ii^>>t,<.(;t;<.4:<]f) ««<»«j^«W t/ « W W > WI WH « «« K M wr * iitmmmmimmmim MfHttj^MM^ifMblMMiria i Vf i r'i i ^ i i ii i ii i iiiii Mii i . ii h i i ii ' i> r i< f rni iii i iii l i I l i ''.' ] 'j 'r ' ' t' mimu^mmDm i i [ li ilijiiiiiiti^wiiiiw,»>ii"i.'»'' iiiiiiimiiiiiiiiiiii- -II - '■— — :— >^ I . I . I -^ MT- V mmilftmtm^mmtmm W!»i*f^;«^i|W4^^ ■ lllll — l UK IilllWIHI MH i IIII MM W H WIII 'I ■■■■- T'"" "'■"■' - i iu iii ii H i , » w ii(inl ji iiiii i ii'ii r "^""~rTr BMnMtWMMMHnMnM eOUGMT FROM Laemrale Donation HitHi^ i ^■ ^^> PLAIN ENGLISH. PLAIN ENGLISH BY JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD I' ILontJon CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1880 q^' PREFACE, HEN David Garrick had a dispute i^~ with the gentle and mysterious I^L.:^5> yunius, he was called a vagabond and told to attend to his pantomimes. He attended to his pantomimes and continued the dispute. The same remark might be hurled at me, with about the same result. I am now a licensed dealer in legs, short- skirts, French adaptations, Shakespeare, taste and the musical glasses. I am no longer a professional writer toiling for my living, but an amateur writing when I think I have something to say. Perhaps I am mis- taken ; perhaps not. I regard the literary man, or the writing machine, as a barrel- lwl.99623 vi Preface. organ, made with a certain number of tunes and no more. These tunes may be played over and over again, as long as the public will listen, but they can neither be added to nor diminished. The machine will re- volve its given number of times, and nothing can stop it. What one editor rejects, another is bound to take ; what one publisher spurns, another is bound to print and circulate. Nature provides a remedy for this in fires, dry-rot, and other destructive agencies. The vanity of seeing one's name in print is not an unamiable weakness. The best books have some evil in them, and the worst some good. Let them go their ways in peace, and find their various levels. JOHN HOLLINGSHEAD. COxNTENTS. DEALING IN THEATRICALS . THE FIRST THEATRE IN EUROPE THE PIT .... AUTHORS AND MANAGERS . actors' SALARIES . INSOLENT PATRONAGE OF THE STATE FIRES IN THEATRES TOMFOOLERY IN LENT OUR LITTLE WORLD MUSIC AND DANCING LICENSES THEATRICAL LICENSES MR. PHELPS AT THE GAIETY CHARLES Mathews's last years in london HOW the electric light came to LONDON A tale of TWO chimneys . the mystery of a dress-coat HOW TO manage a CERTAIN PARASITE as safe as the bank plain english Jupiter's apprenticeship . I 15 24 31 36 41 46 52 58 65 70 III 117 ^•25 139 148 153 170 177 DEALING IN THEATRICALS. HERE is no brick - and - mortar investment more profitable in London than that of building theatres, and there is no occupation more easy and agreeable than theatrical manage- ment. The happy landlord of a London theatre builds in odd holes and corners — in back-yards and blind-alleys, in slums and dust-holes ; and when his temple of the drama is nearly complete, he obtains a narrow en- trance and a frontage in a public thoroughfare sufficient to carry a flaming gas ' device,' and immediately lets his property at a fifteen per cent, rental, reserving various privileges, and taking the fullest security. His choice of I ' , • • • • • 2 Dealing in Theatricals. tenants Is ample and varied. At one end of his list are a host of penniless showmen ; at the other are half a dozen belted earls with what are called * theatrical proclivities.' Un- deceived by the Micawberism of one class, or the dazzling brilliancy of the other, he demands and obtains those material guarantees which make business a pleasure and earth a paradise. The theatrical manager's occupation is easy and agreeable, far beyond that of most occu- pations, because he has so many people to advise him and take an interest in his affairs. The soap-boiler in the City and the Govern- ment clerk at the West-end have no mis- giving as to their power of directing his faltering footsteps. Sixty newspapers, more or less, seem to be written, printed, and pub- lished for no other purpose than to point out to him the many pitfalls in his path. Not only newspapers of an artistic character are amongst his friends, but trade journals leave their more serious affairs to watch over his trivialities. He is told what to do by the recognised organs of Mincing Lane; he is Dealing in Theatricals. 3 told what to avoid by the appointed guar- dians of the corn-market. Journals that appear to be a little hazy in the management of their own business are very decided as to the management of his; infant journals — the 'Little Toddlekins' of the press — and journals on the eve of bankruptcy and extinction can still lift up their piping or expiring voices to give him a solemn warning. If the manager is of an irritable and sarcastic nature, he may possibly resent these counsels, and may hang up the fable of the old man and his ass in a prominent part of his theatre as a delicate hint to his many advisers. If the manager is a practical man — and no man who is not practical ought to have the direction of a theatre — his first duty, when he takes possession of his theatre, will be to supervise the work of his architect. He will sit in every seat in his house, and look at the stage from every point of view from which the audience will have to look at it. If any Corinthian capital, caryatides, gur- goyle, or other architectural ornaments come I — 2 4 Dealing in Theatricals, in the line of anyone's sight, from a six- penny boy in the gallery to the holder of a ten-shilling stall, he will sacrifice those orna- ments without a moment's hesitation. If any columns threaten to prove obstructions of a similar nature, he will fill their places with girders with the least possible delay, until he has made his theatre a place in which all his audience can see all the performance. When the Surrey Theatre was rebuilt after the last fire, a splendid architectural ceiling was displayed on the first night, which had only the trifling defect that it prevented half the gallery from seeing the stage. The house had to be closed and half this ceiling . cut away before the manager could fairly commence his business. The next duty of the manager will be to ascertain whether his audience can hear as easily as they can see, and on this point he is more at the mercy of the brute force of matter. What are called the ' acoustic pro- perties ' of a playhouse are largely the result of accident. Until the first word is spoken, Dealing in Theatricals. 5 no one can say whether a whisper will pene- trate to the farthest corner of the buildin^ir, or a pistol-shot be scarcely audible. If the manager meets with good luck in this respect, so much the better for the manager : if he meets with bad luck, he must try to improve it by every means in his power. His next duty will be to ascertain whether his audience can breathe in his theatre, a matter that is very difficult in many play- houses. He must not bake his audience on one side and freeze them on the other, but he must so temper the wind to the shorn lamb that the shorn lambs may not suffer from neuralgia or old toothache. Whilst on the subject of ventilation he must thoroughly examine the sanitary condition of his pro- perty. A theatre ought not to play into the hands of the Mawworm class, and become, what they say it is, a 'whitened sepulchre.' No manager ought to invite a visitor to the play without offering him, as near as possible, the same comforts that he leaves at home. The French theatres in this respect are examples 6 Dealing in Theabncals, to avoid. No sensible man ought to go even to a private box in Paris without a dust-pan, a broom, a few hat-pegs, a small strip of carpet, . a surgical appliance for straightening crippled or cramped legs, and a little chloride of lime or other disinfectant. No sensible man ought, on any consideration, to go into one of those avant-schie boxes, those Punch-and-Judy-shovv abominations, which disfigure even the splendid mise-en- scene at the Grand Opera. No person of taste ought to sit in a French theatre while the shopkeeper manager is exhibiting an advertisinqf curtain. The alliance which has been formed of late years between the gin-shop and the theatre of England is one that requires careful supervision. In this respect the French theatres are models to copy. In some London theatres a gaudy bar and a flaunting barmaid meet you at every turn ; the placards of the great brewers and dis- tillers stare you in the face on every wall ; while the programmes of the performance Dealing in Theatricals. 7 are carefully hidden until you produce a shil- ling. Hungry waiters prowl about and suggest drinks to people who are not thirsty or object to stand at a bar, until it is difficult to say where the public-house ends and the theatre begins. Protected by a clause which was smuggled into an Act of Parliament, this theatre-bibbing is not bound by the go-to-bed legislation of the last few years ; and as lono^ as the actors fret their late hours upon the stage, the gin-shop ^^in front of the theatre can sell its fire-water. On the memorable first night of Oona/i at Her Majesty's Theatre the performance lasted till a quarter to three on Sunday morning ; and up to this hour refreshments (sorely needed) were partaken of freely by the much- tried critics. While on this subject of refreshments, It will be well for the manager to see that they are really what they profess to be, and not apples of the Dead Sea and Lucrezia Borgia fluids. It is customary at too many theatres for the manao-ement to let the bars to some half- 8 Dialing in Theatricals. amateur publican at a rental which almost compels the vendor to sell bad articles at exorbitant prices. It Is also customary at too many theatres to let with these bars the right of worrying the public for the custody of their coats, hats, and sticks, of demanding fees for showing them Into seats which they have paid for, and of forcing on them pro- grammes at twenty times the value of paper and printing. These are evils that should be vigorously stamped out, not only by exhibiting placards warning the public not to give fees, but by discharging without mercy any servants found guilty of taking bribes, though these may have been forced upon them by weak-minded members of the public. As to the bars, If a theatre Is to be a drinklng-shop It may as well be a gocd one ; and the experiment of selling liquor untampered with, as it comes from the brewer or distiller, might do as much for the success of a playhouse as the cultivation of the highest form of drama. Having prepared for the reception of Dealing in Theatricals. 9 audiences after this fashion, it will be well for the manager to reflect on the probable character of his patrons. He must never forget the melancholy fact that, In spite of the School Board, there are many persons in London who can neither read nor write, and who are compelled to seek that amusement in public places which a defective education has denied to them at home. He must never foreet the fact that in a comfortable gallery the lower orders of society can obtain a degree of physical warmth for a penny an hour which it Is Impossible for them to obtain at home with coals at thirty shillings a ton, and gas at three-shllllngs-and-slxpence the thousand cubic feet. He miust never forget the fact that there are many gentlemen, old and young, In London, who will go to a theatre to admire the beauty of female actresses ; and that there are many ladies, old and young, in the same city, who will go to the theatre to admire the beauty of male actors. He must never forget the fact that many people go to a theatre In a vague sort lo Dealing in Theatricals, of way, believing they are sittlno^ In one play- house when they are sitting in another ; or being in perfect ignorance of the name of the drama they are witnessing, and only alive to the name of the principal actor or actress who may be playing in this drama. He must not forget the fact that many people are attracted by clean seats, civil servants, soft carpets, punctuality, and straightforward manage- ment. He may forget many things, but he must never forget the great fact that, no matter what persons may form his audience, they have a much clearer idea as to the article they want to see than he can possibly give them. He must never attempt to make his taste their taste. His business is to open his shop, and to serve them with what they want, and not with what he probably would like to give them. He must never commit the folly and impertinence of suggesting to a customer who asks for a baked potato the propriety of selecting a rose or a volume of poems. He is not a director of public taste any more than an editor is a director of Dealiitcr in Theatricals, 1 1 public opinion. He is only a follower. He must have no theories and no prejudices. He must never sit at his own theatre and watch the pieces he gives to the public. Few men can do this without becoming prejudiced either for or against such pieces. He must only look at the financial results, and watch these carefully night by night, with all dis- turbing influences — rain, snow, strikes, com- mercial depression, and other evils. His idea of a good piece must be a piece that pays ; his Idea of a bad piece must be a piece that does not pay. When he finds he has got the first, he must carefully nurse it ; when he finds he has got the latter, he must strangle it with as little remorse as Provi- dence shows for the poor beetle. He must take a lesson from the billiard-room, and be able to fluke with superhuman serenity. When he has made a success, either with a piece, an actor, or with both, he must look as if he were reaping the reward of a scheme which he had been maturing half his life. He must ignore the fact that, like all his 12 Dealing in Theatricals. tribe, he lives on a hand-to-mouth poHcy, always waiting for something to turn up. He must gently Insinuate that he selects his authors after years of deliberation ; that his pieces are written to order many seasons before they are wanted ; and that his actors have been selected in the same way, and trained for him, and him alone, by ages of study and tuition. When he has to descend from this lofty pedestal, and really select the exponents of his dramas, he will find two courses open to him. He may engage what are called ' stars,' who are rapacious, but popular ; or he may surround himself with a group of well-drilled mediocrities. He must not be astonished If he Is asked to pay the salary of an Under-Secretary of State to a young man who has just stepped out of society on to the stage, and whose chief merit may be his ability to act as a clothes-horse. If he asks one of these actors to play a recognised part in the standard drama of his country, he must not feel surprised if six months' re- Dealing in Theatricals. 13 hearsal Is demanded. The days have \o\^g passed when every actor had a repertory of twenty parts, In any one of which he was ready to appear at an hour's notice. Each actor in our time only plays about one part a year, is drilled by machinery, and goes on till the springs run down, like a piece of Swiss clockwork. In the selection of his plays, or rather authors, his choice will be much more limited. If he shows any hesitation, it cannot arise from the varlet}^ of material at his disposal. He will find that there are fifty theatres, m.ore or less, In London, and only about three dramatic authors. He w^ill treat these gentlemen \vith great respect, and wait his turn to be served, like a duchess at a Civil Service store. He w^ill buy his dramatic pigs In a poke, and pay what Is asked without a murmur. Occasionally he will get a piece from a French source, which he will either steal or pay for in a prodigal manner ; and, having secured it, he will place it in the hands of one of the two recognised 14 Dealing in Theairicais, English adapters. If he spends much money in placing it on the stage, he will be told that he is a fool and an upholsterer ; and if he starves it in the production, he will be told that he is a shortsighted niggard. If he flies to the old drama as a refuge, he will have to plunge Into Shakespeare and legitimacy, as there are not more than three comedies out of a thousand, from the time of Queen Eliza- beth to that of Queen Victoria, that are worth the trouble of acting. Being in for theatrical management, however, he will do his best according to his lights, and at the end of a few years he will find that he has either lost ten thousand pounds by hard work, or made double that sum by a series of inexplicable flukes. He may probably hold his peace in the market-place ; but in the privacy of his study he will admit that no particular training in literature and art is necessary for the good government of a theatre, but precisely those qualities that make a successful cheesemonger. THE FIRST THE A TRE IN E UROPE, FEW weeks ago I was staying in Paris for a short time, and doing as most English people do In that gay but limited city. I was eating twice as much food as I could easily digest ; buying a lot of English articles (increased in price by French profits and prohibitive duties) under the fond belief that they were Parisian speci- alities ; spending my days In a promenade that was bounded at one end by the Grand Hotel, and at the other end by the Restau- rant Brebant ; and dividing my nights amongst dramatic entertainments that I had been taught to believe were far superior to anything of the kind In my own benighted 1 6 The First Theatre in Europe, country. One morning, while I was eating a second breakfast, which was equal to three English lunches and nearly equal to two Eng- lish dinners, a friend asked me if I had ever been Inside the sacred walls of the Theatre Francais. I was obllo^ed to admit that I had never had that refined pleasure. Of course 1 was immediately asked why. I replied, because I had a constitutional aversion to subsidised theatres and academies of all kinds ; that I believed more in free-trade than I did in Government patronage of art ; and that I had almost a loathing for the so- called French classical drama. I admired Moliere. as far as I understood him ; but I thought that he was hardly able to carry Corneille and Racine on his back ; while as to Voltaire, I doubted whether even the Frenchman was living who could sit patiently through one of his very prosy dramas. My friend immediately told me that I was labour- incr under a delusion ; that the Theatre Francais was no longer exclusively the home of the so-called French classical drama ; that The First Theatre in E 21 rope. 17 its doors had been thrown open, If not very wide, to the living dramatic authors of France, although he admitted that It had taken nearly a century of persistent agitation to obtain this desirable concession. He moreover told me that if I picked my night I might drop upon a play as popular and bad as any ever produced at the Vaudeville or Oymnase Theatres, and he kindly offered to act as my guide, instructor, and friend on the night of my proposed visit. I could scarcely refuse so polite an offer from a distinguished Parisian, and I selected the night of the day on which this conversation took place. We looked at the programme, and the play hap- pened to be UEtrangcrc. About half-past seven o'clock^ after an un- usually light dinner, for I felt that some little physical training was necessary on this Im- portant occasion, I was taken down to the stage-door of the ' first theatre In Europe,' as It Is often called, and Introduced to a mutual friend, a distinguished member of the Comedie Francalse. I was received 2 1 8 The First Theatre in Etcrope. with great courtesy, and invited to inspect the back of the theatre, the stage, and Its adjuncts before going in to see the per- formance. I found the stage-entrance and the porter's lodge very lofty, clean, and quiet ; very unlike the dismal and dirty dens which architects have planned for the stage- entrances of most London theatres. I followed our mutual friend up a broad, richly- carpeted staircase, passing walls adorned with portraits of past literary and artistic cele- brities, and resting on landings which were handsomely furnished with busts and pedes- tals. I could scarcely realise the fact that I was on my way to the dressing-rooms of the theatre, and not going to the reception-saloons, of some Minister of State. A glimpse at the two 'green-rooms' — the large and small green- room — only fostered this idea. The large ereen-room was like a room In the Palace of Versailles, loaded with portraits of those who had done honour to the theatre from the old days of its foundation. My attention was. directed to the portrait of Moliere, as it was The First Theatre in Europe. 19 afterwards directed in another part of the theatre to the statue of Voltaire, said to be the best statue of that author in France ; and after paying full reverence to Moliere's be- wig-ged head, I asked if Victor Hugo had yet been admitted into this theatrical Walhalla. Although this illustrious author's great play of 'Plernani' was posted up as being in re- hearsal, I found that I had rather shocked our mutual friend by such an inquiry ; and I then remembered the Conservative, not to say Tory, feeling which animates all actors, and especially the actors of a subsidised theatre. I took a passing glimpse of the stage with- out intruding myself, and saw that Smyrna rugs were placed at the wings for the actresses to stand upon, and I was then conducted to the private room of the director of the theatre. We were admitted to an antechamber by a servant in private livery, and after a little delay were ushered into the presence of the director. Our reception was polite and stately, in keeping with the apartment in which we were seated. The walls and ceiling 20 The First Theatre in Eicrope, were covered with rich Gobelin tapestry ; the furniture and carpets were In harmony with these surroundings ; and the stillness of the chamber suggested the parlour of a wealthy convent. There were no traces of Thespian carts — of vagabond booths and cockpit theatres. I felt that I was In a Government office, and that the Government had some- thing to look at for Its money. Our brief Interview with the director being over, v/e were ushered through a corridor into the audito^Huvi of the theatre, and we seated ourselves In our two orchestral stalls to witness the performance. The luxury behind the scenes Is certainly not continued in the front of the house. Our seats were narrow and cramped, the floor was dirty and uncarpeted, and the dust In the spaces at the back of the seats starlncr us In the face mlg^ht have been taken out with a small shovel. The decorations of the theatre are rich and showy — the house appearing to be not quite as large as Drury Lane — but the corridors are low-roofed and badly ventilated. Cloaks The First Theatre in Europe. 