PANTOMIME.
There are two kinds of clowns familiar to people who patronize
amusements--the clown who juggles old jokes in the circus ring, and the
clown whose only language is that of facial expression, and whose grins
and grimaces together with his extraordinary antics and white face are
more acceptable to and interpretable by childhood than the ancient and
petrified humorisms of his brother laugh-maker of the sawdust circle.
There is no circus clown in the world could stretch the heart-strings
of an audience as far and hold them there longer than George L. Fox,
the king of pantomimic merry-makers. His was a face readable as the
pages of a book printed in good large type, and the wonderful swift
changes that came over it were like fleecy clouds and sunshine chasing
each other across a summer sky. Poor Fox, who sent a thrill of joy into
the hearts of thousands of little folks and caused their rosy lips
to over-bubble with silvery laughter, his was a hard, an undeserved
fate--death in a madhouse, without a glint of reason to light him
on his journey across the dark river. He has left no successor more
worthy of his place than George H. Adams, whose talent obtained him
the recognition of Adam Forepaugh, the showman, with whom he is now in
partnership. Frazier and clowns of minor merit fill the rest of the
places, but Adams is at the top of the heap, and may be fitly termed
the Grimaldi of to-day.
[Illustration: GEORGE H. ADAMS IN HUMPTY DUMPTY.]
It is pleasant to visit a theatre during the progress of a pantomime.
The house is filled with old and young in equal proportions, or if
there is any preponderence it is on the side of the little folks,
who clamber up on the backs of chairs and laugh freely and sweetly
as the birds in the forest sing, every time they catch sight of the
chalked head of the clown and the gray tuft standing like a turret
above poor old Pantaloon's wig. And the old people laugh all the
heartier because the innocent young people have their hearts and
mouths filled with joy. The pantomime may be "Humpty Dumpty" or "The
Magic Flute" or "The Merry Miller"--call it by whatever name you will,
an intense interest is taken in it, and new enjoyment is found in
every performance. The tricks are the same, the mechanical effects
identical with those of every other pantomime you may have seen, and
even the specialty sketches that divide the acts of the dumb show seem
to be of very close kindred with those of former attractions of this
kind. Still everybody enjoys the fun just as many people laugh at the
"chestnuts"--_vulgariter_, old jokes--of the man in motley attire, who
tries to make the patrons of the circus feel happy.
It makes no difference to the miniature men and women who are Humpty
Dumpty's best friends and admirers, how the mechanical effects of a
pantomime are produced. They do not care much to know that the pig
Humpty Dumpty and Pantaloon stretch across the width of the stage in an
endeavor to tear it from each other, has a rubber body; that the bricks
the clown throws at everybody are only paper boxes; that the trick pump
is worked from the side scenes with a string; that the clothes which
suddenly, and as if by some invisible influence, vanish into the sides
of houses or up through windows have light but strong black thread,
which the little ones cannot see at a distance, attached to them; the
big policeman is to them a stern and gigantic reality; and it affords
them more fun to imagine every time Humpty throws or makes a blow at
anybody, that the stinging sound is a sure indication that his aim was
well taken--they do not know that the sound as of receiving a blow is
the result of slapping the hands together. All the simple illusions of
the scene and of the action are to them actual facts, and they appear
all the more ridiculous and are all the more effective on this account.
When Humpty Dumpty dives through the side of a house, disappearing
behind, there are men in waiting to catch him, and when he sits down to
read his newspaper and the candle begins to grow beyond his reach, then
falling as he attempts to go higher with a sudden bang, and the clown
comes tumbling down after it as Jill did after Jack when they went up
the hill for the bucket of beer, few of the big or little people know
that the candle runs down through one of the legs of the table and is
all wood except the waxen bit at the top. All these little mysteries
have their charms for the years of childhood, and in no country are the
pleasures of the pantomime so fully recognized as in England, where
on Boxing Night--the 26th of December--children crowd the theatres to
witness the Christmas pantomime. In some theatres here the custom of
providing pantomime for the Christmas holidays is adhered to, but as
there are not enough Grimaldis or Foxes or Adamses or Fraziers to go
around, the supply being very limited, we cannot compete with England
in this respect.
As Adams is the only pantomimist who can lay any claim to the mantle
of George L. Fox--if clowns can be said to have mantles--a short
biography may not be out of place. He is twenty-eight years old, is a
native of England, and is the eldest son of Charles H. Adams, one of
the best Pantaloons in the country. He comes from a family of circus
people, being a descendant of the famous Cookes, riders and clowns,
and is a cousin of W. W. Cole, the circus manager. He was apprenticed
to the manager of Astley's, in London, when he was six years of age,
and remained there eight years. After appearing as clown with a circus
in Denmark, he came to America, and for several years travelled with
different circuses. His first appearance as clown in the pantomime was
in Brooklyn, New York, in 1872, under the management of Tim Donnelly,
who gave a pantomime every year during the Christmas holidays. His
father was the stage manager for Donnelly, and suggested to George the
idea of playing clown. George refused at first, but finally at his
father's earnest solicitation decided to go on. He made an unmistakable
hit, and from that time deserted the sawdust arena and adopted the
stage. After several successful seasons with Nick Roberts and Tony
Denier he last season accepted an offer of partnership with Adam
Forepaugh to run a show under his own name.
