UC-NRLF *B 3T1 131 ^r? ?>"\ BY J.W. FliYNN THE RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF An Old Play-goer. B Sfcetcb of some ID Cock Gbeatres* J. W. FLYNN We'll pluck the roses that still spring upon the grave of buried time. CORK : PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY GUY & CO. LTD. 1890. Cl F5- 3n QTUmotriatn. "THE OLD PLAY-GOER.' "Bb met but tbosc trtumpbs, Cbarleg, tbes were few ano too far between." G. R. Sims. 122 THE RANDOM RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD PLAY-GOER. H Sfeetcb of some lb Corfe XTbeatres* ^HERE are few things in this world's experience more strangely blended of the bitter and the sweet than the theatrical retrospections of one who has been accustomed to view closely the doings of the little world on the stage j few things are more unutterably sad than to trace with the mind's eye the havoc of Time and Death amongst those gay, bright spirits that people the little world of the drama. Those who have been play-goers for years of their lifetime have many delightful reminiscences of the time they devoted to acquiring a knowledge of plays and players. Such remem- brances are cherished in most men's minds with a tender, almost reverential regard. As a long life runs its course the mind often turns to the past, to gather from the con- templation of memory's hidden treasures such pleasures as perhaps we look in vain for in the present, or to glean some new diversion from things that have already yielded abundant amusement. As life's dial-shade creeps closer to the inevitable sunset, we are apt to place ever a higher value on the golden memories that link us to a bright and happy past. How dearly we love these things ! To some there is The Random Recollections joy in the mere memory of a name ; to others the very re- collection of a dulcet voice, long since hushed in the chill silence of the tomb, will bring a flood of happy thoughts. And tears will come unchecked at the words of some old song that pleased us when the delight of life was new to us, and ere those things that make mankind ambitious turned to dust and ashes at our touch, some simple strain that we loved ere the light of our earlier days departed, and our youth, lizard-like, changed, its bright tints for the sombre hue of sober unromantic middle age ! " There's music in the olden song Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears Which will steal down our smiles among, Roused by the sounds of other years." And truly there are no songs we love like the old songs, even though sometimes our hearts be so full that we cannot sing them. With a deep regard for the art of bygone ages we treasure our household gods, the costly pictures, the hoard of quaint and curious plate, the antique figures in bronze and china, or the sculptured marbles that typify the genius which inspired, and the culture which guided, the handicraft of other and greater ages. Yet, with what deeper feelings are we wont to regard those precious things gathered in the storehouse of the heart, those rare figures niched in " the corridors of time" that will never fade from our sight till we go down "to dumb forgetfulness a prey" forms and faces of the radiant beings whose voices seem to come back to us at times, through the long vista of unforgotten years, in the tones that erstwhile thrilled us to the heart's core ! And memory bridges lightly over the great gulf of time, " As the dear notes of some sweet air By lips long silent warbled o'er, Come back to stir the heart once more, And even while grasped are hushed away." For us these beautiful memories of the past, that seem "like sweet thoughts in a dream," are imperishable, priceless; they wake our souls, which have mayhapgrown dull and slumberous in the weary march of life, to the ecstacy of happy recollections; they give us once more a gleam of the light that shone upon our pathway when the garland of youth was fresh-wreathed upon our brows, and when all the glory and beauty, the sweetness and grace of life, filled our hearts full of serenest of an Old Play-goer. joy. As the sweet scent of some flowers the simple mignon- ette perfuming fragrantly the breath of summer morn, the homely old-fashioned wallflower, or the odour of dead rose leaves suggests with subtle power other times and other people, so the triumphs of histrionic genius, when we witness them now, bring to mind the great men and women who long ago won our first love for Shakespeare on the stage ; they bring to us too the thought of those who shared our pleasures then, and the thought pains us with sweet sad regret for the dead flowers of the past the loves and the friend- ships that no longer gladden us with their blooming. Some such thoughts as these came thronging, I am sure, to the mind of the Old Playgoer (whose genial presence brought brightness to many a festive gathering), as he gave me his recollections of the old Cork theatres. It is only in such personal recollections we can trace anything of the checkered history of the old theatres in Cork, for there is no record else not even playbills, I think to show what was done in the old theatres long ago. Probably the first theatre ever built in Cork was' one which stood, early in the last century, in Dingle Lane, off the North Main Street. Another was afterwards run up in Broad Lane, but had ceased to exist before 1736. In that year a regular theatre was opened at the corner of George's Street and Prince's Street, but it was only a small place. In 1760 the "Theatre Royal," in George's Street, was built and opened under the management of Spranger Barry. In 1840 this theatre was accidentally burned down. In 1850 a circus was built by a man named Pablo Fanque on the site of that old theatre. A short time afterwards this circus was transformed into a theatre by Mr. Richard Burke, and a theatre it remained till it was taken some thirteen years ago by the Postal Department, and transformed into the present General Post Office. It was in this old theatre, in 1766, a singular exhibition was witnessed one night. A tailor named Patrick Redmond was hanged at "Gallows Green" for some "robbery with violence," or some such offence, then punishable with the death penalty, and it fell out that when the body was cut down and taken away to be buried, an actor named Glover, who happened to be present, suggested to the friends of the deceased that it would be a good thing if he tried his hand at restoring the " dead man." They gladly acceded to the request, and, after The Random Recollectiojis a good deal of hard work, the apparently dead man was brought round, to the joy of his "pals." Of course, the tailor had not been given a "drop" by the hangman, but was simply hanged in the old-fashioned way of tying the rope round his neck and then pulling the cart from under him, so that when he was cut down he was merely half-strangled. The next night the victim of the law attended the theatre, though urged not to do so. The first actor who appeared was the man who had done the " restoring," whereupon the " dead man" made such a demonstration that he narrowly escaped a second arrest. However, in the confusion his friends got him away, and he was got out of the country. The sheriff was in the theatre at the time but generously affected