21 and coats, when given to the attendants, are rolled up in bundles, deposited on the floor or in corners, and generally returned to their owners with a considerable quantity of dirt upon them. The space so much required by the public is partly let off to an optician, who advertises himself while he lets out opera- glasses ; in short, all the vices of the worst French theatres, as far as regards the front of the house, are perpetuated at the Theatre Francais. The play placed before us on this evening • — ' L'Etrangere,' by Dumas the younger — ought not, perhaps, to be taken as a fair test of what the Comedie Francalse does when it steps outside its classical repertoire, and begins to encourage the contemporary French drama. The mission of the Theatre Francais, if it has a mission, is certainly not to take away from the Gymnase or the Vaudeville a commonplace drama of shallow^ conventional intrigue, which w^ould do no credit to any theatre. The Theatre Frangais does not draw eight or ten thousand pounds sterlin^^ 22 The First Theatre in Etcrope, per annum from the pockets of the French taxpayers to produce such a tawdry piece of French dramatic workmanship as this play. By producing * 'LEtrangere' it has probably put money into the pockets of its sociitaireSy for the piece is undoubtedly popular ; but the Francais is subsidised to fly in the face of popularity, if popularity Is only to be gained at the expense of art. The cast Is what is called a full cast — that Is, It comprises Sarah Bernhardt, Crolsette, Rohan, Coquelln, Febvre, Sully, etc. — and at one time it did comprise Got. The supposed discipline of the theatre, however, has been relaxed to relieve Got of his part, and to put in his place a far inferior actor. None of the actors and actresses shine in their characters, perhaps for want of sympathy with their work. Coquelln is merely grotesque as the Duke, Crolsette is vulgar as the Duchess, Febvre ineffective as the American, and Sully wild and spectral as the lover. Sarah Bernhardt alone is spiritual and forcible as the ElrangerCy though she might attain this force with- The First Theatre in Europe, 2 J out turning her eyes into her head quite so often. There are not many persons in England who do not reverence the Theatre Fran^ais ; there are many persons who really regard it with a blind and superstitious reverence — the offspring of hearsay and ignorance ; and there are a few persons who know its history, and still love it. My first visit to this cele- brated — and probably justly celebrated — theatre has not enrolled me at present in either of these three classes, as I am accus- tomed to be governed by what I see, and not by what other people tell me. THE PIT, HE reconstruction of the Haymarket Theatre by Mr. Bancroft, which has resulted In the destruction of a certain number of seats on the ground-floor, usually called the pit, and the substitution of certain more or less luxurious chairs, commonly called stalls, has given rise to a discussion of a somewhat peculiar character. It has been assumed in many quarters that a theatrical manager — the most heavily taxed, rated, and rented tradesman in the world — Is bound to carry on his business on sentimental principles, thinking more of some mysterious duty which he is supposed to owe to the public, and of another mysterious duty which he is supposed The Pit. -D to owe to art, than of a certain less mysterious duty which he undoubtedly owes to his creditors and his breeches-pocket. Of course no manager takes any heed of these discus- sions, but carries on his business on the divine and everlasting principle of self-interest — a principle which probably governs the universe. The director of the Comedie Francaise — the director of the first theatre In the world, M. E. Perrin — has set an example to his brother-managers, of working steadily for the highest receipts which his theatre will hold, caring very little, to all appearance, whether those receipts were made by con- tinually running an electro-plated piece like ' UEtrangere,' or by representing the fine old crusted works of the ancient masters. The late Mr. Bateman, after boxing the theatrical compass for some years In search of the magnetic play, at last discovered It la ^ Hamlet,' and held on to It day and night like grim death as long as the public w^ould have It, without paying much attention to the health of the principal perform^er, or those 26 The Pit, interests of art which are thought to be best served by giving as much variety as possible. My friend, Mr. Irving, followed with a policy which some of the journals were good enough to say he had copied from me, of changing his programme very frequently, and playing different pieces on alternate nights. If ever I conducted my theatre on such a policy, it was forced upon me by hard necessity — by the non-attractiveness of my pieces or the company representing them. I do not say that Mr. Irving was ever in this unenviable position ; but I do say that the moment he found his eold-mine in ' The Merchant of Venice,' away went ^ The Bells,' * The Iron Chest,' * The Lady of Lyons,' and even 'Hamlet,' as so much lumber; the 'run' was nursed, as it ought to be ; and the public were told to book their seats six weeks in advance. My friend, Mr. Bancroft, takes the Hay- market Theatre at a very heavy rental, on a not very long lease, and thoroughly rebuilds it at a ' cost which will probably represent a The Pit, 27 charge of ten pounds a night as long as he remains in possession.' He finds that the levels will not allow him to excavate a pit under the dress circle, and his space outside his dress circle on the floor of the house is only sufficient for his stalls. He makes his house like the Opera Comique has always been (with the exception of a very brief period), like the Gaiety Theatre was during the French plays last season, and like Covent Garden is on a great Patti-night — that is, a house with no pit. For this he was exposed to something like a riot on the first night by a number of people in a very comfortable * upper circle,' who were assumed to be the old and discontented pit-frequenters of the Haymarket Theatre, who resented the alter- ation as an attack upon their vested interests. The only shadow of an excuse for this out- break of theatrical protectionism was the comfortable character of the lost pit. In one of the worst-constructed houses ever built, it was the one place where all those who were fortunate enough to get seats could sit, see. 28 The Pit hear, and breathe. As I said years ago In the AtheiicBum (the journal, not the club) : I have been there and still would go, 'Twas quite a little heaven below. The pit-visitors enjoyed this place for fifty years at a too moderate price, while their wretched superiors were ricking their necks in the dress circle, or cramping their legs in the private boxes. Now the turn of the superiors has come ; but who has any right to grumble? No doubt the stage-loafers in Shakespeare's time, who lined the wings on each side, who smoked and spat upon the stage, and interrupted the performers, were much hurt when their room was wanted by Davenant and others for scenic display, and they were sent into the front of the house to find their level. Their position, however, was different from that of the pit-claimants at the Haymarket. When they were turned out — or, rather, moved to another place — no doubt the move was general, but the aboli- tion of the pit at the Haymarket is only an The Pit. 29 experiment on the part of one manager out of fifty. The days of theatrical monopoly are over. Anyone can get a theatrical license by applying at St. James's Palace, paying the necessary fees, and getting the usual two householders to become nominal securities. Any music-hall defying or offend- ing the magistrates, can become a theatre ; and the peculiarity of this license is that it gives an equal privilege to every speculator and every building. The man who spends a fortune in constructing a splendid theatre, is In no better position than the man who runs up a shed In which the sanitary and dressing arrangements may violate every rule of health and decency. This fact appears to be so little known, that the philosophical and usually well-informed Spectator appears to side with the pit-claimants in Mr. Bancroft's case, and talks about lessees being in the enjoyment of a protected monopoly and valuable privileges. The only privilege a lessee possesses is the privilege of paying heavy rates and taxes, and of paying fees to 30 The Pit, the licenser of plays for reading pieces which may not be licensed. Mr. Bancroft, in some quarters, has been accused of flunkyism, for turning the pit into stalls ; but those who accused him could not have known that he is the first manager of the Haymarket Theatre who has had the courage to ask the proper market-price for the royal box — a box which, though nominally royal, is generally used by the royal household. AUTHORS AND MANAGERS. N author (we may take it) Is a person who writes and sells ^pieces/ and a manager is a person who buys and sells pieces. They stand precisely in the same relation to each other as the potato producer and the potato salesmen. The commodity they make, sell, buy, and sell is one much In demand. Fifty theatres, more or less ; fifty managers, less or more ; and four millions of people, in round num- bers, in London alone are consumers of this commodity. The ' provinces ' (in which of- fensive term the whole of Ireland and Scot- land is Included), with twenty-eight more millions of people, are also consumers of this 32 Authors and Managers, commodity. Surveyors are now measuring the ground, architects are preparing the plans, and capitalists are finding the money (so I am told) for more theatres, but no one is buildinof a new author. The small and de- voted band of six dramatic authors (more or less) has been recently diminished by one who has taken one of the fifty London theatres, and has turned manager ; while another, and the most fruitful and original of our authors, has ao;-ain taken to the staofe, and so diminished the hours during which he can cultivate the dramatic potato. ' Re- vivals,' however good and carefully done, cannot go on for ever. The playgoer will not always be fed upon hashed mutton. It requires a superhuman faith in the great law of supply and demand to go to sleep calmly in the face of such a prospect. I am not taking up my rusty pen, and dipping Into my cobwebbed inkstand, to frighten my unknown friends, the untried authors ; my purpose is rather to encourage these much-enduring, and sometimes much- Authors and Ala7iagcrs. 2,0 inflicting, writers. They produce bundles of manuscript with amazing facility, but very few of these bundles ever take the form of acted plays. During the last seven years I have looked at seven hundred bundles of this description — an average of two a week — and not one of them has been what It professed to be — a play suited to the theatre which I attempt to manage. I may have misjudged some of these pieces, according to my lights ; but. If so, other managers must have done the sam.e, as I never heard that any one of these rejected manuscripts became a success- ful play at another London theatre. The few — the very few — manuscripts that had the apparent making of a play in them were either not fitted to my company, my plans, or my house. Rejecting one-half as utterly worthless, as the production of men, women, and children who had no vocation for play- writing, the other half may have contained a certain amount of cleverness. If this clever- ness had been devoted to a careful study of the theatrical market, to the character of 34 Authors and Managers. theatres, the plans of managers, the whims of audiences, the pecuHarltles of actors, and the composition of theatrical companies, and if, after this study, twenty plays had been carefully constructed and written, five of these plays might have struck root, and the others have withered where they were planted. The untried dramatic author never makes a greater mistake than when he assumes that the manager is blind and deaf to his merits ; the manager is only too glad to find a new play and a new writer ; but the managers dealing in tragedies and melodramas are not the people, as a rule, to look at so-called ^musical pieces;' and managers dealing in farces and musical pieces are not, as a rule, the people to look at tragedies and melo- dramas. It is worse than useless for an untried writer to suggest an * Oriental • extravaganza' to a manager, as pieces of that description are almost written on the stage, in consultation with manager, actors, scene-painters, costumiers, and musical di- AtUJiors arid Managers. 35 rectors. The untried author has Improved of late years In the matter of penmanship, and In many cases he sends his play In a printed form, which saves the manager's time, and patience and eyesight. The untried author, however, relying upon type or good penmanship, Is sometlm.es too apt to send in his plays as If he dealt in them * wholesale and for exportation.' The clearest handwriting I ever saw came to me in the shape of three plays, sent in one bundle ; and a letter, equally clear and busi- ness-like, came to me within a week, and at a busy season of the year, to know if I had read these plays, and had decided on one or all. Another gentleman was a little more peculiar, not to say unreasonable. In the morning he sent a bundle which appeared to me to be written in Chaldee. In the evening he caught me at the stage-door, and seemed surprised that, as a scholar and a gentleman, I had not fluently read his piece, which was written in Gurrieys shorthand. 3—2 ACTORS' SALARIES. ANAGERS from time to time have raised an outcry about the alarm- ing increase of actors' salaries^ and have attributed their bankruptcy, not to the fact that they have failed to hit the public taste in the selection of dramas or dramatic exponents, but to the extreme rapacity of ''the profession." They have shown a singular ignorance of the laws of supply and demand. They have seen theatres springing up in every direction in town and country without a corresponding increase in the number of actors and actresses, and yet they have pro- fessed to be astonished that salaries have more than doubled in less than a quarter of a Actors Salaries. ^j centi:r3\ They have refused to acknow- ledge the fact that a performer is worth a certain portion of his ^ drawing' power, although they must know that an acrobat like Leotard received /"^o a nlo^ht for his ten minutes' performance at the Alhambra, and that Blondln received ^loo for every one of his high-rope ascensions at the Crystal Palace. After making every allowance for the diminished purchasing power of money in the present day compared with fifty years ago, there is still much in the salaries paid to the leading actors and actresses in the ' palmy davs of the drama ' that will strike theatrical people as curious. Take Drury Lane, for example, at the early part of the present century (1802-3). The best-paid male actor of the stock company was Jack Bannister, who got £2^ a week, while Charles Kemble had to be content with £11 2l week. Dowton got ^12 a week; Pope, ;^io ; Suett, ^10; Wroughton, ^10; Palmer, ^10; and these salaries tapered down to much smaller sums, like £6 and £^, which stood against the 3^' A doits' Salaries, names of Barrymore, Wewltzer, etc. Miss Pope got ^12 a week; Miss Mellon, ^lo; Miss De Camp, £"] ; while some of the ladies were paid nightly. At Covent Garden John Philip Kemble received ^^30 a week ; Charles Kemble received ^12 a week {£1 more than he got at Drury Lane) ; G. F. Cooke got ;^25 ; Munden, £1^ ; Emery, ^9 ; Lewis, £12; Johnstone, ;^io ; Knight, ^7; Blan- chard, the same; Favvcett, ^10; Farley, £6 , and others in proportion. Mrs. Sid- dons received £2^ a week ; Mrs. Maddocks, £Z ; Mrs. Glover, ^9 ; and Mrs. Litchfield, ;^i5. It IS betraying no professional secrets to say that neither Miss Ellen Terry nor Mrs. Kendal would look at a salary such as Mrs. Siddons was glad to take, while in the country now on the sharing system they can often make ten times what they make in London. The sudden and unfortunate collapse of one of the great London theatres — a house sometimes called the National Theatre — has raised the question (a question which could Actors Salaries, 39 only exist in the theatrical profession) as to the propriety or impropriety of taking or re- fusing half-salaries. Theatrical people are so hedged round with conventional and peculiar customs, that it is almost impossible to approach them as you would approach other labourers. The benefit system is one of these customs, and until this is abolished it is difficult to believe that there is not some- thing in the constitution of a playhouse com- pany which removes them from the operation of ordinary commercial laws. Few people, however, outside the charmed circle, fail to see the absurdity of throwing any blame on any body of actors and theatrical workpeople, or any members of that body, who refuse to submit to a sudden reduction of fifty per cent, on their salaries to sustain a falling theatre in which they never had any interest in profits. If it were the custom of managers in thriving times to call their company together and distribute bonuses or double salaries on the score of the general prosperity, there might then be some justification, in a 40 Actor ^ Salaries, time of trouble, for demandlnc^ services at half the proper remuneration. This not being the case (there is no record of such a case), it is foolish and illogical to abuse, even by im- plication, any members of a company who refuse to act the moment they are told that the manager is not in a position to pay their salaries. The sentiment which is too often imported into theatrical transactions generally leads to some injustice, and the sooner actors, authors, and managers accept their position as traders, and nothing more, the better It will be for the so-called ' dramatic profession/ INSOLENT PATRONAGE OF THE STAGE, iHERE Is no more unfortunate in- stitution than the Stage. When it is not being over-licensed and over-reo-ulatecl, ic is being over-patronised. OfficiaHsni looks after its morals, and Bumble- dom attends to its drainage. A time may come, perhaps, when Bumbledom will wish to look after its morals as much as Officialism looks after its architecture and sanitary arrangements. At present, however, it is spared that infliction ; but it is suffering from another. The Church, as it is called, has taken It in hand, and is trying to wean it from its evil ways. Bishops preach at it, 4 2 Insolent Patronage of the Stage. and clergymen dally with It. No Social Science Congress is considered complete without a 'paper' on this unfortunate institu- tion. The active missionary has had his attention drawn to this new field for his labours. The inevitable tract makes its appearance, and is thrust under the nose of the mummer. He reads it, or he lights his pipe with it. If he reads it he is astonished at the liberty allowed to pious printers. He sees the name of the Deity used with a flippant familiarity that would make a Lord Chamberlain die with horror. He goes to a church, and is astonished to hear what comes from a privileged pulpit. He wonders why the Stage is less privileged, and no one can tell him. The press and/ the platform astonish him still more. I am not speaking of the ulcerated journalism of the day in con- nection with the press, nor of the Hall of Science, in the Old Street Road, in connec- nection with the platform. Any average newspaper, and any average discussion hall, may well astonish the over-licensed, over- hisolcnt Patronage of the Stage, 43 regulated actor, who Is compelled to dance his hornpipe In fetters. He reads free- thought and hears free-speech on every side, while he Is not allowed to open his mouth, except at the bidding of a master of the ceremonies. While the caricaturist runs rampant In a hundred prints, he Is not allowed to imitate the blinking beauty of Mr. Robert Lowe, nor the sour earnestness of Mr. Glad- stone's visage. The wart of Cromwell would not be granted to him If Cromwell were alive, any more than the historical ringlets of a much more showy living personage. On every side he Is surrounded by restriction, and yet he wonders that certain people take him for a dangerous vagabond. As long as he Is over-licensed, and over-regulated to this extent, and as long as he works patiently, I may say almost humbly, under such re- strictions, he can hardly be surprised that * society ' looks at him with something like timidity, or offers him patronage which Is slightly Insolent. The discussion raised in the pages of the 44 Insolent Patronage of the Stage. Times about the degradation of the Stage, which resulted In the not very magnificent offer of ^iioo towards regenerating this unfortunate institution, was not a compHment to the play-actor. It appeared in a paper which generally puts Its dramatic ' notices ' amongst the advertising lumber in Its supple- ment. An editor who had any real respect for the Staee would hardlv have admitted such aimless and Impracticable twaddle Into Ills columns, and patrons of the Stage who really had Its welfare at heart would not have made such feeble and Ill-considered proposi- tions. The belief In the efficacy of State pa- tronage, or semi-State patronage, can only exist In the minds of people who are fuddled with the fumes of protection. The only thing the State can do to any Institution, Is to suck money from It in the shape of local or Im- perial taxation ; and the best thing the State can do to any Institution is to stand out of Its Yv^ay. The Royal Academy Is not such a shining example of the benefits of State Lisolcnt Patronage of the Stage. 