Thirty years ago Great Charlotte-street, at the Ranelagh-street end, was
a narrow, poorly-built thoroughfare. On the left hand side, looking
south, between Elliot-street and the present coach-builders'
establishment, there was a timber-yard, in which stood a small wooden
theatre, known as "Holloway's _Sans Pareil_," and truly it was _Sans
Pareil_, for surely there was nothing like it, either in this town or
anywhere else. Both inside and outside it was dirty and dingy. There
were only a pit and gallery, the latter taking the place of boxes in
other theatres; and, yet the scenery was excellent, the actors, many of
them, very clever, and the getting up of the pieces as good as could be
in so small a place. The pantomimes at Christmas were capital. The
charges of admission were: to the pit 3d., and to the gallery, 6d. The
audiences, whether men or women, boys or girls, were the roughest of the
rough. The quantity of copper coin taken at the doors was prodigious;
and I am told that it occupied two persons several hours, daily, to put
the money up into the usual five-shilling packages. Mr. Holloway used to
stand at one door and his wife at the other, to receive the admission
money. When the audience was assembled, the former would go into the pit
and there pack the people, so that no space should be lost. He would
stuff a boy into one, or a little girl into another seat, and leave them
to settle down into their proper places; giving one a buffet and another
a knock on the head, just to encourage the others to keep order and be
obedient to his will and wish. There was no space lost in the pit of
Holloway's theatre, whatever there might be anywhere else. A thriving
business was carried on in this little bit of a theatre, and if the
highest class of performances was not produced, nothing at any time
offensive to order and morality was permitted.
I remember a good joke in which a gentlemen whom I knew, connected with
one of our newspapers, and a leading actress at the Theatre Royal, were
concerned, in connection with a visit to the _Sans Pareil_. The lady was
very desirous to see a piece which was got up with great _eclat_ at the
_Sans Pareil_, and which was attracting crowds of people to see it. I
think it was entitled "Maria Martin; or, the Murder at the Red Barn."
Having expressed her wish to my friend, he at once offered to escort her
any evening on which she was disengaged. Fixing, therefore a night when
her services in Williamson-square were not required, my friend and the
fair _comedienne_ betook themselves to Great Charlotte-street and
presented themselves at the gallery door where the gentleman tendered the
price of their admission. Now the lady had a thick veil on that she
might, as she hoped, conceal her well-known features. But it seems that
Mr. Holloway had at once recognised his fair visitor. On the money being
tendered to Mrs. Holloway at the gallery door, Mr. H. called out from his
door, "Pass 'em in--all right, missus." Now my friend was well aware
that Mr. Holloway knew him, and therefore supposed that as a press man he
would not allow him to pay--not supposing for a minute that the muffled
up figure of his companion had been recognised.
So in they went and managed to climb up the half ladder, half stair, that
led to the "aristocratic" region of the auditory part of the theatre.
These stairs were frightfully dirty and steep. A broom had not been near
them for months, and the lady, picking up her ample skirts, endeavoured
to avoid all contact with both stairs and walls. On emerging from the
top landing into the theatre, they found the place in a state of
semi-darkness. They could just make out a few rows of benches, and
clustering in the middle front were about thirty people. The noise was
horrible, and seemed more so through the prevailing darkness. Shoutings,
bawlings, whistlings, and screamings were in full swing, and the lady
paused for a moment, whispering to her companion, "Oh, let's go back--I
can't stand this at any price."
My friend, however, urged his companion to remain, and at length they
managed to scramble forward, and secure a front seat at one side. The
clamour was now added to by the entrance of the band, who mingled the
sounds of tuning instruments with the other discords prevalent. Just at
this juncture in came Mr. Holloway, who commenced the packing process,
much to the amusement of our lady friend, who now began, in spite of the
heat, the offensive smells, and the row, to become curious, and
determined to see all that was to be seen. Presently the lights were
fully turned on, and the orchestra struck up a lively medley tune,
suitable to the taste of the audience. The orchestra, though small, was
a good one, and some very clever performers were amongst its members.
The play at length commenced, and appeared to create great interest and
command attention. The lady admitted that the characters were well
represented, and the drama very creditably got up. At length came a very
sensational portion of the play. That part where _Maria Martin_ is
enticed into the Red Barn by _Corder_. In this exciting scene, _Maria_,
as if having a presentiment of her fate, stands still and refuses to
move. She appears in a state of stupor and _Corder_ endeavours to urge
her to accompany him. Now there were seated in the middle of the pit two
sweeps, who appeared deeply interested in the performance, and finding
that _Corder_ could not induce _Maria_ to go forward, one of them, amidst
the silence that the cunning of the scene had commanded, screamed
out--"Why don't you give her some snuff, and make her sneeze!" The
silence thus broken was broken indeed, and the house roared with
laughter. Our two friends were not backward in partaking of the
merriment. The lady went almost into hysterics, so violent were her
paroxysms of mirth. In the midst of the clamour, Holloway, hearing these
loud bursts of laughter at a time when there should be complete silence,
rushed on to the stage, fancying something had gone wrong. Darting to
the footlights, as well as his little fat figure would let him, he roared
out, "What's all this here row about?" and glancing round to see on whom
he could heap his vengeance, he caught sight of our two friends, and
looking up indignantly at them, he continued--"I von't have no row in my
the-a-ter. If you vants to kick up a row you'd better go the The-a-ter
R'yal." The audience seeing Mr. Holloway addressing the gallery, all
eyes were now turned up to where our friends were seated, and the lady,
(who had thrown up her veil in consequence of the intense heat) being
recognised, was saluted by some one shouting out "Three cheers for Mrs.
