A TEAM OF IRISH COMEDIANS.
The variety stage is responsible for a great many theatrical
"what-is-its." A few years ago there was not so much variety to the
variety business; the projectors of mastodon and megatherian companies
were not in the field to encourage poor artists, and only the really
eminent and excellent in this branch of the profession were allowed
to inflict themselves on first-class audiences. Now the dizziest
of the throng make their way to the foot-lights under respectable
auspices in the largest cities, and share with their really deserving
brethern, about in equal parts, the sympathy and applause of large and
fashionable houses. The different branches of the business are, at
present, subdivided into more parts than there were formerly principal
divisions, and every new feature of the profession has its exalted and
also its insignificant exponents. There are a hundred and one different
styles of song-and-dance men and song-and-dance women; serio-comics are
as widely variant in their styles and repertoires, as they call the few
songs they sing threadbare, as they are numerous and diverse in their
types of beauty or ugliness; sketch artists have in their multiplicity
infringed upon the legitimate comedians, the wild burlesques, and the
highly operatic stars' territories; there are scores and scores of
schools of musical mokes and thousands of performers with eccentric
acts of one kind or another that are intended to astonish and bewilder
the "natives," as they call the vast number of people who patronize
their shows. But the Irish comedian stands out amid all these changes,
immutable in his make-up and unmindful of the hoary age of the jokes
with which he tortures the intelligent portions of his audiences. He
has been dressed and redressed and placed before the public in any
number of shapes that were intended to be novel, extending from the
one extreme of the so-called neat Irish humorist to the other, at
which stands the loud-mouthed, heel-clicking and head-breaking North of
Ireland character; but the disguise is always thin, the efforts of the
performers are vapid, and all the comedians succeed in looking pretty
much alike, in saying the same melancholy things, and in betraying a
kinship that is unmistakable and strongly provocative of pity.
[Illustration: EDWIN HARRIGAN.]
A few performers have been successful in making reputations as North
of Ireland characters, but they are very few. Ferguson and Mack were
for a time at the head of this class of variety comedians, but they got
lazy, failed to exhibit anything like extensive originality, and carted
their old jokes and stale "business" to England and back, until they
have fallen pretty much to the rear ranks. Harrigan & Hart, who have
a large theatre in New York, and whose play, "Squatter Sovereignty,"
had a run of almost a year, are now the best known and really the
cleverest of the members of the profession who make a specialty of
Irish comedy. Billy Barry and Hugh Fay have made fame and money with
their laughable "Muldoon's Picnic," and there are probably a score
of others whose efforts would be worth mentioning if they could be
recalled at this moment. As in all other lines, however, the ranks
have been filled up with men and boys who are even more ignorant and
ridiculous off the stage than on; who have graduated from newspaper
hawking and boot blacking routes to the back door of the stage, and
whose limited powers of mimicry, whose retentive memories for old
and poor jokes, and whose rhinoceros-hide cheek--absolute "gall"
they would call it themselves--are their only recommendations to any
consideration. They, like all other really bad actors, look down upon
every brother professional and imagine that they alone have attained to
the privileged height above which there is no firm foothold for anybody
else. It is the pleasing prerogative of all poor artists to have
hallucinations of this kind, and to dwell in temples of fame that are
built upon the sands of their own imaginations. Nobody ever disabuses
them of their egotistical ideas, and if anybody attempted to do so he
would be set down as the very gausiest of "guys" for his pains.
[Illustration: TONY HART.]
The Irish comedian, and especially the eccentric gentleman who hails
from the North of Ireland, has multiplied so rapidly of late that
the stock of jokes with which the original North of Ireland comedian
started out many years ago has been turned over thousands of times,
and occasionally a modern audience actually cry when they are made
parties to the ghoulish crime of resurrecting the dead and buried gags.
It is my intention to here present the picture of a team of North of
Ireland comedians, and give an idea of the manner in which they amuse
their audiences; for some of the people who go to the theatre are so
guileless and so easily tickled that they find themselves greatly
amused by a dialogue teeming with ancient Hibernianisms. The stories
chosen are invariably of the most vulgar and disgusting character,
abounding in references and suggestions that would not be listened
to outside of the theatre. The peddlers of these rare bits of stage
humor choose all manner of make-ups to set off their stock in trade.