45 patronage that anyone would wish to borrow the system and apply It to the Stage. The patronage of the Church, as It Is called, may be equally well-meant, but Is no less an impertinence. * In a country,' as the French philosopher said, * which has forty religions and only one fish-sauce,' it is just possible that many people may question the right of any one Church to call itself the Church. The Stage may and does call Itself the Stage, as the members of the Dramatic profession call themselves the Profession ; but the right of one Church to ignore all other Churches is much more open to serious discussion. The newly-born fancy of this one Church for the Stage and its followers Is not a compli- ment to the latter. It Is about on a level with the politeness of a man in the gutter who thrusts a tract Into your hands on the presumption that you are going headlong to the Devil. FIRES IN THEATRES, HE lamentable fire at the Brooklyn Theatre has brought down such a flood of official, leading articles, suggestions, and even insults on the heads of theatrical managers, that it is only fair to allow one of us space for a few words in reply. Managers are so much accustomed to be treated like the old man who owned the ass in the fable, that they be- come, perhaps, a litde deaf to advice ; but there is no reason why * A Fellow of the Chemical Society ' should say in the Times that it is idle to hope that any plan will be adopted to protect theatrical audiences. The Chemical Fellow's plan is, of course, Fires in Theatres, 47 chemicals ; and if the Chemical Fellow will turn his reforminor eye on the 'Sale of Poisons Act/ and prevent country chandler's- shopkeepers ladling out arsenic in the midst of butter, cheese, and bacon, I will lay in a ton of tungstate of soda to-m.orro\v, though in practice I have found it a very uncertain anti-inflammable aeent. There are many questions which are more or less unfitted for public discussion, and this question of fires in theatres, I venture to think, is one of them. No writer wants to create a panic, and yet every article is help- ing to raise one. If our theatres are unsafe, the Lord Chamberlain, his officers, the Metropolitan Board of Works, the 6th and 7th Victoria, cap. 68, the good sense and humanity of theatrical managers, and other forces, are quite able to provide a remedy. It is quite possible that former Lord Chamberlains may have licensed many theatres that ought never to have been built or licensed; but now that official attention 48 Fires in Theatres, has been drawn by the Brooklyn fire to this fact, no .^ood, but much harm, may be done by the pubh'catlon of ' regulations ' which ought to be enforced before they are printed, and not printed before they are enforced. The public mind may be wrought up to such a pitch of excitement that any hysterical person may cause a serious accident In any crowded building at any moment. Some of the advice so freely be'stowed upon managers might, with more advantage, be given to the public In teaching them how to go Into a building In a decent, orderly, and unselfish manner. People who nearly trample each other to death In going into a theatre are not likely to act with any more calmness in coming out. French playgoers have been schooled for generations Into very different behaviour ; but then phlegmatic Frenchmen are so unlike excitable Englishmen. Since you'" last allowed me to address you * The Editor of the Times. Fires in Theatres. 49 on the subject of fires in theatres, the panic has somewhat subsided ; but sufficient in- terest, not to say anxiety, is shown in the matter to prompt both Sir Wlhlam Fraser and Mr. Onslow to question the Home Secretary in the House of Commons. No doubt in the fulness of time both these gentlemen will get their official answers ; meanwhile, perhaps you will allow me to communicate the result of certain inquiries and calculations which I have had made by a friend of mine, an eminent actuary, accus- tomed to confront sensational topics with the strict logic of figures. The result of this gentleman's researches Is, that in the whole of England — In London and the so-called provinces — for the last fifty years, with ill- constructed, over-crowded, and badly sur- veyed theatres, he can only find a record of one solitary death from fire, and this unit of mortality was not one of the public, and hardly one of the players. Her name was Eliza Twichell, a dresser of Ducrow's, who might have escaped, but went back to fetch 4 50 Fires in Theatres, some things, lost her way, and was suffocated. This one death from fire in fifty years occurred in London In 1841, since which time there has been no similar death In London, with thirteen theatres burnt, while in the so-called provinces, widi eight theatres burnt, there has not been a slno^le death.'" The explanation of this is, that the majority of the theatres were destroyed during the hours when no audience was present ; and I may say generally that there is as little chance of a theatre being burnt down during the hours of performance as there is of a person being burnt to death in the street at Cheapside during the m.iddle of the day for want of passers-by to see and extinguish the fire. * The recent destruction of the Theatre Royal, Dublin, adds another death to this Hst — still not one of the public. Poor Mr. Egerton died trying to save Mr. Gunn's theatre. Simple-minded journalists have dreaded to think what the loss of life would have been if the theatre had been full, as it would have been a few minutes later. If the theatre had been full there would have been no fire. The house was burnt down by servants ' skylarking ' amongst muslin curtains with a naked candle. Fires in Theatres, 5 1 .When my friend takes his unit of mor- tality — the servant-girl burnt in 1841 — and makes his calculations as to the playgoer's risk of a fiery death while attending a theatre, he comes to the conclusion that it is almost absurd to state it ; and, taking it out of his decimals, it may be put at about a billion to one. If the London playgoer will pay me a penny every time he goes to a theatre, I think I could assure him a sum in case of death that would be 'beyond the dreams of avarice.' . , 4—2 TOMFOOLERY IN LENT, HE age of tomfoolery is not yet extinct in France. Under the name of the Carnival it still sur- vives ; and though the variegated rowdyism of the Second Empire, and still more of the commonplace reign of Louis Philippe, is miserably reduced, there are still enough of jack - puddings, costumiers, coiffeurs, and 'property-makers* left to give it a feeble appearance of life. The first Republic in France did its best to stifle this combination of May-day and Bartlemy Fair; but the present Republic — probably wiser in its generation — merely stands on one side and watches this national folly as it dies a Tomfoolery in Lent, 53 natural death. The masked balls in the over-decorated Opera-house, in which M. Halanzier has been allowed to amass a princely fortune, and bring the principle of Government subventions into contempt, have no more to do with the Carnival proper than the Argyll Rooms had to do with Mr. Tooth's ritualistic observances. They are simply periodical orgies, organised on a system for the purpose of making money. Nearly all the dancers on the floor of the theatre are paid servants of the Opera, and the low-roofed ill-ventilated lobbies are filled with a howling mob, in which the sweepings of the demi monde 2SidL the Jewish riff-raff of Paris predominate. Harry and Bill from England, of course, are there, regardless of expense, engaged in what they fondly believe is the task of * seeing life ;' and wherever the noise is the loudest and most idiotic, and the jokes and gestures are the coarsest, the two representative Cockney cads will be found. In the streets of Paris the mildest sacrifice is now made to do honour to the Carnival ; and 54 Tomfoolery in Lent. on Mardl-Gras a few red-nosed shivering Watteau shepherds and shepherdesses, and an occasional Pierrot or Pollchlnelle, who seems afraid of his voice, and not on good terms with his costume or character, are all that relieve the dull monotony of every-day life. The Carnival is held In a little more respect as you approach the borders of Italy ; and a quiet town like Nice — a favourite winter resort of Invalids — Is made drunk with masquerading excitement for several days. The Carnival here Is on,ly a parody of the Carnival at Rome, but still the town strives to do Its best ; and It Is not Its fault if French sadness and English lumplness together produce a not very satisfactor}^ result. The well-advertised attractions of the Carnival at Nice produce their usual effect on the Parisian mind, and thousands rush to be made happy by what Is called a train of pleasure. Nothing apparently pleases a Frenchman so much as being allowed to travel for forty or fifty hours uninterruptedly Tomfoolery in Lent, 55 in a railway carriage, enduring any amount of dirt and discomfort, and being allowed to fight for a cup of coffee at a station in the middle of the night like a half-starved casual at a workhouse. This and more a train of pleasure gives him, of course at a reduced change. A train of pleasure always goes an enormous distance for fifty or sixty francs, there and back ; always starts either at day- break or in the middle of the night ; always stops at inconvenient stations, at inconvenient hours ; and always arrives at a terminus when every one has gone to bed. This is why It is called a train of pleasure to distinguish it from a train of business. When the excursionist arrives at Nice during Carnival time of the present year, he finds much rain, more mud, and half the population in gaudy bedgowns. On Lundl- Gras, as he drives through the town, he gets an occasional fiower thrown to him ; and on ]\Iardi-Gras he gets pelted with showers of pilules called confetti. The police of Nice, having issued an order, are under the impres- 56 Tomfoolery in Lent, sion that these pilules are made of flour ; but those who have been pelted with them are equally, and perhaps more, certain that they are made of plaster. The excursionist who neglects to provide himself with a gauze mask to protect his face and ears will be irritated, if not hurt, and will begin to think that the Carnival is a mistake and an ana- chronism. He will be amused, if he glances upwards at some of the hotel balconies, to see middle-ao^ed Eno^lish fathers of families engaged in feebly pelting some of the roy- sterers in the streets. He will pass carriages full of English boarding-school misses, who are allowed to snatch a brief pleasure at this Carnival time ; and he may possibly see an unlicked English cub in the streets, whose assaults are not strictly regulated by the rules laid down by the authorities. At night he will go down a very unromantic street — dignified for the time being with the name of the Corso — where his nose will detect, even before his eyes, a few flaring oil-lamps that would not create a sensation even at that Tomfoolery in Loit, 57 workman's Mabllle — the Elysee Montmartre. Winding up with the terrible dissipation of a five-franc masked ball at the municipal theatre, he will take his return ride of thirty or forty hours to Paris, more firmly convinced than ever that the age of tomfoolery has not ceased in France, and that the greatest tomfools are the travelling English. OUR LITTLE WORLD, gTjll^ARGE as the world doubtless is, and easy as it now is to go from '■^^='"*^ place to place, there are few of us who do not live and move and have our being in a very limited circle. We are drawn towards a particular spot, and once there we remain as fixed and immovable as the dog tied to a stake. We dream of the great world outside our narrow limits, but we work with various deo^rees of contentment and sue- cess on our little yard of space. As we have been drawn there at first by some powerful influence, so we proceed to draw others. Our companions often strike root on the same spot, and by degrees we found a special colony in a great city. Oitr Little World, 59 My particular spot in the great world — the spot on which I have been more or less settled for years before the Gaiety Theatre was built or thought of — is the spot on which that theatre and its surroundings now stand. The first periodical that ever excited my literary ambition — the pioneer of all the cheap weekly magazines — was published in the Strand, at a little stationer's shop which now forms part of the Field office. It was called the Mirror, and its proprietor was a Mr. Limbird. The Mirror died long before its proprietor, and Mr. Limbird appeared to me to look out of his small tradesman's window wath dreamy wonder at the flock of magazines and periodicals which fluttered round him. At the corner of Wellington Street and the Strand — belonging to the owners of the Field, the Law Times, etc. — was the office of the Critic, a journal of the AthencBiim t3'pe, to which I was an occasional contributor. My first serious step in literature, however, was made in Hoicsehold Words, under the editorship of the late Charles Dickens, and 6o Our Little World, the office of this journal (now the office of the Army and Navy Gazette) stands next to the stage-door of the Gaiety Theatre. If I were to take a few bricks out of the back wall of the room in which I was first introduced to Charles Dickens, and in which I first began my work as an author and a journalist, I could look on to the stage of the Gaiety Theatre, where eleven years ago I first began my work as a theatrical manager. On the other side of the theatre— in Catherine Street — was the office of the Illustrated Times, a weekly paper, half magazine — to which, in company with Edmund Yates, G. A. Sala, the Broughs, and scores of others, I was a contributor under the editorship of Mr. Henry Vizetelly. When the so-called famine in London occurred in 1861, I was asked by Mr. Algernon Borthwick to write a series of articles in the Mo7ming Post on the condition of the London poor, and these articles were reprinted under the title of * Ragged London,' and published by Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co. Looking out of my Our Little World. 6r managerial room at the Gaiety Theatre, across a narrow yard, I can almost see Into the room at the Morning Post office, where every night for about a fortnight I was engaged In recording my melancholy expe- riences as ' Our Special Commissioner/ I may pass by the Athenceicm^ which is published a few doors above the Gaiety In Wellington Street, and to which I was an occasional contributor, and proceed to my first introduction to Mr. Toole. I was Intro- duced to him at the corner of Wellington Street, in the Strand, by the late Mr. H. Wid- dicombe, and I found him living In chambers at the Wellington Street entrance of the Exeter Arcade, exactly on the site of the present stage-door of the Gaiety. Here It was that I discussed with him the prospects of my first farce — ^The Birthplace of Podgers' — which he ultimately produced at the Lyceum Theatre, opposite. Here it was also that he entertained me and our mutual friend, Henry Irving, who had just made his first appearance in London at the Princess's 62 Our Little World. Theatre, in a piece called ' Ivy Hair — an adaptation by the late John Oxenford of * Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre.' As we looked out of the window into the street, Henry Irving hardly expected to become the possessor of the theatre opposite, and I cer- tainly never expected that a theatre would be built for me almost underneath our feet. My connection with the Lyceum Theatre opposite did not finish with the production of my first farce. I made my first appearance as an amateur burlesque actor, and as an amateur pantomimist on the same boards, in both cases, of course, for a charitable object. My * first appearance on any stage,' however, was not made at the Lyceum, but at the neighbouring Covent Garden Theatre, several years earlier, and under somewhat peculiar circumstances. Wandering one night past the stage-door of old Covent Garden, I found it open and unguarded, and with the boldness and curiosity of youth (I am speaking of 1845), I darted in and found myself, in a few seconds, amongst endless machinery and in Ottr Little World. 63 total darkness. Groping for some little time, with half the romance of the 'Arabian Nights' in my head, and an immense amount of theatrical dust in my hands, I saw a glimmer in the distance, and making towards it, found it to be a gas-jet projecting from the w^all. On the ground I saw a piece of brown paper, and lighting this I guided myself still further, until I came to some ladder-steps. I mounted these, and pushed open a door which admitted me to the back of the stagfe. The whole house was before me, brilliantly lighted, and full of people, but screened from my view by a high wooden barrier which was built across the stage. Climbing up this barrier, by the aid of a few rough projections and considerable skill in this kind of work, I was soon able to look over the top, and I found that I was an uninvited guest on the platform at one of the great Anti-Corn Law League Meetings. The speaker, I think, was the late W. J. Fox, a short man with a Beet- hoven head, and a practised orator. In a semicircle behind him were Richard Cobden, 64 Oi^r Little World. John Bright, Colonel Perronet Thompson, Milner Gibson, and many others whose faces had been made familiar to me by popular portraits. This was my first appearance on any stage, but not my last, and I think I have said enough to prove that I, at least, have not wandered far from a given centre. MUSIC AND DANCING LICENSES. F any ' Intelligent foreigner' found it difficult to understand why- London — a town of nearly four millions of inhabitants — is now left without one solitary Casino — he should attend the annual Licensing Sessions of the Middlesex Magistrates at Clerkenwell, and see the very mixed, very numerous, and somewhat unruly body of gentlemen who are appointed to govern half the amusements of the greatest city in the world. Here is a body, over four hundred strong, representing in its working majority every form of fussy respectability, narrow-minded bigotry, hopeless ignorance, 66 Music and Dancing Licenses. wrought-iron prejudice, sour sectarianism, puritanical zeal, and well-meaning obstinacy. Nearly ninety of these Solons from Clapton and Lycurguses from Stoke Newlngton at- tended at the Sessions House one Friday, in October, and in their struggle to obtain seats hardly left room for the reporters and the legal gentlemen, to say nothing of witnesses and applicants. The cause, which brought together so many of these chosen ones, Avas what is called the ' Reserved List of Opposed Licenses^ in which such places as the Argyll Rooms and Evans's Supper Rooms stood prominent. The foreigner we supposed to be present would not have formed a very high notion of our logic or decency, when he saw one of the first law officers of the Crown standing up with difficulty in the pen allotted to counsel, and pleading, with all his ability, to those ninety amateur judges, for the renewal of a license for a somewhat notorious property. Nor when a question arose — as arise It did, under one of the standing orders of the so-called Court — as to whether the Music and Dancing Licenses. 67 names of the magistrates should be taken down as a permanent record of their indi- vidual votes, would the behaviour of this select ninety have impressed the foreigner. A bear-garden — the House of Commons on an Irish night — the betting-ring at Epsom — anything involving the utmost noise and con- fusion, would have been suggested to the foreigner, rather than the judicial calm of a Court of Law. At length, above the uproar, their fully-expected decision was heard — ' in spite of the value of the property, and the able arguments of the first law ojfficer of the Crown — we, being fifty or sixty of the select body of the Four Hundred Middlesex Irre- sponsibles, decline to grant any license (ex- cept for drink) to the person applying, as long as he lives, or bears the name in w^hich he has made the application.' This is how the Middlesex Irresponsibles now treat the man whom they sustained for years in a most valuable monopoly — the pro- prietorship of the one Casino in London. Passing this monopoly (7nimts the dancing) 5—2 .68 Music mid Dancing Licenses, on to * Evans's Supper Rooms' for about two years, they decided to withdraw their patron- age, and give it, for what it was worth, to the Westminster Aquarium. In plain EngHsh, having driven the objec- tionable frequenters of the Argyll to Evans's, they now drive them from Evans's to the great Music Hall which nestles under the shade of the old Abbey ; and next year (if their warning means anything) they will drive them from this stronghold into the arms of some other lucky and favoured institution. In the interest of virtue, while they uphold the sacred rights of Gin and Beer, they limit music as much as possible, and are deter- mined to put down dancing. A foremost member of the Four Hundred Irresponsibles in this crusade against dancing, is a worthy gentleman who is, we believe, connected with a theatre which was one of the first to popularise the cellar-flap break-down. Dancing is doomed in London — not only dancing by the public, but dancing before the public, except at theatres. The mild and Music and Dancing Licenses. 