick knew very well that Rich would spare no 
 expense in getting up his show. He knew, too, that 
 he had a rare taste in ordering, dressing, and setting 
 out these pompous processions ; he therefore contented 
 himself with reviving the 4 Coronation,’ with the old 
 dresses which had been occasionally used from 1727 to 
 1761. This spectacle he repeated for nearly forty nights 
 successively, sometimes at the end of a play, and at 
 other times after a farce. The exhibition was the 
 meanest and most tawdry ever seen. The stage, indeed, 
 was opened into Drury Lane, and a new and unex¬ 
 pected sight surprised the audience, of a real bonfire 
 and the populace huzzaing and drinking. The stage 
 in the mean time, amidst the parading of dukes, 
 duchesses, archbishops, peeresses, heralds, &c., was 
 covered with a thick smoke from the fire, which served 
 to hide the tawdry dresses of the actors. During this, 
 the actors being exposed to suffocation from the 
 smoke and the raw air from the open street, were 
 seized with colds, rheumatism, and swelled faces. At 
 length the indignation of the audience could stand it no 
 longer. Tired with the repeated insult of a show which 
 had nothing to support it but gilt copper and old rags, 
 they fairly drove the actors off the stage by hooting 
 and hissing, to the great joy of the whole theatre. 
 Rich, on the other hand, fully satisfied the expectations 
 of the public. Such a profusion of fine clothes, of 
 
PANTOMIME PLOT. 
 
 29 
 
 velvet, of silk, satin, lace, feathers, jewels, &c., had 
 never before been seen on any stage. The scenery, 
 music, and other aids were all on a corresponding scale 
 of grandeur, and the spectacle was shown to crowded 
 and delighted audiences. Eich died while the spec¬ 
 tacle was yet running. 
 
 The theory of the pantomime invented, or rather 
 adapted, by Rich, was this:—Harlequin was the lover of 
 Columbine, Pantaloon was her father, and the Clown was 
 the blundering servant of Harlequin. The harlequinade 
 represented the courtship of harlequin and columbine, 
 whose course of true love was prevented from running 
 smooth by the constant interference of her father, 
 pantaloon. The pantomime generally opened with the 
 abduction of columbine from pantaloon’s house. Pan¬ 
 taloon would discover his loss and follow in pursuit, and 
 when overtaken, harlequin used his magic bat to play 
 tricks upon the old man and defeat his purpose. In this 
 the clown was the assistant and servant of harlequin, 
 and his function was to delude and beguile the panta¬ 
 loon while harlequin was courting his daughter. In the 
 course of their adventures, columbine was often rescued 
 by her father and taken back home; but was always 
 carried off again by her lover, with whom she is at last 
 made happy with the old man’s consent. The bat, or 
 wooden sword, was supposed to have the power of 
 changing copper into gold, cutting people in half, and 
 enabling harlequin to jump through stone walls and 
 vault over the tops of houses. The four colours of his 
 dress had a special meaning. The yellow indicated 
 jealousy; the blue, truth; the scarlet, love; and the 
 black, invisibility; and they stood at the same time as 
 the emblems of fire, air, earth, and water. 
 
CHAPTER IY. 
 
 THE GRIMALDI ERA. 
 
 It may almost be said that the mantle of Harlequin 
 Rich fell upon the shoulders of David Garrick. It is 
 true that Garrick never donned the spangles; but when 
 Rich died he took pantomime under his special charge, 
 and introduced to the public that great innovator. 
 Signor Giuseppe Grimaldi, the father of the immortal 
 Joe. It was Grimaldi the elder who paved the way for 
 raising clown to the first place in the pantomime; and 
 it was his son, Joe, who established the clown’s claim to 
 hold that place thenceforward. The merit of the inno¬ 
 vation, however, was the father’s, not the son’s. Signor 
 Giuseppe Grimaldi was originally a pantomime actor at 
 the fairs in Italy and Prance at the time those fairs 
 supplied the French theatres with some of their most 
 famous dancers. He was first employed in England at 
 the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket, to act in ballets, 
 and afterwards, in 1758-9, at Drury Lane and Covent 
 Garden. At Drury Lane he was engaged by Garrick 
 to play in a pantomime dance called the 4 Millers.’ He 
 also played in a ballet called the 4 Italian Gardener,’ 
 which was performed during the time that the dingy 
 pageant of the 4 Coronation ’ was running. A writer in 
 the 4 London Chronicle ’ thus spoke of him and the 
 
Grimaldi’s first part. 
 
 31 
 
 piece: ‘ Grimaldi is a man of great strength and 
 agility; lie, indeed, treads the air. If he has any 
 fault, he is rather too comical. . . . Whoever composed 
 the “ Millers ” has, I think, shown himself a man of 
 genius. ... I cannot, however, help observing that he 
 has been indebted to Don Quixote; for when Signor 
 Grimaldi comes in asleep on his ass, it is stolen from 
 under him in the same manner that Gines de Passg- 
 mont robs poor Sancho of his, and the same joy is 
 testified by both parties in the recovery of the brute.’ 
 
 When Grimaldi the elder first appeared in a e regular 
 pantomime ’ he played the part of harlequin. This was 
 at Drury Lane, and the piece was called 6 Fortunatus.’ 
 Clown, at this time, was an inferior part; but after a 
 little time the Signor, at Sadler’s Wells, adopted the 
 part of clown, and combined with it the functions of 
 harlequin. It was when he was playing clown at 
 Sadler’s Wells that he flung his son Joe into the pit. 
 Little Joe, who was only about two years of age, w r as 
 playing a monkey in the piece. In one of the scenes 
 his father used to lead him on by a chain attached to 
 his waist, and with this he would swing him round at 
 arm’s length with great velocity. One night the chain 
 broke, and little Joe was hurled into the arms of an old 
 gentleman in the pit who was sitting gazing at the 
 performance with intense interest. This was certainly 
 the first time that the clown was made the most promi¬ 
 nent character in the pantomime. On several occasions 
 at Sadler’s Wells little Joe played a miniature clown, 
 made up exactly like his father. An amusing anecdote 
 of Joe’s first appearance in this character is told in his 
 4 Memoirs.’ ‘ The Earl of Derby, who was at that time 
 
32 
 
 YOUNG JOE AND THE EAEL. 
 
 in the constant habit of frequenting the greenroom, to 
 court Miss Farren, whom he afterwards married, walked 
 in one evening and saw little Joe, in his clown’s dress, 
 crouching in a corner, where his father had placed him, 
 with directions not to stir, on pain of a thrashing, 
 
 4 44 Halloa ! here, my boy; come here!” said the 
 earl. 
 
 4 Joe made a wonderful and astonishing face, but 
 remained where he was. The earl laughed heartily, 
 and looked round for an explanation. 
 
 4 44 He dare not move,” explained Miss Farren ; 44 his 
 father will beat him if he does.” 
 
 4 44 Indeed!” said his lordship. At which Joe, by 
 way of confirmation, made another face, more extra¬ 
 ordinary than his former one. 
 
 4 44 1 think,” said his lordship, laughing again, 44 the 
 boy is not quite so much afraid of his father as you 
 suppose. Come here, sir!” 
 
 4 With this, he held up half-a-crown, and the child, 
 perfectly well knowing the value of money, darted from 
 his corner, seized it with pantomimic suddenness, and 
 was darting back again, when the earl caught him by 
 the arm. 
 
 4 44 Here, Joe,” said the earl, 44 take off your wig, and 
 throw it in the fire, and here’s another half-crown for 
 you.” 
 
 4 Ho sooner said than done. Off came the wig ; into 
 the fire it went: a roar of laughter arose; the child 
 capered about with a half-crown in each hand. The 
 earl, alarmed for the consequences to the boy, busied 
 himself to extricate the wig with the poker and tongs, 
 and the father, in full dress for the shipwrecked 
 
THE NEW EEA. 
 
 33 
 
 mariner (in “ Robinson Crusoe ”), rusbed into the room 
 at the moment. It was lucky for little Joe that Lord 
 Derby promptly and humanely interfered on his behalf. 
 But, as it was, the matter could not be compromised 
 without his receiving a smart beating, which made him 
 cry very bitterly; and the tears running down his face, 
 which was painted “ an inch thick,” came to the com¬ 
 plexion at last in parts, and made him look as much 
 like a little clown as like a little human being, to 
 neither of which characters he bore the slightest resem¬ 
 blance. He was called almost immediately afterwards; 
 and the father, being in a violent rage, had not noticed 
 the circumstance until the little object came on the 
 stage, when a general roar of laughter directed his 
 attention to his grotesque appearance. Becoming more 
 violent than before, he fell upon him at once, and beat 
 him severely, and the child roared vociferously. This 
 was all taken by the audience as a most capital joke. 
 Shouts of laughter and peals of applause shook the* 
 house, and the newspapers next day declared that it 
 was perfectly wonderful to see a mere child perform so 
 naturally, and highly creditable to his father’s talents as 
 a teacher.’ 
 
 But though young Joe began thus early as clown, 
 some years elapsed before he had an opportunity of 
 raising the character to the importance which it now 
 enjoys. The new era of pantomime may be said to 
 have opened with the present century, when Joe 
 Grimaldi, in conjunction with Mr. James Byrne, the 
 ballet-master (father of the existing Oscar), produced 
 4 Harlequin Amulet, or the Magic of Mona,’ at Drury 
 Lane. This harlequinade was distinguished by several 
 
 D 
 
34 
 
 CHANGE IN HARLEQUIN’S COSTUME. 
 
 unusual features, besides its success. Foremost among 
 them was an entire change in the character of harle¬ 
 quin and in the costume. Before that time it had been 
 customary to attire harlequin in a loose jacket and 
 trousers, and it had been considered indispensable that 
 he should be perpetually attitudinizing in five positions, 
 and doing nothing else but passing instantaneously from 
 one to the other, and never pausing without being in 
 one or the other. All these conventional notions were 
 abolished by Byrne, who this year made his first ap¬ 
 pearance as harlequin, and made harlequin a very 
 original character to the play-going public. His atti¬ 
 tude and jumps were all new, and his dress was infi¬ 
 nitely improved. The latter consisted of a white silk 
 shape, fitting without a wrinkle, and into which the 
 variegated silk patches were woven; the whole being 
 profusely covered with spangles, and presenting a very 
 sparkling appearance. The innovation was accepted 
 with great applause, and Grimaldi himself testified that 
 it was well deserved. ‘For/ says he, £ Mr. James 
 Byrne was at that time the best harlequin on the boards, 
 and never has been excelled, even if equalled, since 
 that period.’ This change, however, condemned harle¬ 
 quin to be a mere dancer and posturer. The clown 
 became the great mirth-maker of the piece, and Gri¬ 
 maldi’s extraordinary talent gave it a patent to pre¬ 
 eminence for the future. In the opening of ‘ Harlequin 
 Amulet/ Grimaldi had to perform Punch, and after¬ 
 wards to change to clown. His performance of Punch 
 was so excellent, that Sheridan tried to persuade him to 
 continue the character all through the piece ; but 
 Punch’s trappings were more than Grimaldi could bear 
 
Grimaldi’s clown’s dress. 
 
 35 
 
 for a whole evening. They consisted of a large and 
 heavy hump on his chest, and another on his back, a 
 high sugar-loaf cap, a long-nosed mask and heavy 
 wooden shoes ; the weight of the whole dress, and of the 
 humps, nose, and shoes being exceedingly great. Having 
 to exercise all his strength in this costume, and to 
 perform a vast quantity of 4 comic business/ he was 
 compelled by fatigue, at the end of the sixth scene, to 
 assume the clown’s dress, and so relieve himself from 
 the immense weight of the dress of Punch. 
 
 Grimaldi’s clown’s dress, however, was different from 
 that now in vogue. He made himself up to represent 
 a great lubberly loutish boy—a clown, in fact, as the 
 character ought to be. His trousers, large and baggy, 
 and well defined by the aid of stuffing in the posterior 
 quarter, were buttoned on to his jacket; and round his 
 neck he wore a schoolboy’s frill. He did not chalk and 
 paint his face in the elaborate manner now adopted 
 (and which makes all our modern clowns look exactly 
 alike), but put on some patches of red, so as to give the 
 notion of a greedy boy who had smeared himself with 
 jam in robbing a cupboard. Grimaldi produced all his 
 effects by the humour of his acting—by the comic mugs 
 which he drew, by the grotesqueness of his pantomimic 
 action, by the naivete of his blunders, and by the 
 genuine humour of all his practical jokes. He did not, 
 like the clowns of the present day, call in the aid of 
 acrobatism, and dance upon stilts, walk upon barrels, 
 or play the fiddle behind his back; nor did he seek to 
 gain the applause of his audience by astonishing leaps 
 and feats of strength. He trusted all to the force of 
 his natural humour; and such was his power, that he 
 
 d 2 
 
36 
 
 ‘MOTHER GOOSE.’ 
 
 made the success of pieces which were utterly wanting' 
 in even the commonest accessories of a spectacle. The; 
 famous pantomime of ‘Mother Goose 5 owed its fame 
 and popularity entirely to Grimaldi. Nothing was 
 done for it by the management. It had neither 
 gorgeous processions, nor gaudy banners, nor splendid 
 scenery, nor showy dresses. There was not even a 
 spangle used in the piece, with the exception of those* 
 which decked the harlequin’s jacket, and even they 
 would have been dispensed with but for Grimaldi’s 
 advice. The last scene was simply a pair of flats, and 
 there was no ‘ blaze of triumph ’ whatever. Yet, thanks 
 to the exquisite fooling of Grimaldi, 4 Mother Goose 
 was an uproarious success. On its production on the 
 26th of December, 1806, it was received with the most 
 deafening shouts of applause, and was played for ninety- 
 two nights in succession—indeed, to the end of the 
 season. Grimaldi himself did not think very highly of 
 this pantomime. He always declared that his own part 
 was one of the worst he ever played, and that there was. 
 not a trick or situation in the piece to which he had not 
 been well accustomed for years. Grimaldi was possibly 
 right about the piece, for afterwards, when another 
 clown played in it, it proved a very flat and dull affair 
 indeed. 
 
