Pablo Fanque—James Cooke—Pablo Fanque and the Celestials—Ludicrous
affair in the Glasgow Police-court—Batty’s transactions with Pablo
Fanque—The Liverpool Amphitheatre—John Clarke—William
Cooke—Astley’s—Fitzball and the Supers—Batty’s Hippodrome—Vauxhall
Gardens—Ginnett’s Circus—The Alhambra—Gymnastic Performances in
Music-Halls—Gymnastic Mishaps.
When Wallett, the clown, returned from his American tour, he had
arranged to meet Pablo Fanque at Liverpool, with a view to performances
in the amphitheatre there; but when the Shakspearian humourist arrived
in the Mersey, his dusky friend was giving circus performances in the
theatre at Glasgow, with James Cooke’s large circus on the Green, in
opposition to him. London was not, at that time, thought capable of
supporting more than one circus, and it was not to be expected that
Glasgow could support two, even for a limited period. Pablo Fanque
retired from the contest, therefore, and removed his company and stud to
Paisley. Doing a good business in that town, he returned to Glasgow with
a larger circus, a stronger company, and a more numerous stud, and Cooke
retired in his turn.
Wallett, who had been clowning in Franconi’s circus, then located in
Dublin, joined Pablo Fanque in Glasgow, and between them they devised an
entertainment which was found attractive, but which produced most
ludicrous consequences. There was a posturer in the company, whose
Hibernian origin was concealed under the _nom d’arena_ of Vilderini; and
it was proposed that this man should be transformed, in semblance at
least, into a Chinese. The Irishman did not object, though the process
involved the shaving of his head, and the staining of his skin with a
wash to the dusky yellow tint characteristic of the veritable
compatriots of Confucius. The metamorphosis was completed by arraying
him in a Chinese costume, and conferring upon him the name of
Ki-hi-chin-fan-foo, which appeared upon the bills in Chinese characters,
as well as in the English equivalents. Whether his sponsors had recourse
to a professor of the peculiar language of the Flowery Land, or took the
characters from the more convenient source presented by a tea-chest or a
cake of Indian ink, I am unable to say; but the strange scrawl served
its purpose, which was to attract attention and excite curiosity, and
the few Celestials in Glasgow were either more unsophisticated than the
‘heathen Chinee’ immortalized by Bret Harte, and suspected no deception,
or they were too illiterate to detect it.
It happened that an enterprising tea-dealer in the city had, some time
previously, conceived the idea of engaging a native of China to stand at
the shop-door, in Chinese costume, and give handbills to the
Glasgowegians as they passed. A Chinese was soon obtained, and posted at
the door, where, in a few weeks, he found himself confronted with a
fellow-countryman, who was similarly engaged at a rival tea-shop on the
other side of the street. The two Chineses—Milton is my authority for
that word—could not behold the circus bills, with their graphic design
of a Chinese festival and the large characters forming the name of the
great posturer who had performed before the brother of the sun and the
moon, without being moved. They went to the circus, and, in a posturing
act, to which a Chinese character was imparted by a profuse display of
Chinese lanterns and a discordant beating of gongs, thumping of
tom-toms, and clashing of cymbals, by supernumeraries in Chinese
costumes, they beheld the great Ki-hi-chin-fan-foo.
On the conclusion of the performance, they went round to what in a
theatre would be termed the stage-door, asked for their countryman, and
evinced undisguised disappointment on being informed that he could not
be seen. They repeated their application several times, but always with
the same result; and, the idea growing up in their minds that their
countryman was held in durance, and only liberated to appear in the
ring, they went to the police-court, and made an affidavit that such was
their belief. Pablo Fanque was, in consequence, called upon for an
explanation, and found himself obliged to produce the posturer in court,
and put him in the witness box to depose that he was not a countryman of
the troublesome Chineses, but a native of the Emerald Isle, who could
not speak a word of Chinese, and had never been in China in his life.
Pablo Fanque moved southward on leaving Glasgow, but he fell into
difficulties, and borrowed money of Batty, giving him a bill of sale
upon the circus and stud. Going into the midland districts, and finding
Newsome’s circus at Birmingham, he went on to Kidderminster, where,
failing to carry out his engagements with Batty, the latter took
possession of the concern, and announced it for sale. Becoming the
purchaser himself, he constituted Fanque manager, thus displacing
Wallett, who had been acting in that capacity for the late proprietor.