69 harmless dancinor entertainments at the * Oxford,' with the crackjaw names, are never more to be seen in this world — at least, as long as the Four Hundred Irresponsibles are endured by the public. The * Pavilion' is warned — the Aquarium is warned, that ballet- dancing is prohibited, and the definition of ballet-dancing is to come from an ignorant policeman. As much Gin as you like, patient British public, as much Beer as you like, but very little music and no dancing. This is the country of pot-houses. Brewers and gin- distillers command a majority in the House of Commons, and we draw one-third of our wasteful expenditure from national drunken- ness. This is why music must be kept down, and dancing sternly prohibited. THEATRICAL LICENSES, HE recent short discussion in the House of Lords on the question of dramatic and musical licenses, may be regarded as the first timid recognition of an agitation which must eventually end in a reform of those imperfect laws which at- tempt to govern theatrical property. I use the term property advisedly, because I have an impression that it is the one thing thoroughly respected in this country. By theatrical pro- perty I mean the capital and labour now em- ployed in providing dramatic and musical entertainments for the British public. The Theatrical Licenses^ 71 magnitude of this Interest — shall I say vested interest ? — may be gathered from the fact that In London alone the theatres, music- halls, and concert-rooms represent a capital of nearly three millions sterling (one-half of which belongs to the theatres), to say nothing of the immense amount of labour which this capital employs. There is scarcely a theatre of any importance in London which contri- butes less than ^1000 a year to the country in imperial and local taxation, or has not several persons In its employment that are paid as highly as Secretaries of State of the first, second, and third degree. A popular * first low comedian ' gets a Lord Chancellor's wages, and a popular second low comedian is rewarded with a better salary than the Manager of the General Post Office. And yet, while the newspapers are constantly in- sisting upon the importance of these interests as educational instruments, the laws which govern them persist In treating their repre- sentatives as a collection of * rogues and vagabonds.' The theatres still dance their 72 Theatrical Licenses. hornpipes in the political fetters imposed upon them by Sir Robert Walpole ; while the music-rooms are governed by an Act ostensibly framed to put down Moll Flanders and her tribe, but really meant to stop the singing of Jacobite songs in the pot-houses of 1750. With your permission, sir,"' I pro- pose in two or three letters to give a state- ment of the present position of affairs, with a few suggestions for their remedy which will probably be brought before Parliament ; and I will commence with the anomalies of the building licenses. The Lord Chamberlain exercises his power of licensing buildings within the metropolitan borough under the 6th and 7th Vict., cap. 68. Yet even within those limits there are two theatres, Drury Lane and Covent Garden, which exist without any license at all. Covent Garden claims to be entitled to this favoured position by virtue of the patent granted by Charles 11. to Sir William Davenant in 1662 ; but the regular descent "' The Editor, Daily Telegraph. Theatrical Licenses. "jt^ of this patent to the present proprietors has never been proved, and it is more than doubtful whether the virtues of the patent have not long since evaporated. Mr. Payne Collier states that he had seen a document in which the patentees surrendered their rights to Queen Anne, agreeing in future to hold under the ordinary license. Certain it it is that during the last five years of Queen Anne's reign no theatre was open under any patent of Charles II. As regards Drury Lane^ the Lord Chamberlain's officials have (as I shall show in a future letter) denied that it is empowered to open without a license; yet, since 1837, its proprietors have defied the Lord Chamberlain's authority. Further confusion is created by the fact that the vast districts of Chelsea, Kensington, Fulham, and Hammersmith, having been created a Parliamentary borough since the passing of the Theatres Act, is outside the Lord Chamberlain's jurisdiction. The Court Theatre, for example, has no license from the Lord Chamberlain, and therefore cannot 74 Theatrical Licenses. be punished by him for breach of his regu- lations, as his officials have again and again declared that, practically, the only means of punishing a manager is to refuse to renew his annual license. The two pretended patent houses are, of course, in the same position, though they are not by any means the only favoured theatres. In every im- portant provincial town there is what is called a patent theatre, which is distinguished from its rivals in the same town by a license or patent under the Privy Seal for twenty- one years. There is no reasonable excuse for renewinof these invidious distinctions, yet they are regularly renewed as they fall in. This curious muddle is still further aggra- vated by the introduction of a third kind of license. That is to say, besides the patent under the Privy Seal and the Lord Chamber- lain's annual license, there is the license of the magistrates, who, except in the metro- politan boroughs, and in the case of the pro- vincial patent houses, license all theatres Theatrical Licenses, 75 throughout the kingdom under the Lord Chamberlain's Act of ParHament (6th and 7th Vict., cap. 68), and all music-halls and concert-rooms in London and throughout the country under the 25th Geo. II., cap. 36 — the Anti-Jacobite Act before alluded to. But, inasmuch as the Anti-Jacobite Act has made it a penal offence to give a musical entertainment before five o'clock in the after- noon in any building licensed under that Act — the punishment being a total loss of license for ever, without the option of a fine — another curious complication arises. Under the general sanction of the Home Office, which sanction goes no further than the boundaries of the city of Westminster, the Lord Chamberlain is persuaded to come to the rescue of these illegal musicians, and to orive them a permit, under no Act of Parlia- ment whatever, to break another Act of Parliament passed for the discomfiture of Moll Flanders and the Jacobites. As to the legality of this permit, distinguished legal authorities differ. Some ' Law Officers 76 Theatrical Licenses. of the Crown' think It unassailable, while others think It worthless. In any case, Its operation Is very limited ; and though It pro- fesses to protect St. James's Hall, It can- not reach as far as Oxford Street, so that the harmless Polytechnic Is threatened on all sides as a ' disorderly house,' and the Oxford Music Hall Is careful to open for so-called * morning performances ' at five minutes past five o'clock In the afternoon, by Greenwich time, as certified by Professor Glalsher."* If these complications are not enough, there are plenty of others. Under an Act of William IV., every theatre Is a licensed public-house during the hours of performance, without the vexatious restrictions now im- posed upon licensed victuallers. As long as Shakespeare lasts in the house, the ginshop attached to the premises can be kept going ; and if an actor happens to be engaged who =!^ A short tinkering Act has removed this absurdity from the Statute-book, but lefr the worst Act of ParHa- nient ever passed untouched in other respects. Theatrical Licenses. "jj takes what I may call a stately view of ' Hamlet/ there Is nothing to prevent the theatrical public-house, under the theatre roof, being kept open until two o'clock on a Sunday morning. A ' systematic keeping * open of a theatre for drinking purposes in London might lead to a remonstrance from the Lord Chamberlain ; but the provincial theatres of all kinds, as buildings, are beyond his jurisdiction, though here, as in all other theatres, no play or other entertainment can be performed without the previous sanction of the Examiner of Plays — that is, the Lord Chamberlain's subordinate, acting under his authority. As the Lord Chamberlain, how- ever, never goes to law, and cannot, of course, withdraw a license which has been granted by the local magistrates, curious examples might be given of the Examiner's authority being blindly obeyed in one district and openly defied in another. Political jokes forbidden by him in London have been uttered night after night in Liverpool, and, I am bound to add, without any of those ,78 Thealj^ical Licenses. tremendous consequences which alarmists had anticipated. Supposing, however, the supervision of the theatres to be perfect and complete, there still remain the music-halls, which, taking London and the whole country, are more nu- merous than the theatres. All kinds of songs, dances, monologues, duologues, illegal ' stage- plays,' within the meaning of the Act, and entertainments flourish in these places, without any paternal supervision. Even the dreaded subject of politics is here as free as in the pages of Punch. What are called 'topical songs' are nightly sung, in which Mr. Disraeli and Mr. Gladstone are handled roughly or tenderly, according to the whim of the singer, and, again, no tremendous consequences are found to ensue. If a censorship of the stage is really needed, it would appear to be here, and not at the Lyceum or the Prince of Wales's that it would be urgently required. I propose to deal further with this portion of the subject, and also wath the so-called patent houses, Theatrical Licenses. 79 and the survey of theatrical buildings, In future letters. My last letter having exhausted the ano- malies of the building licenses, and just touched upon the office of the Licenser of Plays, in my present letter I propose to examine the value of his office, and also to deal v/ith the survey of theatres. There is not, as far as I am aware, anyone who advocates the right of actors either to act or speak indecency or immorality on the stage, and the only question is whether the anoma- lous functions of the Lord Chamberlain are the best sort of check that human ingenuity can devise. Indecency ought no more to be tolerated on the stage than in the shop windows or secret drawers of Holywell Street ; but w^hile in these quarters It Is effectually suppressed, we are always hearing that under the Lord Chamberlain's rule it flourishes practically unchecked. The Mar- quis of Hertford, in a recent speech, did So Theatrical Licenses. indeed lay claim to have raised the stage from the degraded position into which it had fallen under his Whig predecessors ; but the blessings of a Tory Government cannot be expected to be always vouchsafed to us, and it is painful to think that on his lordship's own authority this guarantee for public decency has hitherto proved — and so, of course, may prove again — a broken reed. It must never be forgotten that the censor- ship of the stage is maintained at no little sacrifice of principle. To make the supply of dramatic entertainments depend not on the demand, but on the will of the Lord Chamberlain, is clearly contrary to the free- trade doctrine ; and it is, therefore, at least incumbent on the admirers of the present system to show that all that is good in it could not be obtained by less objectionable means. The subjection of the whole body of dramatic authors to the tutelage of the Lord Chamberlain's deputy involves even a greater sacrifice of principles which English- men have learned to cherish. It is the last Theatrical Licenses. 8i rag of a censorship of literature and art still remaining, and on that score alone it might perhaps be worth while to put up even with some amount of inconvenience for the sake of getting rid of it. It has the peculiarly odious feature of treatlnor our dramatic authors as presumptive violators of decency, and throwing upon them, as a condition of exercising their faculties, the onus of showing, in every instance, that their presumed tend- encies towards blasphemy and indelicacy have been sufficiently restrained. The in- terference of the licenser is undoubtedly exercised in these times in a less irritating way than of old ; but very recent examples may nevertheless be cited of objections so ridiculous that they can only be explained by the over-anxiety of Examiners who are placed in the cruel position of being com- pelled not merely to permit, but positively to sanction, everything that Is said and done upon the stage. The solemn order from the Lord Chamberlain to omit every allusion to ' Mr. Lowe and the Match- tax ' Is well re- 6 82 Theatrical Licenses. membered. Such exclamations as ^ Zounds !' and * Bodlklns !' were at one time strictly prohibited, and another licenser would never permit any allusion to ' Angels ' on the stage. How keenly some authors feel this Court supervision is evidenced by the case of Sir Martin Arthur Shee, who withdrew his tragedy of Alastor at Covent Garden, even after it had been rehearsed, rather than submit to excisions, which necessarily Implied that he had been guilty of some violation of decorum. He published the prohibited passages in self-defence, clearly showing the then Lord Chamberlain to have been in the wrong. The late Mr. Shirley Brooks, when examined before the Select Committee in 1866, complained that he had not been allowed to produce a dramatized version of Mr. Disraeli's ' Coningsby/ because, as the then Lord Chamberlain complained, it ' was a kind of quasi-political piece, exhibiting a sort of contrast between the manufacturinof people and the lower classes.' A play in these days may be worth ^10,000, or even Theatrical Licenses. 83 more. It follows, therefore, that the Lord Chamberlain has at least the power to practi- cally inflict a fine to that amount, and this without any public proceedings at which the culprit could defend himself by counsel or otherwise, without appeal, and without any obligation on the part of his punisher even to state the reasons of his decree. I am aware that there are many persons who think that dramatic literature and art differ from other literature and art, and that they cannot safely be allowed that freedom, subject to punishment for libel or for viola- tions of decency, which has now happily been conceded to all other kinds of authorship and art. The arguments, however, they adduce differ but little from those which once were used in England, and are still used in some other countries, to defend a censorship of the press. We are told that the Examiner of Plays in these times executes his disagreeable office with discretion, and that few plays are absolutely forbidden ; but the objection to a kick or a pull of the nose 6—2 84 Theatrical Licenses. is not always to be measured by the amount of physical pain which it causes. In the case, at least, of Sir Martin Shee, there was a sense of honour and dignity involved which I am unwilling to assume that dramatic authors of our time are less quick to feel. In the days of Milton, the great author fretted under his ' literary bondage/ though he acknowledged that it was ' of the greatest concernment to have a vigilant eye how books demean themselves.' It may, in like manner, be conceded that it is desir- able to watch the stao^e and dramatic lltera- ture ; but whether the existing machinery is the best for this office is a widely different question. The Licenser of Plays may not irreverently be compared to a scarecrow, and the necessity for his maintenance may be a fair subject of debate ; but the necessity for a careful survey of theatres and concert-rooms in the interest of public safety is a matter upon which there can scarcely be two opinions. As far as the Lord Chamberlain is concerned, this survey, Theatrical Licenses. 85 until very lately, was undertaken in London by the Licenser of Plays and other untrained officials, while the patent theatres throughout the country were probably left without the slightest architectural supervision. A practical builder has lately been attached to the Lord Chamberlain's office in a touch-and-go sort of way ; but I am not aware that he is paid or instructed to pursue his investigations beyond the Lord Chamberlain's portion of London. Those theatres and concert-rooms that are licensed by the magistrates in town and country may be the safest buildings in the world, and the magistrates may be in posses- sion of evidence to that effect ; but the general opinion in the public mind — when it takes the trouble to form an opinion on these trivial subjects — is that this branch of licensing work is sadly neglected. Whenever a great calamity occurs, like the destruction of the Cathedral at Santiago, the newspapers point at once to Exeter Hall, as they have pointed, under pressure, any time during the last five- and-twenty years, but without obtaining any 86 Theatrical Ltceiises. reform of an acknowledged evil. The internal danger from fire at Exeter Hall, considering the nature of the entertainments given, may be very small ; but panics are as often created in public buildings by external as by internal fires. When Her Majesty's Theatre was burning, the reflection caused a stampede at the Alhambra, though the two buildings are at least a quarter of a mile apart ; and it is easy to imagine what would happen at Exeter Hall if any of the surrounding houses happened to be on fire.^' The Lord Chamberlain's survey of theatrical buildings is open to much im- provement, and if I were writing under a different signature I could give a thousand details in support of this opinion. In discussing this question it must never be forgotten that the Lord Chamberlain licensed, and renewed the license for many years, of the Gallery of Illustration, a variegated "^ The Metropolitan Board of Works is now era- powered to survey theatres, music-halls, and other places of public amusement. Theatrical Licenses, 87 tunnel suspended in the middle of a block of houses on a steep incline, and approached by passages such as no cautious person could regard with anything but horror. This building — if building it could be called — is now happily destroyed, but its faults are well represented by a certain London theatre approached by a long and curious subter- ranean passage of low pitch and abrupt angles, in which four or five hundred people may have to struggle at any moment I am the last to wish to damp the new-born licensing zeal of the Lord Chamberlain, which dates from the Committee of 1866, before which time the increase of theatres was checked at St. James's Palace by a protectionist theory about the * wants of neighbourhoods ;' but it is hardly fair to those theatrical capitalists who have spent their money freely in ' exits and entrances * to sanction the opening of buildings which violate every principle of public safety. In my next and last letter I propose to give a short history of the so-called patent SS Theatrical Licenses. theatres, about which much misapprehen- sion appears to exist, and a few sugges- tions for the reform of the present licensing chaos. Having dealt with the anomalies of the building licenses, the value of an official censor of dramatic literature, and the survey of theatres and concert-rooms, in my two former letters, I now propose to conclude my statement of defects requiring immediate reform with an examination of the so-called * Royal patents ' which are claimed by the proprietors of Drury Lane and Covent Garden. The importance of these patents in connection with the licensing system was indicated the other nio^ht in the House of Lords in the answer of the Lord Chamber- Iain to the questions put by the Duke of St. Albans. The Killigrew and Davenant patents were not patents granted to any particular play- Theatrical Licenses. 89 house. In modern times the license Is granted to the building. In the old days the licenses were granted to the Individual. What King Charles II. did In 1662 was to empower his well-beloved Thomas Kllllgrevv and Sir William Davenant, their heirs and assigns, to gather together companies of players, and to perform plays in a theatre to be built or set up when and where they might find convenient in London, West- minster, or the suburbs. For anything that appears to the contrary, the possessors of these patents, or any one to whom they chose to transfer their powers, might at any period since have built, not merely in Drury Lane or Covent Garden, but anywhere between Limehouse and Chelsea. In point of fact, theatres were built at various times in five different localities, under these patents — namely, in Drury Lane, Lincoln's Inn Fields, Dorset Garden, Little Lincoln's Inn Fields, and Covent Garden. The patentees regarded them as monopolies, and so they appeared to be on the face of them, for the 90 Theatrical Licenses. patents expressly declared that none but Davenant and Killigrew were to presume to set up theatres either in London or West- minster. Even down to the present century the patentees were accustomed to claim, and, in some degree, were successful in maintain- ing, an exclusive right to perform the regular drama, but in practice the Crown had never regarded itself as precluded from granting other patents. The very year after the Killl- grew and Davenant patents were granted (in 1663), Charles II. granted another patent to a man named Jolly, and the two monopolists were compelled to allow him ^4 a week on condition of his not exercising his pov/ers. Monopoly, however, was not yet considered sufficiently complete. In 1682, the two companies — the Killlgrew, which had set up at Drury Lane, and the Davenant, which performed sometimes in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and sometimes in Dorset Garden — agreed to unite, and Drury Lane became then their principal theatre. In the deed by which this union was effected, it was covenanted that Thcah'ical Licenses. 91 the two patents were *to remain one for evermore ;' and they did remain united, though their monopoly was rudely invaded by King William III., who granted a patent for another theatre In 1695. The fact that Kllligrew built his theatre on the site of the present Drury Lane, coupled with the circumstance that Drury Lane, to this day, claims to be the patent house authorised to keep open for ever without license, under the old grant to Kllligrew, not unnaturally Invests this theatre with a sort of sacred character. But In all this there Is a confusion of Ideas. The truth is, that In the year 1 709 Drury Lane ceased to be connected In any way with the Kllli- grew patent. Christopher Rich, who was the then manager, represented the patentees, but the buildine Itself belonored to different proprietors, and it happened that in this year it became the Interest of these proprietors to turn out Rich with his patents, which had been suspended in consequence of a quarrel with the Lord Chamberlain's Office. Rich 92 Theatrical Licenses, had given offence to that functionary, who, by a high-handed exercise of power, had * silenced ' the house, as the phrase was, and Rich was compelled to obey. It was at this juncture that a man named Collier was en- abled to obtain a license to perform plays from Queen Anne, and being thus em- powered, while Rich was not, the landlords of Drury Lane naturally preferred Collier as a tenant. Neither Rich nor any of his suc- cessors ever returned to Drury I.ane, which thenceforth, for a period of 127 years, until the advent of Mr. Alfred Bunn, was kept open upon short licenses, or rather patents, granted from time to time by Queen Anne, George I., George II., and George III., and, so far from claiming connection with the Killigrew and Davenant patents, was carried on in direct opposition to them. The successive managers of Drury Lane, Sir Richard Steele, Colman, Garrick, and Sheridan, all acknow- ledged the temporary character of their privilege by applying for a renewal of their patents from time to time as they expired. Theatrical Licenses. 