THEATRICAL HORSES AND THE HORSE DRAMA.
The exact date at which horses were introduced upon the stage we are
unable to state. It is the custom with many writers to trace everything
back to the ancient Greeks or Romans and build up their subject from
this classic foundation; perhaps we might be able to do likewise were we
to try, but we prefer to be excused. Certain it is that for many years
such dramas as Mazeppa, Herne the Hunter, Putnam, and others of a
certain kind have maintained a steady popularity. At first the
characters of the heroes in these pieces were performed by males, and
their popularity depended upon the beauty and spirit of the horse, the
daring of the rider, and the general excellence of the drama—combats,
processions, and startling effects being always taking ingredients.
By-and-by, however, an adventurous rider of the other sex entered the
lists in competition with the gentlemen. Her success inspired others to
follow her example, until a dozen or more actresses were found
performing the various rôles of the “horse drama.”
In all these pieces the principal attraction, next to the lady rider, is
the performance of the horse, which, with very little variation, is
generally the same in all. At the back of the stage, crossing and
re-crossing it, and rising higher and higher at quite a steep
inclination, is a plank gangway, some two or three feet wide. This is
technically termed the “run,” and is supported by stout scaffolding,
which is hidden by the scenery. At each turn, which is concealed by the
“wings,” is a sort of platform to enable the horse to turn and to get a
fair position for making the next rush across. The scenery is usually
painted to represent mountains, and the canvas which conceals the run is
painted to resemble rocks. Ravines and other results of the skillful
scene painter’s talents often add to the seeming danger of the pass.
Usually a series of different plays are produced during the engagement
of the horse and rider, and the same run serves to represent the
mountains of Tartary in Mazeppa, the Yankee hills in Putnam, or the
natural elevations of any other portion of the world in which the scenes
of any particular play may chance to be located. At the proper moment
the horse dashes over precipices, rushing torrents, or fearful mountain
gorges, (all canvas of course), with his rider astride his back, or
strapped upon the “untamed steed,” as the stage business may require. To
enable the horse to climb or descend the run without slipping, small
pieces of sharpened steel are screwed into his shoes previous to his
coming upon the stage. When it is a man who is strapped upon the horse
he is usually merely secured by the waist, he holding the girth firmly
with his hands. When a woman performs the part it is customary to secure
her ankles as well, mainly for the purpose of keeping her _on top_ of
the horse should he by any accident fall. In playing Mazeppa the rider
is utterly helpless, and without this precaution serious and even fatal
injuries might be received. The gentlemen consider their muscle
sufficient to enable them to dispense with this care. Some years ago a
popular equestrian actress while performing in a western city met with a
fearful accident from having one of her feet free in order that she
might tickle the horse with her spur, to make him prance and curvette
before the audience. On leaving the stage the horse stumbled over some
stray scenery or other obstacle, and fell. Had the rider been lashed
according to custom on _top_ of the horse the only danger would have
been the risk of striking against some projection, for the horse could
not fall upon his back. As it was, her leg slipped under the horse as he
fell, and his weight coming suddenly upon it, the thigh was broken. It
is said that as she was conveyed to the boat the horse followed with
every appearance of sorrow, whinnying softly, as though striving to
express his sympathy. Many months after the accident, when the rider
mounted him for practice previous to resuming her profession, an
eye-witness related that it was really wonderful to see how gentle were
all the horse’s movements, and how, of his own accord, he would check
himself whenever his motion extorted the slightest cry of pain, almost
suppressed though it was, from his rider.
In these plays very little training is required by the horse. After the
ordinary breaking he is frequently exercised in going over the run.
Owing to the restricted space it is very difficult for the horse to
display any degree of speed, and as this is the main thing to be
accomplished, he is therefore taught to start _instantly_ at a rate
which an ordinary horse could not by any means attain within the
prescribed limits. We have seen Mazeppa played where the stage was so
small that while the horse’s tail was against the wall of the theater
his nose was barely prevented protruding beyond the scenes, previous to
his starting to rush before the audience, from an imaginary journey of
some score of miles. When he _did_ come before the public it was
difficult for them to see the whole of him at one time even with the
scenes run back as far as possible. How the poor animal managed to
travel over the diminutive run which was provided we cannot imagine, and
yet the sight from the body of the theater was quite respectable.