 It is worthy of remark, as a testimony to Grimaldi’s, 
 great genius and popularity, that a gorgeous pantomime* 
 brought out at Drury Lane as a rival to ‘Mother 
 Goose, 5 proA T ed a complete failure, though it had all the 
 advantage of magnificent scenery and startling effects. 
 Montgomery played clown, but the business was so poor 
 that the audience began to hiss before it was half over. 
 
THE RIVAL CLOWNS. 
 
 37 
 
 and eventually grew- so clamorous that it was deemed 
 prudent to drop the curtain long before the intended 
 -conclusion of the piece. Grimaldi’s great superiority 
 over even the best pantomimists of his day receives a 
 remarkable illustration in his contest with the famous 
 Bradbury. On his return from a provincial engage¬ 
 ment, Grimaldi found that Bradbury had been engaged 
 at Sadler’s Wells, and that he (Grimaldi) was not 
 wanted. However, on the occasion of Bradbury’s 
 benefit, it was arranged that they should both play in 
 the same pantomime, Bradbury sustaining the part of 
 clown for the first three scenes, then Grimaldi taking 
 it for the next three, and Bradbury coming in again to 
 finish. Grimaldi did not like this arrangement. He 
 was afraid that Bradbury had thrown him completely 
 out of favour with the public, and that he would have 
 no chance with him. The result proved otherwise. The 
 moment he appeared Grimaldi was received with the 
 most tremendous applause. Animated by this en¬ 
 couraging reception, he redoubled his exertions, and 
 went through his three scenes amidst the loudest and 
 most enthusiastic applause. This reception rather vexed 
 and confused the other, who had to follow, and who, 
 .striving to outdo his predecessor, made such a complete 
 failure that, although it was his own benefit, and he 
 might reasonably be supposed to have a good many 
 friends in the house, he was actually hissed, and ran off 
 the stage in confusion. Grimaldi finished the panto¬ 
 mime for him; and the brilliant manner in which it 
 went off sufficiently testified to him that all the fears 
 and doubts which had previously haunted him were 
 utterly groundless. Indeed, when the performance was 
 
38 
 
 TRAITS OF GRIMALDI. 
 
 over, Bradbury frankly admitted that he was the best 
 clown he had ever seen, and that if he had been aware 
 of his abilities he would not have suffered himself to be 
 put in competition with him on any account whatever. 
 
 Like all great actors, Grimaldi threw himself heart and 
 soul into his part, and felt all the emotions of it almost 
 as keenly as though he had actually been the character 
 which he assumed. The part of Orson, in the panto¬ 
 mimic melodrama of ‘Valentine and Orson/ was, in 
 Grimaldi’s opinion, the most arduous part he ever 
 undertook. He played the part both in town and 
 country on many occasions, but the effect produced 
 upon him by the exertion of the last scene in the first 
 act was always the same. As soon as the act-drop fell 
 he would stagger off the stage into a small room behind 
 the prompter’s box, and, sinking into an arm-chair, 
 give full vent to the emotions which he found it im¬ 
 possible to suppress. He would sob and cry aloud, and 
 suffer so much from violent and agonizing spasms, that 
 those about him, accustomed as they at length became 
 to the distressing scene, were very often in doubt up to 
 the very moment of his being ‘called’ whether he 
 would be able to go upon the stage for the second act. 
 He never failed, however. Extraordinary as his suffer¬ 
 ings were, his fear of not being ready as the time for his 
 call approached, and the exertions he made to conquer 
 these painful feelings, invariably enabled him to rally at 
 the necessary time. 
 
 Though ‘ only a clown,’ Grimaldi became a very 
 famous and important person. The highest nobility 
 asked him to their houses, and even Lord Byron conde¬ 
 scended to extend to him the hand of fellowship and 
 
MANAGERIAL 4 FIX.’ 
 
 39 
 
 treat Lira as a great artist. His importance profession¬ 
 ally may be gathered from the fact that he was con¬ 
 sidered as indispensable to Covent Garden as the 
 mighty Kemble himself. When he was suddenly 
 taken ill, in 1823, the management of Co vent Garden 
 was thrown into 4 a state of anguish.’ The mighty John 
 is said to have wrung his hands in despair. The public 
 clamoured for Grimaldi, and nothing but Grimaldi 
 would do. The managers at last hit upon the expedient 
 of engaging Joe’s son, who played for some time with a 
 success which was chiefly owing to his being the son of 
 his father. The 4 fix’ of the management was much 
 talked of at the time, and gave rise to many epigrams 
 and poetical effusions, of which the following is one :—- 
 
 4 The pantomime was all rehearsed 
 And puff’d off in the bill, 
 
 When full of grief, in Fawcett burst 
 To Kemble, crying, 44 Hear the worst— 
 
 Great Joe Grimaldi’s ill.” 
 
 4 44 Grimaldi ill!’ the monarch cried, 
 
 44 Say what then shall we do ? 
 
 Had I Macready at my side, 
 
 Clown’s part with him I would divide, 
 
 And show folks something new. 
 
 4 44 But is it true, my Fawcett, say 
 Has Fate thus spoke her will ? 
 
 Is all we’ve done for many a day 
 Cut up ? our hopes all cast away ? 
 
 Is Joe Grimaldi ill ? 
 
 4 44 He is, he is,—that woeful brow 
 Declares my piteous lot; 
 
 But come, cheer up, and tell me how 
 To act in this dire moment now— 
 
 For some one must be got.” 
 
40 
 
 GKIMALDl’S MERITS. 
 
 ‘ “I’ve heard,” said Fawcett—as he spoke, 
 
 Great Kemble felt less pain— 
 
 “ He hath a son all full of joke. 
 
 Could he be got, ’twould take the spoke 
 Out of our wheel again.” 
 
 * Cried Kemble, “Bring him hither straight, 
 
 Then puff him in the bill; 
 
 The son will share the father’s fate— 
 
 Be grinn’d at—I’m with joy elate, 
 
 Though Joe Grimaldi’s ill.” ’ 
 
 But great as were Joe Grimaldi’s merits, and great as 
 were his fame and popularity, he could not command 
 the high salary which a clown at one of the principal 
 houses obtains in these modern and 4 degenerate * days. 
 Grimaldi made a good deal of money by benefits and 
 starring engagements in the provinces, but his salary in 
 London was never more than 14?. a week For a very 
 long time after he had made his name it was only 
 about half that amount. 
 
 Those persons who are accustomed to think that no 
 good thing can come out of a theatre, or be connected 
 with it, will possibly be pleasant] y edified to hear that 
 Joe Grimaldi, the clown, who was engaged during the 
 whole of his life in diverting the public with his quaint 
 tricks and antics, bore, in every respect, a most un¬ 
 impeachable character. In his manner, no less than in 
 his nature, he was a perfect gentleman. As a husband 
 and a father he was affectionate almost to a fault. As a 
 friend he was continually sacrificing himself for others. 
 In his conversation he was singularly pure and decorous, 
 and in his habits scrupulously temperate. He was never 
 seen the worse for liquor in his life, and in his last 
 
Grimaldi’s style. 
 
 41 
 
 days lie consoled himself with the pleasing thought 
 that he could not recollect one single instance in 
 which he had intentionally wronged man, woman, or 
 child. 
 
 Mr. Dickens, in the 4 Memoirs of Grimaldi,’ which he 
 edited (and to which we are indebted for a portion of 
 our materials), makes the following remarks with regard 
 to the great pantomimist’s style and manner: 4 Any 
 attempted summary of Grimaldi’s peculiarities in this 
 place would be an impertinence. There are many who 
 remember him, and they need not be told how rich his 
 humour was; to those who do not recollect him in his 
 great days it would be impossible to convey an adequate 
 idea of his extraordinary performances. There are no 
 standards to compare him with, or models to judge him 
 by; all his excellences were his own, and there are 
 none resembling him among the pantomimists of the 
 present day. ... It is no disparagement to all or any 
 of these actors of pantomime to say that the genuine 
 droll, the grimacing, filching, irresistible clown left the 
 stage with Grimaldi, and though often heard of has 
 never been seen since.’ 
 
 Old playgoers say that the only successors of Grimaldi, 
 who were at all worthy to be mentioned in the same 
 -category, were Tom Matthews and Paul Herring. And 
 now, alas! of both these as clowns we must write 
 Fuerunt. 
 
 For the benefit of those young and rising clows who 
 may have an ambition to revive the glories of the old 
 days, we print here Grimaldi’s rhyming 4 Adieu to the 
 Stage and Advice to his Son.’ It contains the principles 
 upon which he 4 acted:’— 
 
Grimaldi’s ‘ advice to i-iis son.’ 
 
 4 Adieu to 44 Mother Goose,” adieu, adieu 
 
 To spangles, tufted heads, and dancing limbs ; 
 
 Adieu to pantomime, to all that drew 
 
 O’er Christmas shoulders a rich robe of whims. 
 
 Never shall old Bologna—old, alack ! 
 
 Once he was young and diamonded all o’er— 
 
 Take his particular Joseph on his back, 
 
 And dance the matchless fling beloved of yore. 
 
 4 Ne’er shall I build the w T ondrous verdant man, 
 
 Tall, turnip-headed, carrot-fingered, lean— 
 
 Ne’er shall I on the very newest plan 
 Cabbage a body—old Joe Frankenstein, 
 
 Nor make a fire, nor eke compose a coach 
 
 Of saucepans, trumpets, cheese, and Such sweet fare 
 
 Sorrow hath ta’en my number—I encroach 
 No more upon the chariot, but the chair. 
 
 4 Gone is the stride, four steps across the stage, 
 
 Gone is the light vault o’er a turnpike gate ! 
 
 Sloth puts my legs into this tiresome cage, 
 
 And stops me for a toll—I find too late! 
 
 How Ware would quiver his mad bow about 
 His rosin’d tight ropes, when I flapped a dance ! 
 
 Flow would I twitch the pantaloon’s good gout 
 And help his fall, and all his fears enhance S 
 
 4 How children shrieked to see me eat! How I 
 Stole the broad laugh from aged sober folk ! 
 
 Boys picked their plums out of my Christmas pic. 
 And people took my vices for a joke. 
 
 Be wise (that’s foolish), troublesome (be rich)— 
 
 And oh, J. G. to every fancy stoop! 
 
 Carry a ponderous pocket at thy breech 
 
 And roll thine eyes as thou wouldst roll a hoop. 
 
 4 Hand columbine about with nimble hand, 
 
 Covet thy neighbour’s riches as thy own, 
 
 Dance on the water, swim upon the land, 
 
 Let thy legs prove themselves bone of my bone. 
 
OPENINGS OF THE EARLY PANTOMIMES. 
 
 43 
 
 Cuff pantaloon, be sure—forget not this ; 
 
 As thou beat’st him tbou’rt poor, J. G. or funny ! 
 
 And wear a deal of paint upon thy phiz, 
 
 It doth boys good and draws in gallery money. 
 
 ‘ Lastly, be jolly, be alive, be light, 
 
 Twitch, flirt and caper, tumble, fall and throw; 
 
 Grow np right ugly in thy father’s sight, 
 
 And be an “ absolute Joseph” like old Joe.’ 
 
 The great Joe Grimaldi made his last appearance at 
 Sadler’s Wells on Friday, the 27th of June, 1828. 
 Dibdin’s ‘Harlequin Hoax’ was revived for the occa¬ 
 sion, and Grimaldi played clown in the last scene, 
 sitting in a chair, for he was too frail and decrepit to 
 stand. 
 
 The openings of the early pantomimes consisted of 
 little more than songs, choruses, and concerted pieces. 
 The dialogue was chiefly sung in operatic form, but 
 sometimes it was in prose. The rhymed ten-syllabic 
 verse is a comparatively modern introduction, and 
 punning is a more recent feature still. Many of the 
 pantomimes played in Grimaldi’s early days had a 
 serious as well as a comic interest; indeed, they were 
 called 4 serio-comic ’ in the bills. Here is the opening 
 chorus of a pantomime (the 4 Eclipse, or Harlequin in 
 China ’), played in 1801:— 
 
 ‘ Chorus of Chinese. 
 
 ‘ Sound, sound the loo, begin your solemn rites ; 
 
 Beat the big drum, transpierce the list’ning air ! 
 
 Dire apprehension every breast affrights ; 
 
 The sun’s vast eclipse, with dire portent, is near ; 
 
 While, with acclamations, high heaven’s power we sing, 
 
 And look thro’ nature boldly up to nature’s King.’ 
 
 A strange introduction to a pantomime truly ! 
 
 All sorts of subjects were used for pantomimes at this 
 
44 
 
 OPENINGS OF THE EARLY PANTOMIMES. 
 
 period, and the entertainment was not special to Christ¬ 
 mas as in our day. Pantomimes were produced when¬ 
 ever the manager lacked an attraction, and were as 
 often brought out in June as in December. Who, in 
 these days, would dream of making the horrible crimes 
 of the French murderer, Dumollard, the subject of a 
 pantomime? Yet, at the beginning of the present 
 century, an exactly similar story—that of the 4 Golden 
 Farmer’—was used for that purpose. The ‘Golden 
 Farmer,’ so called from always paying in gold, was 
 famous for his plundering exploits in almost every 
 county in England; and yet he ostensibly followed the 
 business of a farmer. It was his custom, as soon as he 
 paid any creditor, to disguise himself, waylay, and not 
 only oblige him to return the money he had received, 
 but add whatever else he was in possession of. These 
 exploits are the subject of the pantomime, thus : A rich 
 Berkshire grazier, having waited on the farmer for his 
 rent, was received with the greatest friendship, and he 
 and his daughter, her lover, and servant, entertained 
 with all the rustic cheer and merriment the farmer’s 
 home afforded. His servants amused them with dancing, 
 and in return his ploughboy was honoured with the 
 hand of the grazier’s daughter as his partner in the 
 dance: a mutual passion took place, which there ap¬ 
 peared little prospect of their ever being able to gratify, 
 the lady being betrothed, and at the same time viewed 
 with eyes of affection by the Golden Farmer. The 
 farmer, seeing the ploughboy’s glances, determines not 
 long to suffer his rivalry; and, on the grazier and his 
 daughter taking leave, resolves, with the aid of his 
 graceless servant, Long Robin, to follow and plunder 
 them, and at the same time to seize the daughter, com- 
 
OPENINGS OF THE EARLY PANTOMIMES. 
 