93 This was still the condition of affairs In 1816, when again a patent for twenty-one years was obtained for Drury Lane by Mr. Whit- bread. This patent expired in 1837, and then, for the first time since the reign of Queen Anne, Drury Lane, under the manage- ment of Mr. Alfred Bunn, neglected to renew its patent. Mr. Bunn tells us in his Memoirs, that when he announced his pro- gramme for the following winter, he received a missive from ' the harpies of the Lord Chamberlain's OHice, demanding to know by what authority I had presumed to announce Its opening.' Bunn replied that since the last renewal the proprietors of Drury Lane had purchased of Covent Garden the patent granted to Killigrew b}^ Charles II., which was described as ' the dormant patent.' The Lord Chamberlain's office were quite pre- pared to expect this answer. They were well aware that when Sheridan was anxious to raise funds for rebuilding Drury Lane he had found himself In a difficulty, owing to the fact that he had no license or patent 94 Theatrical Licenses, except one that had only a few years to run. Capitahsts were naturally shy of subscribing half a million of money on so precarious a foundation, and hence a clever Idea occurred to the ingenious author of ' The School for Scandal.' The Kllllgrew patent had been dead and burled nobody knew how long ; but to the sanguine mind of Sheridan, anxious to raise half a million of money, It appeared possible to recuscltate It. There was, at all events, somebody who claimed to be legally possessed of this ancient document, In the person of Harris, then proprietor of Covent Garden. To understand how Harris got it we must go back to 1709, when Rich, with his patents from Charles H., was turned out of Drury Lane, and Collier, with his license from Queen Anne, was put In his place. Rich did not venture to dispute the Lord Chamberlain's right to * silence * him and his company ; but when Queen Anne died, five years later, he got leave from Georo^e L to start In the theatrical business again, and accordingly built another theatre Theatrical Licenses, 95 in Lincoln's Inn Fields, of which his son was manager for many years. Rich was then in possession of the Davenant patent ; he, probably, also represented the pro- prietors of the Kllllgrew, and he is stated to have subsequently purchased the Killi- grew for the trifling consideration of *^ioo and a hogshead of claret.' The patents, being thus combined, more than once changed hands, but from the year 1742 only one theatre was opened under them — namely, Covent Garden, which v/as supposed to represent the Davenant patent. Any way, when Sheridan was desirous of resuscitatingr a patent, it was understood that it was the Killigrew patent which was considered to have been dormant, and this the proprietors of Covent Garden were willing to sell if they could get anybody to buy It. The sum of ^16,000 was agreed to be given for it — a price, in those days of protected theatrical monopoly, so infinitely below the value it would have possessed if its virtue had been indisputable, that it might well in itself 96 Theatrical Licenses. suggest doubts. Then came the unpleasant business of examining the title. The counsel for the Drury Lane proprietors, Messrs. Pigott and Bernard, reported, as well they might, that * after so long a union the powers of the patent to Killigrew were not exercisable separately ;' whereupon Francis Hargreaves, the eminent counsel for the vendor, significandy suggested, as ^ worthy of consideration,' whether it would not be convenient to relieve the counsel for the intended purchasers of the patent to Killi- grew, *and also myself, as counsel for Mr. Harris/ from investigating the matter. This hint appears to have been taken. The ar- rangement was accordingly agreed to, and the item that Drury Lane was to pay ;^ 16,000 for the Killigrew patent was em- bodied in the Act for rebuilding Drury Lane Theatre. This was in 18 10. Never- theless, the entire purchase-money was not forthcoming, and the new Drury Lane opened, in fact, under a patent from King George III., which dated from Sep- TJicatrical Licenses, 97 tember, 18 16. That the proprietors of Drury Lane had subsequently paid the ;^ 1 6,000 with interest was perfectly well known in the Lord Chamberlain's Office, where it was also perfectly well known that it was intended to use it as a means of escaping for ever from the necessity of applying either to the Crown for a patent or to the Lord Chamberlain for a license. But the Lord Chamberlain's Office had clearly determined not to recognise it. The Comptroller, Mr. Baucott Mash, appeared before the Parlia- mentary Committee in 1832, and distinctly stated that Drury Lane existed only under a patent from King George IIL, and that the Killigrew patent was united with the Dave- nant, and could not be separated. Even as late as 1866, Mr. Spencer Ponsonby Fane, of the Lord Chamberlain's department, in his ' Memorandum on Theatres,' observed that ' the license granted to Betterton was renewed from time to time, and at last con- verted into a patent of twenty-one years' duration ; and it was under this authority, 7 98 Theatrical Licenses. and the KilUgrew and Davenant patents united in one, that the Theatres Royal Covent Garden and Drury Lane kept their position for so many years.' Why, then, have successive Lord Chamberlains put up with Mr. Bunn's defiance, and permitted Drury Lane to remain to this day without a license ? There seems to be no answer except the often-repeated statement that the Lord Chamberlain has no funds for going to law. The police authorities, if they chose to act, have as much power to punish indecency in theatres and music-halls in this country as the police have in America, but they are under the impression that these matters are seen to by the Lord Chamberlain and the magistrates, and therefore remain passive. The Lord Chamberlain and the mao^istrates fail to regulate theatres and music-halls pro- perly, yet do enough to take away all moral responsibility from the managers of those establishments. It is possible for human ingenuity to reduce the present licensing Theatrical Licenses. 99 chaos to something like order, and it is the duty of a Government which spends one hundred milHons a year to attempt this task without delay. We affect to govern half the globe, and ought not, therefore, to be frightened at a few ' difficulties of detail,' as the Lord Chamberlain puts It, in devising some uniform plan for the regulation of theatres and concert halls. It Is absurd for one authority to refuse a license to a building for stage-plays on the ground of bad exits, while another authority permits the public to assemble within the same walls In any numbers to listen to music or public oratory. It Is absurd for magistrates who license throughout the country, including theatres and music-halls, at least fifty times as many buildings as the Lord Chamberlain licenses and the Crown has patented, to meet only once a year, so that their licenses once given can be abused for twelve months without any fear of punishment. It is absurd for these licensing magistrates, as far as music- halls are concerned, to work under an Act of loo Theatrical Licenses, Parliament which has never clearly defined whether * music and dancing ' mean the dancing- of the public In a ball-room style, or the dancing of paid performers on a public stage, while this latter dancing has been attacked by another Act of Parliament which cannot settle whether ballet Is or is not a * stage-play,' and therefore illegal under the former Act of Parliament. It is absurd for these magistrates to persist in licensing only one casino''' In London, thereby giving a golden monopoly to one individual ; and it is absurd that those elegant entertainments called 'poses plastiques,' as long as they are unaccompanied by a little harmless music^ should be carried on without requiring any license. It is absurd that a theatre like the Court Theatre, because it happens to be a few yards west of a particular line, should have been able to defy the Lord Chamber- Iain's authority, even for twenty-four hours, as in the case of the * Happy Land,' "^ This one casino is now no more, and London, with four millions of inhabitants, has no public dancing-room. Theatrical Liccmr,^\,. , ; i ' ' , »' i "ii^\ \ />"', until Scotland Yard and the Home Office came to the rescue of the insulted officer of the Crown ; and it is absurd that the Lord Chamberlain, when the vexed ques- tion of the observance of Ash Wednesday arises, should have a mouldy and pro- bably worthless parchment shaken in his face by one of the so-called patent theatres, the value of which could be tested in a few days by a legal process. It is absurd that the Examiner of Plays is empowered to strike out passages in dramatic works represented at a hundred theatres, which passages can be read or acted at ten thousand music-halls, delivered from twenty thousand public plat- forms, and printed and circulated in a million books, pamphlets, and newspapers. It is absurd that morning concerts'" should only be rendered legal in Westminster, and in no other part of town or country, by a Lord Chamberlain's permit of doubtful legality authorised by the Home Office ; and it is absurd that the Lord Chamberlain is em- * See foot-note, p. 76. ''^j62''\ , , . Tkeairical Licenses. powered to create any number of public- houses, as long as they are theatres, at any period of the year, while the licensing magis- trates can only create public-houses during two or three days in March, and can only grant music and dancing licenses once a year in the month of October. It is often easier to point out absurdities than to suggest the best way to remove them, but in this case the task is not so difficult. The control of public amusements, at the present time, is a task requiring the undivided attention of a well-organized department. It ouofht to be concentrated in the hands of a public officer, and not an officer of the Crown, whose powers ought to be defined and enlarged, whose subordinates, especially surveyors, ought to be numerous, and who ought to be responsible to the Home Office. The defect of the Lord Chamberlain's authority is that it is at once too large and too limited. It is too limited an area, and too large in discretionary powers. We have checked arbitrary power in this country at Theatrical Licenses. 103 the cost of much blood and treasure, and there is no reason why it should hold on to existence in the person of a Lord Chamberlain. Lord Chesterfield's memorable protest on the passing of Sir Robert Walpole's Act of 1737, is probably not forgotten. ' If the players are to be punished,' he said, ' let it be by the laws of their country, and not by the will of an irresponsible despot.' The present abuse of this discretionary power is shown in the case of x\sh Wednesday. No warrant for even the general observance of this day can be respected in a Protestant country, and the restrictions on the players, and players only, which are powerless under the present licensing system over one-fourth of London and nearly the whole of the country, have litde more than the antiquity of a century to recommend them even to the lovers of old observances. The present Lord Chamber- lain, vv'ithout being pressed by his Act of Parliament, has extracted a promise, under pressure, from every manager within his jurisdiction, not to open theatres in any form 104 Theatrical Licenses. on Ash Wednesday — a logical but oppressive proceeding — while former lord chamberlains were content only to suspend stage-plays on that particular day which in future ought to be known in the calendar as St. Thespis the Martyr. MR. PHELPS AT THE GAIETY. R. PHELPS'S first appearance at the Gaiety Theatre was in the week before Christmas, 1873, when he was engaged to give eight special representations of certain old comedies in conjunction with Mr. Charles Mathews, Mr. J. L. Toole, Mr. Hermann Vezin, Mr. Lionel Brough, etc. He made his first entry as Dr. Cantwell in the ' Hypocrite,' Mr. Toole playing Mawworm for the first time after a very short period of study, and the rest of the characters being represented by Miss Farren and members of the Gaiety Company. This piece was played for six nights to the largest receipts ever known at the theatre, io6 Mr. Phelps at the Gaiety. and the following three nights were devoted to Colman's comedy of ' John Bull,' with Mr. Phelps as Job Thornbury, Mr. Toole as Dennis Brulgruddery, Mr. Charles Mathews as the Hon. Tom Shuffleton, Mr. Hermann Vezin as Peregrine, and Mr. Lionel Brough as Dan, supported by the general company. The receipts were equally great for these performances, and the orchestra was utilised for extra stalls. Mr. Phelps, unlike Mr. Charles Mathews, did not consider himself injured by appearing in this combination, and this short preliminary engagement was the forerunner of many others v/hich were equally pleasant and profitable to both of us. As in Mr. Charles Mathews's case, there were no written agreements between us, but we per- fectly understood each other's views ; and from December 1873, to the day of Mr. Phelps's lamented death, he considered him- self more or less engaged to me, and never thought of any public appearance without coming to consult me. At first I used his invaluable services at my Saturday matinees, Mr. Phelps at the Gaiety. 107 and at these he played a number of his best comedy parts, intermixed with Cardinal Wolsey and Shylock. He avoided Sir Pertinax Macsycophant in ' The Man of the World' for nearly four years, and I never pressed him to play it. He told me he thought it was the most trying part in the whole range of the British drama, and when he felt physically equal to it he would let me know. The time came at last, after one of his long fishing holidays, and the result was a very fine performance of his great comic masterpiece. When Mr. Toole went to America in 1874, and I had the Amphitheatre in Holborn and the Opera Comique in the Strand under my direction, in addition to the Gaiety, I was enabled to offer Mr. Phelps a night engage- ment at the Gaiety. We produced * The Merry Wives of Windsor' at Christmas, 1874, with scenery by Mr. Grieve, and original music by Mr. Arthur Sulli- van. Mr. Phelps played Falstaff, and asso- ciated with him in the cast were Mr. To8 Mr, Phelps at the Gaiety. Hermann Vezin, Mr. Arthur Cecil, Mr. Righton, Mr. J. G. Taylor, Mr. Belford (one of his old Sadler's Wells company), Mr. Forbes Robertson, Miss Furtado, Miss Rose Leclercq, and Mrs. John Wood. Probably the most pleasant member of the company was Mr. Phelps. He had an amiable faculty of * making himself at home.' When he first joined the regular Gaiety company — a com- pany not generally associated with the so- called ^ legitimate drama' — he behaved as if he had been amongst them all his life ; and with the company mentioned above — some of them specially engaged for the * Merry Wives of Windsor' — he was soon on the very best of terms. Instead of sitting in state in his dressing-room, he passed much of his time in the green-room, and entered into all the little amusements of the place in the most pleasant manner. Fines were instituted to punish those who were found tripping in the text of Shakespeare, and once or twice Mr. Phelps was caught (on evidence probably not very trustworthy), but he paid his fines cheer- yJ/r. Phelps at the Gaiety. 109 fully. The money was ultimately spent in a bowl of punch. One result of his Gaiety engagement was that he was induced to come a little out of his domestic retirement. I persuaded him to become a member of the Garrick Club, and Mr. Arthur Cecil persuaded him to take a continental tour, as, with the exception of his visits to Berlin and Dresden, he had never been out of his own country. He was much impressed with Paris and Italy — with what he called the ' stage-management' of the brilliant city, and the beauty of the Alpine scenery. He played at the Gaiety during his various engagements, in addition to the parts pre- viously mentioned, Sir Peter Teazle (re- peatedly). Bottom the Weaver, Jacques, Lord Ogleby, Richelieu, etc. His mind was very active, and he was always ready to study a new part. At one time he thought of play- ing Bill Sykes in a proposed version of * Oliver Twist' by Mr. Andrew Halliday. If he had been ten or fifteen years younger, he i I o Mr. Phelps at the Gaiety. would probably have taken a West-end theatre, and repeated the experiment which he carried out so nobly at Sadler's Wells. He had no conservative prejudices against anything new, and the last time he was within the walls of a playhouse was at the Gaiety theatre. CHARLES MATHEWS'S LAST YEARS LN LONDON. LTHOUGH Charles Mathews had been on the stage for more than forty years, he made no secret of the fact, that in spite of his great and pecuhar talent and his personal popularity, he had not found it a very lucrative profession. His attractive power as an actor was rarely dis- associated from his or Madame Vestris's theatrical speculations, and the result was, that what he made as a comedian he lost as a manager. After Madame Vestris's death he went to America, where he contracted a second marriage, and on his return to England, in conjunction with his wife, he I T 2 Charles Mathews, attempted to revive the form of entertainment which his distinguished father had made popular. What were the financial results of this experiment I am not in a position to state, but he soon gave up ' entertaining ' and returned to the stage, accepting an engagement under the management of Mr. Benjamin Webster, and played principally at the Olympic. Then came his projected tour round the world, and the grand farewell benefit that was given to him at Covent Garden Theatre. In 1872 I received a communication from him, from America, expressing a wish to play at the Gaiety Theatre on his return to England. I replied that I should be de- lighted to receive him. I was in Liverpool in July, transacting some business, when I received a telegram early one morning, saying that he had arrived and wished to see me the same day at four o'clock in the afternoon to make the engagement. I came to town by a morning express train, and punctually at the appointed time he bounded into my room. Charles Mathews. 1 1 3 looking certainly ten years younger than he did before he left England. We wasted very little time in settling details : no agreements were drawn up, no letters asked for or given; a mere verbal contract was taken on both sides. I made a memorandum in a diar)', and we both started off in different directions ■ — Charles Mathews to Baden-Baden, and I to Vienna — the same night. We never saw, and heard very little from each other, till the beginning of October, and on the 7th of that month Charles Mathews made his re-appear- ance in England, after his long absence, at the Gaiety Theatre, in ^ A Curious Case ' and * The Critic' His reception was the most enthusiastic burst of feeling I ever witnessed or can imagine, and the one who seemed the least moved by it was the chief actor. He played for ten weeks, going through many of his favourite parts, ' Used Up,' ' Married for Money,' 'Cool asaCucumber/ 'Gameof Specu- lation,' etc., and though the bulk of the company were sent to the country, as he required very few to support him, the receipts were larger 8 114 Charles Mathews. than any previously taken in the theatre — amounting to nearly ^/^i^ooo per week. His second engagement, after a long country tour, for he hated to be idle, was for live weeks in the summer of 1873, followed by five weeks in the autumn of the same year, when he played 'The Liar,' '• Patter v. Clatter,' *Used Up,' 'Mr. Gatherwool,' 'Married for Money,' ';^ 1,000 a Year,' ' Cool as a Cucum- ber,' ' Aggravating Sam,' and ' Little Tod- dlekins.' This engagement was nearly as successful as the first one. In the December of v'^']^, wishing to end my first lease of the Gaiety Theatre with becoming splendour, I prevailed upon Charles Mathews to play the Hon. Tom Shuffleton in 'John Bull' in combination with Mr. Phelps, Mr. Toole, Mr. Vezin, and others. He re- luctantly consented, but considered that he had done himself Irreparable injury as a 'star' in forming an item in such a cast, though only for three nights. In the summer of 1874, after his country tour, he appeared again at the Gaiety for seven weeks, playing Charles Matheivs. 115 old material, ' Married for Money,' * The Critic,' ' Mr. Gatherwool,' ' Used Up,' ' The Nice Firm' (in conjunction with Mr. Arthur Cecil), ' Game of Speculation,' ^ Cool as a Cucumber,' and ' Patter v. Clatter.' This was a good engagement, but not so good as the previous ones. Charles Mathews now went to the country for more than a year, and prepared himself for his next engagement by writing a new piece, * My Awful Dad.' He made his first appearance In this piece at the Gaiety on Monday, Sept. 13, 1S75, and played It, supplemented by ' Mr. Gatherwool,' with im- mense success for eight weeks. During this engagement he was prevailed upon to over- come a strong prejudice against morning per- formances, and he appeared at two inatindes during the eight weeks, and at one special matinee before his departure for India. This Indian engagement was a great social if not a financial triumph, and on his return, he re-opened at the Gaiety in * My Awful Dad ' and ' Cool as a Cucumber ' on Monday, April 17th, 1876, playing for fourteen weeks. 