---," whereupon the audience began hurrahing, in the midst of which our
two adventurers made off as quickly as they could. They declared that
neither of them could tell how they did so, being conscious of nothing
until they found themselves breathing the fresh air in Lime-street.
When Stephen Price, the American manager, was in Liverpool beating up
recruits, in, I think, 1831, Templeton, the tenor singer, was playing at
the Theatre Royal. At that time Madame Malibran had made Templeton
famous, by selecting him to enact the part of _Elvino_ to her _Amina_,
and thus a very second-rate singer suddenly jumped into the first place
in public opinion, by his association with the gifted woman who enchanted
all her hearers. Templeton waited on Price relative to an engagement in
America, when the following conversation took place:--"I should like to
go to America, Mr. Price, if you and I could agree about terms." "Very
good, Mr. Templeton. What would you expect, Mr. Templeton?" "Well, I
should just expect my passage out and home, and thirty 'punds' a week,
Mr. Price, to begin with." "Very good, Mr. Templeton." "And all my
travelling expenses, from toun to toun." "Very good, Mr. Templeton.
Anything else, Mr. Templeton?" "My board and lodging in every toun, Mr.
Price." "Very good, Mr. Templeton. Any thing else, Mr. Templeton?" "And
a clear benefit in every toun, also, Mr. Price." "Very good. Anything
else, Mr. Templeton?" "Well--no--I--ah--no!--nothing occurs to me just
now, Mr. Price." "Well, then," said Mr. Price, "I'll see you d---d
first, Mr. Templeton."
There was a very good story current in Liverpool, some twenty-five years
ago, about Mr. W. J. Hammond, a then great favourite, both as actor and
manager, and an acquaintance of mine. About that time a very flashy
gentleman went into the Adelphi Hotel, and after making minute inquiry as
to the bill of fare, and what he could have for dinner, at length ordered
"a mutton chop to be ready for him at five o'clock." Five o'clock came,
and also the traveller, who sat down in the coffee room to his banquet.
He helped himself to the water at his own table and then emptied the
bottles at the next, and at length called on the waiter for a further
supply. When the mutton chop was duly finished, the waiter inquired what
wine his "lordship" would take. "Oh!--ah!--wine! I'll take--another
bottle of--'water.'" "Pray, sir," said the waiter (leaning the tips of
his thumbs upon the table) with a most insinuating manner--"Pray, sir,
would you like the _Bootle_ or the _Harrington_ water?" Hammond heard
this, and agreed, with the friend referred to, to enter the Hotel, one at
each door, and severally call out, one for a glass of "Harrington," and
the other for a glass of "Bootle" water. "Waiter, some Bootle water!"
came from a voice at the Copperas-hill door. "Waiter, some Harrington
water!" was the order proceeding from the traveller entering by the front
door. These strange orders, breaking upon the stillness that pervades
this well-conducted hotel, seemed to excite great surprise in one or two
aristocratic guests, who were standing in the lobby, when just at the
moment Mr. Radley came out of one of the rooms and recognised the jokers.
Taking them into his sanctum, he provided them with something stronger
than the stream from the good old red sandstone. After a short time Mr.
R. was called out, and the two guests began to get impatient at his
non-return. Hammond declared that he must go--so did his friend; but
they both thought it would seem unmannerly to leave the hotel without
seeing their entertainer. Which should remain? However, Hammond soon
cut the matter short by bolting out of the room and locking the door.
His friend sat patiently enough for some little time, fully expecting Mr.
Radley's return, but, while waiting, fell asleep. When he awoke he found
himself in darkness, wondering where he could possibly be. After groping
about some time, he discovered that the door was locked. The trick
Hammond had played him then flashed across his mind. Hunting about, he
at length found the bell which soon brought some one to the door, and on
its being opened a rather severe questioning took place, as to how the
visitor got there and what was his object. Mr. Radley having in the
meantime gone home, he could not be referred to. It was only after
sending for some person who knew the gentleman that he was released, and
certainly not without some suspicions attaching to his visit and his
peculiar position.
I recollect a good anecdote of a favourite actor in Liverpool some twenty
years ago, when he was engaged at the Theatre Royal as one of the stock
company. Mr. S--- was a constant church-goer, as many actors and
actresses are, although those who do not know them fancy they cannot be
either good or religious--a great mistake. Mr. S--- was accommodated by
a friend, who had a very handsomely fitted up pew in St. A---'s Church,
with the use of it, and Mr. S--- occupied it so long that he quite
considered it to be his own; and it was a standing joke amongst his
intimates that on all occasions "my pew" was referred to. Being out one
night rather late, with some "jolly companions," he and they found, on
comparing timepieces, that if they were not quick in getting home
unpleasant consequences would ensue amongst their domestic relations.
Said one, "I must be off." Said another, "If I don't make haste shall be
locked out." "My boy," said S---, "never mind being locked out, I'll go
and get the key of St. A---'s church, and you shall _sleep in my pew_!"