 45 
 
 pelling the ploughboy to be an accomplice, in order to 
 betray him into the hands of justice. Accordingly, 
 they overtake his recent visitors, and are about to rob 
 them, when the ploughboy assumes the character of 
 harlequin, and escapes with the object of his affection, 
 who becomes columbine. 
 
 The following are some specimens of the operatic 
 dialogue:— 
 
 Farmer. Gladly money I lend, where I honesty find. 
 
 Cottagers. To the poor he’s a friend. 
 
 Rustics. To his servants he’s kind. 
 
 All. And the milk of humanity never flowed warmer 
 Than in the rich veins of the Golden Farmer. 
 
 The grazier and his daughter take leave, and set out 
 on their journey homeward:— 
 
 Farmer (to Grazier ). Farewell! may your steeds speed ye quick 
 o’er the plain! 
 
 (aside) Though, if my nag’s sound, they’ll soon he overta’en. 
 
 (To Colum.) May you rest on life’s journey, secure from alarms I 
 
 (aside) Nor dream of my love, till you’re clasped in my arms. 
 
 (To Clown) May no robbers alarm you till I view your fright! 
 
 To our next merry meeting. Good evening. 
 
 All. Good night. 
 
 And then, in the hour of danger, a guardian Nymph 
 interposes, like the good fairy, with— 
 
 ‘ Then, swift as thought, like Fancy’s queen, 
 
 For safety thus I change the scene ; 
 
 And warn ye dread in evil hour, 
 
 Alike the Farmer’s and the robber’s power.’ 
 
 The literary portion of the pantomime of the ‘ good 
 school ’ is poor stuff in comparison with the witty and 
 polished introductions furnished in these days by Mr. 
 E. L. Blanchard, Mr. Henry Byron, and others. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 PANTOMIME OF THE PRESENT. 
 
 Playgoers of tlie old school would describe the period 
 upon which we are now entering as marking the 4 de¬ 
 cline and fall of pantomime.’ In Grimaldi’s days the 
 pantomime depended for its success upon the panto¬ 
 mimic powers of those who performed in it. It was the 
 exquisite fooling of clown, pantaloon, harlequin, and 
 columbine that drew crowded audiences and brought 
 down the applause. But in the period that succeeded, 
 when there were no worthy successors of Grimaldi and 
 Bologna (the harlequin), it was found necessary to call 
 in the aid of gorgeous dresses, magnificent scenery, and 
 the most elaborate mechanical effects. We have seen 
 that Joe Grimaldi could get on without these aids, and 
 that his grimacing and filching, and kicking and slap¬ 
 ping, were so comical in themselves that the public 
 desired nothing else. True pantomime may therefore 
 be said to have declined when there were no longer 
 representatives of the various characters who could hold 
 the attention of the public by their own unaided talents. 
 The same thing, indeed, may be said of the drama gene¬ 
 rally ; and it would really appear that the race of great 
 pantomimists and great tragedians died out together. 
 
 Scenery, dresses, and effects were called into the aid 
 of the tragedians and the pantomimists about the same 
 
ME. PLANCHES IMPROVEMENTS. 
 
 47 
 
 time. The great innovator of this period was Mr. 
 Planche. In the year 1822, this gentleman represented 
 to Mr. Charles Kemble that there was something (to 
 him) very absurd in seeing twelve or twenty-four 
 soldiers, in red tunics trimmed with lace, and as many 
 in blue similarly ornamented, representing the armies 
 of England and France, in ‘ King John ’ in one night, 
 and in 4 Henry V.’ the next; or fighting, in the reign 
 of Henry IV., by ‘ Shrewsbury clock ’ at Bosworth 
 Field under Richard on the Monday following. Mr. C. 
 Kemble, who was then contemplating the revival of 
 Shakespere’s historical plays, had the courage (as a 
 manager) to agree with Mr. Planche, and that gentleman 
 was engaged to ‘reform’ the dress and property plan 
 ‘ altogether.’ Under his direction King John appeared 
 in his habit as he lived, surrounded by his mantled 
 courtiers and mail-clad knights, and the public, at the 
 first sight of this reformation, expressed the most 
 rapturous delight, though many of the old actors, 
 including Farley and Fawcett, could never get over 
 their early impressions. Mr. Planche tells us that 
 Liston thought to the last that Prometheus, instead of 
 a Phrygian cap, tunic, and trousers, should have been 
 dressed like a great lubberly boy in a red jacket and 
 nankeens, with a pinafore all besmeared with lollipop. 
 It will readily be seen that the adoption of elegant cos¬ 
 tumes necessitated the painting of appropriate scenery. 
 A pair of dingy ‘ flats ’ harmonized very well with a 
 Prometheus in a jacket and trousers ; but the Phrygian 
 cap and the elegant tunic required something better. 
 Consequently elegant and appropriate scenery followed 
 upon elegant and correct costumes. The immediate 
 
48 
 
 TRANSFORMATIONS. 
 
 effect of this innovation was to stimulate the pantomi- 
 mists to efforts such as had never been required before. 
 When Farley saw Kemble getting up ‘ King John/ 
 
 ‘ regardless of expense/ and on a ‘ scale of magnificence 
 never before attempted/ he piteously exclaimed, ‘If 
 Shakespere is to be produced with such splendour and 
 attention to costume, what am I to do for the holidays ?’ 
 Of course when the holidays came it was necessary, if 
 possible, to surpass even the splendour of ‘ King John/ 
 and the efforts made in this direction led eventually to 
 the introduction of what is known in these days as 
 transformation-scenes. Originally the transformation 
 was simply the changing of the characters in the open¬ 
 ing into clown, pantaloon, harlequin, and columbine; 
 but now, when the characters changed, the scene 
 changed also, and the effect of the whole picture was 
 heightened by tinsel and coloured fires. For a good 
 many years, however, the transformation-scene was 
 nothing better than a pair of flats, representing the 
 Realms of Bliss in painted perspective. The days of 
 elaborate magnificence, of descending clouds, and open¬ 
 ing bowers, of floating fairies and trickling waterfalls, of 
 moving pieces, and gradually-unfolding pictures, were 
 yet to come. And they came when Mr. William 
 Beverley began to paint the scenes for Mr. Planche’s 
 elegant extravaganzas somewhere about the year 1847. 
 Mr. Beverley reached the ne plus ultra of his new style 
 of scenic art almost in his very first examples. There 
 is scarcely anything that we have seen since which has 
 eclipsed the beauty and magnificence of the scenery of 
 the‘Golden Branch/ the ‘King of the Peacocks/ and 
 the ‘ Island of Jewels/ ‘ But, alas!’ exclaims Mr. 
 
PANTOMIME AND ITS EIYALS. 
 
 49 
 
 Blanche, ‘“this effect defective came by the cause.” 
 Year after year Mr. Beverley’s powers were taxed to 
 outdo liis former outdoings. The last scene became the 
 first in the estimation of the management. The most 
 complicated machinery, the most costly materials, were 
 annually put into requisition, until their bacon was so 
 buttered that it was impossible to save it. As to me, I 
 was positively painted out. Nothing was considered 
 brilliant but the last scene. Dutch metal was in the 
 ascendant. It was no longer even painting, but up¬ 
 holstery.’ Madame Vestris paid between 60£ and 70 1. 
 for the gold tissue for the dresses of the supernumeraries 
 alone in the last scene of 4 Once upon a Time.’ 
 
 Pantomime had now to contend with two rivals—with 
 the historical splendours of tragedy and the fairy mag¬ 
 nificence of burlesque. In the effort to outdo both, 
 two transformation-scenes were introduced, one at the 
 end of the opening and another at the end of the comic 
 business. For a little time pantomime seemed in 
 danger of being entirely superseded by extravaganza, 
 and in order to save itself it went into partnership with 
 the new form of entertainment; and for a while we had 
 extravaganza for the opening and pantomime for the 
 finish, without any attempt at connecting the two 
 •stories, or the two sets of characters. On two occasions, 
 not long ago, the authors, feeling their dignity hurt by 
 having 4 comic scenes ’ tacked on to their burlesque 
 poetry, insisted that the curtain should fall between the 
 parts. But this was when pantomime had survived its 
 danger, and was beginning to be considered a necessary 
 adjunct to burlesque. During the period that panto¬ 
 mime was seriously assailed by extravaganza, it had to 
 
£0 
 
 ACROBATXSM. 
 
 resort to many shifts besides that of offering the public 
 two transformations. The clowns, distrusting those 
 modes of operation which proved so effective in Gri¬ 
 maldi’s hands (and feet), became acrobats and posturers. 
 They endeavoured to recommend themselves to the 
 public by dancing on stilts, by walking on barrels, by 
 playing the fiddle with their knees, and by various other 
 devices of the kind, which had really nothing to do with 
 the business of the scene. In fact, they sought to 
 make up for want of humour by their agility. And 
 straining their efforts still further, they treated the 
 public to two sets of performers in the same pantomime 
 —two clowns and two pantaloons, &c.—each set playing 
 in alternate scenes, ‘as if/ as a critic observed, ‘by 
 doubling the dose of dulness they were presenting the 
 public with double their money’s worth.’ But there is 
 nothing easier than to be sarcastic and uncharitable at 
 the same time. It is possibly a very fair subject of 
 complaint that the pantomime in our days has lost the 
 meaning and unity of purpose which it had originally; 
 but certainly those persons must be hard to please who 
 cannot find real enjoyment in the pantomimes which 
 are annually produced at Drury Lane, Covent Garden, 
 and the Princess’s. We would particularly specify the 
 pantomimes which have recently been produced at the 
 last-mentioned house. ‘ Jack the Giant Killer/ ‘ Robin¬ 
 son Crusoe/ and ‘ Whittington and his Cat/ contained 
 all the true elements of the genuine Christmas panto¬ 
 mime. The openings were short and strictly panto¬ 
 mimic ; the characters, with the exception of the ladies, 
 appeared in grotesque masks, and accompanied their 
 rhyming dialogue with an abundance of pantomimic 
 
ELEMENTS OF THE GENUINE PANTOMIME. 51 
 
 gesture; there was a well-defined connection between the 
 characters in the opening and the mimes who followed 
 them; and the 4 comic business,’ especially in 4 Whit¬ 
 tington,’ depended for its success in a great degree upon 
 the humorous acting of the clown. We never saw 
 Grimaldi; but from what we have heard and read of 
 that celebrated mime we should say that Mr. Hildyard, 
 who played clown at the Princess’s in 4 Whittington and 
 his Cat ’ during the season of 1861-2, is no unworthy 
 disciple of his school. He appeared to us to be the 
 perfection of a grinning, filching, blundering, mischief¬ 
 making clown. Grimaldi might have been better, but 
 if we can boast clowns like Mr. Hildyard and Mr. Boleno, 
 pantaloons like Mr. Paulo and Mr. Barnes, and such 
 pantomimists as the Paynes and the Leclercqs for the 
 openings, we cannot see that there is any just ground 
 for asserting that the pantomimic art has suffered 
 serious decline. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE READING OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 About six or eight weeks before Boxing-night, the ■ 
 author, the stage-manager, and the prompter meet what 
 may be called the pantomimic staff, and general sug¬ 
 gestions are made, objected to, altered and received. 
 The staff consists of:— 
 
 Mr. Size, the scene-painter. 
 
 Boggles, the master-carpenter. 
 
 Lotus and Miss Crooner, the costumiers; 
 and Slocum, the property-man. 
 
 Mr. Ernest Hammer, the stage-manager, and Mr. 
 Syllabus, the author, are in conference with Mr. H. B. 
 Writhe, the eminent pantomimist, who plays the prin¬ 
 cipal part in the opening, and Mr. Pablo Johnson, 
 Herr Bellonetti, and Mr. Alf. Scithers, the clown, har¬ 
 lequin and pantaloon. Neither Mdlle. Celestine, the 
 columbine, nor Signor Van Diemen Contorti, the sprite, 
 is present; Mdlle. being engaged as premiere danseuse 
 in the provinces, and the Signor nightly perilling his 
 life at the Great Transatlantic International Circus. 
 
 Mr. Size is a tall, thin, pale-faced gentleman in spec¬ 
 tacles, with a cracked voice and a very subdued manner. 
 He is attired in a splashed canvas jacket and trousers, 
 and has the air of an experimental chemist disguised as 
 a stonemason. 
 
OFFICIAL PORTRAITS. 
 
 53 
 
 Mr. Boggles, the master-carpenter, is a lame man of 
 about fifty, obstinately polite, and paternally contra¬ 
 dictory. He has a great contempt for young men, and 
 recalls fondly the days of Farley and Tom Dibdin. He 
 is in misty evening dress, with a limp white cravat. 
 
 Lotus, the wardrobe-keeper, has very effeminate 
 manners, and is a tailor to the core. He is given to 
 talking in initials. The manager having one day sworn 
 at him, he described the circumstance tearfully to a 
 friend in these terms: 4 Mr. J. came upstairs, called me 
 an F., and told me to go to the D.!’ 
 
 Miss Crooner, the mistress of the ladies’ wardrobe, is 
 an elderly female, with grizzled hair and a curiously 
 lean neck. Constant contemplation of brilliant hues 
 in various fabrics, of lace and foil-paper, gold and 
 silver, has taken every vestige of colour from her face 
 and garments. Her manners are perfectly ladylike* 
 and she is troubled with a short cough, as if she had 
 swallowed a spangle and it had stuck in her throat. 
 
 Slocum, the property-maker, is a short man, whose 
 features are deeply indented with that scourge of 
 beauty the smallpox. He is a most ingenious fellow* 
 and incorrigibly lazy. With every suggestion made he 
 acquiesces fervidly, and would say, 4 Yes, sir,’ if if were 
 proposed to him to jump off Waterloo Bridge. He is 
 always behind-hand in whatever he undertakes, and has 
 as many ingenious reasons for delay as a Foreign 
 Secretary. 
 
 4 Well,’ says Mr. Hammer, when the author has read 
 the scenes and business of the opening, 4 you hear what 
 it’s all about, and I’m sure we shall all do our best. 
 We’d a great go last Christmas, and we must try to- 
 
54 
 
 THE READING OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 keep up our reputation. You understand all about that 
 effect for the ghost scene, Mr. Size ?’ 
 