Wallett endeavoured to make an arrangement for the company and stud to
appear in the amphitheatre at Liverpool, but could not obtain Batty’s
acquiescence. Having engaged with Copeland to provide a circus company
and horses, Batty’s refusal to allow the Fanque troupe to go to
Liverpool put him to his shifts. Having to form a company in some way,
he engaged two equestrians, Hemming and Dale, who happened to be in
Liverpool without engagements; and hearing that John Clarke, then a very
old man, was in the neighbourhood, with three horses and as many clever
lads, he arranged with him for the whole. He then started for London by
the night train, roused William Cooke early in the morning, and hired of
him eight ring horses and a menage horse, at the same time engaging
Thomas Cooke for ring-master, with his pony, Prince, and his son, James
Cooke, the younger, as an equestrian. These were got down to Liverpool
with as little delay as possible, and the amphitheatre was opened for a
season that proved highly prosperous.
In 1851, the expectation of great gains from the concourse of foreigners
and provincials to the Great International Exhibition in Hyde Park
induced Batty to erect a spacious wooden structure, capable of
accommodating fourteen thousand persons, upon a piece of ground at
Kensington, opposite the gates terminating the broad walk of the
Gardens. It was opened in May as the Hippodrome, with amusements similar
to those presented in the Parisian establishment of the same name, from
which the company and stud were brought, under the direction of M.
Soullièr. Besides slack-rope feats and the clever globe performance of
Debach, there was a race in which monkeys represented the jockeys, a
steeple chase by ladies, an ostrich race, a chariot race, with horses
four abreast, after the manner of the ancients, and the feat of riding
two horses, and driving two others at the same time, the performances
concluding with one of those grand equestrian pageants, the production
of which subsequently made the name of the Sangers famous, in connection
with the Agricultural Hall.
Fitzball wrote some half-dozen spectacular dramas for Batty during the
latter’s management of Astley’s, one of the earliest of which was _The
White Maiden of California_, in which an effect was introduced which
elicited immense applause at every representation. The hero falls asleep
in a mountain cavern, and dreams that the spirits of the Indians who
have been buried there rise up from their graves around him. The
departed braves, each bestriding a cream-coloured horse, rose slowly
through traps, to appropriate music; and the sensation produced among
the audience by their unexpected appearance was enhanced by the
statue-like bearing of the men and horses, the latter being so well
trained that they stood, while rising to the stage, and afterwards, as
motionless as if they had been sculptured in marble.
Fitzball adapted to the hippo-dramatic stage the spectacle of _Azael_,
produced in 1851 at Drury Lane. At the first rehearsal, there was as
much difficulty in drilling the gentlemen of the chorus into unison, to
say nothing of decorum, as Ducrow had experienced at Drury Lane in
instructing the small fry of the profession in the graces of elocution.
There was an invocation to be chanted to the sacred bull by the priests
of Isis, and the choristers, who seem to have been drawn from the
stables, entered in an abrupt and disorderly manner, some booted and
spurred, and carrying whips, others holding a currycomb or a wisp of hay
or straw. Kneeling before the shrine, they shouted the invocation in
stentorian tones, and with a total disregard of unison; and during a
pause they disgusted the author still more by indulging in horse-play
and vulgar ‘chaff.’
Fitzball made them repeat the chorus, but without obtaining any
improvement. They would play, and they would not sing in unison.
Fitzball glanced at his watch; it indicated ten minutes to the dinner
hour of the fellows. He thereupon desired the call-boy to give his
compliments to Mr Batty, and request that the dinner-bell might not be
rung until he gave the word for the tintinnabulic summons. The
choristers heard the message, and, as they wanted their dinners, and
knew that Batty was a strict disciplinarian, it had the desired effect.
There was no more ‘chaffing,’ no more practical jokes; they repeated the
invocation in a chastened and subdued manner, and before the ten minutes
had expired their practice was as good as that of the chorus at Covent
Garden.
_Mazeppa_ was revived at Astley’s during the season of 1851–2, and the
acts in the arena comprised the fox-hunting scene of Anthony Bridges
with a real fox; the great leaping act of John Bridges; the _cachuca_
and the _Cracovienne_ on the back of a horse, danced by Amelia Bridges;
the graceful equestrian exercises of Mademoiselles Soullier and Masotta;
the gymnastic feats of the Italian Brothers; and the humours and
witticisms of Barry and Wheal, the clowns.
The Hippodrome re-opened in the summer of 1852, under the management of
Henri Franconi, the most striking features of the entertainment being Mr
Barr’s exhibition of the sport of hawking, with living hawks and
falcons; the acrobatic and rope-dancing feats of the clever Brothers
Elliot; and Mademoiselle Elsler’s ascent of a rope over the roof of the
circus.
