MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH, JUN.
New Musical Scena,
"IN THE STALLS!"
Annual Invitation--Up to London--Lord Mayor's Show in a Fog--Stalls
at the Pantomime--Science at the Polytechnic--High-class Music
(never performed out of London)--"Our daily work is over."
Admission, 6d. Pit, 1s. Reserved Seats, 2s. Members free.
I also attach one of my single-handed programmes:
ALEXANDRA CLUB AND INSTITUTE,
TRURO ROAD, WOOD GREEN.
R. D. M. LITTLER, ESQ., Q.C., President.
ENTERTAINMENTS FOR MEMBERS & FRIENDS.
The next of the above Entertainments will take place on
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 31, 1873.
LITERARY AND MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT
BY
MR. GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN
(Of the Royal Polytechnic, London Concerts, &c.)
PROGRAMME.
Original Colloquial and Pianoforte Sketch, entitled--
"OUR CHORAL SOCIETY."
Musical Movement in Moreton-super-Mire--Great Excitement, Local and
Vocal--Moreton acquires a Choir--Formation of the Society--The
pleasure of Singing (and the pain of Listening)--The Patroness, Lady
Alum Gargle--Her Harmonic Triumphs, past and present--The Society
gets up a Public Bawl for the benefit of a Private Charity--A Polite
Conductor--Mr. G. Sharp composes a new Cantata, "The Penitent
Pilgrim"--The Pilgrim undergoes a trying Rehearsal--The
Concert!-- Marvellous effect of an indistinct "Reapers'
Chorus"--Breathless effect of the long runs--The Secular
Music--Pianoforte Solo by Miss Spikes--Manufacture of Italian
Songs--Grand Finale, "Lightly Tripping o'er the Hills," by Mr. and
Mrs. Hoggsedd.
READINGS.
THE "CORONER'S INQUEST," by THOMAS HOOD,
And an original, humorous narrative (after ARTHUR SKETCHLEY),
entitled
"MRS. BROWN on the SHAKSPERIAN DRAMA."
OLD SONG ... ... "My Dejeuner a la Fourchette" ... ... JOHN PARRY
To conclude with a New Musical and Whimsical Fancy, entitled,
"JOTTINGS FROM THE JETTY."
To commence at Eight o'clock precisely.
Tickets (Non-members), 6d. Reserved Seats, 1s. 6d.
May be obtained at the POST OFFICE, Wood Green; BARKER'S LIBRARY,
Commercial Road; and at the CLUB ROOM, Truro Road.
MEMBERS FREE,
Who may also obtain one Lady's Ticket for Sixpence on application to
the Manager at the Club only.
F. WOOD,
G. DEMANT, Hon. Secs.
These years of tearing about all over the United Kingdom were more
or less amusing--"generally _less_," as H. J. Byron observed. The
visits with my father were the most varied. With Mrs. Howard Paul or
Miss Marryat, costumes were introduced, and the entertainment
appealed to a broader section of the public. When with my father,
the entertainment was patronised by the more serious section of the
public. He would be giving recitals from _Pickwick_ and _David
Copperfield_, with my comic songs and sketches alternating, on a
small platform with four or five clergymen seated thereon, they
being perhaps the Committee. I always got on very well with the
clergy; in fact, I have always regarded myself as a species of
religious comic singer. After the recitals the Committee would
follow us into the ante-room; four would engage my attention, while
the fifth--generally a young curate--would surreptitiously slip the
fee into my father's hand. I remember him once upsetting the
solemnity of this "settling-up" proceeding by exclaiming loudly, "I
am not ashamed of being paid. You need not hand me the fee as if it
were an election bribe."
My father had frequently suggested that the moment I arrived in a
town I should look through the local papers, for the purpose of
introducing some special topics that would come home to that
particular place in the course of my sketches, which easily admitted
of _ad libitum_ observations. I always intended doing it, knowing
how well local topics are received; but, somehow or other, I kept
forgetting to carry out my intention.
One night, however, a splendid opportunity presented itself. It was
some place in the Midland Counties, and an Alderman, whom we will
call Juggins, had got into terrible hot water through proposing to
have removed from the middle of the main thoroughfare an old stone
pump. The local papers devoted columns to the controversy. Half the
townspeople held that the pump was sacred to them--it was a
monument, an ancient landmark, it was everything useful and
ornamental. The other half disagreed. The only opinion in which the
townspeople were unanimous was that, whether right or wrong,
Alderman Juggins had nothing to do with it, and that he was simply
advertising himself.