 4 W-e-11, yes—a—a—I think so,’ answers that gen¬ 
 tleman. 4 The heads to nod are Slocum’s affair, of 
 course/ 
 
 4 Yes, sir, all right, sir, I understand, sir,’ says the 
 acquiescent Slocum. 
 
 4 About my mask ?’ interrupts Mr. Writhe; 4 you 
 know what I mean—about the eyes and the mouth ?’ 
 
 4 Yes, sir,’ says Slocum. 
 
 4 The springs at the jaws, so that I can Yvork ’em ?’ 
 continues Writhe. 
 
 4 All right, sir.’ 
 
 4 And the wig, you know ?’ 
 
 4 Yes, sir.’ 
 
 4 The hair to stand bolt upright when I see the key ?’ 
 
 4 All right, sir/ 
 
 4 I—don’t—see—my way clear—about—the trans¬ 
 parency—behind—the—sink and fly—and medium,’ 
 says Boggles, slowly. 4 How is that all to be struck— 
 for the fairy scene—the second scene ?’ 
 
 Boggles always makes objections, and always has his 
 work done to the minute he has promised it. 
 
 4 Oh—a—easy enough,’ remarks Mr. Size; 4 have a 
 double sink and fly: second and third.’ 
 
 4 Yes, a double sink and fly, of course!’ says Mr. 
 H ammer. 4 Gamut (the leader of the orchestra) couldn’t 
 come to-day. He’s up to his eyes scoring for the 
 drama/ 
 
 4 What do you think of that notion of mine of a 
 comic elephant ?’ 
 
 4 Comic elephant—yes, sir,’ says Slocum. 
 
THE BEADING OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 55 
 
 4 Well, don’t see much fun in an elephant; he’s so 
 black—nothing to be got out of him. What do you 
 think, Mr. Size ?’ 
 
 4 I—a—I think it’s better for the elephant to—to be 
 —a—as like the real thing as possible.’ 
 
 4 Eeal elephant—yes, sir,’ says Slocum. 
 
 4 Of course—real as possible,’ echoes the stage-mana¬ 
 ger. 4 Pleases the children—make ’em think it’s alive. 
 USTo! eyes and trunk and tail to work—nothing more 1 
 think!’ 
 
 4 Eyes and trunk and tail to work—nothing more— 
 no, sir,’ remarks Slocum. 
 
 4 We shall be all right in your department, Miss 
 Crooner, I know,’ says Mr. Hammer, complimentarily. 
 
 4 1 hope so, sir,’ says the gratified Miss Crooner, with 
 a short cough. 
 
 4 You understand what Mr. Writhe means about the 
 Bluebeard dress, Lotus?’ 
 
 4 Oh, quite positif, sir,’ replies Lotus; 4 all right I am, 
 I know, sir. The late Mr. Thwaites used to say of me : 
 44 L. is one of those T.’s who never makes a B.” ’ 
 
 There was a general grin, for Lotus is the butt of 
 the theatre. 
 
 A general conversation ensues — the staff retire 
 variously, and the stage-manager and author discuss 
 vexed questions over bitter beer. 
 
 In theatrical parlance, the word 4 plot ’ means a list 
 of articles required in a particular department. A day 
 or two after the reading, Mr. Boggles receives the fol¬ 
 lowing :— 
 
56 
 
 THE HEADING OF THE PANTOMIME, 
 
 PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scenes. 
 
 Scene Plot. 
 
 Sink and fly, baclted by Transparency. Set 
 Pieces R. and L. Small trap C. open. 
 Flaps to worlt. Trap to work. Face and 
 eyes to work. 
 
 Wings. Grooves- 
 
 1 
 
 Cavern. 
 
 2 
 
 2 
 
 Fairy Scene. Set. Fountains to work. Waves 
 to work. Grave trap to rise. See to Sand¬ 
 bags. 
 
 
 
 3 
 
 Pantomime Kitchen. Boiler C. Oven L. 
 Apparatus R. See to Explosion. 
 
 New. 
 
 2 
 
 4 
 
 Transparent Horizon. Turkish Landscape 
 set. Cottage R. 2 E. Well L. 3 E. Vam¬ 
 pire Tree L. 2 E. Procession to work from 
 L. to R., &c. Sandbags. 
 
 I 
 
 3 
 
 and 
 
 4 
 
 and so on. When the scenery is nearly ready he is 
 also furnished with the plots for the flies and traps :— 
 
 PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scenes. 
 
 
 Flies. 
 
 1 
 
 Cavern. Loiver fly. 
 
 1st Bell. Take up fly. 
 
 2 
 
 New cut Fairy. 
 
 3 
 
 Burlesque Arch. 
 
 4 
 
 New pink Sky. 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 The flies are that portion of the theatre in which are- 
 fixed the windlasses and rollers that work clouds, arch- 
 
THE READING OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 57 
 
 ways, and the upper portion of the scenery. Of the 
 traps, down which evil geniuses disappear, and up 
 which good fairies emerge, it is unnecessary to make any 
 explanation:— 
 
 PANTOMIME. 
 
 Traps. 
 
 Lower small C. 
 
 1st Bell.—Rise small C. 
 
 2nd Bell.—Shut up small C. 
 
 3 rd Bell.—Open Grave. 
 
 4 th Bell.—Rise Grave. 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 Slocum, the indolent, is put in possession of a list 
 which causes him the most intense annoyance, as it 
 convinces him that he will be compelled to work :— 
 
 PANTOMIME. 
 
 Scenes. 
 
 Props. (Properties). 
 
 1 
 
 Trick, cauldron, change to cage. Large ladle. Sixteen spectacles 
 and sixteen sticks for Witches. Two large trumpets for Heralds . 
 Trick tail for Imp to light. Paper for Herald. Bees for cage . 
 
 2 
 
 Branches. Wand. Fire. 
 
 3 
 
 Kitchen Scene. Dish-covers, ladles, pigs, saucepans, gridirons r 
 fnjing-pans (one very large), &c., &c.; fish, poultry, joints, hams, 
 cabbages, turnips, carrots. Large fish-kettle. Turtle (Little 
 Munby). Large pepper-castor , mustard-pot, and salt-cellar. 
 Steam C. Squib L. Flour-box, candles. Maroon for ex¬ 
 plosion, and squib for turtle. 
 
 4 
 
 Rope and windlass for well L. 3 E. Banjo for Selim. Large 
 lanthorn for Ibrahim. Stuffed stick. Carpet-bag for Fatima. 
 Flower-pots. Ladder ready L. 1 E. Veil and wreath for 
 Bridesmaids. Profile procession. Seven instruments four 
 Band. Drum for Band. Elephant (Craddock and Duffy). 
 Straw and flowers for Selim. Rope and stick for Guard. 
 
58 
 
 THE READING OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 The same sort of plan of operations is supplied to 
 Miss Crooner and to Mr. Lotus :— 
 
 PANTOMIME. 
 
 Ladies. 
 
 16 Witches. Hats Change to Fairies. 
 
 16 Fairies, white. 
 
 16 Extra, Hue. 
 
 6 Bridesmaids (Toogood, Schmidt, Nobbs, E. Nobbs, Croone, 
 and Phillips). 
 
 14 Turkish Peasants. 
 
 8 Children. 
 
 21 Nightgowns and nightcaps for little Bluebeards. 
 
 20 Nightgowns for Ghosts. 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 PANTOMIME. 
 
 Busticumfusticum. Red and wings. 
 
 8 Imps. 
 
 Little Imp. Trick tail. 
 
 6 Cooks. 
 
 6 Scullions. 
 
 8 Attendants. 
 
 Selim. 
 
 Fatima (Arthur Pattison). 
 
 Ibrahim. 
 
 Sister Anne (Joe Munby). 
 
 4 Bearers. 
 
 8 Brass Bands. 
 
 6 Guards, red. 
 
 6 „ green. 
 
 6 „ blue. 
 
 6 „ black. 
 
 Change for Selim {Bags). 
 
 Bluebeard. 
 
 &c., &c. 
 
 e THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 The rehearsals, like everything else pertaining to a 
 pantomime, are at first divided into departments. The 
 ballet is arranged before anything else, and the corps is 
 called at 10 o’clock. The ladies put on their practising 
 clothes, short skirts, old shoes, and a loose jacket, and 
 
THE EEHEAESALS. 
 
 59 
 
 descend to the stage—wonderfully different in their 
 work-a-day costume to their brilliant appearance when 
 they bound before the footlights in book-muslin and 
 coral. Mr. Fauve, the repetiteur, is seated in the 
 orchestra in solitary state, and dismal and dire sounds 
 the scrape of one violin in that large, half dark, enor¬ 
 mous area. M. Pointdetout, the ballet-master, is seated 
 in a chair on the right of the stage. 
 
 4 Now then, ladies,’ roars Monsieur, 4 we shall begin. 
 Mistair Fauve, if you please.’ 
 
 Mr. Fauve strikes up, and the corps de ballet dance 
 on from various entrances, and form arches with long 
 pieces of cane—the canes being substitutes for the coral 
 branches, which the dilatory Slocum is ordered to 
 make. 
 
 4 Slower, Miss Gross—lum—turn—turn—turn—tram 
 —ta—Blanche out of tune—G-r-r-r-a ! Ah !’ Monsieur 
 claps his hands and the music stops. The corps 
 remains in the exact attitude they struck at the last 
 bar of music. 
 
 Monsieur is in a towering passion. He rises and 
 exclaims— 
 
 4 Ah, ladies! Is it that I have lost all my trouble this 
 last week ? Go back! all! and Blanche, I saw you. 
 It is very well. You four first, Grove, Levy, Smol¬ 
 lett and Suckthumbe—what did I teach you ?’ Here 
 Monsieur goes to the wing, and, arching his arms, bounds 
 on to the stage, and dances with incredible lightness 
 for so stout a man. 4 Am I to say that once more ? 
 It is supposed to be fairies, it is not cows ! So !’ 
 
 The ballet-master claps his hands, and the music and 
 the dancing recommence—are stopped again—recom- 
 
60 
 
 THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 mence again, and Monsieur, ordinarily the most courtly 
 of Frenchmen, conducts himself like a despot and a 
 tyrant until they are performed to his perfect satis¬ 
 faction. 
 
 The same sort of scene is being enacted in the green¬ 
 room, where Mr. Gamut, the leader, is drumming at a 
 piano, surrounded by those actors and actresses who 
 sing in the opening, and a damp and uncomfortable¬ 
 looking chorus. 
 
 £ Sing out!’ says Mr. Gamut. £ Let me hear you! 
 Now! From “War in his eyeballs glistens!’” 
 
 The chorus sing :— 
 
 ‘ War in liis eyeballs glistens, 
 
 Bow, for his will is law— 
 
 For life or death Hang on his breath, 
 
 For life or death Hang on his breath—’ 
 
 £ Sing out!’ interrupts the leader, singing with them. 
 
 4 Hail to the Great Bashaw! 
 
 Hail to the Great Bashaw ! 
 
 Hail to the Great Bash—AW ! ! !’ 
 
 £ I don’t hear any of the words, you know,’ says Mr. 
 Gamut, despairingly. ‘ I hear the notes, but I don’t 
 hear the words! There are plenty of copies about, but 
 I know nobody has looked at them. Mr. Eumball!’ 
 
 ‘ Sir ?’ says a thin man, with a deep bass voice, that 
 thrills the wires of the instrument. 
 
 £ Do you know the words ?’ 
 
 £ Yes, I do, sir.’ 
 
 £ Sing them as a solo, then. ££ Mark his approach 
 with thunder.” Now !’ 
 
 Mr. Kumball growls :— 
 
THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 61 
 
 4 Mark liis approach with thunder, 
 
 Strike on the trembling spheres—’ 
 
 and then stops. 
 
 4 Go on,’ says Mr. Gamut. 
 
 Mr. Rumball coughs. 
 
 4 Don’t you know any more ?’ 
 
 After a pause, Mr. Rumball says, 4 Well, sir, to speak 
 the truth, 1 do not.’ 
 
 4 I thought not!’ says the injured and sarcastic 
 leader. 4 There’s a copy of the words, and just be 
 good enough to get them into your head by next re¬ 
 hearsal. Now, the duett!’ 
 
 While the ballet and the chorus are thus employed, 
 the harlequin and columbine arrange the 4 trips ’ (the 
 dances which commence each comic scene and are 
 interrupted by the voice of the clown), and the clown, 
 pantaloon, sprite, harlequin, and columbine the 4 cas¬ 
 cades’ (the pictures and attitudes formed in the last 
 scene, when harlequin stands in the centre with his 
 spangled legs very wide apart, the sprite stands on his 
 head, clown and pantaloon on each side on one leg, and 
 columbine, elevating herself by resting one foot on 
 the hands of harlequin, whose fingers are clasped 
 behind him, makes the apex to the pose, forming alto¬ 
 gether a sort of pantomimic coat of arms or Christmas 
 escutcheon). Silent and undemonstrative at the reading 
 of the opening, in which they are unconcerned, clown 
 and pantaloon here are in their full glory. All the 
 male pantomimists are attired in white jackets and 
 trousers, and columbine is in 4 practising ’ costume. 
 The business and conversation run in this fashion :— 
 
 ‘ Hornpipe over/ says harlequin. 
 
62 
 
 THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 Clown immediately runs on and is felled by a blow 
 of harlequin’s bat. Clown falls flat on his back on the 
 stage, and walks on his elbows to the opposite side, 
 while harlequin shakes his bat over him. Clown sud¬ 
 denly turns on his face ; harlequin hits him— 4 bats’ him 
 is the technical term—on the back. Clown turns 
 again ; harlequin bats him on the chest. This business 
 is repeated several times. Clown rises quickly to his 
 feet; sprite jumps over his head; clown, indignant, turns 
 round and hits pantaloon, who appears just in time to 
 receive the blow. Harlequin gives his bat to columbine, 
 and is seized by clown and pantaloon, and a furious 
 cannonade of 4 slapping ’ begins. 
 
 4 Now, Patchy, tip us the slap!’ says clown, and har¬ 
 lequin slaps clown, who slaps him back again—harlequin 
 slaps pantaloon, who slaps harlequin back again. 
 
 4 Now the double!’ says the clown, and clown and 
 pantaloon both slap harlequin, who, by an action of 
 both hands, slaps them again, and they fall to the 
 ground. During this, the sprite is in one corner stand¬ 
 ing on his head, and doing various impossibilities with 
 his limbs, while columbine, bat in hand, twirls, pirouettes 
 and poses in the other. 
 