In the last Christmas number of the London _Graphic_ I found the
following excellent article on "Boxing Night" as the little folks of
London enjoy it: "The very first night of anticipated pleasure has
come to nine-tenths of the little ones who gaze upon the scene in
silent wonder and astonishment. Imagination in its wildest dreams
never pictured anything so wonderful as this. There have been little
theatricals at home, plays in the back drawing-room; some fairy tale
has been enacted for which kind sisters have supplied the wardrobe,
whilst mamma has presided over the piano orchestra. It was good fun
to crawl across the mimic stage in a hearth-rug, pretending to be
a wolf or bear, and to hear the laughter of kind friends in front;
but all that home amusement, the curiosity and contrivances, the
songs and dances were, indeed, child's play when compared to a real
theatre on Boxing Night. What importance is given to the child by
being considered old enough to sit up so late as this; what a sense of
mystery and wonderment to be driven through the lighted streets; to
see the decorated shops set out with Christmas presents and New Year's
gifts; and to behold for the first time, the bright electric light
on the bridges and embankment! But this is far better than all, and
only a very little removed from fairyland. How the myriad lights in
the great chandeliers glisten and sparkle, and the stage foot-lights
dazzle; how splendidly the orchestra seems to play; and hark! the
boys in the gallery are taking up the tune, and singing together
with wonderful swing and precision. One comic song and street tune
follows another; the band suggests and the young musicians take it up
with a will. Just now they had been a pelting of the pit with orange
peel--all in good fun, of course. The lads in their shirt sleeves
had whistled and screamed, and saluted friends in distant corners
of the gallery; but now all this horse play is quieted by music and
melody. It is Boxing Night, and there must be patriotism as well as
pleasure. 'Rule Britannia,' 'God bless the Prince of Wales,' and
'God Save the Queen,' are sung from thousands of lusty throats, and
all the audience rise to their feet, waving hats and handkerchiefs.
Loyalty is as necessary as love at Christmas-time. And what has that
good old wizard Blanchard prepared for the happy children? He must be
as immortal as Father Christmas, and certainly is quite as popular.
He will be the guide up the rocks of romance, and away to the fields
of fairyland. He will lead his happy followers amidst ogres and
giants and elves and fays, to wizard castles and enchanted dells;
now you will be at the bottom of the sea, where lovely queens wave
sea-weed wands; and now on land amidst the yellow corn-fields and the
bluebell lanes. There will be song and dance, and the madcap pranks of
thousands of children, liliputian armies and glittering armor, poetry
and processions, hobby-horses and the dear old Clown and Harlequin and
Pantaloon supporting 'airy fairy' Columbine, if they would only ring
that prompter's bell and pull up that tantalizing curtain. The noise is
hushed, the music stops, the overture is over--but wait.
"What are they doing behind the curtain? There are beating hearts also
in the manufactory of pleasure. Christmas-time means food and raiment
to the great majority of those who are awaiting the prompter's signal.
They have come from courts and alleys, from cold, comfortless rooms,
from care and poverty, from watching and from want, to this great busy
hive that uncharitable people abuse and ridicule. Times have been bad,
the winter has advanced too soon, wages have been slack; but all will
be mended now that Christmas has come again. Hearts beat lightly under
the prince's tunics and the dancers' bodices, for every mickle makes
a muckle, and there is work here, from the proud position of head of
the Amazonian army to the humble individual who earns a shilling a
night for throwing carrots in a crowd and returning slaps in a rally.
And the training and discipline of the rehearsals up to this anxious
moment have not been without their advantage. Punctuality, silence,
order, and sobriety are the watchwords here. There have been no idling,
dawdling, and philandering, as many silly people imagine. Even the
little children have learned something, perhaps their letters, perhaps
the art of singing in unison, certainly the merit of being smart and
useful. But now it is the great examination day. The lessons are over,
and the result is soon to be known. What a wild fantastic scene it
is--a very carnival of costumes. Fairies and hop-o'-my-thumbs, monkeys,
and all the miscellaneous mixture of the menagerie, gorgeous knights in
armor and spangled syrens, Titania and her train, pasteboard chariots,
wands and crystal fountains, fruits and forest trees, mothers,
dressers, carpenters, and costermongers for the crowd, all mixed up in
apparent confusion, but in reality as well drilled and disciplined as
an army prepared for action. All belong to some separate department or
division; there is a leader for every squad, who is responsible for
his men, and if anything goes wrong a prompt fine is a very wholesome
punishment. It has been weary work during the last few rehearsals, and
certain scenes have had to be repeated again and again. The testing of
the scenery has delayed the action, and it has been late enough before
these busy bees have got to bed. But the excitement of the moment gives
new vitality. The night has come, and everyone is bound to do his or
her best. Everything is smart and new, and the girls and children are
proud of their costumes, in which they strut about admiringly. The
stage manager has recovered his amiability, and calls everyone "my
dear." A rapid, business-like glance is cast over the various scenes
to see that everything is straight and ship-shape; the reports come up
from the various departments to say there are no defaulters. The gas
man is at his post, and the limelight man at his station. The ballet
master, with his flag in hand, is standing ready on his stool. Ready?
Yes, sir! is the answer. Up go the foot-lights with a flare, a bell
rings, the curtain rises, and the happy people before and behind the
Christmas curtain meet."