A Diorama at Florence—Vauxhall Gardens—Causes of their end in
1855—_Fête_ at Cremorne—The Coliseum—Rinks and roller-skating
—Aquariums—Zazel and Mr. Watts—Nelly Farren—The rise of the
Music Hall—A visit to Evans’—Paddy Green as a collector—The
Opera in old days—Taglioni and Cerito—Paul Bedford—Mr. Toole
—His joke upon Sir Henry Irving—The Exhibition of 1851—
Houdin, the Prince of Conjurers—Theatre at Rome—Old days at
Töplitz—A libel upon the Queen.
About the first public entertainment which I remember was a diorama of
the Church of Santa Croce at Florence which I was taken to see when
quite a child. It made a great impression upon my mind, and the
recollection of the delight it gave me still lingers in my memory. The
effect was beautiful and greatly enhanced by some extremely fine music
which exactly simulated the swelling strains of an organ.
I suppose there are not many people alive who remember Vauxhall Gardens,
an historic place of amusement to which I went several times—and very
delightful I thought it. This, of course, was almost in the last days of
prosperity which this once fashionable resort enjoyed, for towards the
end it had become but a feeble and, I fear, none too reputable shadow of
its former self.
Well do I recollect the ham sandwiches for which Vauxhall, or rather its
expert carver, was famed. Rumour indeed declared that so great was this
official’s talent for cutting transparent slices of ham that, if put
upon his mettle, he could cut from one single ham sufficient slices to
cover the whole gardens, which were by no means inextensive in area. It
was a pleasant place with its music and coloured lights, and, above all,
the many memories of the eighteenth century which clung about the old
gardens. Some of the decorative paintings were by Hogarth, and the
artistic taste of another age could clearly be discerned, though time
and the weather had done their work in the way of spoiling a good deal
which would otherwise have been artistic and interesting. To such an
extent was this the case, that when the pictures came to be sold (there
were, I think, two sales, the last in 1859) ridiculously small prices
were realised, though many were the work of well-known and highly gifted
painters.
Vauxhall Gardens were finally closed about 1855. I fancy that a
succession of unfavourable and rainy seasons greatly contributed to
their end, for in spite of the added interest of balloon ascents and
other sensational performances the public declined to be attracted. So
bad was the weather one season that the management, with considerable
sense of humour, sent out men bearing huge umbrellas upon which the
attractions of Vauxhall as an open-air pleasure resort were vividly set
forth.
At Cremorne, which lasted well into the ’seventies (when its reputation
became such as to call forth loud Puritanical protests which eventually
caused its closure), fashionable _fêtes_ used sometimes to be held, when
the gardens presented much the same appearance as Vauxhall in its palmy
days. I went to some of these _fêtes_, but not to the last, on which
occasion, I believe, considerable disorder prevailed on account of a
number of the usual frequenters of Cremorne obtaining admission and
squirting ink at the ladies’ dresses as a sign of their displeasure at
the intrusion of another society than their own. In consequence of this
no more of these _fêtes_ were held, the gardens being entirely abandoned
to the class which eventually caused their end.
As a girl I used often to go with my sister to the Coliseum, a
pseudo-classical building erected in 1824 from the designs of Decimus
Burton. The buildings and grounds covered about an acre, and in addition
to the main attraction, which was always a panorama, there were various
other sights to be seen, such as to-day would be termed “side shows,”
the chief of these being, I remember, a stalactite cavern. In 1844 the
directorate made the first attempt to introduce roller-skating (or
rather “wheel-skating,” as it was then called) upon a floor of boards;
this, however, proved an unsuitable surface, and the new amusement did
not at all take the public fancy and had a very short vogue. Some thirty
years later, however, it was revived, under more favourable and more
modern conditions with extraordinary and, for a time, almost frenzied
success. In the middle ’seventies, indeed, the mania for roller-skating
suddenly caught hold of every class, and rinks, some improvised and some
specially built, sprang up in almost every town of any importance;
whilst London, and more especially fashionable London, went mad about
the new amusement. The craze, however, did not last as long as many
speculators had confidently anticipated, and a great deal of money was
eventually lost by those who, convinced of the permanency of the
roller-skating rage, had invested or rather risked their money in the
construction of rinks. The mania indeed died out as suddenly as it had
originated, though some years ago skating on artificial ice secured a
certain amount of popular support.