not to know what was going on. There were other theatres in Cork. One called the " Apollo" theatre stood where the office of the Cork Examiner is now. In 1779 a little theatre was opened in Henry Street, near the Mansion House, but none of these lived long. It was in the George's Street and the Cook Street houses the best productions always took place. Let me try to revive some of the recollections of these theatres as they came to me through my friend the Old Playgoer, let me try to tell you some of his stories as he would have told them to you, to write them down as he would have written them. "Yes," said the Old Play-goer, "I remember some of the old theatres Collins's Pavilion, the Cook Street, the Mary Street, and the George's Street theatres principally. The Mary Street house was rather a rough-and-tumble sort of place. Collins's did'nt count with the other two. It was a cheap theatre, but it was a capital place of amusement, and a sort of training school for the regular theatres. Two of the principal theatres may be said to have ended in smoke ; for while that of Cook Street is devoted to the manufacture of tobacco, its fellow of Mary Street has been converted to the "base uses" of a coal store. I remember one very ludicrous incident occurring at the Mary Street theatre. They were playing " Green Bushes," of an Old Play-goer. then a great favourite. The chief character was undertaken by a lady who was announced in the following fashion Miami Miss Delavelle Barrington. (The recent marriage and retire- ment of Miss Helen Faucit has left this lady in sole possession of the tragic throne. ) Well, unfortunately, the regal dignity of a queen of tragedy is apt to get a bit ruffled at times. It happened this way with the Mary Street queen. Towards the end of the play. you will remember " Miami," finding in the developments of the drama that she is not particularly wanted by anybody, commits suicide by jumping into the Mississippi, exclaiming, " River of my race, receive me ! When she reached the usual eminence of scenic rocks, poor Miss B. found to her dismay that no mattress had been placed in the imaginary " river," for her to jump on. To make matters worse, it So happened that the ledge of rock confining the " river" was too low to hide the actress from the audience. Down Miss B. came, however, on the bare boards, with a hard thud, and the confusion of her position was increased tenfold when a voice in the region of the gods sang out .in the flattest of native accents, "Oh, be japers, His frozen!" a remark which set the house in a roar. The persons who ought to have come out on a raft to rescue the drowning heroine were so confused by the awkward mishap that they were ashamed to make their appearance. Then the sole possessor of the tragic throne, finding that the river of her race would not receive her, inasmuch as a large portion of her dorsal region was still visible over the rocks, distractedly crawled off the stage on all-fours, amid shrieks of laughter from an un- sympathetic audience. A good story was once told of the great Miss Cushman in the days of the old Cook Street house. She was a very ugly woman, but a really fine actress. In such parts as " Meg Merriles," in the old play of "Guy Mannering," she was superb, and her acting in "cave scene" always made a deep impression. When passing over the stage one day after a rehearsal she came face to face with a scene-shifter who was popularly said to be the ugliest man in Cork. Gazing at him intently for a few seconds with those piercing eyes of hers, Miss Cushman heaved a sigh of satisfaction, and taking out her purse, gave the man a piece of gold. When the poor fellow broke out into profuse thanks, the eccentric actress 10 The Random Recollections raised a finger and said scornfully, " Don't thank me, my good man. It is an offering of thanksgiving to Providence that I have at last met someone uglier than myself!" My memory reaches back to many brilliant nights in the old Cork theatre, when such men as Kean, Macready, Brooke, Forrest, and others, held sway, and when the genius of Helen Faucit shone like a bright particular star in our theatrical firmament ; when such artistes as Ellen Tree, Celeste, Vestris, Ternan, Glynn, and some of less note, delighted the public with a display of their gifts ; when the voices of such singers as Romer the sweetest English songstress of her day Catherine Hayes, Louisa Pyne, Grisi, Mario, Sims Reeves, Alboni, and a host of others, charmed all lovers of music. We were able to get " stars" at a short notice then, because we had a stock company of our own. Such a stock company ! The great " provider" of our theatricals was Frank Seymour, of the Cook Street, or Royal Victoria, Theatre. Of all the strange men ever found in the theatrical circle, poor Frank Seymour was surely the strangest. He was popularly known as "Chouse," because on one occasion when playing " Othello " at Limerick he, in the well- known passage " Excellent wench ! Perdition catch my soul, But 1 do love thee ! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again " pronounced the word "chaos" as if written "chouse." Afterwards whenever he was announced to play in Limerick, the saying amongst playgoers was, " Chouse is come again." Seymour hated the nickname, and it is recorded of him that one night when he was playing " Othello," in the " dying scene," a voice from the gallery roared out, " That's d n good, Chouse." Then the audience witnessed a singular spectacle. "Othello" sat bolt upright, shook his fist first in the direction of the disturber, and, in a voice of rage, invited him if he were a man to come down and have his head punched. There being no answer to the challenge, the napless Moor solemnly turned over and proceeded to die, to an obligato of titters from the pit. I remember Barry Sullivan, the tragedian, speaking of Frank Seymour once at a public banquet as having been called Frank "Schemer" by some who knew him. I fear Barry Sullivan was right. I will nothing extenuate, nor of an Old Play-goer. 1 1 set down ought in malice. " Chouse " has many years gone to where quarter sessions cease from troubling and bum- bailiffs are at rest. His poverty, and not his will, consented, I am sure, to the remarkable dodges to which at one time he was obliged to resort. I am afraid the stock company very often went without their salaries. There was a very angry scene one day on the subject of salary, and a very remarkable member of the company, old Mrs. Seyton, denounced Frank furiously, as " You, Frank Seymour, the very boards of whose stage are enseamed with the sweat of unpaid artistes ! " She said afterwards, in describing the scene " I thought that very fine, but the dickens a ha'penny it knocked out of him." Frank might probably with much truth have pleaded " The times are dull, and all that we receive Will hardly satisfy the day's expense ;" for in those days it was quite as hard to draw the Cork public as it ever has been since. The poor stock company were very often in very low water indeed, but no lower than that in which poor Frank himself stood. As an actor he had no real ability whatever. Off the stage he was a good sort of fellow enough, though like many of the old sort of stagers there was always an air of " Othello," or some other character about him. I see him in my mind's eye now a low-sized stout man, with an air of threadbare neatness which was rather depressing in the reality. His rusty black gloves used to irritate me very much. On the stage he was a mere parrot. He brought no strength of intellect to bear on the arduous tasks he essayed. He did his best, poor soul, and he meant well, even if he achieved very little. Like Eccles, in that sweet play, Caste, Frank Seymour did everything " with the best intintions," and that covered a multitude of his dramatic sins. He often repeated his lines in a play apparently without the least grasp of their real meaning. For instance, on one occasion when the line " Beyond this forest is the Torza's bank," occurred in the text, Frank, who had some recollection of the sound but not the sense of the correct words, rendered it glibly " Beyond this forest is the torrid zone," 12 The Random Recollections whereupon a grinning and perspiring individual in the crowded gallery roared out, "Be my sowl I thought so, we're all so hot up here !" The best character Frank played was the "Ghost" in "Hamlet," and that he played better than anyone else I ever saw in the part. He was naturally adapted for it, because he had a voice that seemed to come up from his boots, it was so deep. I think the worst thing I ever heard about Frank was a trick he played a distinguished Italian singer, I quite forget the lady's name, who sang for him in Cook Street. The guileless creature probably did not know what manner of man Frank was, or she would not have trusted him to the extent she did. The last night of the engagement came and he explained to the lady that she would receive her money in the morning. She explained that she was leaving Cork next morning. Frank said that it was all right ; there would be just time to get money from the bank before the coach started from Pembroke Street for Dublin. Railway trains were unknown to Cork at that time. The lady said " all right," but secretly determined that if Frank didn't turn up in time she would delay her departure. Next morning, just as the coach was about to start, and just as the distinguished lady had determined to get out, down came Frank with breathless speed, and thrust a packet which apparently contained a number of bank-notes into the lady's hand. Then there was an effusive farewell, "good-bye, God bless you," a clasp of the hand, and off started the coach. The lady stuck the packet into her bag, and at once busied herself looking after her impedimenta. When the coach was about twenty miles away the artiste took it into her head to count her money. Unsuspecting creature f When she opened the packet she found (alas, that I should have to confess it !) that instead of bank-notes she had only a few of Frank' s playbills folded up tightly. I cannot remember half the strange things done by Frank and his stock company. The gallant actors and actresses, who nightly made such a fine show, playing " The ancient heroes and fall of princes, With loud applause," were, in the searching daylight, a very seedy lot. The most interesting figure in the group, next to Frank himself, was of an Old Play-goer. Mrs. Seyton, who did heavy parts. Poor Mrs. Seyton ! I used to meet her in the passages of the theatre, rushing in "to be on in time," and used to sadly note, in her shabby clothes, her battered old bonnet, and her broken boots, the evidences of her impoverished condition. She was a good- humoured creature, and always seemed inclined to make the best of everything. Sometimes she would, indeed, take "a darn," as she called it, too much. She was frail in this respect. The Queen, in " Hamlet," was her great part, and when she came to the lines in the last scene, " The drink, the drink, I am poisoned ! " there was a laugh always, and the fellows said, with a shake of the head, " Lord knows, if the drink was poisoning you, you'd be dead long ago ! " But poor Mrs. Seyton, with all her faults, was a most useful actress. She was deeply attached to the "profession." 'Twas not that she loved her art the less, but that she loved "unsweetened" more; and sometimes her gait on the boards was a little less than queenly. One evening that I sat next to Charles Kean at dinner, at G 's hospitable board, we spoke of Mrs. Seyton. * ' What a queer old woman she is ! " Kean said to me : " Last night, when I stood between her and the ghost, I was like a side of bacon being salted. I am sure she was trying to steady herself, but she really annoyed me the way she kept drawing her hands over me." Yet, though Mrs. Seyton was not always very steady on her pins, she was nevertheless invariably word-perfect, never missing a syllable of her lines. I once had an amusing instance of her pride in this respect. One night, the prompter having asked me to take his place for a few minutes, I did so. " Romeo and Juliet" was the play that night. Mrs. Seyton having made an unusual pause in a portion of her lines, I thought that she needed the word, and I gave it. The actress flashed a withering look at me, and I felt that I had put my foot in it some way. When the act finished, Mrs. Seyton came to me, and, shaking a warning finger at me, said angrily : " Don't dare to do that again ! " " Do what ? " I asked. " Prompt me in Shakespeare the very idea of such a thing ! " she exclaimed. " In any of the ordinary plays it would be perhaps well enough, or even I might drop a word in Sheridan Knowles, but in Shakespeare never ! " 14 The Random Recollections To tell the truth, she was wonderfully word-perfect in Shakespeare parts, though, I'm afraid, her interpretation of the text was not that of a scholar. Poor Mrs. Seyton, I heard, spent her last years in the workhouse. I believe that once or twice, when she was sharing " the Poor-Law's tender mercy," she was actually taken out of the workhouse to play the Queen in " Hamlet," and when she had strutted and fretted her hour upon the stage, was allowed to go back to the workhouse, sadly exchanging the purple and fine linen of Elsinore for the wincey and coarse calico of Skahabeg.* There was one memorable occasion in the old days when the public were very near witnessing the play of " Hamlet " without the accustomed Ghost. It came about in this way. " Hamlet " was being played for Seymour's benefit, and the redoubted manager was, of course, the Ghost ; but, unfor- tunately for him, some nasty creditor, destitute of every vestige of dramatic sympathy, had set the law in motion, and the bailiffs, failing to find Frank at home, stationed them- selves at the theatre door for the purpose of arresting him for debt. The evening wore on, and there was no appearance of Frank. Shortly before the time for commencing the per- formance, when the people were coming in very numerously, several parcels and boxes were delivered at the door where the bailiffs were, and presently a rough-looking coffin, with a cloth over it, was brought up. "What's that for?" asked one of the bailiffs, in awe- struck tones. " Lord be praised, what a place to bring a coffin !" 