8—2 it6 Charles 31 at hews. The close of that year and the early part of 1877 he spent, as usual, working in the country, and on his return to town, finding that I could not take him in at the Gaiety owing to a season of French plays, he went to the Opera Comique, then under my manage- ment, and played for nine weeks in 'My Awful Dad,' ' The Liar,' ' The Cosy Couple,' etc. This was his last engagement in London. On Saturday night, June 2nd, he made his last ap- pearance on the boards of a London theatre. The results of these eiMit enp-ao^ements spread over six years were eminently satis- factory to both of us. The gross receipts were nearly ^40,000, out of which he received more than ^10,000 for playing about 354 times. Our business, what little we had, was transacted in the most pleasant manner possible. There was no fuss, no squabbling, and no agreements ; he took my word and I took his, and no engagement during my ten years of management, apart from the question of profit or loss, has given me more personal gratification. HOW THE ELECTRIC LIGHT CAME TO LONDON, OWARDS the close of 1877 a couple of huge lamps, burnino;- a very brilliant white light, made their appearance In front of the Grand Opera in Paris. Even in a city so well illuminated as Paris these lamps attracted general atten- tion, and inquirers were told that the system employed was a Russian patent, with the invention of which a gentleman named Joblochskoff was credited. By degrees the new luminary spread in Paris, as was natural amongst an intelligent and energetic people not fettered with too much local self-govern- ment The Joblochskoff lamps were soon ii8 The Elective Light, seen on each side of the new Avenue de rOpera, at the Orangerie pubHc gardens, at the Arc de Triomphe, the Chatelet Theatre, and other places of importance. The parochial mind in England was not yet sufficiently acted upon, and it was not until an experiment with the Joblochskoff machinery was an- nounced at one of the great docks at the East-end of London that the gas companies became aware of the existence of this formid- able rival. The usual result followed. A small panic in gas shares immediately took place, for no particular reason, as no inquiry had been made; and this panic immediately subsided after it was known that the ex- periment, from a variety of causes, was a comparative failure. The gas companies, representing in London alone about twelve millions sterling of capital, sank once more into a placid sleep. One vestry issued a report, a discussion took place at the Institute of Civil Engineers ; but no one introduced the light to the London streets, although it had been burning in Paris for more than nine months. The Electric Light, 119 Towards the close of June, 1878, the manager of a prominent London theatre*^ — a house devoted more to the persistent amuse- ment of the public than to the cultivation of a very high standard of dramatic art — decided to close his doors for redecoration. The house had been kept open almost uninter- ruptedly for nearly ten years, and it was thought that at last four weeks might be spared for artistic repairs. The manager, a somewhat energetic, not to say restless, individual, even before his house was closed, began to consider how he could utilise his enforced holiday, so as to reopen with a new sensation, and it occurred to him. that the * electric light ' would be a good thing to introduce in London for that purpose. It did not occur to him that it was hardly the proper function for a theatrical manager to act as a pioneer in this matter in a city governed by forty or fifty vestries and a Metropolitan Board of Works, with an annual rating that is fast treading on the * The Gaiety. I20 The Electric Light, heels of the imperial taxation, and with gas companies, as before stated, representing twelve milllcns of capital. He did not stop to argue, he went to Paris, and sought out the leading director of the Joblochskoff light. He was politely received by that gentleman, and was offered his invention for the whole of England at the moderate sum of ^350,000 English money. The theatrical manager was hardly prepared with the sum at a moment's notice, and he suggested a preliminary trial of the light at a handsome royalty; this suggestion was not acceded to, but was treated with polite contempt. He was dis- appointed, but not defeated. He offered a liberal sum for a few weeks' experiment, and then was candidly told that the Joblochskoff light could not be shown in London, as an intermediate machine, with which it had to be worked, was the subject of a Chancery- suit about an infringement of patent. In this extremity the baffled manager made further inquiry, and found that the Joblochskoff light was not the only one in The Electric Light. 1 2 1 the Paris market. He found, in fact, the Lontin light, the inventors of which had not had the money and influence to get possession of the principal street in Paris, but who had to be content with illuminating the station of the Lyons Railway and the goods depot of the railway of the West. This, as far as he could judge, was equal in effect to the Jobbchskoff, while he was told that it had many advantages in point of economy and adaptability, and had been preferred in a kind of competition in the Hippodrome. Luckily he found that a friend— a well-known banker in Paris— had a small interest in this treasure, having assisted the inventor at starting; and through him he arranged for the exportation to England of the necessary machinery, lamps, wire, etc., and two experts to establish and manage the lights. Arrivin^j- home in the midst of builders and decorators, his work began again. To set the French machinery in motion (an enormous revolving magnet and electrical coil) he required the aid of a powerful steam- J 22 The Electric Light. engine cf not less than 20-horse power. This is not a machine easily found in a cellar or fitted up in a garret, and the manager had to look round his immediate neighbourhood, as his electrical machines would not allow him to go farther than 500 yards; and the farther he went, the greater the expense for connecting-wire. He went to an old friend, the proprietor of a fashionable organ, and stated his requirements ; but as the paper had only one steam-engine, the proprietor — who hates machinery — was naturally timid about having this tampered with. The manager again went his ways, and looked in at many printers', bookbinders', etc., finding that half the houses in his locality were full of steam-engines, but not of the requisite horse-power. At last he approached the proprietor of a popular journal at some little distance from his premises, and succeeded in persuading this proprietor to give him a footing in his engine-room, and to allow him to make the necessary alterations in the engines. When the magnet and distributer, The Electric Lio-JU. 12 c!> weighlncr about four tons, had been got with difficulty into their position near the engine, they had to be imbedded in masonry, and then the Parish authorities had to be appHed to for permission to open the roadway to convey the wires underground to the points of illumination. When this consent was obtained and the work done, the case of French lamps was opened, and it was found that everything breakable had been smashed to atoms in transihc. A lamp- maker had to be found to construct another, and better, set of lamps in forty-eight hours, and on Thursday night, August ist, 1878, about midnight, the light was successfully rehearsed; and on the following night at nine o'clock, the Strand, about the centre, was publicly lighted with the electric light, and has been so lighted every night since from about eight o'clock to eleven.'" This light, which is artificial daylight, with a dash of moonlight in it, is produced on a large scale at about half the cost of gas, and is without smell, * This light was discontinued in May, 1879. 124 The Electric Light. without heat, and Is not destructive of colours. When all the theatrical managers, publicans, and advertising tailors in London have secured this light for their premises, the fifty vestries, the Metropolitan Board of Works, and the gas companies with the bloated capital, will think there is really something in it. ^^^.^ ^St^ A TALE OF TWO CHIMNEYS. I. — Edendale. iF anyone in searching the pages of a railwav-auide, or looking over a map of England, had come upon the name of Edendale, such a name would have conjured up a vision of an earthly paradise. Such a vision would have been a delusion. Edendale was a living proof that the world is made by one power — Ormuz, the Spirit of Good, and furnished by another power — Ahriman, the Spirit of Evil. In London the furniture takes the form of stucco, railway-viaducts, and semi-detached villas — in Edendale it took the form of fac- 126 A Tale of Two Chimneys. tones. Edendale stood in two central counties, KIcklngshIre and Gouglngshire. Its population was rough, and Its amusements were coarse and revolting. The latter con- sisted of dog-fighting, cock-fighting, and occasional bull-balting six days a week, and prize-fighting on the top of the moors on Sunday. Fighting in those parts meant kicking, biting, and gouging, as well as pummeHIng, and few working men In Eden- dale were without physical traces of these encounters. The Bishop of the diocese, the clergy of the district and the parochial mag- nates of the town, all knew of these brutalities, but instead of stopping them, they formed a society for the Reform of the Stage and the Elevation of the Drama In London. No man, woman, or child in Edendale ever saw the sky above the town, except when a general strike came and stopped the smoke of the furnaces. Though its gutters ran blacking, and its canals were shiny with chemical scum, its inhabitants were the proudest people in Kickingshire and Gouging- A Tale of Two Chimneys. 127 shire, and for this reason — it had not only the tallest chimney, but the tallest nest of chimneys in both the counties. It had alkali works, iron works, metal works, potteries — all kinds of works ; and, seen from a short distance, its chimneys looked like a forest of masts in one of the great docks. Its aristocracy were measured by these standards. The owner of a hundred- foot chimney looked down upon the owner of one of fifty feet ; the family of an eighty- foot chimney proprietor almost refused to associate with the family of a forty-foot pro- prietor, and a thirty-foot chimney had been cut at church by a chimney twice its height. The tallest chimney in the town was one hundred and forty-seven feet, and its owner had, in consequence, been seven times Mayor of Edendale. II. — The Mayor's Daughter. The Mayor of Edendale had a sad, stone, brown-coloured mansion in what miofht be 1 23 A Tale of Two Chimneys. called the half-mourning outskirt of the town ; a place where a few sturdy, obstinate shrubs had determined to exist In spite of the un- favourable atm.osphere of the neighbourhood. In this mansion lived his only daughter, a young lady of eighteen, whose education and appearance were somewhat showy, and who had gathered her notions of the romantic side of life from the cheap periodicals she bought, without her father's knowledge, at the lolllpop- shop, and read, without his knowledge, in her bedroom. This style of reading. It may be Imagined, did not Increase her respect for the business — that of alkali making — In which her father was encraeed, while It led her to look with less unfavourable eyes on the more artistic manufactories of the district. Amongst these establishments was a small electro- plating factory, not far from her father s house, which v/as owned and worked by a young man whose capital bore no pro- portion to his ambition. This young man had many opportunities of seeing the Mayor's daughter, as the one walk in Edendale that A Tale of Two CJiinineys. 129 was free from old coal-mines and other pit- falls was near his factory and her house. The usual result followed. They were * en- gaged ' to each other without any thought of their relative positions. He looked upon her as the flower of Edendale ; and she looked upon him as the only artist in a crowd of sooty manufacturers. III. — -The Young Electro- plater. The time came at last when the young Electro-plater had to meet the old Alkali- manufacturer, face to face, and ask for his daughters hand. The young man's recep- tion was not encouraging. He represented what, at present ? — A chimney, fifteen or twenty feet high, and a business that was more ornamental than substantial. The young Electro-plater assured the Alkali- manufacturer, the father, and the mayor, that his sentiments were real metal, if his busi- ness was electro-plating, but this remark did not have anything like the same favourable 9 130 A Tale of Two Chwtneys. effect upon the father as it had had pre- viously upon the daughter. The young Electro - plater was not only bowed out of the house, but it was even suggested that he should leave the town, and the young lady was sent to Scarborough, in the care of a severe and watchful female relative. The inhabitants of Kickingshirc and Gouging- shire always go to Scarborough. IV. — Self-help. The young Electro-plater w^as downcast, but not beaten. He went home and read all the books he could find upon ' self-help/ * self- made men,' etc., and was much comforted by the account of a spider that fell down fourteen times in the presence of a king of Scotland, before it reached a corner of the ceiling- to make its web. More by accident than design he put his hand upon a volume con- taining the lives of great inventors, and this turned his thoughts into another channel. Why should he not become an inventor "^ In .1 Talc of Two Chimneys. 131 his own business? Why not? A 'great inventor'? Why not? Electro-metallurgy was in Its infancy, was it not ? Most things are In their infancy when an inventor turns his eye upon them. While the young Electro-plater was asking himself questions, and giving himself answers, he fell asleep, and dreamt of Ingenious processes, producing miraculous results. V. — Labour in Vain. When he awoke he found his Ideas had vanished, but his determination still re- mained. He resolved to tread in the foot- steps of the great inventors of the past, as others had trodden before him. He got up at four o'clock in the morning, and lived on a very spare diet; but the only result was that he was very sleepy all day, and very hungry towards night. He took long walks, which ended in nothing. He ruminated in corners, which also ended In nothine. He spent money in models of machiner)^ which 9—2 132 A Tale of Tzvo Chimneys. also ended In nothing. He read many books, which also ended in nothing. He read accounts of more modern inventors — particularly of a celebrated American — who was accustomed to work without food or sleep for the best part of a week, then to cry ' Eureka/ and go to bed for three days and three nights. The young Electro-plater, it is needless to say, did not try this experi- ment. After two or three weeks spent in fruitless attempts to pierce the secrets of nature, it occurred to him to consult a few of his superior workpeople — men who had the mechanism of his art or trade at their finofers' ends. His workshop was not large, but it contained men of several countries. Amongst them was a German, a Frenchman, an Irish- man, and a Scotchman ; and it was curious to notice how they preserved their national characteristics, though surrounded by the natives of Kickingshire and Gougingshire. The Scotchman was idle, drunken, impulsive, and generous to a fault, and always in small financial difficulties. The Irishman, cold- A Tale of Two Chwineys. 133 blooded, thrifty, and prudent, had always a respectable balance at the Savings' Bank, was always the most active worker at over- time, and always ready to lend money to his more needy fellow-labourers at usurious in- terest. The Frenchman was the most melancholy workman ever seen in Edendale — taking his pleasure sadly, even on a fete- day, while the volatile German was the harlequin of the district, and the leader in every sport that required little thought but a vast quantity of animal spirits. These were the experts consulted by the young Electro- plater in his difficulty. He also consulted a variety of small learned professors, and one very big learned professor who had once read a paper on Electro- metallurgy before a Royal Society. The working model that had been made in consultation with the four experts, and which appeared to be very near the threshold of a great discovery, was shown to this big professor at a private conference at the factory. The big professor's remarks were not hopeful. He first demonstrated 134 ^ Tale of Two Chiinncys. that there was nothing new under the sun. He next demonstrated that the proposed in- vention was not required, as Electro-metal- lurgy was simply perfect. He then proved that the machine he had been examininof could never realise the dreams of Its con- structors. He further proved that if it did it would be a most immoral machine, and productive of incalculable mischief to capi- talists, working people, and the investing classes. His five listeners were more or less depressed, and went their several ways. The Irishman went home to drink toast-and- water, and calculate his week's profits on money-lending ; the Frenchman went home to take a couple of liver pills, and the Scotchman and German went rolling off to- gether to the * Fettlinof Pitman ' to take a festive lesson in clog-dancing. The young Electro-plater retired moody and silent to his countinof-house to look over the last letter he had received from the Mayor*s daughter at Scarborough, and to consider whether it was worth while spending any A Talc of Two Chimneys. 135 more time and money In struggling with an obstinate invention. VI. — The Blithering Idiot. In every town, with very few exceptions, there is a young man of doubtful age and weak intellect, who is known as the local idiot. In French towns he generally hangs about the chief church or cathedral, and shows his idiocy by collecting as many charitable pence in a day as an industrious labourer can earn in a week. In English towns he usually gets more kicks than half- pence, and he is not accustomed to hang about the church-doors, because in England the church-doors are only opened for a few hours on a Sunday. He haunts pot-houses with more success, and is seen with a regu- larity that almost approaches sanity, every pay-day, outside the factories. Edendale had one imbecile of this descrip- tion, who was sometimes alluded to as Daft Davy, but more frequently as the Bllthenn^' 136 A Tale of Tzvo Chwineys. Idiot. This almost useless person had been taken into the factory of the young Electro- plater, out of charity, one bitter winter when trade was not very flourishing in Edendale, and once there^ he had remained as furnace lad, and was occasionally allowed to act as deputy understoker. He gradually got the run of the factory, like a house-dog, the workmen believing that he had animal in- stincts which kept him out of harm. VII. — The Discovery. It was about three o'clock in the morning when the young Electro-plater came out of his counting-house. Before leaving the factory, he thought he would walk round and see if everything was as it should be at night. He took his lantern, and went almost unconsciously to the workshop where he had left his model after it had been exhibited to the big professor. Before he reached the workshop he noticed that it was lighted dimly from within, and creeping cautiously to A Talc of Two C/immeys. 137 a window which commandeid the whole place, he saw the blithering idiot on his knees, play- ing vacantly with the precious, but hitherto unsuccessful, piece of mechanism. His first impulse was to rush in and strangle the person of weak intellect, but this impulse was soon checked by a startling dis- covery. The blithering idiot, by turning the whole machine topsy-turvy, and working it backwards instead of forwards, had hit upon the secret which had eluded all the practised intellect that had been brought to bear upon it. The blithering idiot only sang a drivel- ling song, and went to sleep by the side of the great discovery. VIII. — Finale. In a few weeks the electro-platers of England were aware that their trade had been revo- lutionised by an Edendale electro-plater, who had not even the recommendation of age ; but they had nothing to do but to pay the royalties demanded. In a year or less the 138 A Tale of Two ChiDineys. young Electro-plater possessed a chimney at least twenty feet higher than any in Eden- dale, and he was consequently duly qualified to marry the Mayor's daughter. He married her, and, as most right-thinking persons will admit, he judiciously kept the real history of the important discovery to himself. He was made a F.R.S., and had various foreign decorations ; while the blithering idiot was securely provided with three meals a day and extras for the remainder of his natural life. THE MYSTERY OF A DRESS- COAT. ^^.HERE has always seemed to me to be something peculiar — an air of mystery — about a dress-coat. I am not at all surprised to find that the new school of acrobatic demons — the Girards, the Phoites, and suchlike performers, are attired in this unsightly but popular garment. I can imagine the gaunt form of Mephlstopheles posing gracefully on one leg with his finger on his lips, and the lappets of his dress-coat haneincr between his lef^^s in a form which Lord ivlonbocldo thought was once a distin- guishing characteristic of man, and which mankind have always regarded as a necessary ornamep.r. of devils. 