Roller-skating whilst it lasted called forth many witticisms and jokes,
some of them, it must be added, of none too refined a taste. Certain
ladies, for instance, were said to stand on a very unsteady footing,
whilst others of irreproachable conduct and stern demeanour were spoken
of as constantly falling. One could not help smiling to hear that people
regarded as models of decorum had recently had many a slip. The whole
craze, indeed, with the comical accidents it entailed, produced general
and widespread hilarity.
Another craze of a somewhat more lasting nature was that for aquariums,
which were greatly patronised when they were first started with the
object, according to the promoters, of providing the public with palaces
where amusement was to be unobtrusively blended with instruction.
The best known and, for a time, the most successful of these was the
Westminster Aquarium, quite recently demolished, the opening of which
created quite a sensation. For a time all London flocked to this resort,
where, in addition to the denizens of the deep, there was generally some
extraordinarily daring acrobatic feat to be seen. The most sensational
of these performers was Zazel, a graceful female acrobat who was fired
out of a cannon and caught a trapeze, if I remember rightly, at the end
of her flight. In reality the mode of propulsion was a strong spring,
though the illusion of a real cannon being fired was produced by the
volumes of smoke which surged from the cannon’s mouth as the performer
flew through the air. Zazel was presented to the public by Mr. Farini,
an unrivalled purveyor of wonders. I was much struck by the grace and
daring which this young lady exhibited, and being acquainted with some
of the directors managed to get a quiet talk with her. I went one
morning, I remember, and she explained to me exactly how the feat was
performed, giving, indeed, a special and private performance of it for
my benefit, in her working dress.
Zazel—a model, I may add, of the domestic virtues—was a singularly
graceful athlete, and, in addition to the sensational cannon act, used
to perform upon a trapeze slung high up near the aquarium roof. Her
grace of movement, indeed, was such that many artistic people were
attracted to the performance; amongst others, I remember, the late Mr.
Watts, whom, on more than one occasion, I met observing this artiste
with the greatest interest and delight. He told me that he had seldom
seen a more perfect example of graceful human motion, and had come there
as much for the purpose of study as for the sake of amusement. When
Zazel’s cannon feat was first performed a considerable outcry was raised
on account of the supposed danger to the human missile, and a high
Government functionary was said to have been about to interfere,
whereupon Mr. Farini (so ran the story) completely set the public mind
at rest by proposing to demonstrate the safety of the performance by
shooting the august official himself out of the cannon, not once only
but as many times as he might like, undertaking that on each occasion he
should be returned to his office perfectly unharmed and intact.
Seldom, I should say, has any acrobatic performance caused so much
excitement in London as Zazel’s, and those who went to the Gaiety at
that time will remember the amusing burlesque of the feat (given in, I
think, “Little Doctor Faust”) by Edward Terry and that
never-to-be-forgotten incarnation of clever vitality, Nelly Farren, in
which the latter, having climbed into a burlesque cannon, was asked,
“Are you in? Are you far in? Are you Nearly Far-in?”—sallies which were
greeted with thunders of applause.
The music halls, to which to-day every one goes, were formerly not
considered at all correct places for ladies. About the first time that
society began seriously to realise their existence was, I think, at the
time of the Russo-Turkish war, when Plevna, a sort of spectacular
ballet, was being given at the Canterbury. A great benefit was organised
in aid of the Turkish wounded, and a good many people crossed the river
and took boxes. This incursion into what was to them an unknown world
produced a certain taste for this kind of amusement, and led to music
halls being gradually patronised by a very different sort of audience
from the one which was formerly enraptured by the singing of the _lions
comiques_. As years went on music hall after music hall abandoned its
chairman,—a man, as a rule, of stentorian voice who in old days was a
principal feature of these places. The entertainments given then
gradually changed their character, and to-day every one goes to the
music hall, where, for the most part, the performance is quite as
innocent as a village penny-reading presided over by the vicar.
Before the days when the music hall had attained the popularity which it
now enjoys, vague rumours, of course, used to reach society as to its
chief stars, and occasionally some of us used to be unobtrusively taken
to see them. One of the chief was George Leybourne, whose song
“Champagne Charlie,” with its sparkling music and catchy refrain,
combined with the fact that he used to drive about in a carriage drawn
by four horses, created quite a sensation in London. Another was the
great Macdermott, whose song “We don’t want to fight, but by Jingo if we
do,” originated the expression a “jingo,” so often used in political
controversy. The _lion comique_ is now but a memory of the past, his
very direct and somewhat robust methods being unsuited to the taste of
the generation which takes its pleasures in a very different way from
that popular in less squeamish times.