11 This is a new coffin for the grave-scene in ' Hamlet,' " explained one of the theatre men, as they trundled the dismal object in. Soon afterwards the bailiffs were amazed to hear the sound of loud and general applause in the theatre. On going in to see what was the matter, the bailiffs found, to their dismay, that Frank was on the stage. He had gone in between them snugly ensconced in "the coffin for Ophelia," Once inside the theatre, of course, he was in a position to parry the legal weapon. Ellen Tree, who afterwards was married to Charles Kean, came to Cork early in the forties it was '41 or '42, I think. Her " Juliet" was a most captivating one. In the play of * The district in which the workhouse is situated. of an Old Play-goer. 1 5 " A Roland for an Oliver" she sang a waltzing song, which quite won the hearts of the audience. A new play of Sheridan Knowles' was produced during that engagement, called " Love." In that engagement also Barry Sullivan played minor parts, Henderson being principal. The news- papers at that time spoke of Barry Sullivan as "a very promising actor." Ellen Tree was a great favourite in Cork, not only then, but whenever she came afterwards. In those days we had representations of Shakespeare which I have not, so far as the principals are concerned, seen equalled since. The actresses in those days were women whose devotion to their work was something wonderful to witness. There was Helen Faucit what a recollection it is ! Hers was then a name to conjure with, because it was the name of a woman whose great genius, spotless life, and honourable name shed the brightest lustre on her profession. She was loved and respected by the few who were privileged to know her in private life, and she was idolized by the public. Even after all the years which have passed since then, I feel that it was one of the greatest pleasures of my life to have seen Helen Faucit, and to have had the privilege of even a slight acquaintance with her. A plain-faced woman, with no great figure, she had eyes that were truly the windows of her soul, and a voice that could express every emotion, either of melting tenderness or fierce passion, with equal facility. In its softest tones, " 'Twas like the stealing Of summer's wind through some wreathed shell," and in the love-passages of " Romeo and Juliet," and such plays of the tender passion, the " whispered balm " of her accents went straight to the hearts of the spectators. I can never forget the crowds that went to Cook Street to see her. or how the audience used to follow her every line, or how the flashes of her matchless declamation roused us to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, while her " melting mood" drew tears from the least impressionable amongst the spectators. Helen Faucit had the sweetest voice I ever heard. I think I liked her Rosalind best ; but, indeed, whatever part she played whether Ophelia, Juliet, Desdemona, Julia, Isabella (in " The Fatal Marriage"), Belvidera (" Venice Preserved"), or any other she was certain to give the public the best 1 6 The Random Recollections rendering of the character. From the time she first came to Cork, a very young girl, Cork people always seemed to take great interest in Helen Faucit. Look here, in this old volume of plays you may read a scrap pasted in there by hands that have long since been folded in their last rest. It is an extract from the Cork Examiner of December 3rd, 1841 " It affords us sincere pleasure to witness the many professional triumphs of this exemplary and highly-gifted young lady." Then it gives an extract from the Court Journal of the time. It is a poem on Helen Faucit's playing of Nina Sforza : " Most gifted lady ! what a noble dower Hast thou derived from Heaven, thus to roll The tide of passion o'er us, till the spell Of thy transcendent genius brings the tears That save the heart from bursting ! " And then it breathes, you will observe, a kind wish for her future : " O, be happy ! may that graceful brow Bend with no darker shade than now, Nor thy pure spirit know a deeper gloom. " a wish fulfilled in Miss Faucit's happy marriage about ten years later. At the time the verses were written, the great actress was, I think, playing with Macready in London. A couple of years later she came to Cork again, and didn't we give her a reception ! You will see here again, in this old book, an extract from a notice written by a Cork critic at that time. It is again from the Cork Examiner. The date is July 31st, 1844, and the critic gives you a much better idea of the impression created by Helen Faucit's acting than I can hope to give you. Having remarked that years have passed since Miss Faucit trod the boards in Cork, and that she was then a young and inexperienced girl, though full of promise, he says : " But oh, how changed ! what a glorious transition from the clever yet inexperienced girl to the en- chantress who yields every passion of the human breast, and holds men spellbound by her genius, for it is that. Her voice alone is a whole choir of instruments ; at one time soul-searching in its whisper, thrilling in its delicious tenderness ; at another, impetuous in the hurricane of the heart's emotion. Every tone is music every gesture stirred of an Old Play-goer. iy eloquence ; yet so unstudied, so unartificial no rule to guide save the inward spirit, and that is the spirit of genius." Helen Faucit was then in the fulness of her powers. As " Pauline " in the " Lady of Lyons," she was, I think, better liked by the public than in anything else. Her treatment of the " cottage scene," her hysterical rage when she turns on her husband to reproach him with his baseness was a sight to see. Though I have seen the best actresses since then in that part, I would not name one of them in the same breath with her. In the character of Lady Macbeth, Helen Faucit seemed to utterly lose her identity. I can never forget the horrified expression on the faces of the audiences when the great actress was going through the sleep-walking scene a per- ceptible shiver seemed to pass through everyone, though the acting was totally devoid of the exaggeration I have witnessed in other performances of the part. A tragedian named Paumier was with Helen Faucit then. Many people liked him, but I thought him a great ranter. The rest of the acting was beneath contempt, and great sympathy was felt for Helen Faucit on account of the wretched " support " she received from the company. There were blunders all through the engagement, but the night of " Macbeth " was particu- larly remarkable. Towards the end of the play, in the scene where Macbeth asks, " How does your patient, doctor ?" the poor physician who should have entered at the left came in at the right, whereupon the following occurred : Macbeth (angrily) Come round here, sir ! Doctor I beg your pardon, sir. (Goes round). Macbeth It is impossible that I can act any longer. (Bows and retires). Doctor (sweeping round the stage and bowing to the audience) I apologize. (Exit). Again in the last scene, when the great combat was to take place- this, as you know, is the most exciting scene in the play Macduff entered armed with a beautiful " dress sword," which was totally out of place beside the " good broad sword " of the murderous Thane. The attempts, moreover, of Macduff to keep the fine edge of the sword from getting hacked made the whole scene ridiculous. During this engagement Helen Faucit very kindly