The evening arrived, and the hall was full. My father occupied the
first half-hour, commencing at eight, with a selection from _Adam
Bede_. I arrived at half-past eight, and in five minutes stepped on
the platform, and commenced with my old sketch, "The Silver
Wedding." The sketch concludes with a description of the supper, and
the toasts proposed in honour of Mr. and Mrs. Alphonzo de Brown's
silver wedding, &c., &c., with the responses. In the imitation of an
old friend of the family, I spoke as nearly as I can recollect, as
follows: "We all congratulate our dear host and hostess on having
arrived at this important epoch in their lives, and the occasion has
created even more sensation than that created by Alderman Juggins's
pump." I waited for the tremendous roar of laughter and applause
that would surely follow this remark. To my intense surprise, there
was not the ghost of a laugh. It could only be accounted for in one
way--I had evidently dropped my voice, and the "gag" had
consequently missed its mark. I would try again.
I proceeded with the supposed old gentleman's speech, and concluded
thus: "We will drink the toast upstanding all, with three times
three; we will drink it in bumpers--we will drink it with wine, good
wine, such as only our host can give--wine that has not been diluted
by the product of Alderman Juggins's pump." This time I shouted the
last sentence, so that there should be no mistake about their
hearing it. To my horror, not a smile. Something was wrong! Perhaps
the observation was out of place in the old gentleman's speech.
I would not be beaten; so I determined to give it another chance in
the comic man's speech. I rattled off the following nonsense in the
character of the humorous gentleman: "Well, in returning thanks for
the ladies, I may say I am very fond of them"--(laughter)--"and I
think I may also say that they are very fond of me." (Roars of
laughter.) "My only regret is, that I am not in a position to marry
all the dear ladies who are round this festive board to-night."
(Continued hearty laughter, an elderly lady and a curate in the
front now nearly going into hysterics. Some people, fortunately, are
easily pleased.) "Bless the ladies! If I thought I had ever done a
single act to incur their displeasure, I would immediately go out of
the house and drown myself in Alderman Juggins's pump!"
The effect was electrical. The enthusiastic audience immediately
became depressed, and someone at the back of the hall shouted, "Ha'
done with that pump, lad--we've had enough of it!"
My heart sank into my boots, and I could scarcely sing the song, "I
am so Volatile," which usually concluded the sketch. I retired to
the ante-room, and instantly attacked my father. I said, "Well, I
have taken your advice, and introduced a topic, with the result that
it was a dead failure. I shall take good care never to repeat the
experiment."
My father said, "Topic? What topic?"
"Why," I responded, "I made several allusions to the Juggins's pump
discussion, with the result that I made a complete ass of myself."
My father burst out laughing, and said, "I don't wonder at it.
Didn't you hear me do it? Why, I worked it up all through the first
part."
"But," I argued, "how could you do that? You were reciting _Adam
Bede_."
"I know I was," he answered. "I kept bringing Alderman Juggins's
pump in Mrs. Poyser's remarks, and it went _enormously_."
I do not know what the feelings of the audience were, but I leave
the reader to imagine mine.
Country audiences are certainly most enthusiastic and delightful to
entertain. Of course there are exceptions, and the following is an
amusing one:
We were at some little hall in the country, and when my father
concluded the first portion of the entertainment he said to the
chairman, who followed him into the ante-room:
"The audience seem most enthusiastic."
The Chairman replied: "Do you think so, Mr. Grossmith? Why, I
thought they were exceptionally apathetic."
My father replied: "Well, I thought they were, if anything, _too_
enthusiastic; for they were knocking their umbrellas and sticks,
without cessation, on the ground all the time."
Chairman replied, languidly: "Oh, that wasn't applause. You see, our
post-office is at other end of the room, and they are simply
stamping the letters for the up mail."
The usual fee at the institutions was five guineas. There were a few
that could afford more; but against this there was a good fifty per
cent. of institutions that begged of the lecturers to knock off a
guinea or two. Some were not quite so exacting, and begged that only
the "shillings" might be deducted.
My father used to relate an amusing adventure he had experienced
concerning the reduction of fees. At some out-of-the-way spot in
Scotland he was met on the railway platform by a deputation of old
gentlemen, who conducted him to his hotel. At twenty minutes to
eight o'clock this Scotch deputation came to hotel and conducted him
to the lecture-hall. After the lecture, the same elderly deputation
conducted him back to the hotel. The next morning, having
ascertained the hour at which he meditated departing, the deputation
turned up again, and conducted him back to station. On the platform
the elder man of the deputation, addressing my father, said:
"You'll be sorry to hear that we find, on making up the accounts, we
are exactly £1 14s. 6d. out of pocket by your lecture. We thought
you would not like to leave the town with that upon your mind; and
so we give you the opportunity of returning the deficit, and
enabling you, with a clear conscience, to say we have not lost by
your visit."