I well remember once going with a party—amongst others Lady Molesworth,
Lord Torrington and Mr. Bernal Osborne—to Evans’ Supper Rooms. It was
not a place, I fancy, to which ladies went as a rule, but both Lady
Molesworth and I had wished to see it, and so it was arranged that we
should go. The evening was not as successful as it might have been, as
some of the party were in a bad temper; but we tasted the potatoes, for
which the place was famous, and, during the course of the visit, I was
introduced to the celebrated Paddy Green. He was brought up into the
sort of box in which we sat by Mr. Bernal Osborne, who presented him to
me with a long sort of speech in which he informed the old man that he
was meeting a connection of the well-known Horace Walpole. Paddy Green,
contrary to my expectation, was immensely interested at this, and,
telling me he would go and get something which I ought to see,
disappeared for a moment, only to return bearing with him the “Opera
Pass” which had belonged to my literary kinsman, and which the old man
was quite delighted to show me. He kept declaring, I recollect, that
some day I should have it, and I always had a sort of idea that he would
leave it to me. He did not do so, however, and at his death it was sold
by auction, when it was purchased by Mr. Hambro of Milton Abbey.
Forty or fifty years ago theatres were few in number, and a visit to the
play was considered a serious adventure and not a mere casual
distraction as it is to-day, when places of entertainment are almost too
plentiful in number. As girls, we used, I remember, to be sent to bed
for two or three hours in the afternoon in order to rest before the
excitement of witnessing a dramatic performance. The opera then, as now,
was the most fashionable resort during the season; not, I think, that
the opera itself excited any very keen interest—the ballet was the main
thing; but as these were the days of Cerito and Taglioni there is little
cause for wonder at such having been the case. Taglioni, of course, was
not generally received, but, nevertheless, I once met her at a party,
though I cannot remember where, or how she got there. Cerito, however, I
perfectly well recollect seeing at a Mr. Long’s, at whose house in
Grafton Street one used to meet all sorts of clever and interesting
people, for he had the especial gift of collecting together notabilities
of every sort. I was introduced to this famous dancer, who looked very
pretty and demure and made an excellent impression upon every one.
Taglioni was the very perfection of grace, and her name is still
remembered as a queen amongst dancers. Poor woman, her latter years were
clouded by poverty and misfortune, and she was obliged to give dancing
lessons in order to support her children. Her opinion of the modern
school of dancing was extremely low, and she did not scruple to declare
that it appeared to her both ugly and improper. “Dieu, qu’elles sont
laides avec leurs indécences,” was the criticism she passed upon some
ballerinas who claimed to be her successors at a time when the acrobatic
distortion known as the cake-walk had not yet been invented. What indeed
would she have thought of that? So-called dancing in these days is more
often than not largely composed of wild gymnastic exercises, whilst
skirt-dancing is too often but a series of feeble kicks executed by
angular performers whose lack of grace is concealed by a number of
voluminous swathings and petticoats.
When my sister and I went to the opera neither the performance nor the
ballet attracted either of us as much as what was called “the
crush-room,” which was our principal delight. This social institution is
now totally extinct. In those days, however, directly the opera was over
the fashionable portion of the audience at once adjourned to a hall
arranged for people to wait in whilst their carriages were being
fetched, and here the gay world would linger generally for at least an
hour. The crush-room, indeed, was like a sort of informal evening party;
but such an institution would have no success in these days of bustle
and rush when every one is only too anxious to be first away, and so
many are eager to betake themselves to the fashionable restaurants, the
possible existence of which was undreamt of up to comparatively recent
years.
I have seen nearly all the actors and actresses whose names to-day are
but dim recollections of the past. Paul Bedford I well remember in a
burlesque of Norma singing an excruciatingly funny song with a wreath of
carrots and turnips on his head. He was the funniest comedian I ever
saw, though his methods would perhaps be thought too broad at the
present time when the stage almost ranks with the Church, and not a few
theatrical people are as proud as if they possessed three eyes and a
tail. Paul Bedford, besides being a comedian of extraordinary though
very rollicking talent, was an excellent vocalist as well. He had,
indeed, originally made his reputation in Lablache’s great part of Don
Pasquale.
The late Mr. Toole, who often used to come and lunch with me, was the
last of the comedians of the old school whose original personality was a
principal cause of their success. Theatres to-day are, of course, far
more luxurious than was formerly the case, everything being changed,
from the lighting (in old days a very primitive affair) to the
programmes, which used to be merely roughly printed slips of coarse
paper.