 About a week before Boxing-night, Mr. Size having- 
 worked indefatigably; Mr. Boggles having made every 
 difficulty and finally triumphed over it; Miss Crooner 
 having done marvels in the equipment of fairydom 
 and houridom; Mr. Lotus having yielded to frequent 
 bursts of tears, and declared that 4 them actors and 
 actresses is the cuss o’ the profession!’ and Mr. Slocum 
 having procrastinated until he was compelled to sit up to 
 work all night—a fact upon which he dilated with an 
 
THE KEHEAKSALS. 
 
 63 
 
 air of injury—the 6 call ’ for a full rehearsal is put up in 
 the hall:— 
 
 THEATRE ROYAL 
 
 
 * 
 
 Monday , Dec. 20. 
 
 Ballet at 10. 
 
 Mr. Fauve. 
 
 Pantomime at 11. 
 
 Everybody. 
 
 Mr. Gamut. 
 Props. 
 
 Supers. 
 
 As a description of the rehearsal of an entire panto¬ 
 mime would fill a large volume, we propose to give 
 only a portion of a scene of the opening and of the 
 comic business, as there is an infinite variety of mo¬ 
 notony, and monotony of variety, in all things belong¬ 
 ing to theatrical rehearsals. 
 
 If our readers will turn to the scene plot, it will be 
 found that the fourth scene of the pantomime is de¬ 
 scribed as a Turkish village. The scene is set. There 
 is a cottage on one side of the stage, a well upon the 
 other, a distant country stretching from side to side. 
 
 ‘ Now/ says the stage-manager. 
 
 Mr. Gamut and the orchestra play a slow strain of 
 music, and Selim appears on the stage, groping his way 
 as if in the dark. Selim is attired in a dark shooting- 
 coat and waistcoat and grey trousers; his face is hid in 
 an enormous mask, on the top of which is wound a 
 turban. The large, long head, with its staring eyes and 
 shiny brick-red complexion, upon the short body, gives 
 a grotesqueness to his figure, of which every one is* 
 
64 
 
 THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 conscious but himself. Selim places his hand upon his 
 heart, points to the window of the cottage, places his 
 hand upon his heart again and shakes himself violently 
 —this is presumed to convey to the audience that he, 
 Selim, is deeply enamoured of the inmate of the cot. 
 Selim then blows a kiss to the window, and with his 
 right forefinger points to the third finger of his left 
 hand—this is meant to signify that his intentions are 
 honourable, and he means to marry his beloved. He then 
 runs off the stage and immediately runs on again with a 
 banjo, and plays a serenade—a parody on the popular 
 nigger tune of 4 I’m off to Charlestown.’ 
 
 The ditty over—a grand crash is heard in the or¬ 
 chestra—the window of the cottage opens, and a large 
 and hideous head enveloped in a nightcap looks out. 
 This head is the property of Ibrahim, Fatima’s father. 
 Selim hides himself where everybody can see him, and 
 the large mask at the window sneezes and drops the 
 nightcap on the stage. How Fatima tries to elope with 
 her lover, and how the elopement is frustrated by Sister 
 Anne and Ibrahim, can be easily imagined by the 
 patrons of theatres on Boxing-night. 
 
 Mr. Joe Munby, who plays Sister Anne, is the father 
 of Dick Munby, who is only sixteen years old, and who 
 plays Ibrahim. The paternal and filial relations are 
 thus reversed—Joe the father proving a most tiresome 
 and skittish child, and Dick the son a most inexorable 
 and cruel parent. 
 
 The rehearsal goes on swimmingly until a march is 
 played. Bluebeard’s procession—a number of figures 
 about a foot high—is seen to glide across the distant 
 country. 
 
THE EEHEAESALS. 
 
 65 
 
 / ‘ Stop—stop—stop !’ says the stage-manager, rising 
 from his chair. 4 Boggles !’ 
 
 Fifty voices repeat the name of Boggles. 
 
 4 Where is he ?’ says the stage-manager. 4 Where 
 the deu—’ 
 
 4 Here I am, sir/ says Mr. Boggles, peeping over the 
 minarets of a distant mosque—perspectively considered 
 to be twenty miles off. 
 
 4 That procession mustn’t fly across in that way!’ 
 
 4 What’s the mat-ter—with—it, sir ?’ inquires Boggles, 
 with provoking calmness. 
 
 ‘Matter !’ echoes the S. M., 4 why there’s supposed to 
 be some ten miles of distant country from one end of 
 that set piece to the other. You’re making that elephant 
 and the rest of the procession march at about the rate 
 of twelve hundred miles an hour !’ 
 
 4 1—thought—you—wouldn’t like the procession to— 
 hang, sir,’ objected Boggles. 
 
 4 Ho; but such a rate as that is impossible,’ returns 
 Mr. Hammer. 4 Over such a space, too.’ 
 
 4 It’s the space that kills,’ says Mr. Syllabus, the 
 author ; but nobody notices the observation. 
 
 4 1—thought—you’d—wish me — to — make — some 
 allowance—for—the—effect from, the front, sir,’ urges 
 Boggles. 
 
 4 Some allowance — yes — but not twelve hundred 
 miles. What would the critics say ?’ 
 
 4 Nothing,’ mutters the author, 4 in a whole column of 
 print.’ 
 
 4 Try it again,’ says Mr. Hammer. 
 
 4 Ye-ry good, sir.’ 
 
 4 Now, once more/ says the stage-manager. 4 Turn- 
 
 F 
 
66 
 
 THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 ti-tum-tum-tum-tum-tiddy - iddy - iddy - tiddy - tol - lol - de¬ 
 day !’ 
 
 The music recommences, and the procession marches 
 across again from the left hand to the right—this time 
 at only the rate of about two hundred miles per hour. 
 
 4 Ah! that’s all right,’ says the stage-manager. 
 
 4 Stet processus * says the author. 
 
 ‘ I beg your pardon ?’ says the stage-manager, turn¬ 
 ing to him. 
 
 4 Oh! nothing,’ says Mr. Syllabus. 
 
 By this time the procession—very much grown since 
 its last appearance—is crossing another set-piece from 
 right to left. 
 
 The band plays fortissimo, the cymbals clash, and 
 the real procession tramps on to the stage: a band 
 with horns of gilded wicker-work, men with banners, 
 slaves bearing presents like silvered petrifactions of 
 fruit from Covent Garden Market, soldiers and cymbal- 
 players. The chorus strike up :— 
 
 4 Mark his approach with thunder! 
 
 Strike on the trembling spheres!’ 
 
 Mr. Hammer becomes excited, stamps his feet, and 
 waves his right arm as if he were conducting an 
 orchestra. 
 
 4 Tum-ti-di-dum-tum-tum-tum,’ sings Mr. Hammer. 
 4 Turn your banner, sir ’—this to a supernumerary— 4 row- 
 dow-de-dow-dow-dow! * Hold up that crescent, you 
 idiot ! You, sir—I said idiot, didn’t I ? I meant 
 you, of course. St-aup !’ Mr. Hammer claps his hands, 
 and the procession halts as if by magic. 
 
 4 Slocum !’ cries the stage-manager. 
 
 Fifty voices repeat ‘Slocum!’ There is a delay in 
 
THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 67 
 
 finding Slocum. At last lie appears in a terrible 
 bustle, a paste-brush in his hand. He had been asleep 
 in a corner of the property-room. 
 
 4 Where are these men’s scimitars ?’ asks the enraged 
 S. M., pointing to some 4 supers.’ 
 
 4 Semmitars, sir ?—yes, sir,’ says Slocum. c Be ready 
 to-morrow, sir.’ 
 
 4 To-morrow !’ thunders the stage-manager. 
 
 4 Yes, sir. You said the men’s semmitars would do 
 by to-morrow.’ 
 
 4 Their masks, not their scimitars !’ 
 
 4 Masks was it, sir ? Yes, sir, I think it was masks.’ 
 
 4 You think! Shall I have ’em to-morrow ?’ 
 
 4 The masks, sir ?’ 
 
 ‘SCIMITARS !’ roars the stage-manager. 
 
 4 Oh! yes, sir.’ 
 
 4 Ugh! Go on, Mr. Gamut.’ 
 
 The chorus begins again— 
 
 1 Mark his approach with thunder! 
 
 Strike on the-- ’ 
 
 4 Stop !’ shouts the stage-manager. 4 Slocum!’ 
 
 Fifty voices again repeat the magic name, and 
 Slocum presents himself again, with a sheet of foil-paper 
 in his hand. 
 
 4 Where’s the elephant ?’ roars the stage-manager, 
 accompanying the question with a few oaths. 
 
 4 Quite ready, sir.’ 
 
 4 Why don’t it come on ?’ 
 
 4 The fore-legs and the hind-legs is getting inside it, sir.’ 
 
 4 Why the devil weren’t they inside it ? Who are they ? ’ 
 
 ‘Duffy and Craddock, sir — played the legs at the 
 Garden, sir, thirty year ago.’ 
 
 F 2 
 
68 
 
 THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 The stage-manager rnns to the wing, behind which 
 stands the head and body of a huge property elephant, 
 constructed of wicker-work covered with canvas. 
 
 4 Why are you not ready?’ asks the S. M. of two 
 dirty-looking men. 
 
 4 We’ve got no legs, sir,’ answers one of the men. 
 
 ‘Slocum!’ 
 
 4 Slocum!’ echo the voices. 
 
 4 Where are the legs ?’ 
 
 4 Legs, sir ?’ 
 
 4 1 said legs, didn’t I ? I’ll say it again. Legs! 
 Legs ! ! LEG-S !!!’ roars Mr. Hammer. 
 
 4 Be ready to-morrow, sir,’ says the active Slocum. 
 
 4 To-morrow!’ repeats Hammer, with a volley of strong 
 language. 4 Get inside ; we’ll try it without ’em.’ 
 
 4 1 knows my business, sir,’ says Mr. Huffy, who 
 delineates the hind-legs. 4 1 seen the late Muster 
 Grimaldi at the Wells when-’ 
 
 Mr. Hammer cuts him short by wishing him and the 
 late Mr. Grimaldi in Nova Scotia—but he doesn’t say 
 Nova Scotia. The two men crawl into the interior of 
 the basket-animal and march on. Their heads and 
 bodies are entirely concealed r in the body of the ele¬ 
 phant. Mr. Craddock, the fore-legs, wears corduroy 
 trousers, turned up at the heels. Mr. Huffy’s lower 
 limbs are clothed in shepherd’s plaid, and the effect of 
 the huge elephant’s body waddling on these singular 
 supporters is so irresistibly ludicrous that the ladies of 
 the ballet laugh. 
 
 4 Silence !’ thunders the stage-manager. 4 Keep time 
 —you men inside.’ 
 
 4 1 knows my business, sir,’ murmurs Mr. Huffy, from 
 
THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 69 
 
 the interior. 6 1 seen the late Muster Grimaldi at the 
 Wells-’ 
 
 ‘ Hold your tongue ! Work your trunk—you fore¬ 
 legs—tum-ti-di-tum-tum-tum.’ 
 
 The trunk moves up and ’down, and the elephant 
 runs over a man bearing a banner. 
 
 ‘What are you about? Where are you going? 
 shouts the stage-manager. 
 
 ‘ Please, sir, I can’t see,’ says Mr. Craddock, from the 
 chest of the sagacious beast. 
 
 ‘He never played his part" before, sir,’ interrupts 
 Duffy. ‘I have. The late Muster Grimaldi, at the 
 Wells, once said-’ 
 
 ‘ Hold your tongue! You talk .too much. You’re 
 playing the hind-legs, not the jaws. The elephant’s 
 hind-legs don’t talk.’ 
 
 A roar of laughter follows the stage-manager’s sally. 
 
 ‘Against all the laws of natural history as well as 
 dramatic unity,’ says the author. 
 
 4 Really, Mr. Syllabus,’ says the stage-manager, 
 pettishly, ‘ I cannot conduct the rehearsal if I am to be 
 interrupted in this way.’ 
 
 ‘I presume I may make a remark?’ objects the 
 author, turning very red. 
 
 ‘ I am here to direct, sir,’ says the S. M. 
 
 4 And I am here to see that you direct properly,’ says 
 the author. 
 
 6 1 am not to be dictated to by you, sir.’ 
 
 ‘ Nor I, sir, by you.’ 
 
 ‘ Yery well, sir.’ 
 
 ‘Very well, sir.’ 
 
 A dead silence is observed by every one upon the 
 
70 
 
 THE KEHEAKSALS. 
 
 stage during the quarrel between the two potentates, 
 and the rehearsal proceeds with the same sort of 
 hitches, stoppages, and general entanglement. 
 
 The ‘ flats ’ run on for the comic scene represent a 
 manufactory, a baker’s shop, and a barber’s shop. 
 Harlequin and columbine waltz on and continue spin¬ 
 ning till clown, behind the scenes, shouts out, ‘ A-i-e-a-e- 
 a-ya ! I’m a looking at you !’ when the action takes 
 place described in the rehearsal of the ‘trips and 
 cascades.’ 
 
 ‘ Seven and eight!’ shouts the stage-manager, and two 
 men bring on an odd-looking box, on which is painted, 
 ‘ American Anticipating Machine.’ Clown brings the 
 two men to the front of the stage and says, ‘ How much ?’ 
 at which the two men shake their heads gravely. Clown 
 says, ‘ Three half-pence more,’ and the two men nod 
 their heads to signify acquiescence. Clown, having 
 made the purchase, sends the two men off without pay¬ 
 ment, except the parting kick which they receive from 
 pantaloon. 
 
 6 Old gent!’ says the clown, looking at the prompter. 
 
 ‘ Nine !’ shouts the prompter. ‘ Nine, Perkins!’ 
 
 ‘ Perkins !’ roars the stage-manager. 
 
 A young man runs on breathless, and receives the 
 compliments of the stage-manager, the prompter, the 
 clown, and the pantaloon. After being rayed at for a 
 quarter of an hour, Perkins explains that he was look¬ 
 ing for the dog. 
 
 ‘ Dawg! ain’t you got it, then ?’ asks the clown. 
 
 ‘ Couldn’t find it, sir.’ 
 