My father, in telling this story, used to add: "I told the
deputation it was most kind of them to afford me the opportunity,
and I certainly would carefully consider the matter. I kept my word;
for, although that occurred ten years ago, I have been carefully
considering it ever since."
When my father and I appeared together, a double fee was demanded;
but this was sometimes alleviated on the
"reduction-on-taking-a-quantity" principle. Some institutions could
not engage us; and assuming always that these could stand the
entertainment, but not the fee, we used to part for a night or two
and go our divers ways, and join forces again at the next town where
both were engaged. The lecture season used to last about seven
months. We had to pay our own railway fares and hotel bills, of
course; but as we travelled third, and lived very moderately, the
expenses were not great.
Then my father, being so popular socially, was nearly always
entertained, and, for his sake, the hospitality was frequently
extended to me; and I take this opportunity to express my gratitude
to the many strangers in the country who have offered me a home,
made me very comfortable, and saved me an hotel bill. After the
lectures we often were taken home to supper, and some of the
audience or friends of the host asked to meet us, and my father used
to keep the whole table in a roar. It was, of course, on account of
his popularity that on arriving in a town there was a little rush to
secure us as guests. Sometimes there was a rush in the opposite
direction; but hospitality generally held the sway. The Secretaries
used to write:
"Dear Sir,--Mr. Blank, our Mayor, desires honour of entertaining
you. Personally I am sorry, for I had hoped to have entertained you
myself.
"Yours, &c., &c."
Precedence was always given to the Mayor, and very jolly fellows the
provincial Mayors are. In one town I was always "roofed" by the
Mayor--the same Mayor. As far as I can say, he always had been
elected Mayor, and always would be. It appears that there sometimes
is a great difficulty in persuading anybody to be the Mayor.
Certainly there is no eagerness displayed in some towns to secure
that official position. The Librarian of a town, who was selling
tickets for my entertainment, said:
"Our Mayor, Mr. Z----, who entertains you here, Mr. Grossmith, has
made himself so popular by his liberality that we shall elect him
again next year. The last Mayor never spent a single penny of the
allowance made him."
"How much does a Mayor get here?" I asked.
"Ten pounds," said the Librarian, "and Mr. Z---- has spent nearly
the whole of it on banquets, &c."
I have frequently been asked, in reference to the long runs at the
Savoy Theatre, if I have not derived some interest from the change
of audiences. It appears to me that the audiences at the Savoy are
always the same, except in numbers. The house may not be so full,
and the enthusiasm may vary; but in all other respects they are the
same. When I give my entertainments at the Savoy, the same points
tell, and the laughter and applause come in exactly the same places.
In the country I never quite knew what would take. I am speaking of
the general patter.
Things that missed fire in London went enormously in the country;
but I am bound to say that, taken altogether, I have been much
flattered by the gracious way in which my sketches have been
received in all places and by all kinds of people. I have
experienced extraordinary changes in the style of audience. I gave
the same selection in the drawing-room of the Duchess of St. Albans,
before T.R.H. the Prince and Princess of Wales and about two dozen
other distinguished ladies and gentlemen, in March, 1874, that I
gave, a few days after, at Falkirk, to about 1,500 enthusiastic
Scotch people, the greater part of whom had paid the admission
charge of one penny. The selection included my sketches of Amateur
Theatricals, a Christmas Pantomime, the Penny Readings, &c.
I have not often been interrupted in public rooms. In private, I
have by people talking. But whenever I am interrupted, I make a
point of remonstrating. I do not adopt this course for the mere sake
of what is vulgarly called "side," or "swagger," but because my
nerve absolutely fails me if I become distracted. The moment I
become nervous, I am, so to speak, wrecked.