Unfortunately I have no large collection of old theatrical programmes,
and I always feel sorry that as a girl I did not keep the playbills of
the day, which would now be of very considerable interest. One
programme, however, I did carefully retain, treasuring it as a souvenir
of two clever friends of mine—Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft, who retired
from management in 1885, their last performance taking place on July 20
of that year. This farewell programme, as it was called, is decorated
with a nice little photograph of the clever manager and manageress,
whose retirement from the stage may be said at that time to have
eclipsed the gaiety of the Metropolis.
The late Sir Henry Irving used constantly to send me any trifles which
he thought likely to be of interest. I have a certain number of
bookplates mostly sent me by friends, and having seen a new one designed
for Sir Henry by Mr. Bernard Partridge, I told him how much I should
like a specimen. Accordingly he sent me this bookplate, together with a
rather amusing letter describing an adventure with Mr. Toole at
Canterbury Cathedral, where the latter seized the opportunity of
exercising his well-known love of joking—
15A GRAFTON STREET,
BOND STREET, W.
MY DEAR LADY DOROTHY—The 15th will soon be here, and I hope
that you will soon afterwards come to “Becket.”
Pray let me know when you can, on which night I may have
pleasure of making you welcome.
On Saturday nights we play some other play, to be afterwards
included in our American repertoire.
I was at Canterbury lately with our mutual friend, Toole, and
greatly enjoyed the visit—until he began insisting to the
attendants that I was a descendant of the great archbishop, and
that my visit to the Cathedral would do much to make it popular.
So it seemed, for a little crowd soon collected, from which we
were rescued by a most considerate canon, who insisted on
conveying us safely to the crypt.
I am glad you like the bookplate which was designed by Bernard
Partridge.—Believe me, dear Lady Dorothy, sincerely yours,
H. IRVING.
_13th April 1893._
The public nowadays may be said to be satiated with amusements, but
formerly it was quite otherwise, and anything new in this line was
considered as a positive wonder. I well remember the sensation caused by
the Exhibition of 1851, which in some mysterious manner was supposed to
be the inauguration of an era of perpetual peace. I went there once
alone with Charles Greville—“the gruncher” as he used to be called (a
nickname which, I suppose, originated from the French word _grincheux_,
for there were times when he could be anything but pleasant)—and we had
to make our way through most tremendous crowds. I shall also never
forget being nearly crushed to death on the last day of the same
Exhibition, when I had gone quite alone. I got caught in the crowd, and
being very small would have certainly been at least very seriously
injured by the terrible crush, had not a friendly official thrust me
into a place of safety in the shape of his little pay-box.
In old days conjuring (now almost entirely a children’s amusement) was
far more popular than is at present the case. The prince of conjurers
was, of course, Robert Houdin, who carried sleight-of-hand and
legerdemain pretty well to perfection; in addition to this he was also a
very clever man, whose mind was constantly on the alert, as the
following little incident will show. Houdin was very popular with the
Sultan and performed before him on many occasions. Being one day asked
to the palace to dine, he said to his imperial host, “Your Majesty has
several times been pleased to express some very flattering opinions as
to my magical powers, and it is true that I have performed some rather
difficult tricks. They, however, are nothing to the feat I shall now
perform, provided your Majesty accords me full permission to do what I
like with the watch which lies on that table.” At the same time he
pointed to a wonderful specimen of the watchmaker’s art which,
beautifully enamelled and embellished in the Louis XV. style (a present
indeed from that King himself to a former Sultan), lay in a glass case
close at hand. The required permission was given, whereupon Houdin rose
from the table, and to the horror of all present, and to the visible
annoyance of the Sultan, took up the watch and in full sight of every
one threw it out of the window into the sea.
An awkward pause now ensued, and one which seemed ominous for the
conjurer; but the fish just then making its appearance, Houdin, with the
greatest self-possession, bade one of the servants take a particular
dish to the Sultan and beg him to cut right across the fine turbot which
it contained. This the Sultan did, and to his stupefaction discovered
the Louis quinze watch beneath his knife. From that day Houdin’s
prestige was greatly increased, whilst presents were heaped upon him by
the Sultan, who thought it best to keep on good terms with such a
wonderful magician. The explanation, however, of this
feat—extraordinary as it appeared—is quite simple. Houdin had chanced
to see the watch during a previous visit to the palace about a year
before, and being a man of very alert intelligence, photographed, as it
were, every detail upon his brain, having a vague idea that something
might be made of it. Surely enough, he discovered the watch’s exact
double in a curiosity shop in London—another gift from Louis XV. to
some sovereign, which had fallen upon evil days. Securing the twin at a
considerable price, he thought out the trick which so astonished the
Sultan, and which, though it cost the conjurer a good sum, brought in a
very handsome profit in the shape of increased imperial favour and the
benefits resulting therefrom.