1 40 The Mystery of a Dress-coat. In less important society — amongst Thames pilots, for example, it has always seemed very strange to me that dress-coats are held in such high esteem that the task of conducting a vessel safely from the London Docks to the open channel, is seldom at- tempted without one. Why the Irish peasant should have such a passionate love for this garment, that nearly all the old dress-coats of England are ex- ported to Ireland, is a fact that I should like some student of that singular country to explain. Why the licensed victualler should nearly always have his street holiday-suit made in the form of dress clothes is another fact that requires explanation. Individual eccentri- cities en this point I pay little heed to. I once knew a gentleman who was always in a fit state to go to the opera, who was once discovered on a Hio^hland moor in black dress clothes, and who once went to South- ampton in a similar suit, and suddenly shipped himself for America with no other The Mystei'y of a Drcss-coaf. 141 luggage. This gentleman, however, was not the representative of a class, and his conduct has no bearing on that of the pilot, the Irish peasant, and the licensed victualler. One summer's afternoon I was travelling from York to Edinburgh, and as the day was very warm I took my place in a third-class carriage. My fellow-passengers were a very respectable, quiet old lady, who said nothing; a boy who spoke the most incomprehensible Scotch, and who was being sent, labelled like a parcel, from the extreme south of England to the extreme north of Scotland ; and an old woman who was very drunk and given to preaching. The somewhat incoherent piety of this last lady kept me pretty well amused as far as Newcastle, at which busy station our carriage was enriched with another passenger, who took the place of the righteous over- much. He was a little dumpling man, in a maudlin good-humoured state of intoxication, who had nothing remarkable about him except his cos- tume. His boots were tolerably thick, and 142 The Mystery of a Dress-coat. quite appropriate for travelling, but in other respects he was very curiously attired. His trousers were glossy black, he had on a somewhat dirty and crumpled white waist- coat, an equally crumpled white shirt, and a more crumpled white necktie, worn very much awry, in the style assumed by comic actors who imitate drunkenness in farces. Over this soiled foundation of evening dress he wore a rather shabby coat, which was not exactly shooting-coat, overcoat, or frock-coat, but a mixture of all three, and the colour of dirty gravel. The point about the man, however, which struck me as most peculiar, and gave me most trouble m deciding who and what he was, was his luggage. This consisted of a dress-coat and nothing else — a black dress- coat, which he carried across his arm when he came into the carriage, as most people carry their railway rugs. When he had seated himself in a corner near one of the doors, he began to deal with this coat in a very singular manner. He first The Mystery of a Dress-coat. 143 rolled it in a kind of square bundle, and tried to sit upon it as upon a cushion, but the rest- lessness of the railway traveller soon pre- vailed, and he changed his position. He then took the coat and wedged it between the back of his head and the wall of the carriage, as a kind of pillow, and this arrange- ment seemed to comfort him for the space of about ten minutes. At the end of this time his fit of drowsiness was over, and the bundle — the dress-coat — was pulled from, behind his head and thrown, v;ith no signs of regard, on the seat beside him. I looked at the despised and ill-treated garment, and I looked at its owner, but although my brain had been pretty active for the last half-hour in trying to solve the mystery, I was still baffled. One or two theories presented themselves. . One was that the man had been attendine a funeral, followed by the reading of a will, had been disappointed at receiving a small legacy, or no legacy at all, and had come away dis- gusted with the whole ceremony and the 144 ^/^^ Mystery of a Dress-coat. trappings belonging to it. A glance at his hat at once dispelled this idea. It was rough, shabby, and somewhat crushed, and it had no vestige of crape upon it. The mysterious traveller, after a few seconds' reflection, noAV turned his attention to the boy in the carriage, and soon found that he was being sent on a long journey, with no food, no money, and a third-class ticket. The mysterious traveller then im- mediately plunged his grubby hands into the more mysterious pockets of the mysterious dress-coat, and produced a large pear and what appeared to be a portion of a pcttd de foic gras. These he gave to the boy in a muddled, good-humoured way, and while watching the youth's enjoyment of the meal, he fell upon the seat in a recumbent posture and was soon asleep again, with the dress- coat somewhere underneath him. During this short and restless slumber his dreams seemed to be hovering about the dress-coat, and he clutched that garment several times, when he was able to find it, in The Alystery of a Dress-coat. 145 a rather convulsive manner. Once he got it down between his legs, and with something very like an impatient kick he sent it on to the dirty iloor of the carriage. Every movement increased my interest in the man, and my inability to solve the problem. Why did he treat the dress-coat in this manner ? Had he won it in a raffle ? Had he taken it out of pawn, and was he dis- satisfied with his bargain ? Both these theories, and several others, were only en- couraged for a moment until I reflected that the other parts of his dress^ with the excep- tion of the gravel-coloured coat he wore, were in harmony with this garment, if he would only wear it. Why would he not wear it ? The journey from Newcastle to Edinburgh by a slow train is a long process, and I had ample time for reflection. When we got to Berwick he woke up, and looked, with no signs of anxiety, for the missing coat, which he found under the seat. Having found it, he propped himself against the open window, and as he sat with his face to the wind, he lO 146 The Mystery of a Dress-coal. used the dress-coat recklessly as a kind of comforter. By this time his drunkenness had nearly disappeared, and he became excessively — ■ almost obsequiously — polite and attentive. His manner was so encouraging that once I was nearly tempted to ask him a plain ques- tion which would have satisfied my vulgar curiosity. I hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. We arrived at the Edinburgh station, and I saw him walk — or rather roll — away with the mysterious dress-coat thrown carelessly over his arm — the problem un- solved, as I thought, for ever. * * -rr -jc- 4:- Thls was not to be. A few days later I was walking through one of the rooms of the Royal Pibroch Hotel, when my delighted eyes fell upon my peculiar fellow-travellen This time he had no coat over his arm — in fact he had nothing on his arm but a shirt- sleeve ; he was washing up some of the hotel The Mystery of a Dress-coat. 147 glasses. I saw the solution at a glance. He was a waiter who had been lent to the managers of a banquet at Newcastle, and the dress-coat was part of his borrowed livery. 10 — 2 HOW TO MANAGE A CERTAIN PARASITE, HERE was a time, no doubt, in the history of the world when the umbrella was used merely as an article of necessity — was carried out only when it was very hot or very wet, and was unfolded only as a protection from the sun or rain. When Jonas Hanway introduced this implement into England some time about the middle of the last century, it is on record that it was long regarded with contempt and suspicion, and was only timidly used by a select few who ventured to brave the ridicule of the general public. This state of things has long been changed. The umbrella has How to Manage a Certain Parasite. 149 lono- ceased to be the distlno-uishinor mark of the fop or the man of fashion. It has out- lasted eye-glasseSj walking-sticks, and many other fripperies. It has become a constant companion of people of all ages and both sexes. It has become even more than this. So close is its present connection with the human person, that it may fairly be taken out of the category of furniture and called a parasite. The management of this parasite has now become so important for the comfort of society, that, in order to promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number, I venture to make a few suo^orestions. On rising in the morning, the umbrella should be taken from the head or foot of the bed, where, of course it has been placed over night, and should be carefully dusted before its owner takes a bath. It should then be properly aired at the fire in the breakfast-room, supposing the time to be winter, side by side with the muffin-rack and the morning newspaper. In the height of 1 50 How to Manage a Certain Parasite, summer it should be laid in the sun — in a conservatory if possible. In the winter, in place of receiving the perfume of flowers, it may be sprinkled with a few drops of ean de Cologne or Ess bouquet. At the breakfast-table it may be placed upright by the side of its owner's chair, or (which is preferable) it may be laid across the end of the table, where the white cloth will throw it into beautiful relief. After breakfast, when its owner goes to business, or for a morning walk, the umbrella will, of course, take its rightful place as an implement of attack or defence. The um- brella exercise, like the broad-sword exercise, would require a whole chapter to itself, but a few hints may be given which may probably be useful. In walking along a crowded street the umbrella may be used as a drover's goad, held loosely in the hand, at right angles with the body. In this position it is very effec- tive in stirring up people who happen to be in its owner's way. Placed under the arm — How to Manage a Certain Parasite. 151 the left arm is preferable — with the point slightly raised in the air in an oblique direction, it is very effective in clearing the pathway, especially if its owner turns half round as frequently as possible. In pointing out any objects of interest in the street — any public buildings, or things of that kind, to country cousins, the umbrella is invaluable. It should be held up from the body, like the sword of an officer leading a storming party, and should be waved on high as much as pos- sible. If any sudden shower should come on, the umbrella should be carefully placed in a cab, and sent on in advance to its owner's destination. Its owner will probably v;alk. It is scarcely necessary to advise the owner to see that the straw in the cab is not damp. In the office, the restaurant, or the club, the umbrella should never be parted with for an instant. It should be carried into every room and placed upon every seat. No place is too good, and few places are good enough for it. It must not be supposed from this 152 How to Manage a Certain Parasite. remark that I am In favour of a too costly decoration for the umbrella. I think if it is jewelled in twelve holes, that is quite suffi- cient for all ornamental purposes. In the theatre, the church, and the concert- room, the umbrella should be treated with the same consideration. If by any chance it falls across the narrow gang- ways, and throws people down, so much the worse for the people. If any injury comes to the umbrella in this position, the owner either has or should seek a remedy at law. We have Law Courts, Appeal Courts, and a House of Lords. An action has been going on for the last six years about a thumb pinched in a carriage- door on the Metropolitan Railway, and surely an injured umbrella is of more importance than an injured thumb. AS SAFE AS THE BANK. AM not a very orood hand at telling a story, and I think one of your literary fellows, if I had given him the tip, would have done it much better. They can dress up a slight incident with a lot of description, while a thick-headed duffer like me can only give you a report as dry as a blue-book or a pamphlet on marriage with a deceased wife's sister. I think you knew Charley Scotson of the Grenadier Guards, the one who married a rich widow in Manchester. Charley and I belonged, among other clubs, to the Thespis ' — a place where they nearly always pilled 154 ^^ Safe as the Bank. an actor, while they elected a lord or a Guardsman as a matter of course. Well, one day Charley came into the Thespis in high glee, and slapping me on the back he said : ' Sportsman ' (he always called me ' Sportsman '), ' I want you to dine with me to-night, and I'll bet you a fiver you don't name the place.' Of course I named all the out-of-the-way clubs I could think of, and was always wrong. At last I gave the matter up. ' You old idiot,' said Charley, ' it's the Bank of England.' ^ What place ?' I asked, thinking he was joking. * The Bank of England,' he repeated. ' The fact is, the Governor and Company of that excellent institution wish to get me out of the hands of the sixty per cent, gentry, -and they thought the best way of beginning was to stand a dinner.' ' None of your chaff,' I said. ' Where is xhe Bank of England ?' ' Be hanged if I know,' replied Charlie, As Safe as the Bank, 155 'but it's the other side of Temple Bar — somewhere near Whitechapel. I've got to be on ofuard there to-niorht with a detachment of men, and I suppose some of my fellows will know the way.' I found that Charley really meant business, and I agreed to dine with him, and we picked up another pal — little Truffles — to make a party of three. Little Truffles was great on the subject of the dinner. He had dined at the Munching House, the Soapboilers' Hall, and a lot of other swell City places, and we should never have dragged him off the sub- ject of Turtle and Madeira if he hadn't seen a young lady pass the club window connected with the Horse-collar Theatre, and he was bound to run out and present her with a flower. The evening came at last, and about seven o'clock Truffles and I found ourselves in a hansom-cab, going with all possible speed in the direction of St. Paul's Cathedral. It was just getting dusk, and nearly all the people on each side of the way were coming towards 156 As Safe as the Bank. us, hurrying away from the City. I was not much impressed with the public and private buildings we passed, and least of all was I impressed by the squat building we drew up before, and which our cabman told us was the * Bank of Hengland.' I looked at Truf- fles, who was adjusting a flower in his coat, and said something disrespectful of the great bullion shop. ' You may call it baths and washhouses/ said little Truffles, * but every square foot of ground it stands upon is worth a cool thou', or somethinof more.' ^ Then all the more wasteful,' I returned, ' not to build higher. Half a million a year ought not to be thrown away in this style, even by the Bank of England.' We entered the sacred portals of the Temple of Gold, as you literary fellows would say, and passed through a small garden. I pointed to a very sooty shrub, and asked Truffles if he would ^ive a 'cool thou' ' for the bit of black stuff it was growing in. As Safe as the Bank. 157 ' Get out,' said Truffles, an eminently practical and rather greedy young man ; ' I want my dinner.' We were ushered into Charley's den (I can call it by no other name), and found him awaitinof us in his mess suit. His sittingf- room was a little, dark, half-underground place suggestive of beetles, the sort of apartment that is generally given to that unfortunate person called a ' housekeeper ' in a lodging-house in St. James's. His bed- room, a smaller apartment attached to the den, had most of the features of a condemned cell at a penitentiary. * Charley,' I said, ' I cannot honestly con gratulate you on your quarters.' ' Only here for a night, Sportsman,' he said, ' and the grubbing, I'm told, is awfully good ; but I confess I could do with a little less solid gold in the cellars and a little more gilded splendour in the decorations.' We sat down to dinner, and immediately facing me, high up against the low ceiling, was the lower portion of a window, through 158 As Safe as the Bank. which I could see a pair of boots walking to and fro on what appeared to be a parapet. ' What the devil's that, Charley ?' I asked. ' Enough to give a fellow the jumps,' added little Truffles. ' It's only one of my men/ returned Charley, ' a sentinel watching for an expected attack of omnibus conductors, cabmen, and City waiters on our fortress.* When Charley had given this explanation, my attention was drawn, for the first time, to our waiter — a short, thick-set man, wearing about as obvious and bad a wig as we gene- rally get served out to us at an amateur performance. He appeared a little hurt at Charley's allusion to City waiters in the above connection, and said, ' If directors didn't rob banks more than City waiters robbed banks, it would be better for those as was interested in banks ' — or something to that effect. ' Halloa, my friend,' said Charlie, ' I am afraid I've trod on your corns. Are you a servant of the Bank ?' As Safe as the Bank. 159 ' Not me/ replied the waiter, * Fm sent In by Messrs. Giblets, the grub contractors, who supplies all the dinners — your dinner, everybody's dinner !' ' How do you mean '^everybody's dinner" ?' * I means everybody In the City belonging to a corporation. The way they stuffs their ungodlles Is simply beastly, when you knows what a lot of poor devils Is starving.' We were amused by this waiter, and during the progress of the dinner we continued to draw him. ' You seem to be rather a Radical,' I said. 'What's that ?' he asked. ' A person who has very little respect for those in authority.' * What, the beaks ?' he said ; * not me, I've seen too much on 'em. Here they goes and builds a lot of safes in a wault in the City to put their valyables in, and then to add hinsult to hinjury they advertises these safes as burglar-proof, as if burglars was the only thieves the public ought to be afraid of. Why, I've stood behind chairs and 'elped old 'i6o As Safe as the Bank, genelmen to turtle, and goose, and port-wine, and champagne wine, as could have given Bill Sykes the bank we're now in, and then licked him off his legs at fust-class robbery.' ' I don't think,' said little Truffles, in a rather thick voice (he had been drinking strong wine rather freely), ' that we ought to lishen to these stay mens from this person. My gran-fa was an Esh-Indy director.' ' Nonsense,' said Charley, who enjoyed the fun. ' Your grandfather may have been a saint, but it doesn't follow that all directors are as spotless as he was.' Little Truffles evidently meant to reply, but at that moment he fell off his chair as if he had been shot, and we had to carry him into Charley's sleeping den and put him on the bed. Coming out of the bedroom rather sud- denly I noticed, or fancied I noticed, our Radical waiter fumbling mysteriously with the wine, and taking this in connection with little Truffles's sudden attack, I resolved, I As Safe as the Bank, 1 6 1 scarcely knew why, to be cautious and watchful durlnof the remainder of the dinner. 'Some gents, if they're at all weak,' said the waiter, ' can't stand our wines. The old blokes in the City are well seasoned, and they laps 'em like milk ; but they plays old gooseberry with the younger visitors.' This speech had the effect of sending Charley's head into a bumper of Burgundy, as he was rather proud of his drinking powers ; and in a few minutes he followed little Truffles, and fell on the floor. ' Dear- a -dear}/ me,' said the Radical waiter, as he helped to carry Charley into the inner den, * I begin to feel a little giddy myself. How do you feel, sir ? It must be somethin' in the hatmosphere.' As he made this remark in a very innocent way he had to stoop to lift Charley's left leg on to the bed, and in stooping, his wig fell off, exposing a cropped head of iron-grey hair that had either been cut in Paris or the House of Correction. He was not a thing ir 102 As Safe as the Bank. of beauty, by any means, and In his limp white choker and greasy black suit he looked like a converted prize-fighter who had taken to the dissenting pulpit, or a rackety parson who had taken to burglary and the prize- ring. I had very little time to admire the change in his appearance, for a dizziness came over me, and I sank into what I sup- posed was an easy-chair, but which I after- wards found was a hip-bath. When I partially recovered my consciousness I found myself seated again at tlie dining-table, with Charley and little Truffles in their old positions, but as helpless as puppets. The table had been arranged for smoking ; the lamp was turned down ; the boots of the sentinel were no longer still pacing before the fragment of a window, and the mysterious waiter had dis- appeared. I went to the door and found it locked ; I shook both my companions with no effect, and by this time the fact dawned on my rather muddled intellect that we had all been trapped. Before I could pull myself together to grasp this idea in all its bearings As Sa/c as the Bank. 163 I had to go into the sleeping-den and sluice my head with cold water, and after this pick-me-up I came to the conclusion that the mysterious waiter not only meant burglary but was now doing It. Feeling that it was perhaps dangerous to make a row, and utterly useless to try to rouse Charley and little Truffles, I attempted to force the door, but found it too strong for me. My next hope was the windows, and here I was a little troubled. The one In the sitting-room was only large enough to allow of the exit of the smallest chimney-sweep, and I was full-bodied, and thirteen stone weight. I looked in the sleeping-den, and found a glazed outlet about three feet square, protected by thick rusty Iron bars that were pretty far apart, but not far enough to allow my passage. While I was looking at this window, and thinking how I could overcome this serious difficulty, a heavy form appeared outside, and I heard the rasping of a file. I was in the dark, and could not be seen. I waited breathlessly for the result of this 1 1 — 2 164 y^s Safe as the Bank. operation, quite prepared to sink into seem- \v\^ Insensibility If necessary. It was not necessary. A heavy iron bar was taken away in a few minutes (I never found out for what purpose), and an opening was made through which I could squeeze myself. I waited until all was quiet again, and then, mounting on a table, I got through the window and dropped into a dark stone passage. I hesitated for a few moments as to what steps I should now take, until I heard smothered voices In the distance, and I then groped my way In the direction of the sound. I reached what I believed to be one end of the passage, and, slightly pushing open a door, I saw in a dimly-lighted room the Radical waiter engaged in suppressed alter- cation with a small copy of himself — a bull- headed boy about twelve or fourteen years of age. * You're a disgrace to your parents, that's what you are,' said the Radical waiter. * I'm ashamed of yer — thoroughly ashamed of yer. As Safe as the Dank, 165 The principal thinor I leaves yer to bring, yer goes and leaves behind/ * You might have brought it yourself/ answered the boy, sulkily ; ^ I'd quite enough to carry as it was.' * Go it — go it !' replied the Radical waiter. ' Cheek your poor father, who's fed you on the fat of the land. You're not fit to hold a candle to your poor brother/ ' Who wants to hold a candle to him ?' retorted the sweet youth. 