 The euphonious name of Slocum again resounds 
 throughout the theatre. 
 
THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 71 
 
 Mr. Slocum appears holding a hook of Dutch metal 
 (imitation gold-leaf). 
 
 ‘ Dog, sir ?’ says Slocum, in answer to inquiries; ‘ dog 
 has just stepped out with Mrs. Slocum.’ 
 
 Mrs. Slocum, coupled with her worthy husband, is 
 spoken of in a most unbecoming manner, and Slocum 
 returns to his room. 
 
 ‘ Twelve !’ cries the prompter, and a man crosses to 
 the baker’s shop with a large dish and cover, which 
 clown steals. Clown then says, 4 1 say, old ’un, let’s 
 garotte somebody,’ and then clown and pantaloon hide 
 behind opposite wings. 
 
 6 Thirteen!’ shouts the prompter. 
 
 A man with a mask and shoulders, over his own head 
 and shoulders, staggers on, assuming that intoxication 
 of the legs and feet peculiar to the stage. Clown imme¬ 
 diately throws his arm round the mask in the place 
 where the neck ought to be. Harlequin twirls on, 
 slaps his bat upon the stage, and the head rolls from 
 the man’s shoulders. Pantaloon, who is robbing the 
 victim, terrified at the sight of the headless man, falls 
 on his face. Clown is transfixed with horror, and 
 harlequin laughs with his shoulders and wags his head. 
 
 4 Fourteen !’ shouts the prompter. 
 
 The music becomes slow and mournful. A man, 
 supposed to be a policeman, crosses, and clown puts the 
 head in the stolen dish and puts the cover over it. 
 When the policeman has stalked away, harlequin bats 
 again, the dish-cover flies off, and the head rolls its 
 eyes and opens its mouth menacingly at clown. 
 
 Clown cries, tf Now ready everybody for the spill and 
 
72 
 
 THE REHEARSALS. 
 
 Clown endeavours to avoid the head, but harlequin 
 shakes his hat over it, and the head pursues the comic 
 garotter wherever he goes. The policeman re-enters 
 and arrests clown. In vain does clown protest that ‘ He 
 didn’t go to do it.’ At last clown throws the head at the 
 officer of law, and hits a man laden with property-fish. 
 Music quick and animated. A number of men and 
 boys come on and tumble over each other, apparently 
 with intense delight. The policeman comes to grief. 
 Carrots, turnips, and fish fly in the air. Suddenly there 
 is a cry of 4 Gorilla loose !’ and a man dressed as a gorilla 
 appears. The combatants fly, and the scene is termi¬ 
 nated by the clown and the gorilla waltzing off grace¬ 
 fully together. 
 
 The prompter whistles. 
 
 4 Wash-house scene,’ says the stage-manager. 4 Ten, 
 eleven, and twelve!’ 
 
 A pantomime very often consists of six or seven 
 such scenes, each having different business and a sepa¬ 
 rate set of properties. The reader may therefore 
 imagine that the rehearsal is no slight labour to those 
 intimately concerned. It sometimes lasts nearly the 
 whole day, and during this time the actors and others 
 rarely find an opportunity to sit down and rest their 
 weary limbs or to partake of any refreshment beyond a 
 biscuit and a glass of beer. The 4 business,’ which we 
 have described above, is repeated day after day for a 
 fortnight or three weeks before the production of the 
 piece; and in many instances the last rehearsal is not 
 brought to a close until within half an hour of the time 
 for opening the doors on Boxing-night. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 SOME MYSTERIES OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 A peep behind the scenes of a theatre, at the most 
 ordinary times, affords a strange and curious spectacle. 
 Nothing strikes the stranger so much as the quaint and 
 dingy look of everything around him. The boarding of 
 the stage, which, from the front, appears so w r ell calcu¬ 
 lated for the delicate satin shoes of the dancer, is found, 
 on near inspection, to be rugged and worn, and inter¬ 
 sected on every hand by the projecting edges of traps. 
 Right and left, and at the back, when the stage is clear 
 of scenery, you see the rough, unplastered walls, blotched 
 with dark greasy spots, where painters and carpenters 
 have been accustomed to squeeze through behind close 
 sets and drawn-off flats. Looking up among the jointed 
 grooves projecting in all sorts of fantastic attitudes from 
 the 4 flies,’ you conceive the notion of being in an un¬ 
 finished house before the floors are laid, in which a 
 large number of the old wooden telegraphs have been 
 stored. The ropes and pulleys are suggestive of a ship, 
 and the sky borders of a dyer’s loft. The Bowers of 
 Bliss and Palaces of Delight, which look so dazzling at 
 night, are incomprehensible smudges at close quarters 
 by day. Daylight takes all the romance out of the 
 theatre. When the lamps have gone out and the grey 
 
74 
 
 SOME MYSTERIES OF THE PANTOMIME. 
 
 dawn streams in through the dingy panes in the roof, 
 the royal palace down below becomes a barn. The sun 
 makes everything bright and gay—everything but the 
 theatre. Thalia and Melpomene hold their licence 
 from Diana. 
 
 A rehearsal! what a strange affair is that! Here 
 the envious daylight takes the romance, too, out of the 
 actors. Your Divinity of the footlights comes in draggled 
 from a long walk in the rain, and gets 4 blown up ’ by 
 the uncouth stage-manager—stage-managers are always 
 uncouth, on principle—for being late. 4 Now then, Miss 
 Divinity, how much longer are we to be kept waiting 
 for you?’ Miss Divinity is carefully putting by her 
 dripping umbrella and muddy goloshes in the prompter’s 
 box. Your comic favourite comes on with a comforter 
 and a cough, grumbling at his part, for which he shows 
 his contempt by blundering at every second word, and 
 going up to the author and asking what it means. The 
 piece is intended to be a comic one — 4 a regular 
 screamer.’ It sounds, as the words are mumbled over, 
 as serious as a sermon. The comic man looks as gloomy 
 as a vampire. The draggled divinity wears an aspect 
 positively repulsive. The first old man is the embodi¬ 
 ment of injury and insult combined. The second 
 chambermaid is a walking effigy of disgust. The first 
 young man, contemplating 4 half a length,’ is satisfied 
 that a piece in which he has so little to say must prove 
 a dead failure; the author begins to think so too. He 
 thought his piece funny once ; but not now. Daylight 
 and rehearsal have taken all the fun out of it, and it 
 will not be restored until Miss Divinity has put on her 
 pretty dress, and the comic man has reddened his nose, 
 
SOME MYSTERIES OP THE PANTOMIME. 75 
 
 and the lamps are lit. A stage rehearsal is at all times 
 a sternly practical and business-like proceeding; and 
 most particularly and peculiarly so when the business in 
 hand is the harlequinade—the comic scenes , as they are 
 called—of a pantomime. 
 
 The young people, ay, and the old people no less, 
 who sit in the boxes and roar until the tears run down 
 their cheeks at the frolicsome waggeries of the clown, 
 and the amusing discomfiture which he visits upon 
 pantaloon and the other destined martyrs of the drama, 
 are little accustomed to reflect that all this extravagant 
 nonsense has first of all to do with tears, not of laughter, 
 but of pain and grief, and wearing toil. All this kick¬ 
 ing, and slapping, and burning with imaginary red-hot 
 pokers, has been a very serious and painful business for 
 a fortnight or more before the opening night. The 
 clown looks a merry wag, does he not ? A fellow of 
 infinite jest—always ready for a mad prank. You 
 should see him in his canvas trousers and slippers at 
 rehearsal, practising the slap with pantaloon, or trying 
 his back for a summersault. It is a long time since he 
 has turned head over heels, and he is not without fears 
 for his neck or some of his bones. Pantaloon and 
 harlequin are as nervous as he is, and the pyramid at 
 the end of the 4 rally ’ is a failure. They have not yet 
 warmed to their work. They try and try again, and 
 fail and fail again. Roused at length by the reproach¬ 
 ful looks, if not words of the manager, they rush at it 
 desperately—neck or nothing—and at last the danger¬ 
 ous feat is accomplished. What follows is easy after 
 this point; since now the pantomimists have thrown all 
 care for their bones behind them. Seeing that a clown 
 
76 
 
 CLOWN. 
 
 nightly runs the risk of maiming himself for life, it is 
 somewhat astonishing that the character should be so 
 much coveted. The market, however, is always over¬ 
 stocked with clowns, and the overflow runs to pantaloons. 
 Don’t imagine, for a moment, that the pantaloon is 
 always, or even occasionally, the old man he looks. He 
 is generally a very young man, not unfrequently a mere 
 youth of eighteen or twenty. He does not choose to be 
 pantaloon, you may be sure of that. Does the aspirant 
 after histrionic honours take to the profession that he 
 may play Kosencrantz andGuildenstern? No; Hamlet 
 is his mark. But as we cannot all be Hamlets, some of 
 us must play Bosencrantz and Guildenstern. So with 
 pantomimists. They cannot all be clowns. Some one 
 must be pantaloon and have his fingers pinched. But 
 these dii minores will have their consolation some day. 
 When Bosencrantz goes into the country he will be 
 nothing short of Prince of Denmark, and Pantaloon— 
 why, he will be clown. 
 
 CLOWN. 
 
 Pantomimists appear under so many different aspects 
 that it is not easy to fix their identity and determine 
 their normal condition. What clowns and pantaloons 
 do in the summer is, we believe, a mystery as profound 
 as the authorship of Junius. All that is known about 
 them is that they come out of their holes in a very 
 dingy and dilapidated condition about the beginning 
 of December, and, reversing the order of all floral 
 things, burst into full bloom amid the frost and snow of 
 January. A clown is a sort of human crocus, and his 
 
CLOWN. 
 
 77 
 
 full bloom takes the magnificent form of a light-coloured, 
 fluffy greatcoat, combined with a glossy hat with a 
 broadly-braided and turned-in brim, a splendid waist¬ 
 coat, and studs, rings, and chains designed and executed 
 on the largest scale known to the jeweller’s art. His 
 diamonds, if valued according to their size, should be 
 worth a king’s ransom. It is the idiosyncrasy of the 
 clown in private life always to make up for the heavy 
 swell. Perhaps this may be only the natural rebound 
 from the fool’s dress, and the bumpkin’s grin, and the 
 knock-kneed walk of his footlight existence. Yiew him 
 in the street in all his glory. Does he look like a per¬ 
 sonage who could condescend to squash a baby or pocket 
 a string of sausages ? Can you imagine that magnifi¬ 
 cent personage turning heels over head? Can you 
 conceive a grand seigneur like this being troubled in 
 his mind by the loss of a fourpenny bit? Can you 
 imagine him stretching his mouth from ear to ear, and 
 asking you 4 how’s your mother ?” If he were to sing, 
 would you expect ‘ Tippetywitchet 5 or ‘ Hot Codlings ’ 
 from him? Ho: Piff-paff, or Suoni la Tromba. Hor 
 does the clown forget his dignity even when he wears 
 the paint. Though the fluffy greatcoat, and the braided 
 hat, and the Brobdignagian jewellery are stowed away 
 in the dressing-room, the self-importance is all here, 
 asserting itself royally through the thick coat of bismuth, 
 the moment he makes his exit and reaches the wing. 
 See him come off from bonneting a policeman, stealing 
 a leg of mutton, or tripping-up a baker. He is no longer 
 clown, but Mr. Grimaldi Jones; and the subordinates 
 at the wing say, 4 Sir,’ to him; and his dresser obse¬ 
 quiously asks him if he would please to change; and to 
 
78 PANTALOON. 
 
 all these respectful addresses he replies in the lofty 
 style of a Don Magnifico. No eminent tragedian is 
 more exacting of respect than the favourite clown. 
 And sometimes in these days he gets as high pay as the 
 eminent tragedian. Pretty actresses, we know, are apt 
 to crush the hearts of young gallants in the stalls. But 
 did it ever enter any one’s mind to conceive that a 
 knock-kneed, wide-mouthed clown was, in any point of 
 view, adapted to crush the hearts of ladies in the boxes ? 
 We should say, never. But still it is a fact, that clown 
 graces have an attraction for the fair sex. We once 
 knew a clown who was taken a fancy to by a lady—a 
 real lady, of property, too. She married him, and next 
 Boxing-night the clown came to the theatre in his own 
 carriage. He had now money enough for his support 
 without acting; but his wife liked to see him play 
 clown, and it was part of the matrimonial compact that 
 he should continue his profession. 
 
 PANTALOON. 
 
 Pantaloons, when they have given up all hope of 
 becoming clowns, and have settled down into the lean 
 and slippered existence, exhibit an idiosyncrasy of an 
 opposite kind. They do not aspire to be swells. On 
 the contrary, they affect extreme plainness of dress, and 
 sometimes even seediness. This latter, however, may 
 not always be an affectation. The pantaloon carries 
 into private life the passive characteristics which dis¬ 
 tinguish him on the stage. His demeanour, both in the 
 street and in society, is that of one who feels conscious 
 that his destiny is to suffer discomfiture and be put 
 
PANTALOON. 
 
 79 
 
 upon. He appears prepared on all occasions to take 
 and give the slap, and to suffer any accident that may 
 happen to him with an equal mind. The force of habit 
 remains strong within him long after he has retired 
 from the boards. It was once our high privilege to be 
 on intimate terms with a pantaloon—one of the old 
 school. On a certain occasion when we took tea with 
 him, a clothes-horse fell against him as he was in the act 
 of buttering his muffin. In an instant he dropped the 
 knife, gave the slap, and shied his muffin across the 
 table at his son and heir (aged twelve), who, receiving 
 it in the eye, returned the slap with a promptitude 
 which clearly showed the direction of his ambition. 
 We shall never forget the meeting which took place 
 between our pantaloon and a retired clown of his 
 former acquaintance. The clown had become a master 
 chimney-sweep, and had grown stout, and wore broad¬ 
 cloth. Pantaloon (also in his Sunday clothes), viewing 
 him from the door of a hostelry, cried out in a joyful 
 voice, ‘What, Joey, is that you?' ‘What, Alf!’ cried 
 the former clown—rushing to embrace his old collabo- 
 rateur —‘ Tip us the slap, old boy.’ And then and there 
 on the muddy pavement, and in their suits of broad 
 cloth, the habit of old days came back upon them, and 
 they flapped and slapped and turned head over heels, 
 and then grasped each other by the hand with a warmth 
 of friendliness that was quite refreshing to witness. 
 