Batty, who was reputed to have died worth half a million sterling, was
succeeded in the lesseeship of Astley’s by William Cooke, who, with his
talented family, for several years well maintained the traditional
renown of that popular place of amusement. Like the Ducrows, the
Henglers, the Powells, and others, the Cookes are a family of
equestrians; and not the least elements of the success achieved by the
new lessee of Astley’s were the wonderful feats of equestrianism
performed by John Henry Cooke, Henry Welby Cooke, and Emily Cooke (now
Mrs George Belmore). Welby Cooke’s juggling acts on horseback were
greatly admired, and John H. Cooke’s feat of springing from the back of
a horse at full speed to a platform, under which the horse passed, and
alighting on its back again, was quite unique.
Vauxhall Gardens re-opened in 1854 with the additional attraction of a
circus, in rivalry with Cremorne, now become one of the most popular
places of amusement in the metropolis. The sensation of the season was
the gymnastic performance of a couple of youths known as the Italian
Brothers on a trapeze suspended beneath the car of a balloon, while the
aërial machine was ascending. The perilous nature of the performance
caused it to be prohibited by the Commissioners of Police, by direction
of the Home Secretary; a course which was also adopted in the case of
Madame Poitevin’s similar ascent from Cremorne, seated on the back of a
bull, in the character of Europa, though in that instance on the ground
of the cruelty of slinging the bovine representative of Jupiter beneath
the car.
Some years afterwards, the gymnasts who bore the professional
designation of the Brothers Francisco advertised their willingness to
engage for a trapeze performance beneath the car of a balloon; but they
received no response, probably owing to the official prohibition in the
case of the Italian Brothers.
‘Would not such a performance be rather hazardous?’ I said to one of
them.
‘Oh, we should only do a few easy tricks,’ he replied. ‘We should soon
be too high for anybody to see what we were doing, and need only make
believe. Once out of sight, we should pull up into the car.’
‘Of course,’ I observed, ‘the risk of falling would be no greater than
if you were only thirty or forty feet from the ground; but, if you did
fall, there would be a difference, you would come down like poor
Cocking.’
‘Squash!’ said the gymnast. ‘As the nigger said, it wouldn’t be the
falling, but the stopping, that would hurt us. But the risk would have
to be considered in the screw; and then there is something in the offer
to do the thing that ought to induce managers to offer us an
engagement.’
In 1858, Astley’s had a rival in the Alhambra, which, having failed to
realize the anticipations of its founders as a Leicester Square
Polytechnic, under the name of the Panopticon, was converted by Mr E. T.
Smith into an amphitheatre. Charles Keith, known all over Europe as ‘the
roving English clown,’ and Harry Croueste were the clowns; and Wallett
was also engaged in the same capacity during a portion of the season.
One of the special attractions of the Alhambra circle was the vaulting
and tumbling of an Arab troupe from Algeria. Vaulting is usually
performed by European artistes with the aid of a spring-board, and over
the backs of the horses, placed side by side. The head vaulter leads,
and the rest of the company—clowns, riders, acrobats, and
gymnasts—follow, repeating the bound until the difficulty of the feat,
increasing as one horse after another is added to the group, causes the
less skilful performers to drop, one by one, out of the line. The Arab
vaulters at the Alhambra dispensed with the spring-board, and threw
somersaults over bayonets fixed on the shouldered muskets of a line of
soldiers. This feat has since been performed by an Arab named Hassan,
who, with his wife, a French rope-dancer, has performed in several
circuses in this country.
Vauxhall Gardens, which had been closed for several years, opened on the
25th of July, in this year, for a farewell performance, in which a
circus troupe played an important part, with Harry Croueste as clown.
Then the once famous Gardens were given over to darkness and decay,
until the fences were levelled, the trees grubbed up, and the site
covered with streets, some of which, as Gye Street and Italian Street,
still recall the former glories of Vauxhall by their names.
Some reminiscences of the provincial circus entertainments of this
period have been furnished by Mr C. W. Montague, formerly with Sanger’s,
Bell’s, F. Ginnett’s, Myers’s, and William and George Ginnett’s
circuses, and now manager of Newsome’s establishment. ‘Early in the
spring of 1859,’ says this gentleman, ‘some business took me into the
neighbourhood of Whitechapel, and while passing the London Apprentice
public-house, I heard my name shouted, and looking round espied Harry
Graham, whom I had known in the elder Ginnett’s circus. He was doing a
conjuring trick outside a miserable booth, at the same time inviting the
public to walk in, the charge being only one halfpenny. On the
completion of the trick, he jumped off the platform, and insisted on our
adjourning to the public-house, where he explained the difficulty he was
in, having been laid up all the winter with rheumatic gout. On his
partial recovery, he was compelled to accept the first thing that
offered, which was an engagement with the owner of the booth, a man
known in the profession as the Dudley Devil.