A gorgeous plaid suit with baggy trousers and short coat topped by a
high white hat, and the outfit completed with a cane; or a wardrobe
consisting of a semi-respectable thin-sleeved, square-tailed frock
coat and high-water broadcloth pants, with polished and towering
stove-pipe hat; or a hod-carrier's rig; or any half-idiotic attempt to
duplicate a workingman's get-up--a "gas-house tarrier," who tells you
about Micky Duffy having got a job to wheel out smoke or to suck wind
from bladders,--any of these may be chosen. The clothes may differ,
but the jokes, the "business," and the facial pictures will always be
found the same. Canes and stove-pipe hats--white or black--are even
more necessary for the success of an Irish comedian than is talent
of any kind; the canes are used for thumping the floor of the stage,
and the stove-pipe hats for banging each other in the face, for this
class of comedians always travel in pairs. There is a great deal of
floor-thumping and hat-slapping in one of their acts, and among the
rough acrobatic aspirants to fame the feet are freely used upon each
other, and there is a reckless lot of falling and tumbling in breakneck
style upon the stage.
In making up his face the Irish comedian generally likes to indulge
in a shrubbery of beard around the neck under either a clean shaven
or stubble-strewn chin; if he aims at anything like decency in his
appearances he will affect only brushy side-whiskers. A red expression
around the nose and under the eyes, and a red or black wig to match
his special eccentricity, complete his needs in this respect. The two
specimens of Irish comedians that I have chosen for presentation here
were of the alleged neat type in their profession. They were travelling
with Tony Pastor when I saw them, and in their outward aspect greatly
resembled Harry and Johnny Kernell. They were credited with holding a
high position in their particular line, and their names were on the
walls and fences in letters a foot long; in addition to this they came
on late in the programme, which is always a sure indication of the
importance of the estimate placed on an act or artist by the management.
But here comes one of them. The Stein Sisters have just finished a
song-and-dance, "the flat," for the street scene comes together, the
orchestra with a wild flourish of bass drum and cornet strikes up a
familiar Irish melody, and, after a few bars, one of the comedians
enters. He is tall, wears a gray woollen suit of fashionable cut, a
hat that never in the world would sit on an Irish head; a red-haired
wig, partly bald, is secured under the hat; gaiters with black
over-gaiters clothe the feet, and the face is smooth and genteel,
except upon the chin, whence a long thin beard protrudes like a
plowshare. An ordinary twenty-five-cent cane puts the finishing touches
to his wardrobe. He looks like a hack-driver out for a holiday, or a
Kerry Patch politician dressed for a Skirmishing Fund picnic. He faces
the audience from the middle of the lower part of the stage as boldly
as if he were going to entertain them with something new. He pretends
to be angry, and when the music has ceased, begins to pace wildly up
and down the front of the stage, as he shouts regardless of all the
rules of common sense and elocution:--
"The oidea av callin' me a tarrier! Why a Spanyard can't walk the
shtreets nowadays widout bein' taken for a Mick or a tarrier!"
There are always a few indiscreet people in the audience who laugh at
this sally, and the comedian goes on: "But there's no use talkin', my
b'y's bad as the rest av 'em. Whin he wint away from home, two years
ago, he sez to me, sez he: 'Father, whin you hear from me ag'in I'll
be President av the United States.' I got a letter from him last week
sayin' he was wan av the foinest shoemakers in the State's prison."
This also raises a laugh, and he continues: "But there's nawthin' but
trouble in this wurrld. The other day I bought a horse, and the man
tould me he'll throt a mile in two minits; and be heavens he could
do it only fur wan thing--the disthance is too much fur the toime.
[Laughter by the audience.] I'm railly ashamed ivery toime I take that
animal out a roidin', fur I've got to put a soign upon him sayin',
'This is a horse.' [Laughter.] My woife an' her mother tuck the horse
out fur a droive in the park the other day; the horse run away, the
buggy upsot, an' my woife and mother-in-law war thrun out an' kilt.
Now, whether you belave me or not, more than five hundred married min
have bin afther me thryin' to b'y that horse. [Laughter by the male
portion of the audience.] But I won't sell him, because I'm thinkin'
av gettin' married ag'in meself. [Laughter.] I've got a gerrl--she's
a swate crayther av sixteen summers, several hard winters [titter],
and I think she's put in a couple av hard falls [laughter]; but she'll
spring up ag'in all right. [Loud and indiscriminate laughter.] I tuck
her to the shlaughter-house the other day to see 'em kill hogs. She wuz
watchin' 'em butcher the poor craythers whin all to wonst she turns to
me an' sez, sez she, 'Whin'll yure turn come, dear John?' [Laughter.]
We're married now. My woife is very fond of cats. Three weeks ago she
axed me to make her a prisint av wan, and I tuck wan home. That noight
the cat got into my woife's bed-chamber, got into the bed, sucked her
breath, and in the mornin' my woife was dead. The other noight I wint
out an' got dhrunk, wint home and got in bed; the same cat kem and
sucked my breath, and be heavens! whither ye belave me or not, in the
mornin' the cat was dead!"