 Alf Jones, the pantaloon, was as much pantaloon in 
 private life as he was on the boards. We remember a 
 bit of domestic pantomime in which he was the chief 
 actor which beats all the Christmas ‘ comic business ’ we 
 ever saw. Alf was in the habit, after the performance 
 at the theatre, of going to a shop in the neighbourhood 
 
80 
 
 A PANTALOON STOKY. 
 
 to buy a bit of something to take home with him for 
 supper. His wife usually went to bed, but always left 
 a fire in the grate for her husband to cook by. One 
 night Alf was attracted by a variety of nice-looking 
 meats in the shop-window of a French cook near 
 Leicester Square. There were all kinds of brawn, and 
 rolled turkey, and potted head, and so forth ; but what 
 took Alf s fancy most was a slab of succulent-looking 
 meat covered with rich brown jelly. Alf did not know 
 the name of it, but he went into the shop, and pointing 
 to the tempting brown slab with his forefinger, said :— 
 
 4 I’ll take half a pound of that.’ 
 
 The man weighed half a pound, and wrapped it up in 
 paper, and Alf had to pay a shilling for it. 
 
 4 It’s dear,’ thought Alf; 4 but it’s tasty-looking stuff, 
 and I’ll have a treat for once.’ 
 
 So Alf went home rejoicing, and found, as usual, the 
 Missus gone to bed; but a little bit of fire was left 
 for him in the grate. He took down the gridiron, 
 wiped away the flavour of the morning’s herring with a 
 page of the 4 Family Herald,’ and put on his meat to 
 cook. 
 
 4 How,’ said Alf, 4 I’ll go and fetch my beer while it’s 
 doing.’ So he took down the jug, whipped to the 
 corner for the beer, and was back in a twinkling. 
 
 4 Halloa !’ cried Alf, as he rushed to the fire to turn 
 his meat, 4 What’s up now ? Gone, by Jove !’ 
 
 Gone it was, clean gone, and not a vestige remained. 
 
 4 It’s the Missus,’ said Alf. He opened the bedroom 
 door and peeped in, but the Missus was fast asleep. 
 
 4 It’s the cat,’ said Alf; 4 1 know it’s the cat.’ And 
 with that he began to rout under the tables and chairs 
 with the hearth-broom, and at length unearthing poor 
 
A PANTALOON STORY. 
 
 81 
 
 puss, banged her with the broom all round the room 
 until she had scarcely one of her nine lives left in her. 
 Having thus avenged himself, Alf drank his beer and 
 went to bed without his supper. 
 
 Next night, on coming home from the theatre, Alf 
 said to himself, 4 1 shan’t be disappointed to-night; I’ll 
 get some more of that stuff, and I’ll take precious good 
 care the cat don’t get it this time.’ So he went into 
 the shop, and pointing with his forefinger to a fresh slab 
 of the brown meat, said :— 
 
 4 I’ll take another half-pound of that.’ 
 
 He had another half-pound accordingly, and went 
 home, and as usual found the Missus in bed asleep, and 
 a bit of fire burning in the front room. Alf routed 
 about for the cat, and having found her and locked her 
 up in the coal-cupboard, put his meat on the gridiron 
 over the fire, and went out for his beer in security. 
 But, lo and behold! on his return the meat was gone 
 again! 
 
 4 It’s the Missus,’ said Alf, emphatically; 4 now 
 I know it; now I’m sure of it.’ And with that he 
 pulled open the door and rushed into the bedroom. 
 The partner of his bosom was fast asleep and snoring, 
 or apparently so. 4 It won’t do, missus,’ said Alf; 4 this 
 is the second time you’ve done it. Oh! it’s no use your 
 pretending to be asleep. You ought to be ashamed of 
 yourself, you ought; as if I hadn’t enough of such 
 pantomime tricks at the theatre, without coming home 
 to be made a pantaloon of. Give me up my meat, 
 ma’am!’ And with that Alf seized the partner of his 
 joys by the frill of her nightgown, and shook her. 
 
 4 Thieves! murder!’ cried Mrs. Alf, waking up in 
 alarm. G 
 
82 
 
 A PANTALOON STOKY. 
 
 4 Hush! hold your tongue/ said Alf; 4 you’ll wake 
 the house.’ 
 
 4 What are you up to ?’ says the Missus, seeing who 
 it was. 
 
 4 What are you up to ?’ says Alf; 4 where’s my piece 
 of meat ?’ 
 
 4 Alf,’ says the Missus, 4 you’re going off your nut.’ 
 
 4 Mo I aint,’ says Alf; 4 where’s my meat ?’ 
 
 4 What do I know about it ?’ she says. 
 
 4 Do you mean to say you haven’t took it ?’ said Alf. 
 
 4 Took it ?’ she says ; 4 no!’ 
 
 4 Say, S’help your bob! you haven’t.’ 
 
 4 S’help my bob ! Alf—there!’ 
 
 4 Well, I’m bothered,’ says Alf, 4 if this doesn’t beat 
 cock-fighting! The house is enchanted, that’s my be¬ 
 lief.’ And once more Alf had to go to bed without his 
 supper. 
 
 Mext night he determined that he should bring in his 
 beer first and then put the meat down to cook, and sit and 
 watch it until it was done. So he called again at the 
 cook-shop, and asked for another 4 half-pound of that.’ 
 
 4 You see,’ said Alf, 4 1 had an accident with it last 
 night, and the night before too. Can’t think who did 
 it; but when I had put it on the gridiron and turned 
 my back—’ 
 
 4 Gridiron !’ said the man. 
 
 4 Gridiron,’ repeated Alf. 
 
 4 Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed the man; 4 put it on the 
 gridiron ! ha ! ha! ha !’ 
 
 4 What are you laughing at ?’ asked Alf. 
 
 4 Why,’ said the man, 4 it was—it was—ha! ha !’ 
 
 4 What ?’ demanded Alf, angrily. 
 
 4 Soup,’ said the man; 4 mock turtle ; ha! ha! ha V 
 
HARLEQUIN. 
 
 83 
 
 Of course the mock turtle had run through the bars 
 of the gridiron almost the moment it was put on the 
 fire. 
 
 HARLEQUIN. 
 
 Harlequin in these days is little more than a graceful 
 dancer. He is generally, indeed, a teacher of dancing ; 
 though not unfrequently, in the country, the harlequin 
 for the Christmas pantomime is a volunteer from the 
 ordinary company—some lithe and agile second walking 
 gentleman who is willing to don the spangles and risk 
 the dangers of trap leaps for a temporary addition to 
 his salary. The great Edmund Kean once played har¬ 
 lequin ; and there is more than one legitimate actor of 
 the high-art school still living who is not ashamed to 
 own that he £ once upon a time ’ figured as 4 Patchy.’ 
 
 And this reminds us what a curious and elaborate 
 thing a harlequin’s dress is. It must be a very impor¬ 
 tant article, too, in more senses than one. Its materials 
 are brought from all quarters of the globe, and its 
 manufacture, from first to last, employs a large number 
 of hands. Persons who are in the habit of promenading 
 in Bow Street cannot have failed to notice the shop of 
 Mr. S. May, the theatrical costumier. When all the 
 town is sweltering under the hot sun of June, Mr. May’s 
 cutter may be seen (close to the door, for the conve¬ 
 nience of fresh air) mathematically chalking out the 
 particoloured diamonds for harlequin’s Christmas attire. 
 He must begin at Midsummer, for the making of harle¬ 
 quin’s dress is by no means a simple or easy matter, and 
 Mr. May has thirty or forty of them to get ready by 
 Boxing-night. What a time of it he has, after October 
 
 G 2 
 
84 
 
 harlequin’s dress. 
 
 commences, with clowns and pantaloons and harlequins 
 looking in at all hours of the day to see how their finery 
 is going on! Yery earnest and anxious are the faces of 
 these 4 mad wags 9 on such occasions, and by no means 
 suggestive of the genial fun which is to warm our hearts 
 and brighten our eyes when the flowers have faded, and 
 the leaves have fallen from the trees, and the sun has 
 grown distant and pale and cold, like a friend who has 
 become rich and moved into another sphere. All 
 through June, July, and August—indeed, up to within 
 a week of Boxing-night, you may see Mr. May’s cutter 
 slashing into great breadths of coloured Leicester and 
 Bradford cloths, manufactured expressly for the jacket 
 and 4 pants * of harlequin. The foundation, or ground¬ 
 work, of harlequin’s dress is cut from the finest white 
 cloth, manufactured exclusively at Leicester. The 
 ground-work used to be white silk, but this white cloth 
 is better, because it is as elastic as the material of a 
 stocking. The coloured diamonds are cut from the 
 finest cloths of Bradford, and are sewn together with 
 great nicety, and in regular progression. There are, 
 altogether, 308 pieces in a harlequin’s dress. After this 
 comes the process of spangling. 
 
 But, first, what is a spangle ? Viewing them from 
 a distance, spangles have the appearance of the 
 sheen of silver tissue; but they are not part and 
 parcel of the cloth. Each spangle is an individual, 
 and has to be sewn on by itself, as a shirt button is 
 sewn on—indeed, a spangle has exactly the shape 
 of a shirt-button. It is a little round flat piece of 
 glittering metal, with a hole through its centre. The 
 process of manufacture—a monopoly of the Germans— 
 is curious. Spangles are made of fine copper-wire, 
 
COLUMBINE. 
 
 85 
 
 plated with silver. The wire is drawn to the required 
 fineness, then turned on a slender mandril, then twisted 
 into the form of a brace spring or curl, then cut into 
 lengths. These lengths of curled wire being dropped 
 on a flat surface assume the shape of rings, as the 
 reader can readily imagine, and a hydraulic press or 
 hammer coming down on them, squeezes them into 
 solid flat discs. On a harlequin’s dress there are no less 
 than 48,000 of these spangles, and each one of these is 
 picked up and sewn on separately by women. The 
 weight of the spangles on a dress is about three pounds, 
 and it takes 144,000 stitches to sew them on; that is to 
 say, three stitches to each spangle. During November 
 and December Mr. May has from twenty to thirty 
 people, chiefly women, employed exclusively upon 
 dresses for the pantomimes. Mr. Clarkson, of Wel¬ 
 lington Street, is fully employed, during the same time, 
 in the manufacture of pantomimic wigs; and other 
 tradesmen are occupied with stockings, and shoes, and 
 jewels, and masks, and cutlery, all devised expressly for 
 stage use. 
 
 COLUMBINE. 
 
 Some dancers are born columbines, some achieve that 
 position, and some have it thrust upon them. When 
 clown, or harlequin, or pantaloon, or columbine has a 
 daughter, and she has a good face and figure, she may 
 be said to be born a columbine. Familiar to her sight 
 from infancy are the spots, bosses, and enormous 
 pockets of ‘ Vampo,’ the spangled, coloured triangles 
 of 4 Patchy,’ and the pyramidal wig and beard of the 
 4 old ’un.’ She practises battements as soon as she can 
 toddle, and stands with her little nose close to the wall, 
 
86 
 
 COLUMBINE. 
 
 not as a punishment, but in order ‘ to turn her out ’— 
 that is, both her feet are placed against the wall, and 
 she must keep them level with it. From this early 
 preparation, and her pantomimic parentage, she be¬ 
 comes columbine, and we hope, as the story-books say, 
 
 4 lives happy ever after.’ 
 
 The few columbines who have their pantomimic 
 queendom thrust upon them are generally girls whose 
 parents are comfortably situated as to means, and who 
 have no personal ambition. ‘Ah!’ said Monsieur 
 Pointdetout, the ballet-master, to us, speaking of a 
 columbine of this class, ‘ what a be-yeautiful dan-seur 
 that Annie Joyce would be, if she had but brains! but, 
 helas! she wants them there,’ tapping his forehead. 
 ‘ She is hand-some—she is gracious—she dance well— 
 she has a beautiful point—but brains—bah! va!’ 
 
 Last Christmas a large number of children were 
 engaged for a scene in which they had to build a fairy 
 house with the usual fairy Genius-of-the-Lamp ra¬ 
 pidity. One little girl, thoroughly cm fait to the busi¬ 
 ness, appeared tearful and discontented. She was 
 about eight years of age. At last she threw down her 
 property trowel, and advancing to the author of the 
 opening, said, ‘ Mr. B—, I address you as the author of 
 the pantomime. I was engaged here last Christmas, 
 and the Christmas before, and I gave every satisfaction. 
 I was in the morris-dance that used to be encored. 
 Last year I was in the front row ’ (here the tears began 
 to rise), ‘and this year Mr. Locksley (the stage- 
 manager) has put me in the back. Boo-hoo !’ By the 
 author’s intercession the child was reinstated in the 
 front rank. When we heard the anecdote, we said to 
 ourselves, ‘ That girl will be a columbine!’ 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 It perhaps never occurred to you, Materfamilias, 
 sitting smiling in the dress circle, with your olive 
 branches around you, that columbine, who is frisking 
 and pirouetting before you, is herself a materfamilias, 
 and that while she is tripping about here in short 
 gauze petticoats, she has little ones of her own tossing 
 about in them beds in some cheerless lodging, anxiously 
 waiting for mother’s step on the stairs. She and har¬ 
 lequin play the lovers well, do they not ? They are all 
 youth and grace, and smiles and airiness. Yes; and 
 they have been man and wife these dozen years, and 
 have had their cares and their joys, their gladness and 
 their sorrow, like the real people who sit around you.. 
 It is well to look at them as real people. We can the 
 better appreciate the praiseworthy efforts which they 
 make—in the only way they can—to do their duty. 
 And what a strange sphere it is from our point of view ! 
 The eldest of harlequin and columbine—a youth of 
 fourteen—is now standing at the wing—he is call-boy— 
 witnessing his father and. his mother dancing. Fancy 
 yourself, Materfamilias, with Paterfamilias in those 
 clothes, you in the short gauze petticoats, and he in 
 the spangles, doing a cracovienne in the presence of 
 your son! Thank your stars that you have better work 
 to do; but it is not harder nor sterner work than this. 
 
88 
 
 THOUGHTS BEHIND THE CURTAIN. 
 