'He's a pretty lot — ain't he t Where is he now ?' ' Never mind where he is : I only wish he was here !' I gathered from this conversation that the absent youth was pacifying an offended country In some model prison, while the father was dolne his best to send the other and visible youth on the same road. The visible youth soon made himself invisible, for he plunged out of the room through a door at the other end, slamming it behind him. The father, looking more like a Methodist parson than ever, muttered something about t66 As Safe as the Bank, a thankless child being sharper than a turtle's tooth (at least, I understood him to say so) ; and then, taking a lantern and a bar of iron (I presume the bar that had been wrenched from the window), he disappeared through a low-vaulted opening in the wall, and I quickly but silently followed him. He was evidently familiar with the place, and I was not, so I soon lost him in the winding passages. I listened for the sound of footsteps or some other and more burglarious sign of his whereabouts, still feeling my way along the wall. After an anxious time, which appeared to be eternity, as you literary gentlemen would put it, I turned a sharp corner, and at the end of another and shorter passage I saw what I supposed to be his light glimmering through the keyhole of a doorway. I made for the keyhole and peeped through. He was alone, as far as I could see, in a black vault containing a number of sacks. I had tracked, him to his lair. I knew nothing about the Bank of England, and cared less, but I felt that this fellow had no ricrht to As Safe as the Bank, 167 gorge himself with other people's bullion, especially after the revolutionary sentiments he had expressed at the dinner-table. Be- sides, I had been a guest, more or less, of the Governor and Company of the Bank ; I had eaten their food and drank their wine — some of the finest wine I had ever tasted — and I thought the least I could do would be to save them half a million. I rushed upon the ruffian without further reflection, and in my eagerness I upset and extinguished the lantern. He was not disposed to surrender quietly, and, as I expected, was very mus- cular if a little puffy. I was not exacdy in what is called good condition. We rolled over the sacks, got up, fell down ai^ain, hugged, pulled, tugged, tore our clothes ; did everything but wresde properly. I had been taught wresding by a celebrated pro- fessor, but to perform any of my feats it was necessary for my opponent to put himself in a certain recognised position, and this the Radical waiter never did. At last, when I thought I had got him safely, he tripped me 1 68 As Safe as the BomJc. up in a most effective but utterly unscientific manner, ran out of the place, and left me wallowing among the gold. What happened afterwards I cannot relate with quite as much pleasure. I consider I was very badly treated by the Bank "autho- rities, and at times I am almost inclined to agree with the Radical waiter's sentiments, and to hold that they hushed the matter up for some sinister reason. They as good as stated that the vault I was in was the wine- cellar of the Bank — stored with rare old vine — and that the sacks contained nothing but old corks, which they always kept to prevent frauds upon the public. I need scarcely say that I consider such a story ought to be reserved for the special use of the youngest marines. They denied that any bar had been filed and taken from a window ; but they admitted that a somewhat solid form must have forced itself between two existing bars. Altogether I think they behaved As Safe as the Bank. 169 devilish badly in the matter, and Charley Scotson behaved even worse, for he took the Radical waiter Into his service as a buder when he setded at Manchester. They chaff me most Infernally at the ' Rag ' and the * Guards ' when any fellows are ordered on guard at the Bank. They swear the Bank wine has never been so strong or so good since that memorable occasion. PLAIJV ENGLISH. [^"^^ N a country like England, where words are more respected than deeds — where spades are not objected to as long as they are not called spades, and where the term spade is objected to whether it represents the thing spade or not, it is the duty of every rightly constituted being to throw as much light as possible on the English language. The poor clown who wallows in the sawdust of the circus cannot, of course, be expected, in this particular, to rival the usefulness of the bishop in the pulpit ; but as one bishop, in financial value, is equal to fifty clowns, so one clown may be regarded as equal to the fiftieth part of a Plain English. 171 bishop. If one grain of wheat is found in a bushel of chaff, the bushel of chaff has not been collected in vain ; and, in the hope that this one grain of wheat may be discovered in the following definitions, they are now put forward as a contribution to a new philo- sophical dictionary. Client. — One who knows his case. Attorney. — One who has to be taught by the client. Barrister. — One who has to be taught by the attorney. Judge. — One who has to be taught by the barrister. Jury. — A body that has to be taught by the judge. Oath. — A ceremony invented to save men of honour from the necessity of telling the truth. Bail. — An invention to save rich criminals from the grip of justice. 172 Plain English. Detective. — A man who receives three pounds a week, and is expected to show intehigence and honesty that would be cheap at twenty. Land. — Almost the only property which gentlemen may steal without being transported or losing caste. Annexation. — A fine word for robbery of this character. Missionary. — The pioneer of annexation. Workhouse. — A terminus for third-class passengers. Hospital. — A workshop for repairing Nature's slopwork. Indigestion. — The Divine Afflatus, Dyspepsia. — The punishment of pros- perity. Education. — A little rowing and less Greek. Tea. — The dissipation of the temperate. Plain Eucrlish. I o Drunkenness. — The most profitable vice that a Chancellor of the Exchequer has to deal with. M.P. — An amateur legislator who has passed no apprenticeship to his business. Laws. — Amateur regulations made by the aforesaid legislator for the government cf the universe. Government. — The blue- bottles on the chariot-wheel. Tory. — A rich Liberal. Liberal. — A poor Tory. Demagogue. — A word used to frighten naughty little Tories who refuse to say their Conservative prayers. Communist. — A much-abused Frenchman who asked for Local Self-Government. Vestryman. — A statesman in the wrong place. Statesman. — A vestryman in the wrong place. 1 74 Plain Evglish, Abdication. — A polite word always used to conceal the fact that an unpopular monarch has been kicked downstairs. Empress. — Queen in two syllables. Music-hall — A term of reproach applied to the chosen nursery of the British Drama. BuRLESQUoPHOBiA. — A new disease which has seized dramatic critics and caused them to rave about high art. Legitimate Drama. — A drama whose authors are dead, and whose copyrights have expired. Chamberlain. — A functionary in England who regulates court millinery and dramatic literature. House. — An instrument of torture In- vented by builders. Dry Wine. — Physic in a convivial bottle. Nuisance. — Anything which I detest and you probably adore. Plain Enolish. /D Panic. — An attempt on the part of in- solvent debtors to make the Government pay their debts. Telegraphic Cable. — Three mllHons' worth of wire, with a cheap clerk at one end and a ' street Arab' at the other. Channel Boat. — A vessel built to diminish the distance between pitch and toss and manslaughter. Figures. — Instruments mven to us to con- ceal the state of our affairs. History. — One side of a question. Hydrophobia. — A peculiar kind of mad- ness which seizes men and causes them to kill dogs. Grey Hair. — A boon given by Nature to quacks. Suicide. — The wanton destruction of a taxpayer. Murder. — The same. 176 Plain English, Rule Britannia. — A term which has cost England more than eight hundred milHons sterHng. War. — The madness of one man and the idiocy of milHons. Theatrical Manager. — A licensed dealer in legs, short skirts, French adaptations, Shakespeare, taste, and the musical glasses. y UP ITERS APPRENTICESHIP. ANY years ago, in my juvenile days, when I was in my tens of thousands — the ' teens ' of the governing classes — my respected parent, called by most people the Ground Landlord, came to me, and said : 'Junior, it is high time that you went to work, and prepared yourself for that station in life to which, in due time, it will please the gods to call you.' ' Senior,' I replied, ' I am quite ready. V/hat work, and what workshop T Most people who know the Universe, would have expected one of three replies — an x\merican Hotel, a London Opera House, 12 17^ Jupiter s Apprenticeship. or a French Theatre. It is no secret that the American people regard the successful hotel manager as a Heaven-born Adminis- trator, fit at any time to run for the Presidency. It is no secret that the English people have an equally high opinion of a successful zmp7^esariOj and that the French people have even a higher opinion of a suc- cessful Administrateur-General of Theatrical Affairs. This being the case, I confess I was rather surprised when my respected Senior made no allusion to either of these enterprises, but sent me down to earth with a letter of introduction to the editor of the most important of all important journals. The office of the most important of all important journals did not oppress me with its splendour. It was situated up a back alley in a rather depressed and depressing part of the city of London, and I required the services of an intelligent street arab to guide me safely to its doorway. There was an old-fashioned air about the place, remind- ing me of a City Almshouse, and one or two yupiter's Apprenticeship. 179 soot)' trees, standing in a kind of courtyard, helped to nourish this impression. After a Httle delay — not more than could be expected under the circumstances — I was admitted into the presence of the Editor of the great journal, and, though I was treated with every politeness and consideration, I was somehow made to feel that my respected parent was not the only Jupiter. After a few preliminary remarks of a commonplace character, I was asked one or two leading questions as to my qualifications for the work I was about to undertake. ' I hope,' said the gentleman, whom I will call the Omnipotent We, * you are not troubled with any fixed principles, and, above all things, I hope you are not a Doctrinaire P I replied that my mind was like a lump of putty, ready to take any impression that the Omnipotent We thought proper to stamp upon it. ' You have the pen of a ready writer ?' I hoped so. 12 — 2 i8o Jupiter s Apprenticeship. ' You can write with equal spirit on one side or on the other ?' I hoped so. ' Let us suppose a case,' continued the Omnipotent We. * I admit, an extreme case. Let us suppose that we are living in the time of Charles the First. Let us suppose that the King has just been beheaded. Of course, we have a special report of the execution, by our own correspondent, and probably one or two other accounts by spec- tators, and equally, of course, we have to comment in a leader on the important event. We catch the popular feeling of the hour. We speak of the defunct monarch as a man whose word could never be trusted — as a king who systematically violated the most cherished principles of the Constitution. While we degrade the defunct King, we uphold his executioners, and we speak of Oliver Cromwell in terms of the highest respect. In three days, a marked change occurs in popular feeling, or, at least, we have every reason to believe that such a yupiters ApprcnticcsJdp. i8i change is impending. On the third day, therefore, we write another leader, in which we speak of the defunct King as His Sacred Majesty — a Royal Martyr, etc., while we abuse his executioners as regicides, and hint that a brewer of weak ale, at an obscure villaee in the East of England, is not a fit person to be a Lord Protector. Do you catch my idea ?' I thought I did. ' Then take those two themes, and work them out by to-morrow.' I did as I was told, and brought my work the next day for examination. ' Hum — hum,' said the Omnipotent We, not unapprovingly ; ^ these leaders are very fair, and we shall be able to make a very good working journalist of you ; but they have one fault, which you will see in a moment, when I draw your attention to it. In the leader of the third day you have alluded to the leader of the first day, and endeavoured to explain and justify — I admit very cleverly — your change of opinion. This 1 82 Jttpiters Apprenticeship. you should not have done. You should never allude to the past, unless it serves your purpose. A journalist is nothing if not infallible. The public have short memories, and you should not attempt to improve them. I observe, too, that you hesitate in one or two of your statements of fact, as if you were not quite sure of your history.' I replied that I was not quite sure of my history. ^ All the more reason,' continued the Omnipotent We, ' why you should adopt a decided tone. You must never forget that, whatever your shortcomings may be, you are addressing an audience a trifle more ignorant than you are yourself. When I was at college, I had a tutor, who taught me Hebrew. For some months I believed in him, until a fellow- collegian told me some- thing that led me to doubt the depth of his learning. I taxed him with an imposition, and he at once admitted it. " But you teach me Hebrew," I said. " I do," he replied. " How do you do it ?" '[ I will tell you. yupiters Apprenticeship. i8 o What I learn to-day, I teach you to-morrovv ; and I always keep a lesson ahead of my pupils. To acquire what was called the mechanism of my art, I was put in the sub-editor's office, where I had to condense reports, select items of news, and perform other similar duties. The contributors who o^ave me the most trouble were those jackals of journalism vulgarly called the ' penny-a-liners.' They indulged not only in flights of fancy, but in a style of writing that was often a little too luxuriant. They had a stock of paragraphs always on hand, and, if I wanted to fill up an odd corner, I selected one of these without inquiring too curiously into the truth of their statements. ' Remarkable Cases of Longevity ' were great favourites with these writers, and the family of seven in Norfolk, whose united ages amounted to ^v^ hundred and eighty-six years, often figured in the most important of all important journals. Amongst accidents the 'Infuriated Ox' was an old favourite, because it gave an 184 yupiters Apprenticeship. opportunity of inserting a few delicate adver- tising allusions. I knew, before I looked at the manuscript^ what the 'Infuriated Ox' was doing. 'The excited animal now pursued its maddened career along Tottenham Court Road, where it stopped, for a moment, opposite the cele- brated emporium of Messrs. Maple and Co.,. the world-renowned upholsterers, and played sad havoc with a crate of very valuable furniture, just packed by this eminent firm, to be sent, by special order, to His Excellency the Right Honourable Lord Lytton, the Viceroy of Her Gracious Majesty's Empire of India,' etc. The 'Infuriated Ox' nearlv always destroyed property of this character. I was tender — perhaps too tender — v;ith these reports, as I felt that the liner had his living to get, the same as the Omnipotent We. In the office, or department, where I was then working, there was one very old official, of fabulous age, who would not take a pension, but preferred to wander about the place^ ynpitcrs ApprcnliLCsJiip. 185 under the belief that he was necessary to the very existence of the great journal. He remembered the paper in its youthful days, and professed to be familiar with every detail of its history, even from its cradle. Occasionally he took me into his confi- dence, and told me much that I was curious to know. * We run after kings and ministers, now,* he said, ' and feel that we are the governing power of the State, but I remember the time when we were much more anxious for the good-will of cooks and housemaids. Adver- tisements are our life-blood, and advertise- ments we have got in thousands, but there was a time when they came slowly, when they had to be watched for, and touted for, when he ' — pointing to an old-fashioned portrait on the wall — ' stood, so to speak, with his apron on behind the counter, and bowed even to his humblest supporters. Now, we treat our advertisers as if we conferred a favour on them by accepting their announcements. No one would suppose, from our manners now, t86 yupiters Apprenticeship, that our proprietors have been in Newgate and the pillory for libel.' ^ The public like to be snubbed,' said an eccentric member of the staff, who was known in the office as the Encyclopaedical contributor. He wrote upon all things with astounding ease and rapidity, but, I am sorry to say, had very little respect for his profes- sion. ' Half our criticism in the paper consists of snubbings administered to literature, science and art, and the more we snub them the more they like it. Take our dramatic criticism, for example. We rarely insert it until it has become a week old, and then_, in live cases out of ten, we bury it in the supplement. The dramatic profession, instead of resenting this, only advertises in our columns with all the more vigour.' ' My orders,' I replied, ' are clear on this point ; if anything is to stand over, or to be left out, it is dramatic notices.' ' Exactly/ returned the Encyclopaedical One, ' and yet you draw from thirty to forty jfupiiers Apprenticeship. 187 thousand a year income from public amuse- ments. You chronicle the petty crimes of tenth -rate pick -pockets ; you report the twaddle of tenth-rate parliamentary orators, you publish so-called ^* weather forecasts," wdiich are about as trustworthy as your political prophecies, and yet you cannot find room for the doings of play-actors. The truth is, you despise play-actors. You are too busy trying to govern the universe, to bestow much attention upon such wretched caterpillars. When you had' to send round to the theatres, and beg and pray, and even pay heavily, for those advertisements, you thought and acted differently.' I protested against the assumption that I despised the stage. * My dear fellow,' replied the Encyclo- paedical One, ^ you only copy your editor, probably, without knowing it. We cannot expect a sub-editor to pay much respect to play-acting, when the dramatic critic is told to write what he likes, so that he spells the 1 88 Jupiter s Apprenticeship. names correctly, and saves the editor from a flood of correspondence from a number of very inferior people.' Many arguments like this I had with the Encyclopaedical One, and I found that I generally got the worst of it. I reported these conversations to my chief, and he told me to pay little attention to them. ' Our friend/ he said, ' is a very clever fellow; but a very bad journalist. He wants discipline. He wrote over the grave of one of our most trusted contributors — a writer whom we shall probably never be able to replace — '' He taught his grandmother to suck eggs." A man who could do that, is not a fit guide for a young and rising journalist, like yourself, and I advise you to avoid him.' I did not seek the companionship of the Encyclopaedical One after this ; but I found that he was not by any means the most dangerous member of the staff His opinions may have been too independent for the great Jupiter s App7'enticeship. 1S9 and important journal, but his actions were governed by honesty of purpose, i could hardly say the same of one contributor — the head of a department — who had gradually grown into a greater man than the Omnipo- tent We. This was the City Editor, the money-article writer, who proved how diffi- cult it was to serve Jupiter and Mammon. He made the paper a mouthpiece for a family of financiers, who, in return, made him richer than the Omnipotent We, or the Omnipotent We's master. For years we were only the play-things of these City money-grubbers, when we fondly imagined we were governing the universe. It was a very severe blow to our pride, though it did not affect our pockets. Once before in the history of the paper we had been treated in a similar way, but the offender made a little reparation, by commit- ting suicide. In this case, the traitor merely resigned, and the paper tried to avenge itself by abolishing its City office. I passed my apprenticeship on the whole 190 y^ipiters App7^enticeship, very pleasantly, and when I had served my time and returned to my native kingdom, I carried with me, in one particular, a very hio^h opinion of my brother journalists. I regarded them as men of the broadest toler- ance. This may have been due to the colourless nature of their opinions, but that was immaterial. The result was the same, no matter by what process it was arrived at. I found that my Senior's standing rules for entry into Elysium enacted, that people with any fixed views should be carefully classified, and made to live together for the sake of harmony, while persons with no views were allowed to circulate freely, as they were not likely to pick quarrels. I obtained leave for journalists to be accepted as belonging to this latter class, without any delay or cross- examination. I never had any cause to regret what I had done. The great questions of the Universe were never discussed with any party feeling, and the only disputes that ever arose were on such trifling matters as ytipiters Apprenticeship. 191 horse-racing or play-acting. The * prophets * were always naming horses that never won a race, and the critics were always condemning plays that ran a twelvemonth. THE END. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, SURREY. April, i83o. Chatto 6- Winduss List of Books. Imperial 8vo, with 147 fine Engravings, half-morocco, 365. 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