gave a special benefit for Frank Seymour, to enable him to paint 1 8 The Random Recollections and otherwise renovate his rather dilapidated theatre. For this benefit the great actress played " Jane Shore " for the first time in Cork, and drew an enormous house. I think Helen Faucit knew very few people in Cork ; she appeared a thorough gentlewoman in her style of living, avoiding publicity off the stage as much as it was possible for a. famous actress to do so, and shrinking, I always thought,, from the " patronage " of the fools and snobs (male and female) who, in the provinces, pester actresses with their condescending attentions. She was most amiable, and I often wondered how she kept her temper in the series of bunglings that used to occur in the Cook Street house. She was greatly tried too by her companies, especially by those who ought to have had more consideration for her. Helen Faucit's last visit to Cork was in '47. I have a vivid recol- lection of the various splendid performances, because she was accompanied by G. V. Brooke, unquestionably the greatest actor of his time. Having a host of friends in Cork Brooke was very often late at the theatre, unable to tear him- self away from pleasant company at the dinner-parties he used to be asked to, or, perhaps, not having been able to get back from a long excursion into the country. He was very unpunctual, and Helen Faucit was quite the contrary. She could not bear to be kept waiting, and the love-making of Romeo and Juliet used sometimes to be preceded by decidedly acrimonious passages between the two great "stars." I remember well one evening I was in Brooke's dressing- room at the theatre. He was late, and was dressing in a hurry. The only others present were, one of the G s, and Henry Roche, the hairdresser, who superintended the wigs. Brooke had been off in the country for a day's fishing with the G s, and had dined with them in the evening. Sandy Seyton, son of the Mrs. Seyton I had told you about so often, came to the door twice : " Mr. Brooke ! Mr. Brooke ! Miss Faucit's compliments, she's waiting." And Brooke answered impatiently : " Let Miss Faucit go to Jericho and wait ! " We, I remember, amiably did our best to get him out in time. " As You Like It " was the name of the play that night, and never before, nor since, did I see such acting. In 185 1 Helen Faucit was married, and there were no sincerer good wishes for her happiness than those breathed of an Old Play-goer. 19 by her host of captives in Cork, even though her marriage robbed them for ever of the delight of her acting. I am an old man now and I have seen all the best actresses of our time, and I would not think of comparing one of them, good though they be, to Helen Faucit, who was head and shoulders over every other actress of her own time.* I remember on one occasion taking part in a remarkable production in the Cook Street theatre. It was an amateur production of " The White Horse of the Peppers," for the benefit of a local charity. We were only a lot of amateurs, but I am proud to say that our performance was highly applauded, and we were told by those who were no flatterers, that our production was quite fit to take rank with the work of high-class professionals. The bright particular star of the occasion was George F , whose impersonation of "Gerald Pepper " was inimitable. His acting was really fine, and the general opinion prevailed that the part could not have been better acted. It was a great night. Samuel Lover, who was in Cork on a visit to George F 's brother-in-law, Joe C , was present. When Lover was asked to help the good cause, he came on the stage and sang one of his own songs, " The Low-Back Car," in his own inimitable style. He delighted the audience, and he was himself delighted with the acting of George F , for he declared afterwards it was the best production of the play he had ever seen. Lover was very suggestive of Tom Moore ; he was taller, people said, but I believe he had the same cut of face and figure. My own part in the performance was a very humble one, but there was a circumstance connected with it that causes my recollection to be very vivid. I wore a sort of military costume, which included a pair of big white gloves. As I was living in the barracks I gave these gloves to a man who used to look after every thing of the sort for me, to clean, for they wanted touching up a bit. I think he must have pipe-clayed them till he was black in the face. I put them * The recorder of these recollections is inclined to accept the judgment of the " Old Playgoer," who was a man of great talent and excellent judgment. The writer once in conversation with Mr. Barry Sullivan no mean judge it will be allowed happened to mention that he had heard Helen Faucit was a fine actress, though not a beautiful woman. " Helen Faucit ! " exclaimed Barry, his eyes gleaming at the recollection, " was a wonderful actress. I thought her when I first caught sight of her a plain woman, but when she spoke I thought her beautiful her whole soul seemed to beam forth in the varying expression of her face. Why, the present day actresses for the most are nothing to her. I don't think the best of them fit to tie Helen Faucit's shoe-lace." 20 The Random Recollections on rather in a hurry when going on the stage. It so hap- pened that in the course of the afterpiece I had to several times embrace the lady who played a part which ran with mine. To my horror I discovered that in these embrace- ments I left the white mark of hands on her black velvet back, and whenever she turned her back on the audience the people in the front seats tittered. She was not a very amiable person, I remember, and I was dreadfully nervous lest she should discover the way in which I had decorated her, because if she had there would certainly have been an explosion, she looked so ridiculous. But happily everything passed off well, and the performance was voted a great success, the presence of Lover lending decided distinction to the occasion. 1 think I often told you how the people at Collins's Pavilion used to vex Frank Seymour by their opposition to the more legitimate home of the drama in Cook Street. Well, they played the poor fellow a dreadful trick on one occasion. Frank had discovered how sweet are some of the uses of " advertisement," and he sometimes startled the public with rather mysterious announcements. One time he had in preparation a melodrama called " The Man with the Carpet Bag," and for weeks this simple announcement in big letters, "The Man with the Carpet Bag is coming, decorated the dead walls of the city. Then, for a while, it was "Look out for the Man with the Carpet Bag," with nothing to indicate what was really meant. But one fine morning the public read the announcement " The Man with the Carpet Bag has arrived, and may be seen at Collins's Pavilion this evening," so that the bright boys at Collins's, by posting their own announcement under the mysterious placard availed of Seymour's weeks of advertising and took the wind out of his sails. That night there was a packed house at " Collins's, and Frank was greatly enraged over the trick they played him. His own " Man with the Carpet Bag " was produced in due time but he hung fire most wofully. One of the most