‘Poor Harry begged me to give him a start; so I came to an arrangement
to take him through the provinces as M. Phillipi, the Wizard. This was
on a Friday; on the following Wednesday he appeared at Ramsgate to an
eighteen pound morning performance and a fourteen pound one at night,
our prices being three shillings, two shillings, and one shilling,
although in Whitechapel he would not have earned five shillings per day.
Among other places I visited was Dartford, where I took the Bull Hotel
assembly-room, which had been recently rebuilt, but not yet opened. Mrs
Satherwaite, a lady of considerable distinction, kindly gave me her
patronage, and I arranged for a band at Gravesend. On the day of the
performance, towards the afternoon, the band not having arrived, I sent
my assistant to Gravesend, with instructions to bring a band with him.
Half-past seven arrived, the time announced for opening the doors, when
a large crowd had assembled, as much out of curiosity to see the new
room as the conjurer, and in a short time every seat was occupied.
‘Just before the clock struck eight, the time for commencement, in came
my assistant, saying the band had gone to Dover, to a permanent
engagement. I ran round to the stage-door, and told Graham. He said it
was impossible to give the entertainment without music. In my despair, I
rushed into the street, with the intention of asking Reeves, the
music-seller, if he could let me have a pianoforte. I had not got many
yards when I heard a squeaking noise, and found it proceeded from
_three_ very dirty German boys, one playing a cornopean, another a
trombone, and the third a flageolet. On accosting them, I found they
could not speak a word of English; so I took two of them by the collar,
and the other followed. On reaching the stage-door, I could hear the
impatient audience making a noise for a commencement.
‘Harry Graham, on seeing my musicians, said it would queer everything to
let them be seen by the audience. “I can manage that,” I said; “we will
just put them under the stage, and I will motion them when to go on and
when to leave off.” In another moment M. Phillipi was on the stage, and
received with shouts of applause from the impatient audience. On the
conclusion of the performance, I went to the front, and thanked Mrs
Satherwaite for her kindness, when she said, “He is very clever; but,
oh! that horrid unearthly music!”’
‘On finishing the watering towns, I took the Cabinet Theatre, King’s
Cross, where M. Phillipi appeared with success. One evening, to vary the
performance, we arranged to do the bottle trick, and specially engaged a
confederate, who was to change the bottles from the top of the ladder,
through one of the stage-traps. By some error, the man took his position
directly the bell rang for the curtain to go up, instead of doing so, as
he should have done, at the commencement of the second part of the
entertainment. M. Phillipi commenced his usual address, explaining to
the audience that he did not use machinery or employ confederates, as
other conjurers are wont to do; and to convince them, he pulled up the
cloth of the table, at the same time saying, “you see there is nothing
here but a common deal table.” To his surprise, the audience exclaimed,
“There’s a man there!” But he was equal to the occasion, and went on
with his address, taking the first opportunity to give the confederate a
kick, when down the ladder he went.
‘At this establishment, while under my management, the earthly career of
poor Harry Graham was brought to a close. For many years it had been his
boast that his Richard III. was second only to Edmund Kean’s, and that
he only lacked the opportunity to astound all London with his
impersonation of the character. Now the opportunity had arrived, and he
determined to play it for his benefit; but, unfortunately, the
excitement of this dream of years was too much for him, and he died a
few days afterwards. Those who are curious about the last resting-place
of this world-renowned showman may find his grave in the Tower Hamlets
cemetery.
‘In the following winter, I joined Ginnett’s circus at Greenwich, and
found the business in a wretched condition. The principal reason for
this state of things was, that the circus had only a tin roof and wooden
boarding around, and the weather being very severe, the place could not
be kept warm. I was at my wits’ ends to improve the receipts when, being
one day in a barber’s shop, getting shaved, the barber remarked, “There
goes poor Townsend.” On inquiring I found that the gentleman referred to
had been M. P. for Greenwich, but in consequence of great pecuniary
difficulties had had to resign. My informant told me that he was a most
excellent actor, he having seen him, on more than one occasion, perform
Richard III. with great success; and what was more, he was an immense
favourite in Greenwich and Deptford, he having been the means, when in
the House of Commons, of getting the dockyard labourers’ wages
considerably advanced.
‘It immediately struck me that, if I could get the ex-M. P. to perform
in our circus, it would be a great draw. With this object in my mind, I
waited on Mr Townsend the next morning, and explained to him my views.