I feel a little diffident in telling the following story, inasmuch
as it shows myself to advantage. I was giving an entertainment at
Greenwich with Mrs. Howard Paul. I was singing a song called
"Awfully Lively," in character, accompanied by Miss Blanche Navarre,
the singer, who remembers the incident well, when I was much put out
by a "funny man" in the back seats, which were very high up, I being
on a platform low down, as if in a well. He commenced with a comic
laugh in the wrong place. The audience tittered audibly. A little
later on he interrupted with a comic cough. The audience laughed
outright, and so they did again with increased vigour when he
subsequently indulged in a comic sneeze. I determined to no notice
of it, thinking he would get tired. Not a bit of it. He next treated
me to a comic remark which completely put me off, and I broke down
in the middle of my song. Quietly addressing the audience, I said:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,--There are two comic gentlemen here to-night,
and you cannot very well hear both at the same time. It would be
extremely selfish on my part were I to entirely monopolise the
platform to the exclusion of the other comic gentleman; therefore,
with your kind permission, I will retire for a short time, and give
him the opportunity of coming down here and giving his
entertainment. When he has finished, I will resume."
I then retired from the platform, but listened at the door to hear
what was going on. I heard cries of "Go down!" "Sing a song!" amid
laughter and applause. But being funny in an audience and being
funny on a platform are two distinct things; and the difference was
evidently appreciated by the other comic gentleman, who absolutely
declined to accept the invitation to "go down" or to "sing a song."
I then heard my own name called repeatedly, so I returned to the
platform and met with a good reception. When silence reigned, and as
I perceived good humour prevailed, I said: "The other comic
gentleman having exhausted his stock of humour, I will proceed with
mine." This was received with cheers, and subsequently all was
peace.
I was obliged to resign a proposed prolonged engagement with Mrs.
Howard Paul; for her tours would take her away from London months at
a time, while the entertainment with my father always brought me
home on Saturday night, and sometimes would allow of my being weeks
in London at a time: so from 1873 till 1876 I visited the
institutions with him when possible, and by myself when not.
Sometimes I used to make my single-handed engagements fit in
capitally--sometimes I did not. To fill up five consecutive days in
Yorkshire, including the institutions at Leeds and Bradford, who
always paid the full fee, with a request that I should visit them
again the following season, was most satisfactory.
But such a happy state of things could not always be arranged. The
usual course was this: The first good offers that came in were
"booked" immediately, no matter what part of the United Kingdom they
came from. The next applications had to be fitted in. Sometimes I
managed to fit in, say, Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday in Cornwall
and Devonshire. Tuesday would be vacant, and rather than lose the
day I would arrange, at a reduced fee, to give an entertainment at
some very small institution. As a matter of advertisement that is a
very bad thing to do. The larger institutions hear of it, and
naturally expect you to do the same for them.
Occasionally, through mismanagement or ill-luck, the engagements
were arranged in a dreadfully inconvenient manner. Twice in one
season I had to entertain in Edinburgh one night and London the
next.
One of these nights I shall not easily forget. I was singing at the
private residence of a then popular Bailie, in Edinburgh. I hurried
from the house to catch the night mail to London. The snow was
terrible, and I got into a third-class carriage, tipping the guard
to try and keep the compartment for myself, as I wanted to change my
evening clothes for a warmer suit. The guard said, "All right, sir,"
took the tip, locked the door, then immediately unlocked it again
and ushered in a drunken ruffian of the lowest type. There were no
cushions to the seats of the third class carriages in those days, so
I took out my two air-cushions--one to sit upon and the other to put
at the back of my head. I began to blow them out, and as they
expanded, the ridiculous operation evidently tickled the fancy of my
distinguished fellow-passenger, who began to grin and chuckle in an
idiotic fashion Thinking that after all he was a good-tempered
fellow, I asked him if he had any objection to my changing my
things.
He leered at me and asked, "What for?"
I said I had on a thin evening suit, that it was a bitterly cold
night, and that I wanted to attire myself in something warmer.
"You shan't do it if I can help it!" he said sulkily, and at the
same time he shifted along the seat till he was exactly opposite to
me. As there was no chance of the train stopping till we got to
Carlisle, my feelings may be imagined. "Change your clothes,
indeed," he kept muttering; "not while I'm here."
I felt much vexed, and yet saw he was a very ugly customer to cross
in temper. He began to fill his pipe, and I seized the opportunity
to observe:
"I don't object to your smoking, although this is not a smoking
carriage."
He replied, "I'm not going to ask you whether you object or not."
"Very well, have your own way," I remarked.
"I mean to," he grunted, and for the next quarter of an hour puffed
away in silence. He was evidently thinking. So was I. I was thinking
that if I had been the same size and weight as my delightful
companion, we might have come to better terms. Presently he said,
"What do you want to change your clothes for?"
"I told you," I replied, "I feel cold, and want to put on something
warm."
"Well, I'm not going to let you," he said.
"I know! You said that before," I remarked.
"And I'll say it again. Do you hear?" he shouted. "I'll say it
again. I'm not going to let you. There! How do I know who you are?