As a girl travelling on the Continent with my father I was taken to
several theatres, which as a rule were terribly stuffy and
uncomfortable. I remember, for instance, going to a theatre at Rome in
1845 with Lady Pellew, and there seeing a play which was really very
amusing, though it left one with no desire to make a second visit.
The length was the same as an English play of those days—that is, from
seven till past eleven—a melodrama, a pantomime, and a farce. The
latter amused us mightily; it was a quiz upon the English, more
laughable than fair, for it satirised their riding, an art in which our
nation is not behind the Italians. The hero, an immensely corpulent John
Bull, with a pert booby of a son, who answered “Yes, papa,” to
everything, and walked about with his thumbs in the armholes of his
waistcoat, was seen mounting a horse for the first time. This he
accomplished by means of a crane which lifted him up, with his legs
spread out, a good height into the air, and then let him drop on the
horse’s back. After this followed a lesson in riding, in which John Bull
fell off, as did his son, and then they ran against each other, boxing
and fighting all the time, till eventually the son went on his knees and
craved forgiveness from his daddy, who graciously held out his hand to
be kissed. At the end the riding-master introduced a number of tumblers,
who threw somersaults over four horses standing side by side and
performed other feats of activity, in all of which they were immediately
imitated and even surpassed by old and young John. It was great
nonsense, but very funny. The audience was so filthy, and the smells so
overpowering, that it gave us an idea of what we had heard used to
happen in some American theatres, for many of the men took off their
coats and sat in shirt sleeves which for colour would have shamed an
Irish labourer. The upper ranks of Roman society went at that time only
to the opera, and the audience of this theatre consisted entirely of
shopkeepers and tradesmen, very different to an English audience of the
same class, which behaves in a respectable and gentlemanlike way. These
people were dirty to a degree, and might well have been old Westminster
or St. Giles turned into the pit and boxes.
On a previous occasion some years before, at Töplitz, in 1838, we all
went to a Jewish marriage. We had bought glass and garnets in some
quantity, the latter being considered superior to the Oriental ones;
indeed, a mania for buying had seized us all. We had thus been good
customers of the Jews, who at that time lived in a quarter of their own
and were very numerous there. In gratitude they invited us to their
synagogue “to hear the pure worship of One God,” upon which I daresay
they especially prided themselves in that image-adoring land; and one
day a pretty Jewess ran after us in the street, and invited us to come
and see a wedding. My father not only urged us to go but went with us
himself. They had very beautiful music, and a sort of marriage song was
sung by a single voice, with a chorus that would not have disgraced
Braham, so full, so clear, and so sweet was it. The Hebrew chanting, of
course, we could make nothing of, but the sermon or address to the newly
married pair who stood up before the preacher was in perfectly
intelligible Deutsch, and affected both bride and bridegroom to tears.
It was a very pathetic homily, and alluded feelingly, though very
delicately and distantly, to the present degraded state of the
Israelites, urging them to seek their happiness all the more in the
“heilige Himmelreich.” There was a certain degree of elevation about the
whole ceremony, the only drawback being that we were sadly devoured by
fleas, which my father somewhat flippantly declared to be of the true
Jerusalem breed.
During our stay at Töplitz, a German newspaper was brought to my dear
governess, Miss Redgrave, to translate, on account of its containing a
libellous description of Queen Victoria’s habits, which were represented
as being sadly gormandising. It purported to be copied from the English
Court Journal, and pretended to detail all she ate and drank from rising
until going to bed. This statement was denounced to the Minister in
Dresden as a libel on Her Majesty, and accordingly he inquired into the
matter, intending to complain of it, should it appear to be scandalous,
but finding that it was only a simple statement of facts copied from an
English newspaper he could say nothing to it. The German editor thought
it necessary to explain the meaning of several words, particularly
toast, “slices of bread roasted on the coals and buttered hot”; of these
he declared the Queen habitually ate an uncounted number, whilst three
helpings of turtle soup were said to have cooled the admiration of the
Duke of Nemours!