“Heaven knows,” he said in reply, “I want money bad enough; but to do
this in Greenwich would be impossible.” I did not give it up, however,
but pressed him on several occasions, until at last he consented to
appear as Richard III. for a fortnight, on sharing terms. The next
difficulty was as to who should sustain the other characters in the
play, there being no one in the company, except Mr Ginnett and myself,
capable of taking a part. We got over the difficulty by cutting the
piece down, and Mr Ginnett and myself doubling for Richmond, Catesby,
Norfolk, Ratcliffe, Stanley, and the Ghosts. The business,
notwithstanding these drawbacks, turned out a great success; so much so,
that Mr Townsend insisted on treating the whole of the company to a
supper. Shortly afterwards, he went to America.
‘In the following year, while at Cardiff, we got up an equestrian
spectacle entitled _The Tournament; or, Kenilworth Castle in the Days of
Good Queen Bess_, for which we required many supernumeraries to take
part in the procession, the most important being a handsome-looking
female to impersonate the maiden Queen. Walking down Bute Street one
day, I espied, serving in a fruiterer’s shop, a female whom I thought
would answer our purpose admirably. So I walked in, and made a small
purchase, which led to conversation; and by dint of a little persuasion,
and explaining the magnificent costume to be worn, the lady consented to
attend a rehearsal on the following day. She came to the circus,
received the necessary instructions, and seemed highly gratified when
seated on the throne, surrounded by her attendants.
‘On the first night of the piece, everything went off well until its
close, when Mr Ginnett rushed into my dressing-room, in great
excitement, exclaiming, “There is that infernal woman sitting on her
throne!” I immediately proceeded to the ring-doors, and there, to my
dismay, saw the Queen on the throne by herself, and the boys in the
gallery pelting her with orange peel. I beckoned to her, but she seemed
to have lost all presence of mind. I sent one of the grooms to fetch her
off, and amidst roars of laughter her royal highness gathered up her
robes, and made a bolt. It appeared that the Earl of Leicester, who
should have led her off, had, for a joke, told her to stay until she was
sent for.’
Gymnastics continued in the ascendant at the Alhambra long after its
conversion into a music-hall, and crowds flocked there nightly to
witness the wondrous, and then novel, feats of Leotard, Victor Julien,
Verrecke, and Bonnaire on the flying trapeze. Somersaults over horses in
the ring, being performed by the aid of a spring-board, are far
surpassed by the similar feats of gymnasts between the bars of the
flying trapeze. The single somersaults of Leotard and Victor Julien were
regarded with wonder, but they have been excelled by the double
somersault executed by Niblo, which, in its turn, has been surpassed by
the triple turn achieved by the young lady known to fame as ‘Lulu.’ I am
not aware that a quadruple somersault has ever been accomplished, if
indeed it has ever been attempted. It was stated, about three years ago,
that a gymnast who had attempted the feat in Dublin paid the penalty of
his hardihood in loss of life; but experience has rendered me somewhat
incredulous as to the rumours of fatal accidents to gymnasts and
acrobats which are not confirmed by the report of a coroner’s inquest.
Besznak, the cornet-player of the London Pavilion orchestra, said to me
one evening, several years ago, ‘You know Willio, the bender? Well, he
is dead; went into the country to perform at a gala, and caught a cold,
poor fellow!’ Willio is, however, still living. I will give another
instance. About two years ago, one of the Brothers Ridgway met with an
accident at the Canterbury Hall, while practising. Some weeks
afterwards, it was currently reported that his injuries had proved
fatal. Subsequently, however, a gentleman engaged in the ballet at the
Alhambra, and who, at the time of the accident, had been similarly
engaged at the Canterbury, was accosted one evening, while returning
home, in the well-known voice of the young gymnast who had been reported
dead. Turning round in surprise, he saw that it was indeed Ridgway who
had spoken, looking somewhat paler than he did before the accident, but
far more lively than a corpse.
Great as the risks attending gymnastic feats really are, they are not
greater than those which are braved every day by sailors, miners, and
many other classes, as well as in hunting, shooting, rowing, and other
sports, not excluding even cricket. While there are few gymnasts who
have not met with casualties in the course of their career, the
proportion of fatal accidents to the number of professional gymnasts
performing is certainly not greater than among the classes just
mentioned, and I believe it to be even less. During the period between
the advent of Leotard at the Alhambra and the present time, only two
gymnasts, so far as I have been able to ascertain, have been killed
while performing; and the prophecy attributed to that renowned gymnast,
that all his emulators would break their necks, has, happily, not been
fulfilled.