It's only thieves and murderers who go about changing their clothes.
I don't say you are one: still, how am I to know you are _not_
one--eh? Tell me that."
I ventured no observation whatever, but let him go on. He evidently
was working himself up into a species of fever, and feeling
oppressed let down the window, and in came a hurricane of wind and
snow. Now when a man of this description is drunk and inclined to be
violent, there is only one method of procuring temporary peace. No
matter how drunk he is, hand him a brandy-flask. I therefore took
down my bag and opened it. Whether the man thought I was looking for
a revolver or not I cannot say, but he watched my proceedings with
suspicion and carefully drew from his pocket a large clasp-knife,
which he opened and placed on the seat beside him. This opened my
eyes considerably to the kind of customer I had to deal with. I
found the flask, and poured into the metal cup about a large
wine-glassful of neat brandy.
Addressing him, I said: "You're a disagreeable fellow. You want to
quarrel with me, but I tell you plainly I am not going to quarrel
with you. So drink this."
The beast (one could scarcely call him a man) took the cup and
drained the brandy. In the meanwhile I pulled up the window, a
proceeding to which my friend said he had not the "slightest
objection." Suddenly there was a loud _whirrrr_, and I was jerked
forward on my seat by the sudden application of the brake to the
train. We slackened pace and eventually pulled up at some little
dark station, the signal evidently being against us. Before I could
get to the door on the left side, the man had crossed and let down
the window.
I shouted to the fellow, "Here! get out quickly; I'll stand you
another drink."
He got out on to the platform and staggered off the length of the
carriage, presuming I was following. The guard rushed up and called
to the man to get back, as "the train was not stopping at that
station." This was scarcely the truth, but I knew what he meant.
I stood on the step and stopped the guard, saying: "You ought to be
ashamed of yourself, after taking a 'tip' from me, to put a drunken
brute like that into the carriage."
The man on the platform began shouting after me, "Come on, mate!"
The guard locked my door and proceeded to get the man into another
carriage. The man would not go.
I heard the guard say, "If you don't get in here, you'll be left
behind."
The man pushed the guard away and made for my carriage again. The
guard followed and a short tussle ensued, the man striving to open
the locked door of my carriage, with a few choice expressions that
eclipsed even the worst that I had been accustomed to hear in Bow
Street Police Court. The end of it all was, that the guard lost his
temper and the man lost the train.
Another unfortunate arrangement of dates was, London one night,
Monmouth the next night, and somewhere in the North the third,
involving my return to London first before proceeding there. The
journey to Monmouth was the coldest I ever recollect. I did not
arrive until close upon eight o'clock. The entertainment was given
in conjunction with my father, who happened to be lecturing in that
district. He instructed me, on arrival, to go to the hotel. When I
got there I was instantly served with a chop, fresh from the grill,
and a small bottle of Guinness. My father, ever thoughtful for my
comfort, had arranged for my favourite meal, and left a little note,
in shorthand, for me to this effect: "My dear old boy, take your
time. I will go on till I see you are in the hall.--Your ever
affectionate Guv."
He had to open the proceedings, as usual when we gave the joint
recitals, and he meant by the above note that he would go on
reciting until he knew I was prepared to give one of my musical
sketches. I finished my simple dinner and walked over to the hall.
By-the-by it was not a hall, but the Sessions-house, the audience
being seated in the body of the Court and the entertainers appearing
on the bench. The Court was like an ice-safe, and my fingers were so
cold I could not properly play the piano, and had to apologise for
my extra defective execution. I have frequently made my appearance
at the Sessions under the above circumstances.
At Cardiff I have always appeared in the Court-house, and a splendid
audience I always had. If I remember rightly, the chief seats were
in the prisoners' dock, which, of course, commanded the best view of
the entertainers' bench. I knew there was always a rush for the
dock--I mean on the nights when my father and I were there; not when
the proper judge was there, of course. It seems strange that people
should pay for the privilege of being accommodated with a seat in
the dock. I ought to mention that the granting of the Court-house
for the purpose of entertainments was unusual. It was a favour
extended towards well-known lecturers only.
It would be quite impossible, in a small book like this, to describe
all the extraordinary incidents which I have encountered while
fulfilling my engagements (before I went on the stage, of course) at
the various country institutions. By institutions I refer to the
societies which were formed all over the United Kingdom chiefly for
the benefit of the better-class working men and women, and the
popularity of which is on the wane, owing to the prevalence of free
libraries, penny readings, and amateur concerts.