interesting personages connected with the theatre in the old days was Mary Forrest, an intelligent woman who had acted as dresser to generations of leading ladies. She was full of anecdotes, and many a time she made us laugh over her queer stories. She knew the Keans, of an Old Play-goer. 2 1 father and son, very well. When first Charles Kean came to Cork, and found Mary Forrest there, he embraced her affectionately as a dear old friend. She was touring the towns of the South with Edmund Kean and his travelling company. It must have been about the time Kean had to leave London, under a cloud. They were in low water enough. " We often hadn't the rent of the hall we played in," Mary used to tell us, " and I remember well one night Kean came into the hall sometime before the performance, and found the place in half-darkness. ' What's the meaning of this ? ' said he ; ' Light up, light up ! ' And the answer he got was ' We can't ; we're waiting for the people to come into the front seats to get money for the candles.' You may say that was running things close enough." The comic aspect of affairs always struck Mary, and she was very much alive to the ludicrous element in any occur- rence, her sense of the humorous being pretty acute. Once on this memorable tour with Edmund Kean, when finances were very low, and some unavoidable debts were pressing, the company decided to leave the town of C under cover of the night. The bailiffs came next morning to make a seizure of the effects of the Company. All they could pounce upon was Mary Forrest, and forty conical paper hats used in some play in the repertoire of the company ; but they put Mary into a cart with the paper hats and bundled her off to the pound. It was the comical nature of the seizure that kept Mary's spirits up under such distressing circum- stances as being impounded. " How little the people in front know what queer things go on behind the scenes," Mary once said to me. " There's Miss Blank (mentioning the name of a famous actress), she came to me the other night to stitch down the heel of her satin shoe, because she has a soft corn on her heel, and the shoe is pressing on it. Didn't you see her limping all through that last act ? " It was very unromantic. Fancy Juliet's pathetic passages gaining a keener tone from the pinching pain of a soft corn on her heel ! If the public had known it, how disenchanted they'd have been. The only dramatic parallel would be a Desdemona with a chilblain on her nose. Mary once told me a very amusing story about her own mother. The mother once said reproachfully "Mary, 22 The Random Recollections you're a long time in that playhouse ablow there, and you never yet took me to see the play." So one night Mary brought her mother to the opera. It was " Sonnambula," and Mary thought her mother would be delighted with the bird-like warblings of Miss Sheriff, then a very popular prima donna. " I put my mother into one of them lattice boxes up there, where she could see without being seen," Mary said, " thinking she'd be delighted with the singing." But Mary's mother was not greatly impressed by the vocal efforts of the popular singer. " Well, how do you like it, mother ? " Mary asked in the middle of the second act. " Tis very nice," the old woman answered in a rather dubious tone. Near the end of the opera Mary returned to the charge. " Well mother, isn't Miss Sheriff grand ? " "Och, lave me alone, I'm dead from her screechin'," exclaimed the old woman in a tone of deep impatience. " Whin is she coiniri out on the rope ? The poor old soul was, in her blissful ignorance, not able to draw any distinction between an operatic prima donna and a tight-rope dancer. After that Mary gave her mother up as a bad case, and playfully denounced her as an ignorant old creature upon whom good music was quite thrown away. It was this same Miss Sheriff who complained of a chorus singer who used to play his part too well. It was in " Sonnambula" he was most annoying. In the scene where "Amina" receives the congratulations of her friends this amorous chorus singer was not content with the traditional embracements, but he must needs steal a real kiss from the pretty prima donna, and a hearty kiss too. " Of course," said Miss Sheriff with charming simplicity, " I don't mind being kissed in the ordinary way of professional business, but that fellow does it with a gusto that quite annoys me. It is disgraceful meanness, and if he does it again I'll slap his face in sight of the audience." But the chorus singer evidently got a hint of what was in store for him, for he ever afterwards displayed less ardour in his congratula- tions to " Amina." We used to have some fine performances of opera in Cork, and Sims Reeves was our ideal tenor. We were very fond of u The Waterman," but I doubt if anything of an Old Play -goer. 23 ever touched us like the great tenor's " Edgardo " in " Lucia." I think I heard him at his best when he sang at concerts here, early in 1850. His singing of the "Fra-poco" from "Lucia" was a thing to be for ever remembered. What a wonderful evergreen that great singer is ! He came to Cork first in 1845. He was tnen a very young man, and his voice had been little cultivated. The first place in which Reeves sang in Cork was the Dominican Church of St. Mary's, Pope's Quay. It was on the Sunday before the first week of the opera season. Reeves was tenor in a company brought to Cork by Mr. Alban Croft, choirmaster of the Jesuit Church in Dublin. Croft introduced his tenor to Gillespie, who was at that time choirmaster of St. Mary's, and it was arranged that Reeves should sing in Mozart's Twelfth Mass at St. Mary's. I remember how people spoke of his fine singing of the " Et Incarnatus " and other airs in the great work. Then there was a week of opera. " The Bohemian Girl " and " Lucia " were done that week I think for the first time in Cork. Reeves sang in both. There was a banquet given to Daniel O'Connell, the Liberator, in Cork at that time, and Reeves was one of the singers. He sang "The Minstrel Boy," and other Irish melodies. What struck people most about his singing then was the way he used bring out grand ringing high chest notes. But it was not till a later visit, towards the close of the year '47, Cork people came to realize what a singer Sims Reeves was. Alban Croft and his wife were very clever, and they appeared to wish to impress the fact on the public. In their placards their own names were " writ large," and the other singers put off with very small type. But on the occasion of this particular visit the keen ears of the then music-loving Corkonians very soon discovered what manner of singer Reeves was, and after the firstnight people began to rave so much about the new tenor, that for very shame the Crofts were obliged to give his name more prominence in the playbills. It was quite wonderful how anyone had the heart to go to concerts or anything else in the way of amusements at that time, for the ghastly presence of a great famine brought almost everything to a hideous standstill. Sad sights were to be seen in the city every day when the poor famine-stricken people used to creep in from 24 The Random Recollections the outlying districts to look for a morsel of food. They were found dead or dying in the