 The individualities of pantomimists are exhibited in a 
 striking light at a morning rehearsal, when the un¬ 
 romantic daylight streams down upon them. One 
 thing perplexes you very much, and that is, among 
 the motley crowd at the wing to determine who is who. 
 Two men in canvas trousers with white skull-caps on 
 their heads are busying themselves in front. Who are 
 they? Clown and pantaloon. But which is which? 
 It would be difficult to guess from their present appear¬ 
 ance, for they have left off the clothes of the outer 
 world, and have not yet endued themselves in the distin¬ 
 guishing garments of the pantomine. And this crowd 
 of men, women, and children of all ages, sizes, and 
 apparent conditions—who are they ? Some of the men 
 are of clerical aspect and wear black, somewhat rusty, 
 and shiny hats of the respectable chimney-pot order. 
 A good many of them are grizzled with age, and bear 
 the stamp of care upon their brows. The women are a 
 thin, poorly-clad, anxious-looking set; most of them 
 with children in their charge—some of them little mites 
 of things, not more than three or four years old. 
 There is an ah of combined poverty and respectability 
 about this motley crowd which sadly puzzles the 
 stranger. He would scarcely guess that they are there 
 to represent shopkeepers, and policemen, and butchers, 
 and bakers, and the other personages of the pantomime, 
 whom it is the business of the clown to buffet and ill 
 use. They have had an anxious time of it for a week 
 past for fear they should not be engaged. You may 
 have seen them in a crowd, waiting round the stage 
 door in the cold, day after day. So anxious have they 
 been for an engagement at a shilling a night, or per- 
 
THOUGHTS BEHIND THE CUETAIN. 
 
 89 
 
 liaps less, to be tripped up, and bonneted, and burned 
 with pokers, and banged with shutters! The moment 
 it got Avind that there was a frog scene in the piece, 
 the manager was inundated with offers of children. 
 The mothers of the neighbourhood went from one to 
 another, and spread the report of frogs, and the would- 
 be representatives of frogs came upon the manager like 
 a plague of Egypt. And when, at length, the order 
 went forth, c no more frogs,’ there was wailing and 
 lamentation outside the stage door in the cold. It is 
 curious, almost pitiful, to see Tittle children, who can 
 barely speak, sent on to the stage to amuse others— 
 they who have never had a toy to amuse themselves. 
 We have seen little human frogs and human rats 
 hushed to sleep in the corner of a dressing-room until it 
 was time to put them into their pasteboard skins. 
 
 Fancy that, Materfamilias—a babe just weaned earn¬ 
 ing its mother’s Sunday dinner ! We know two little, 
 chubby, black-eyed things, a boy and a girl, whose heads 
 scarcely reach above our knee, who have been earning the 
 Sunday dinner of a whole family for three months past. 
 The independence of their behaviour in the theatre, 
 owing to their childish unconsciousness of any authority, 
 forms a striking contrast to the obsequiousness of the 
 grown-up employes. One day we saAV the manager 
 passing through behind the scenes, and carpenters and 
 scene-shifters made way for him, and high-placed 
 officials and leading gentlemen and ladies boAved and 
 kotoAA T ed with respectful aAve. So far the progress of the 
 manager Avas that of a terrible potentate through the 
 ranks of his subjects. But presently the great man 
 entered the green-room, and there our two little 
 
90 
 
 THOUGHTS BEHIND THE CUETAIN. 
 
 chubby, black-eyed friends were engaged in boisterous 
 play, jumping on and off the sofas and chairs. Did 
 they stop their play and sneak away into a comer with 
 scared looks? Not they. They continued them 
 romping and jumping quite unconcerned; and when 
 the manager told them in awful tones to be quiet, the 
 little black-eyed boy said 4 Shan’t!’ and the little black- 
 eyed girl ran against the great man, and slapping him 
 in a child’s wayward manner, plainly told him this bit 
 of her little innocent mind—‘ I don’t like you !’ Bless 
 their little hearts, they had no idea of a great Bashaw 
 of a manager who held engagements in his hands and 
 paid salaries on Saturday. They only knew that 
 mother brought them there, that they played little 
 frogs, and that somehow or other—through mother— 
 money came of it, and a nice baked dinner on Sunday. 
 
 It is proverbial that one half the world does not 
 know how the other half lives. The rehearsal of a 
 pantomime sometimes helps One-half-the-world’s ig¬ 
 norance. Among that motley, mouldy throng of super¬ 
 numeraries waiting at the wing there are men who 
 have been educated and brought up as gentlemen; 
 there are decayed tradesmen; there are clerks and 
 shopmen out of employment; there are poor artisans of 
 the superior class; there are faded coryphees who once 
 upon a time were pets of the ballet and the admired 
 divinities of the stalls. Most of them have had a 
 theatrical connection all their lives. The decayed 
 tradesman has served the theatre perhaps; or he has 
 had customers among actors. The clerk may have 
 dabbled in theatrical copying. These are all thoroughly 
 up in their business, and take their kicks and slaps and 
 
THE RED-HOT POKER. 
 
 91 
 
 trippings-up with methodical and unruffled precision. 
 For a new comer, however, the ordeal is a painful one, 
 and if he he a superior person, it is rarely that he passes 
 through it with success; neither his will nor his 
 poverty will make him consent to shake his leg when a 
 red-hot poker is put in his pocket. A case in point 
 rises in our memory. The usual front scene of shops 
 was set, and a pale, anxious-looking young man, who 
 stood in the front of the crowd at the wing, was ordered 
 by the clown to 4 go on.’ The young man advanced 
 nervously and the clown followed and put the painted 
 poker in his pocket. The youth walked on placidly 
 and made his exit, at the opposite side, as if nothing 
 had happened. Of course the clown was disgusted. 
 4 That will never do; come back.’ The young man 
 came back, rather sulkily, and went through the 
 business again, but without expressing the desired 
 amount of comic pain—indeed, without expressing any 
 at all. The clown was now losing his temper, and he 
 roared out— c Now, would you walk off as quietly as 
 that if you had a red-hot poker in your pocket ? That’s 
 a red-hot poker, young man; look at me.’ Here the 
 pantaloon practised on the clown, and the clown went 
 into the most exquisite contortions. 4 Now then, try 
 againand the clown roughly took the young man 
 by the collar to bring him back to his place; but he 
 had scarcely touched him before the young man, whose 
 face was scarlet with indignation, first 4 squared up’ at 
 clown, and then bursting away from him, rushed pre¬ 
 cipitately off the stage and out of the theatre. 4 Ah!’ 
 said clown, 4 he’s too much of a gentleman for the 
 w r ork.’ Which was just the truth. 
 
92 
 
 ‘ PROPERTIES.’ 
 
 A prime minister during the time of a great inter¬ 
 national difficulty is the popular beau ideal of a harassed 
 man ; but we question if any prime minister, at such a 
 time, ever worked harder, or suffered more anxiety, 
 than does the property-man, or the stage-manager of a 
 theatre during the production of a pantomime. For 
 the information of such as are not versed in theatrical 
 affairs, we may explain that ‘ properties ’ is the name 
 given to all the articles used in the business of a scene. 
 Tables, chairs, bedsteads, trick-boxes, carrots, snowballs, 
 fairy wands, seaweed, locomotive engines, tobacco pipes, 
 babies, thunder and lightning, and a thousand other 
 things too numerous to mention, are included under 
 the denomination. All these things have to be made 
 and got ready, sometimes on the shortest notice. It is 
 rarely, indeed, that they are all finished until some 
 days after the opening night. We once heard an 
 author complimenting a property-man for having done 
 his work so well and in so short a time. ‘ You must 
 have had hard work over it.’ 4 Hard work! Why, sir, 
 I call this nothing; when I was getting up the panto¬ 
 mime at the-Theatre I never had my clothes off 
 
 for four days and nights before it was produced, nor 
 for four days and nights after it was produced—except 
 to play harlequin.’ That was his only refreshment. 
 Nor does the property-man’s anxiety cease when the 
 work of manufacture is over. Every night, when we 
 are shaking our sides at the mad pranks which the 
 clown plays with his canvas turnips and calico sausages, 
 he is toiling and sweating behind, getting all these 
 things ready. Each scene requires its own particular 
 set of properties, and when one set is taken away 
 
STAGE MANAGEMENT. 
 
 93 
 
 another must immediately be brought in to supply its 
 place. The red herrings and the ducks, and the quar¬ 
 tern loaves which fly about so miscellaneously in front, 
 must all be in their proper places at the wing. Then 
 there are innumerable trick-boxes to drag out and 
 prepare; one little boy has to be put into one, and 
 another little boy into another, and great care must be 
 taken that all the strings and flaps are in proper work¬ 
 ing order. A vast amount of strong language is re¬ 
 quired to help these multifarious arrangements to their 
 due consummation. A stage-manager will tell you 
 that it is as impossible to do without strong language 
 during the performance of a pantomime, as it is to 
 command a man-of-war without it, in a gale of wind. 
 Speak ‘ genteelly ’ to your scene-shifter or your fore¬ 
 mast-man, and a trap sticks, or away go your topsails. 
 But the stage-manager and the prompter have plenty of 
 work of their own to do besides the ‘ ungenteel ’ urging 
 of others. Look at that elaborate business plot which 
 the prompter has spread out before him in his box. 
 Every leap, every flap change, every trap trick is there 
 marked down ; and the prompter must be ready on the 
 instant to give the signal to those working them behind 
 the flats, on the flies above, and in the galleries under 
 the stage. A second too late with a signal and the 
 trick is spoiled, or, worse still, some one is hurt by 
 being shot against a shored trap or a buttoned door. 
 The dangers to which pantomimists are exposed are 
 more serious and more constantly imminent than the 
 public have any idea of. Supposing, when the har¬ 
 lequin leaps through the trap in the flat, that the four 
 men appointed to catch him are not at their posts. 
 
94 
 
 RISKS OF THE PERFORMERS. 
 
 Why, poor harlequin comes down with a crash on the 
 hard boards, and perhaps maims himself for life. It is 
 one of the great grievances of pantomimists that they 
 cannot get these men to attend to their duties, unless 
 by constantly feeing them, or treating them to beer. 
 There have been many instances where these men have 
 absented themselves on purpose to 4 serve out’ a clown 
 or pantaloon who has refused or neglected to comply 
 with their exactions. It is a pity that the law does not 
 provide a special punishment—and it could not be too 
 severe—for such criminal neglect and wilful malice. 
 
 Having attempted to give some idea of the vast 
 resources which are called into play, of the anxious and 
 heavy labour which is gone through, and of the serious 
 dangers which are encountered, during the performance 
 of a pantomime, it only remains for us to speak of the 
 great mystery which is involved in the concoction and 
 designing of the so-called comic business. We know 
 all about the opening. We are informed a month 
 beforehand that such and such a popular author will 
 w T rite the introduction, and in due time it is presented 
 to us—in return for sixpence—in the form of a book, 
 with the author’s name and a record of his dramatic 
 triumphs on the title-page. But who is the author of 
 the comic business ?—the opening is not regarded as 
 comic—who arranges those sometimes smart hits at 
 the passing events of the day which are pantomimically 
 carried out by clown and pantaloon ? From what 
 fertile and facetious brain proceeds the notion of turn¬ 
 ing a sack of alum into quartern loaves, Mr. Spurgeon 
 into a gorilla, and transforming the label on a box of 
 American pills, into 4 National Debt 1,000,000,000 
 
f COMIC BUSINESS.’ 
 
 95 
 
 dollars ?’ Does any one imagine that these are im¬ 
 promptu funnyments, or that their design is left to 
 clown and pantaloon ? Perhaps the matter never occu¬ 
 pies a thought. Be it known, however, that there are 
 authors of the harlequinade, as well as of the burlesque 
 opening, and that all the business is written down on 
 paper with equal minuteness and care, though the pro¬ 
 duction is never printed in a book, and the name of the 
 author is never glorified in the newspapers. Let us 
 break through the envious silence which has hitherto 
 been preserved with regard to such important matters 
 and present our readers with a copy of a portion of the 
 MS. of a comic scene, as it is written down for the 
 pantomimists:— 
 
 ‘ Enter clown and pant. Man x with hoards, (x be it under¬ 
 stood, means u crosses ”), written on, “Just arrived, the New American 
 Anticipating Machine.” C. purchases it, and they place it against 
 door of warehouse and exit ’ (sic). i An old gentleman enters with 
 little dog. Pant, gives him hill. Clown steals dog. Old gent, 
 exits. Clown pops dog into machine, turns handle, and pulls out 
 from other side long row of sausages. Gent, returns, calls and 
 whistles for dog. The-sausages commence wagging, a la dog’s tail. 
 Gent, frightened, and runs off. Baker’s man places board at door, 
 “ Bakings carefully done.” A boy brings on dish and cover. Clown 
 says, “All right,” and places it on c. of stage. Calls pant. He 
 takes off cover, and discovers a sheep’s head and potatoes. He is 
 about to steal one when the sheep’s eyes become illuminated and 
 work. C., frightened, pops on cover and runs off.’ 
 
 ‘ Clown enters with a shabby hat, old coat, and bludgeon (a la 
 burglar) from chemist’s shop. A gent, comes out of door. Clown 
 walks behind him, steals book from pocket—at same time policeman 
 enters—secures him. Clown begs for mercy—takes out a scroll, 
 written on, “ Tm a victim to kleptomania .” Policeman holds up 
 another scroll—“ Tm the cure for that." Har. waves : Clown’s scroll 
 changes to “ Tivelve months' hard labour." ’ 
 
96 
 
 PANTOMIME PROFITABLE. 
 
 And now we will conclude with the statement of a 
 fact which we suspect is 4 not generally known/ viz., 
 that the pantomime which finds so many people in 
 bread at Christmas-time is in many instances the sole 
 sustaining prop of the house. At some theatres there 
 is no profit made except at pantomime-time. All the 
 rest of the year it is hard struggle to make both ends 
 meet until Boxing-night comes again. And when the 
 curtain falls for the last time on the concluding glories 
 of the pantomime of this Christmas, the manager will 
 send for the property-man and the scene-painter, and 
 will instruct them to begin without a day’s delay to 
 prepare for the next, which will be performed for the 
 first time on the 26th of December, 1863. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 LONDON: FEINTED BT W. CLOAVES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CIIAEING CROSS. 
 
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