Some of these institutions, which provide reading and writing rooms,
debating classes, educational classes, and a room or rooms for
concerts and lectures, etc., can boast a really magnificent
building--for an institution. I have most pleasant recollections of
the Leeds Mechanics' Institution, the Bradford, the Edinburgh,
Plymouth, &c.; for they possessed splendid halls for acoustics, a
good platform, a capital grand piano (most welcome to me), always a
crowded audience (most welcome to everybody), and they refrained
from commencing the proceedings--at all events when I gave my
humorous recitals--with prayer. Oh yes, gentle reader, my comic
recitals have frequently been commenced with prayer--nearly always
at the Young Men's Christian Literary Institutions. Sometimes, in
addition, there would be a short sermon.
I have a distinct recollection of an amiable curate, at the
conclusion of one of my country engagements, rising to propose a
vote of thanks to me. He was most flattering and kind in his
observations, and being a little unorthodox (for a country village),
impressed upon the audience that there was "no sin in a genuine
hearty laugh." He meant well, no doubt; but as the audience had not
laughed in the least throughout my recital, I thought the curate's
remark rather superfluous.
Some fifteen or sixteen years ago I was engaged to give a short
entertainment, for a still shorter fee, at some schoolrooms
connected with a church in Camden Town. The rooms were in a small
back street adjacent to the High Street. The festivities consisted
of a spread of tea and what Mr. W. S. Gilbert calls "the rollicking
bun and the gay Sally Lunn," interspersed with conversation, songs
by amateurs, homely advice by the vicar, and a few comic songs--I
beg pardon, I should say "humorous ditties"--by myself.
The rooms were crowded with the poorer parishioners, who ought, each
Sunday, to have attended the church, but did not as a matter of
fact. Most of the husbands could not come to the entertainment, for
reasons best known to themselves, but their wives and babies did. I
never sang to so many women and babies before or since. I like an
audience consisting of ladies: they do not make such a visible sign
of enjoyment as do the sterner sex, but they have a much keener
appreciation of satire, music, and humour. But ladies without babies
and with babies are totally different people. The moment a baby
makes its presence known to an audience it is all up with the
entertainer; competition is useless, and he may as well retire from
the platform.
On this occasion there were fifty babies and general chaos. The
mothers became anxious and the audience demoralised. At last it was
my turn to sing. I was about to step on to platform, when the vicar
said to me, "Mr. Grossmith--one moment, please. I am most desirous
that these poor folk should enjoy themselves, and I do not wish to
inflict upon them anything approaching a sermon. At the same time I
want most particularly to impress upon them the necessity of their
attending church occasionally. Now I thought you might drop them a
little reminder about the non-observance of the Sabbath, which is,
unfortunately, characteristic of them."
"Do you seriously want me to do that?" I asked.
"Certainly," he replied. "It would appear less like a sermon, and
they might take it better from you than from me."
"You had better do it yourself," I said; "for I have no doubt if I
did it they would put it down as part of the comic entertainment,
and it would be received with roars of laughter."
"Ah! that would never do," said the vicar. "Very well, Mr.
Grossmith, I will act upon your suggestion and do it myself."
The vicar proceeded with a rather lengthy serious speech, the
peroration of which was much like the following:
"In conclusion, my friends, no excuse can be accepted for your not
coming occasionally to church. I hear too often from you that you
cannot leave your babies. Mrs. Brown says she cannot leave hers, and
Mrs. Jones tells me cannot leave hers, and so it goes on. But you
can befriend each other. Mrs. Brown can mind her own babies as well
as Mrs. Jones's for one Sunday, and Mrs. Jones can do the same for
Mrs. Brown the following Sunday. You would then be able to come once
a fortnight at all events. It is a duty that devolves upon you, and
a duty you must, at all hazards, perform. Remember this, my
friends--you _must_ try and come to church. Mr. Grossmith will now
sing '_I am so Volatile_.'"
One night there was a break-down on the rail-line, and my father and
myself never arrived in the town until twenty past eight, although
we should have commenced at eight punctually. We dressed in the cab,
which flew along like a fire-engine. Suddenly we espied a building
lighted up, and a large crowd coming out. My father pushed his head
out of the window and shouted frantically to the crowd, "Go back! Go
back! It's all right. Grossmith is here. We have arrived. Go back!"
Unfortunately it was not our audience, but a congregation leaving a
Methodist Chapel.
In 1876 Miss Florence Marryat, the novelist and daughter of the
celebrated Capt. Marryat, talked over a joint entertainment. It was
quite apparent that the literary institutions were "not what they
were." Their fees, like their engagements, were rapidly decreasing.