doorways of the city every day. The Crofts, with Reeves and other great singers, such as Mario, Grisi and Alboni, were introduced to Cork by Mr. Alex. D. Roche, a clever musician and the composer of some beautiful songs. His son, Mr. Kearns D. Roche, has in his possession a magnificent silver snuff-box, which bears the following inscription : TO A. D. ROCHE, Esq., Bs a Uofeen of Esteem ano Iftespect, BY HIS FRIENDS J. SIMS REEVES, L. LAVANU AND H. J. WHITWORTH. Dec, 1849. Messrs. Lavanu and Whitworth were two prominent members of the company in which Reeves was at that time. Whitworth was a very fine baritone and very popular. An actor appeared about the same time as Sims Reeves, who has grown very old in his profession T. C. King. I think he was at his best in the year '55 or '56 and he was very popular in Cork though he did not come then for the first time. His " Othello" was a fine performance. I went to see him when he appeared in Cork once more, a few years ago, a very old man, though still bearing up bravely. Yet, to one who had known the man in his prime, it was a sad sight to see him overborne by years. And, oh dear, his voice was gone to a mere shadow ! I was glad to see the old actor, but I left the theatre sadly, feeling that I ought not have come. Another old Cork favourite, who has been long before the public, and is still in harness, is that rare singer, Durand. Why, he was here with Lucy Escott the soprano, in '56, in opera, and we all loved his singing. He came again in '63 with a company called the British Opera Association, the prima donna being a Madame Tonnelier, whose husband, a Mr. Cooper, was a fine violinist. At that time Durand enjoyed immense popularity. He was a most refined singer, and there were certain baritone parts no one else filled with such grace and dignity, or with such sweetness and power of of an Old Play -goer. 25. voice. I remember well the row that took place in the theatre one night of the '63 visit, when a baritone named Tempest, appeared in a part Durand had been announced for. I think the opera was " Sonnambula," an opera in which Durand always made a great hit. Well, if there was a Tempest on the stage that night, there was a hurricane in the pit, and a regular tornado in the gallery. The fellows hooted and howled, and so great was the excitement that Madame Tonnelier became quite ill, and it took a long time to pacify the house with explanations that Mr. Durand had not arrived in Cork in time, or some excuse of the kind. The best period of burlesque I can remember was when Robson came here in 1862. Frank Robson was a rare genius, as eccentric as he was gifted. His " Medea" was an incomparably fine piece of burlesque. He played " Sampson Burr " in the " Porter's Knot," but I think his " Daddy Hardacre" was one of the finest specimens of the actor's art I ever witnessed. The man had a vein for tragic acting that gave him extraordinary power over the audience in fact at times he held them as if spellbound. He was a rare genius. Yet though we have had so many great actors in Cork from time to time, it must be confessed that a theatre in Cork has never been a paying concern. It seems to me that this has been so always, for some time ago I came across an old Cork paper printed, I think, in 1820 in which I read a very bitter complaint of the inadequate sup- port given to the local theatre, and it stated that a fine company of opera singers brought down by the manager of the Hawkins Street theatre in Dublin were playing to almost empty benches. Every manager since has had, it appears to me, the same thing to contend against. Seymour was an ex- cellent manager, and, in spite of the queer devices he some- times had to resort to in order to make ends meet, he was most popular, and was liked by everyone who knew him, and if the people would have gone to the theatre for anyone they would have gone for him. Yet he had to make frequent appeals to the public to give proper support to the theatre. I heard Barry Sullivan once reproach the public of Cork for not giving him proper support, even though he was, in a 26 The Random Recollections sense, a native of the city.* Macready, on the occasion of his last visit to Cork it was in 1850, just before his retire- ment opened to a very poor house, though he was the original " Richelieu" and the original " Virginius," and played them as no one else ever played them. I heard him, when leaving, make the remark, rather bitterly, that a man should come to Cork three years running before the people would give him a proper welcome. I remember, in '63, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Matthews came here with their St. James's Company. They played " The Merry Widow," "The Dark Cloud," "Bristol Diamonds," "Under the Rose," and other admirable pieces ; but the houses were very bad. In that engagement they did what has been done very often since they got down a military band from the barracks, to try to get the people to come to the theatre. A military band is a good draw usually, but it sometimes falls flat enough. At that time the Cork gallery was at its worst. It was in the old George's Street theatre, now the Post Office, so many years under the management of genial M Dick" Burke. Nothing could be more outrageous than the usual behaviour of the gallery fellows then, and for some years before ; and it required all the strength of a public move- ment to put an end to the scandal. Why, there were people in the city who dared not go into the theatre, for fear of insults being heaped on them by persons in the gallery. The gallery, being very far back, had full view of all the better portions of the house j and any lady or gentleman, no matter how exalted in rank, who went into the theatre, was liable to be made the object of attack. Language of the most insulting kind, containing allusions to people's private and domestic affairs, was indulged in. This sort of thing was supposed to be witty ; but it was as devoid of humour as it was of decency. The management did their best to contend against this evil ; but, of course, they were not able todo much. It was a social pillory few persons had the * Windele, in his "South of Ireland," says: " Theatricals are not really much valued or encouraged in Cork, notwithstanding that its inhabitants lay claim to high discernment and taste in dramatic matters. The opening of the Mary Street circus has tested these pretensions, and it is now ascertained that a dramatic company of general merit, led by one or two first-rate performers, must play to empty benches if the circus happens to be open. Whilst the latter was overflowing with crowded citizens, admiring the feats of horses and their riders, or the buffoonery of party- coloured clowns, the former was cold and deserted." Though this was written over forty years ago, it holds good to this very day. As a matter of fact, there are not, in a population of ninety thousand, two thousand regular playgoers in Cork. of an Old Play-goer. 27 courage to face. If a well-to-do grocer happened to come in, he was immediately questioned as to " how much sand he put in his sugar " ; if a chandler, he was shouted at for the " price of fat," and so on. And if there happened to be any little legend concerning the sufferer's