After ascending the run the horse and rider must remain high up in the
lofty region of the “floats” until a change of scene permits them to
descend unobserved, or the play requires their descent in public. A
perilous, and consequently attractive, feat has been introduced into
this play by one or two unusually reckless and daring riders, consisting
of an extension of the run around the gallery of the theatre. Over this
narrow road above the heads of the spectators, some hundred feet or more
from the ground, amid the glare or the lights, the banging of the
orchestra, and the thunders of the multitude, dashes the horse, bearing
in triumph “the sensation rider of the world.” A single misstep, the
displacement of a single plank in that frail support, and horse and
rider would lie a mangled mass below. And this is the very reason the
house is jammed with eager throngs—not that they wish the rider to meet
the horrible death thus courted night after night, but it is certainly
this _possibility_ which renders the performance so attractive. Playing
Mazeppa is not always the hight of felicity.
There is a story told of a horse who probably never had the honor of
figuring on either posters or play bills, which we think may be
appropriately recorded here. A traveler on a dark night presented
himself at the door of a country inn, and demanded lodging. The
landlord, after some general remarks, suddenly turned pale and asked his
guest by what road he had come. Upon being informed he almost fainted
with terror. On examination in the morning it was found that the horse
ridden by the traveler had walked with safety the string piece of a long
bridge, and maintained his footing on the single extended timber,
scarcely a foot wide. The planks of the bridge had been torn up for
repairs the day previous; a misstep of the sure footed animal would have
precipitated himself and rider into a chasm a hundred feet below.
In Mazeppa and similar plays the horse is “worked” by his trainer or
master who comes on the stage attired as one of the retinue or
attendants. In other pieces the rider himself manages the horse. These
horses are seldom used for any other purpose, as ordinary riding or
driving would make their mouths hard and render them less easily
controlled upon the stage. In the summer their shoes are taken off and
they are allowed a holiday in the country pastures. Mr. Collins, an
actor of considerable celebrity who played successfully all the range of
equestrian characters, and who trained several of the most popular
“star” horses, had a magnificent stallion of large size which was
probably the handsomest horse in the profession. He was a trifle too
large to display his speed to the best advantage in the theater, but on
the road, where Mr. C. occasionally displayed his points, there were few
animals who could contest the palm with him for speed. He was a fiery
fellow, and if annoyed would bite his tormentor fiercely, and few cared
to excite his anger. This was made a “point” of on the stage, Mr. C.
plaguing him a little unnoticed by the public, and the spirit the horse
displayed always “took” with the audience. Mr. C., however, found it
necessary to keep out of reach of the animal’s teeth, or even _his_
influence over the horse might not have preserved him from an
uncomfortable nip.
Years ago when horse dramas reigned in the Broadway theaters, as well as
in the less aristocratic locality of the Bowery, an enterprising manager
determined to bring out Herne the Hunter, “in the highest style of the
art.” A number of horses, circus men and innumerable supernumeraries
were engaged, and the piece produced under the most _horse-piece-cious_
circumstances. The eventful night arrived, the house was crammed. The
play progressed, people came on and off the stage, talked, raced,
shouted, went through traps, climbed canvas rocks, and indulged in all
the customary motions of a grand “spectacle.” There has always been a
natural feud between actors and circus folks. The ring people despise
those who can only “cackle,” (flash term for talk), while the stage
fellows say that folks who travel on their shape, and have no brains to
back them up, are contemptible. In those days there was even less good
feeling between the two professions than at present. The supes aspiring
to the dignity of “the stage” were more intense in their antipathy to
the riders than were the actors themselves, and being always ready for a
lark, some of them procured a lot of a peculiar kind of tinder which is
readily lighted and could be surreptitiously blown into a horse’s
nostrils without the culprit being detected. Suddenly in the midst of
the performance the horses became restive, and in a moment became
unmanageable. Some reared and kicked, some broke through the stage,
while others, trampling the foot lights under foot, plunged into the
orchestra. All was confusion. An actor advances to the foot lights and
assures the audience that they need feel no alarm—nothing of importance
is amiss—it is “all right.” At this very moment two horses are murdering
their riders in the orchestra. One of the men, literally impaled upon
the spikes around the railing, presents a sickening, horrifying,
spectacle as he writhes in his death agony. Of course the play was not
concluded; the audience departed shocked at the awful sight they had
witnessed, and the supes, who had intended no farther harm than a little
amusement at the expense of the circus men, now bitterly repented their
thoughtless folly. They did what they could to atone for trick by making
up a purse for the benefit of the families of the principal victims of
the unfortunate affair, but the horse drama had received its death blow
on Broadway.
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