Miss Marryat and I thought out a programme, and determined to appeal
more generally to the public. I append one of the programmes:
PROGRAMME
OF
"ENTRE NOUS."
PROLOGUE...Spoken by FLORENCE MARRYAT,
and interrupted by GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN.
HUMOROUS MUSICAL SCENA... "On the Sands" ... _Grossmith_.
GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN.
COSTUME RECITAL... "Joan of Arc in Prison" ... _James Albery_.
FLORENCE MARRYAT.
(With the Scena by LINDSAY SLOPER.)
HUMOROUS MUSICAL SCENA... "A Cold Collation" ... _Grossmith_.
GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN.
COSTUME RECITAL... "The Grandmother" ... ... _Tennyson_.
FLORENCE MARRYAT.
HISTORICAL MEDLEY... "Richard Coeur-de-Leon" ... _E. Draper_.
INTERVAL OF THREE MINUTES.
To conclude with a Satirical Musical Sketch, entitled
"CUPS AND SAUCERS."
(Written and Composed expressly by GEO. GROSSMITH, Jun.)
MRS. EMILY NANKEEN WORCESTER
(A China Maniac) ... FLORENCE MARRYAT.
GENERAL DEELAH
(Another) ... ... ... GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN.
The above is the last joint entertainment I ever gave, except with
my father, and I only fulfilled one or two more with him.
"Cups and Saucers" was afterwards played before _H.M.S. Pinafore_,
at the Opera Comique, for about 500 nights. It is still played a
great deal by amateurs all over the country, both with and without
my permission. This entertainment with Miss Marryat was more of an
artistic success than a financial one. Sometimes we did very well,
and sometimes we did not. In Scotland we always had crowded rooms;
but at the Antient Concert Rooms, Dublin, we played a whole month,
the majority of the time to half-full rooms. I enjoyed the month in
Dublin, for all that. The people were most hospitable; and so
Florence Marryat, her companion (Miss Glover), Mr. George Dolby, and
myself managed to enjoy ourselves. Henry Irving was in Dublin at the
time, and, as I had the privilege of being an old friend of his, I
naturally came in for all his parties; and Irving is a prince of
hosts.
Florence Marryat, in her excellent book _Tom Tiddler's Ground_, has
regaled her readers with several stories about me; so I am going to
have my revenge. She is a great believer in spiritualism, and on one
occasion, in Dublin, she persuaded me to sit at a table with her.
The table began to tilt, rap, creak, and move; and it is not in my
province to attempt to explain the marvellous phenomena. My
explanation would be too simple to be scientific. The conditions,
however, are, that if the table tilts three times in answer to a
question, it means "Yes," and if only once "No." Florence Marryat
informed me--and I have no reason to doubt her word--that a
gentleman, with a name something like "Sticks," was endeavouring to
communicate with her through the table. It appears that poor
"Sticks" had left this world through an excess of stimulants. Two
questions were asked by Miss Marryat, and replied to by "Sticks." At
last Mr. "Sticks" condescended, with three tilts, to imply that he
would answer my questions. Miss Marryat begged that I would not be
irreverent; and I argued that if I were, I presumed "Sticks" would
treat me with contempt.
I said to the table: "Mr. Sticks, I wish to ask you a few
questions?"
[By-the-by, I believe he was a "Colonel Sticks." It is of little
consequence now in this story; but it was at the time, for spirits,
like human beings, are most particular about being addressed by
their proper titles.]
In reply to my question, "Sticks" oscillated the table violently,
which, I was informed, meant agitation on his part. Florence Marryat
told me the poor chap was in purgatory.
I said: "Sticks, I believe you died of drink?"
Three decisive tilts of the table.
"Now, Mr. Sticks," I asked, "is it possible to take too much drink
in purgatory?"
The table was seized with convulsions, and wriggled and oscillated
to a corner of the room. When it was quiet, I said:
"Mr. Sticks, do not think I mean to be disrespectful; but are you
drunk now?"
Then came three solemn but distinct tilts.
Florence Marryat considered I was most discourteous to poor
"Sticks," and has never since sat with me at a table, except for
lunch or dinner.
A sudden illness of Miss Marryat was, on one occasion, the cause of
an unrehearsed, but withal very successful, entertainment.