There are many persons in the audience who seem not to have read this
story in the original Greek,--for it appears among the queer things
Hierokles, the Joe Miller of ancient times, wrote,--and these persons
laugh at the ghastly joke, while the orchestra gives a chord, and the
comedian, tilting his hat forward, flourishing his cane and walking
around the stage with the air of a man who has done an act of charity
of which he is proud, at last comes down to the foot-lights and
sings:--
I'm Levi McGinnis
The alderman! The alderman!
I'm Levi McGinnis
The alderman so gay.
Or some equally nonsensical and jingling lines, after which he
dances a few steps and hurriedly exits. As he is going off at one
side his partner comes on at the opposite side with another armful
of "chestnuts"--as they call worn-out gags, in the show business.
The partner is known as Solomon O'Toole. He is dressed in square-cut
frock coat, high vest, and short pantaloons, has a squatty, white,
square-top, stiff hat, side-whiskers,--"Galway sluggers" or "Carolinas"
they are usually called,--carries a cane, and altogether from the
expression of his face seems a quiet and harmless fellow. His tongue is
broguey but clear, and he speaks with a rapidity which suggests that he
is either ashamed of what he is saying or is afraid he will forget some
part of it. He says:--
"Now, I'm a man can shtand a joak, but whin I go into a barber shop on
Sunday mornin' and the colored barber pins a newspaper under me chin
an' hands me a towel to read, its goin' a little too far. [Laughter.]
But whin a man goes out in the mornin', these days, there's no knowin'
whether or not he'll come back ag'in at night. The other day I went to
see a friend o' moine named John Gilligan, who lives at Newton Stuart,
about tin moile from Poketown, on the Hog an' Hominy Road, an' he tuck
me to hear a South Caroliny pr'acher who was pr'achin' an eloquint
sarmin. Everything wint all roight until the pr'acher sez, sez he,
"When God med the fust man he stud him up ag'inst a fince to dhry!" I
hollered out, "Who med the fince?" an' be heavens, they bounced me
on the impulse av the momint. [Laughter.] But az I sed afore, whin a
man goes out in the mornin' he never knows what's goin' to happen.
The other mornin' I wint over to the Grand Paycific Hotel--I go there
every mornin'; there's a friend av mine boardin' there be the waik,
an' whin he laves town I go over an' ate his males for him; but I
wint over there th' other mornin' an' picked up a paper an' I read
an arteckle headed 'The Chinaise Must Go.' Now, be heavens, I don't
want the fellow that's got my three shurrts to go until I git 'em back
from him ag'in. [Laughter.] A friend av moine named Gilligan bought a
goat the other day, an' he goes about the shtreets atin' eysthercans
an' knockin' the childher over in the gutter. He butted over a little
nagur b'y th' other mornin', and whin Gilligan was taken to coort he
summoned me as a witness for the prosecution. Whin I tuck the witness
shtand the judge axed me what me name waz, an' I sed Michael Mahoney;
an' he axed me what war me nationality, whin be way av a joak I sez,
sez I, 'I-talyan,' an' be heavens, he gev me six months for perjuree.
[Laughter.] I wint into a salune th' other day; some av the b'ys war
settin' around a table playin' cassinoe, an' whin they saw me come in,
one av 'em sez, sez he, 'Luck out for the Mick, or he'll swipe up all
the lunch!' [Laughter.] I've got a b'y that the Chicago base-ball club
used for a foul flag on rainy days. [Smiles.] They threw a ball to him
th' other day an' hit him in th' eye; I tuck him to an occulist who
tuck the eye out an' laid it on a table; be heavens, a cat kem along
an' swallied the eye. [Smiles.] The docthor tould me to kum around
next day, an' I tuck the b'y wid me. The occulist had cut out wan av
his cat's eyes, an' he puts it into the b'ys head. [Audible smiles.]
Now the b'ys doin' fust rate, only whin he goes to bed at noight wan
eye stez open an' keeps roamin' around fur rats. [Laughter.] Gilligan
has got two b'ys. Wan av thim hasn' spint a cint fur two year; he'll
be out (of prison) in October. [Laughter.] The other b'y will make his
mark in the world; in fact he med his mark on me the other noight. He
put a tack on a chair with the belligerint ind to'rds me, an' whin I
wint to sit down I got up ag'in very suddintly. I don't care how ould
a man is, or how tired he is, whin he sits down on the belligerint ind
av a tack he is bound to assoom agility an' youthfulness. [Laughter.]
It may be but a momentary assumption, but the agility is always there.
The other mornin' I intered a friend's salune. There war grape shkins
on the flure, an' I sez to him, 'How do ye do, Mr. Cassidy? I see you
had a party last night.' 'What makes you think so?' sez he. 'Because I
see the grape shkins on the flure,' sez I. 'Thim's not grape shkins,'
sez he; 'thim's eyes. Some of the b'ys hed a fight here lasht noight an'
you're now surveyin' the battle-field.' [Laughter.] But I was expectin'
a friend av moine down here, Levi McGinnis. Ah, here he comes. Levi,
how are you?"