family, which he had no burning desire to hear related in public, it was certain to be raked up, and the audience regaled with it. This evil grew to such monstrous proportions that prominent citizens made up their minds for a determined effort to put an end to it, and happily they succeeded. I remember well what valuable aid John Francis Maguire gave to this reform. In his paper, the Examiner, he published many appeals to the public to aid in putting down a scandalous nuisance, and as mayor of the city he had many opportunities for assisting the movement towards better order of Cork's sole theatre. I remember a case in which at that time a "gentleman" was summoned by Dick Burke for smoking in the gallery, and for having refused to put out his pipe when told to do so. Maguire, as mayor, was presiding at the police court when the case came on, and did't he read the fellow a lecture ! He said that the conduct of persons like defendant was driving every respectable person out of the theatre, that he had been in theatres in the principal cities in Europe, and he never saw anything at all approaching the misconduct of the Cork gallery. The place was, he said, being turned into a common tap-room. It was unfortunate for the defen- dant that he was brought before the mayor, for Maguire was an uncompromising foe to tobacco, and he dilated at length on the evils of " such a practice in such a place." But, like the large-hearted, liberal-minded man he was, he let the poor defendant off with a caution, after delivering a lecture that did good, not merely to the defendant, but to every other ill-conducted habitue of the gallery. Yet most actors seemed to enjoy their visit to Cork. Compton, the celebrated comedian, father of the talented gentleman who has done so much for the revival of old English comedy, writing to a Cork friend in January, 1858, said of Cork : " I assure you I have a very agreeable recollection of my visit there, and the choice spirits I met I don't mean the whiskey, but the half dozen monstrous pleasant fellows who conducted me with due solemnity to the Blarney stone, not that I have since profited much by its influence." 28 The Random Recollectiotis Thalberg, the famous pianist, was a great favourite in Cork. He gave his farewell concerts in '63, which was for us a rather memorable theatrical year. As well as my memory serves me, Thalberg was very fond of playing bits of Mendelssohn, and was rather modest about his own produc- tions, brilliant though they were. It was on the occasion of one of Thalberg's earlier visits that a very singular scene was enacted in Cork. Thalberg had been announced with a great flourish, and people were very anxious to hear him, and it was anticipated that there would be a great crowd. But, unfortunately, some previous experience in Cork or elsewhere led the gifted foreigner to entertain doubts about his share of the receipts, so he sent word from his hotel to the needy impressario that he would not play unless he got the money down. This came like a thunderbolt. Where on earth could he beg, borrow, or steal the sum Thalberg asked ? and even if he did, how could he be certain the house would repay it ? There were anxious brows for a time, but at length the deep gloom of painful cogitation was lightened by a brilliant idea. " Let him stop in his hotel," said a friendly genius, " and we'll do without him." And then two or three knowing boys put their heads to- gether. Night came, and with it a bumper house to welcome the great Thalberg. The famous pianist shuffled out to the piano in a rather curious way, some thought, and sat at the piano with his back to the audience. " Thalberg is rather changed since the last time he was here," some persons re- marked; " he does not seem quite the same." And when the great Thalberg began to play, a few competent to form an opinion on the subject thought he had gone off in his playing as well as in his appearance. Still it was so beautiful ! so delightful ! But in the midst of these raptures there was a whisper in the gallery a whisper soft as the summer wind through the trees" Billy Barry ! 'Tis Billy Barry !" The pianist kept on playing, but not so coherently as before. The whisper grew into a cry, then a shout, then a roar " 'Tis Billy Barry ! Don't I know that piece ! Get out, you im- postor ! Give us back our money !" &c. Then the whole house took up the cry. The gallery boys began to pelt things. The pianist kept on never minding, and played away as if for the dear life. A scene of wild clamour arose, and of an Old Play-goer. 29 just as the pianist was well into a glorious impromptu a well- directed Brazil nut caught him a stinger about the ear. Then "Thalberg" sprang from the piano,- and facing the audience in a white *heat of passion used language "wholly unfit for publication" (as the newspapers say), and in the very broadest brogue. Then he fled, and the whole performance ended in a scene of wild disorder. Next day the secret was out. Failing to get Thalberg, the poor manager had been induced to permit his friend Billy Barry to despoil himself of a luxuriant beard and to fix himself up to look as like Thalberg as possible, and it must be said his make-up was exceedingly clever. He was a fine pianist too, but there were so many of his "chums" in the house that he could scarcely have escaped recognition. It was a daring attempt to gull the public, and I think it deserved more success than attended it. But don't think all the queer things were in the older theatres. I remember in the George's Street theatre, in Dick Burke's time, a certain bailiff had pressing business with a tenor named Hague, who was then singing in an English opera. This bailiff thought it would be a particularly smart thing to arrest the singer while on the stage. He had made several attempts to find him in other places, so one night he made his way into the theatre. He did not know Hague's appearance, but he knew he was singing a principal part, and he trusted his fortune to take up the right man. When the tenor's friends heard that the bailiff was at the wings looking for " Thaddeus " (it was the Bohemian Girl that night), they gave the word to the carpenter to loosen all the trap-doors on the stage, at the same time warning the singer. "Is there one Hague here?" asked the bailiff, slipping up to a man standing at one of the wings. " Oh, yes, there he is just there," said the person interro- gated, scarcely able to repress a chuckle. Hague was standing quite near, not knowing what had taken place. The bailiff took a step forward to lay hands on him, but the moment he did so he went down through a trap-door and was nearly stifled in a huge tank that was under the stage, which caused some who were present and enjoyed the bailiff's discomfiture to quote the very antique piece of proverbial obviousness, " There's many a slip," etc. 3 5lL o O 3 T-Cr-003 P a en ft ' 5* j P 3* r 1 2s' n> S 3 w g O o p rt M pS s -, 3 re "> Si!|8 3 3*00f6 3 orq 12. .- p 2 cl3 m o-cr. ss ST & w g S. S. p g s- * ^s - i. Q <. b -r & 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED LOAN DEPT. This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. INTfcf* Li oKAKi 1 ! 0\J\J LD 21A-60m-10,*65 (F7763sl0)476B General Library University of California Berkeley