Miss Marryat and I were announced to appear at the Town Hall,
Cardiff, in our entertainment, "Entre Nous." I copy the following
from a Cardiff paper of February 1st, 1877:
"MR. GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN., AT THE TOWN-HALL, CARDIFF.--Between you
and me, gentle reader, or, as the advertisements have had it so
prominently of late, _entre nous_, there was no 'Entre Nous' at the
Assembly Rooms, Cardiff, last night. At the last moment it was
announced that Miss Florence Marryat was incapacitated by a serious
illness from taking her part in the promised performance. A capital
audience had been drawn to the Town Hall, a large number of whom
were, doubtless, attracted by the expectation of seeing this
talented authoress and most gifted _artiste_. It is, however, only
due to them to say that they bore their disappointment kindly, and,
with only one exception, the whole of the audience--although the
promoters of the entertainment offered to return their money at the
doors--remained to witness the single-handed entertainment provided
by Mr. George Grossmith, jun. And it was well for them they did so,
for they enjoyed a treat which must have made even Miss Marryat's
absence almost appear in the light of a blessing. At the last
moment, whilst the audience were grimly reading the announcement of
that lady's sudden illness, at the time when consternation was
reigning in the bosom of those enterprising _entrepreneurs_, Messrs.
Thompson and Shackell, and whilst Mr. George Grossmith, jun., was
shivering in his shoes with timidity at the thought of the cool
reception which, in his bereaved condition, he was likely to obtain,
a sudden and a happy thought flashed across the mind of one of his
friends. 'Why not get Courtenay Clarke* to give you a lift, my boy?'
suggested one of the bystanders. 'I scarcely dare ask him,' replied
the desponding entertainer. 'Oh, but he was one of your father's
warmest friends,' rejoined the speaker; 'and his good nature is only
equalled by his marvellous comic power. Anyhow, you can try it, for
I see that he and Colonel Page have just entered the room.' And so
the attempt upon Mr. Clarke's good nature was made; and,
fortunately, it was successful. There was a mysterious whispering
between Mr. Shackell and the intended victim. Then the pair retired
to the ante-room, and their arguments were addressed to Mr. Clarke's
kindly feeling of friendship, which resulted in the appearance on
the platform, very shortly afterwards, of the clever young
entertainer, escorted by Mr. Clarke, who took the chair. In a speech
of inimitable humour, he explained and apologised for the absence of
Miss Marryat, and introduced, with words of encouragement, the
younger Grossmith. Of this gentleman's performance it is scarcely
necessary to speak in detail. It is the very essence of refined
musical comedy."
* Mr. Courtenay C. Clarke was a resident at Cardiff, who generally
entertained my father and myself on our professional visits. He
became a great friend of mine, and he was a most talented amateur
reciter and raconteur. I last saw him about two years ago, when he
and Colonel C. Page, of Cardiff (also an intimate friend of mine),
supped with me at the Garrick.
Here follow twenty-eight lines of such a flattering description that
my modesty (forgive me, gentle reader) will not permit of my
reproducing them. The notice continues thus:
"Gratified, however, as everybody was with Mr. Grossmith's
performance, the real 'fun of the fair' commenced when Mr. Courtenay
Clarke essayed his wonderful reminiscences of Mr. Grossmith the
elder. With marvellous fidelity, Mr. Clarke has caught the very
trick of voice and manner which constitute the chiefest charm of
that mellow humorist. One could almost imagine one was in Mr.
Grossmith's company whilst listening to Mr. Clarke's side-splitting
imitations. The delicate little side-hits, and exposition of social
and personal foibles, added life to the sketch; so that the audience
were constrained to laugh at George Grossmith himself, as well as at
the delightful comic "bits" which constitute his well-known
entertainment. . . . Altogether, we can honestly say that a better
or more acceptable entertainment than was given at the Town Hall
last night has seldom been witnessed in Cardiff."
Perhaps the most amusing incident that ever occurred to Florence
Marryat and myself was at the time we were giving a Saturday night's
entertainment at a large hall to a popular audience at Glasgow. A
brusque and brawny Scotchman was the caretaker, or hall-porter. I
sought him out and informed him that there was neither towel nor
soap in either of dressing-rooms.
He firmly told me that I must find my own towel and soap, as it did
not answer his purpose to do so.
I asked what he meant.
He said that the entertainers generally stole the soap and towels
afterwards.
There was no attempt to wrap up the accusation. He called a spade a
spade, without doubt. I was very indignant, and said: "Do you dare
to insinuate that a lady like Florence Marryat, a well-known
novelist, would steal your penn'orth of soap and fourpenny towel?"
He replied: "I don't know anything about Miss Marryat, and I don't
care. All I know is, you entertainers always do walk off with my
soap and towels, and I'll ha' no more of it."