"I'm well, Solomon," says the other, who has come on the stage and is
shaking hands with Solomon. "What kept you so quick?"
"I'd been here sooner," is the smart response, "only I couldn't get
down any later."
"It waz a very wet winther we had lasht winther, Solomon?"
"Yes. Did you buy any rubbers yet this year?"
"Not this year."
"Goodyear."
"Where did you go when you left me th' other noight?" Levi continues.
"I went down to the maskeerade ball."
"I heard you was there. They put you out because you wouldn't take your
mask off after 12 o'clock."
"But I didn't have any mask on. It waz me own face."
"That's what I tould them," says Levi, "but they wouldn't belave me."
This raises a laugh. Solomon looks for a moment with astonishment at
Levi, then thumps his cane against the floor in an angry manner, and
walks in a circle around the stage as if terribly disgusted at having
allowed himself to be sold. This look, cane-thumping and walk-around
are stereotyped Hibernianisms, and are introduced at the end of each
"sell." As Solomon O'Toole gets sold all the time this end of the
business is as exclusively his as if he had a patent on it.
"I went into a salune this mornin'," said Solomon, "to git a glass av
beer. I got me beer, ped foive sints, and waz jist goin' to blow the
foam off it when somebody cries out, 'Foight!' I laid down me beer an'
run out the dure to see where the foight waz, but there was no foight.
Whin I got back me beer waz gone. I called for another glass an' waz
goin' to dhrink it down, when somebody shouts, 'Foire!' Now I wanted
to see the foire an' I didn't want to lose me beer, so I pulls out a
bit av pincil an' paper an' wroites on it, 'I have shpit in this beer.'
When I puts the paper on tap av the beer an' wint out to see the foire.
There was no foire, an' what do you think happin'd whin I got back?"
"Your beer waz gone," said Levi.
"No it wazn't," Solomon interposed. "The beer waz there an' the bit
av paper waz on tap av it, but some sucker had wrote roight ander my
wroitin', 'So hev I.'"
The conclusion of the story is of course greeted with laughter.
"Here, Solomon," says Levi, "I want to make you a prisent."
"An' what's this?" Asks Solomon, examining the article that has been
handed to him.
"A shoe horn."
"An' what do I want wid an ould shoe horn?"
"Thry an' get your hat on your head with it" answers Levi, amid an
outburst of merriment from the audience.
"How long can a man live widout brains?" is Solomon's next conundrum.
"I don't know," says Levi. "How ould are you now?" [Laughter.]
"What is a plate of hash?" Levi asks.
"An insult to a square meal," Solomon answers triumphantly.
"Thin you can shtand more insults than any other man I ever saw," says
Levi, whereat Solomon's indignation causes him to manœuvre to the right
of stage in proper position for the next question.
"What's the diff'rence betwane you and a jackass?" he asks, looking
sternly at Levi.
The latter measures the floor with his eye, and answers, "About twelve
foot." Solomon thumps his cane against the floor once more, looks
bereft of all the pleasure he ever possessed on earth, and moving up to
Levi, says:--
"No, that's not the roight answer."
"Well," says Levi, "I'd loike to know what is the diff'rince betwane
you an' a jackass?"
"No diff'rince," shouts Solomon, throwing up his hands, and coming
down the stage shaking with laughter. Suddenly the fact dawns upon
him that he has made a mule of himself. His face assumes a bewildered
expression, and he hastily returns from the scene followed by Levi
McGinnis, while the orchestra strikes up a lively air in anticipation
of the encore which is to call the comedians out to do a wild Irish
reel.
This is a fair sample of the dialogue indulged in by a team of Irish
comedians of average ability, and the reader will at once understand
from it what ridiculous and almost disgusting language and incidents
are made use of to raise a laugh, and how very easy it is to please
a variety theatre audience. Pat Rooney's shrug of the shoulders and
Land-League phiz, or somebody else's queer walk becomes the rage, and
immediately there are a hundred weak and pitiful imitators. So, too,
with such a dialogue as the foregoing; it seems to "catch on" with
the public, and every Irish comedian on the stage must appropriate
at least a portion of it,--and usually the very worst portion. It is
safe to assume that the variety stage to-day has no so-called North of
Ireland Irishman who does not fling at least a half-dozen of the sorry
witticisms I have here given, at the heads of his audience. There is
no law against it,--no protection for the patrons of the theatres, who
can do nothing else than to grin and stand it,--and therefore the Irish
comedian and his "chestnuts" forever flourish in this land of the free
and home of the brave.