MYSELF AND OTHERS
[Illustration: JESSIE MILLWARD AS LADY MANNERS IN “A SCHOOL FOR
HUSBANDS.”]
_Myself and Others_
_By Jessie Millward_ (_In Collaboration
with J. B. Booth_).
_With 18 illustrations._
_LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW, E. C._
1923
CONTENTS
PAGE
FOREWORD 7
CHAPTER I. MY FATHER, CHARLES MILLWARD 9
“ II. EARLY DAYS 29
“ III. HENRY IRVING 50
“ IV. THE LYCEUM 66
“ V. FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 81
“ VI. THE ADELPHI 101
“ VII. ADELPHI DAYS 120
“ VIII. DRURY LANE 144
“ IX. BACK TO THE LYCEUM 165
“ X. AUTHORS AND OTHERS 188
“ XI. A PROPHECY OF EVIL 218
“ XII. WILLIAM TERRISS 228
“ XIII. CHARLES FROHMAN 241
“ XIV. AMERICA 257
“ XV. COMEDY AND TRAGEDY 276
“ XVI. THE WAR AND AFTER 294
PARTS I HAVE PLAYED 315
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
JESSIE MILLWARD, as Lady Manners in “A School for
Husbands” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
CHARLES MILLWARD 18
THE MILLWARD FAMILY 18
IRVING AND TOOLE (_Caricature by Sir Herbert Tree_) 52
IRVING AT REHEARSAL (_Drawing by J. Bernard Partridge_) 70
JESSIE MILLWARD as Hero 76
DAVID BELASCO 102
JESSIE MILLWARD as Ann Chute in “The Colleen Bawn” 108
JESSIE MILLWARD and WILLIAM TERRISS in “The
Harbour Lights” 120
JESSIE MILLWARD as Pauline in “The Lady of Lyons” 138
G. R. SIMS and HENRY PETTITT 208
DANIEL FROHMAN 246
JESSIE MILLWARD as Lady Algy in “Lord and Lady
Algy” 252
JESSIE MILLWARD as Lady Doura in “My Lady’s Lord” 256
JESSIE MILLWARD as Lady Eastney in “Mrs. Dane’s
Defence” 260
JESSIE MILLWARD as Beatrice 266
SIR SQUIRE BANCROFT 284
JOHN GLENDINNING 284
FOREWORD
Regrets have an uncomfortable habit of late arrival, and never until I
sat down to recall the past had I regretted that I had not kept a diary.
For these pages I have been compelled to rely on old letters, faded old
cuttings, old memories, and old friends. And if in any instance I have
failed to acknowledge the help which I have received, my omission will,
I hope, be ascribed to accident or sheer forgetfulness.
First I must pay my debt of gratitude to that splendid and courtly
veteran of a grand old school, Sir Squire Bancroft, for his kindness
and assistance in recalling incidents in my family history before I was
even of an age to keep a diary. Mr. Belasco I thank for his portrait,
and to Mr. Daniel Frohman I give my deep thanks for his picture and
kindly words of encouragement:--
“I am sure your reminiscences will be most interesting, and will cover
a wide range of theatrical activities. I remember so well my early
visits annually to London, and my seeing you so earnestly active
at the Adelphi, when I used to drop in to see my dear old friend,
Will Terriss. Now so many of the old friends are gone--Kendal, Tree,
Alexander, Hare, Wyndham--but time rolls on.”
To Mr. Bernard Partridge I am indebted for the permission to publish
his valuable and little known drawing of Sir Henry Irving at rehearsal;
to the proprietors of the “Era” I owe my thanks for Sir Herbert Tree’s
drawing of Sir Henry Irving and John Toole, and, wherever I have been
able to trace it, the name of the photographer appears beneath each
photographic illustration. To Mr. Tom Terriss I am indebted for the
deeply interesting views on the future of the film which appear in the
last chapter.
J. M.
MYSELF AND OTHERS
CHAPTER I
I!--Henry Irving and my mother.--My father, Charles
Millward.--Liverpool associations.--The “Porcupine.”--Greeks in
Liverpool.--Amateur theatricals.--The “Illustrious Stranger.”--E.
A. Sothern.--Journalism.--Liverpool papers.--An editor of the
old school.--Justin McCarthy.--M. J. Whitty.--The penny “Daily
Post.”--Lord Russell of Liverpool.--A journalists’ club.--Barry
Sullivan.--The Liverpool Literary and Dramatic Society.--A melting
performance.--My father’s first play produced at the Adelphi.--Albert
Smith and Robert Brough.--A Temple supper party.--Sala, Mayhew and
others.--Coaxing the “gods.”--Mayoral patronage.--Mr. Gladstone and an
unlucky supporter.--The “London Letter.”--Mrs. John Wood.--The Walker
Art Gallery.--Mr. Philip Rathbone.
I!
And now everybody tells me that the worst is over.
Of all the vowels “I” is the most stark and unashamed; “A” has a
certain graceful angularity; “E” is full of cosy nooks, “O” and “U” are
cheery, rotund little fellows, full of good humour--but “I”!
So when people have suggested to me that some record of my life and
art might be of interest both to the public with which I grew up and
to the public which is growing up, a horrid vision presented itself
to me of rigid, uncompromising “I’s” flashing through the pages as
telegraph posts--and they are ugly and uncompromising enough, in all
conscience--flash past through the windows of an express train.
But as behind the telegraph posts which fringe the railway line
there is often interesting, often beautiful, often strange and
thought-provoking scenery, so behind the “I’s” which flash past in this
survey of my life’s journey there will, I think and hope, be found some
pictures of brilliant and interesting people, records of high artistic
endeavour, and scenes from the great tragicomedy of life which will
help the reader to forget the hideous first person singular.
And if the reader should get one half so bored as I shall become with
the pronoun, he or she can always substitute mentally the impersonal
“one” or the pleasantly vague “they.”
* * * * *
“Of course your daughter will go on the stage,” said Mr. Henry Irving
to my mother after hearing me recite one evening at our house in Malden
Crescent when I was about fourteen years of age.
“I would sooner see her in her grave,” was my mother’s very
uncompromising reply.
And yet within a few years of this stern declaration I entered on a
stage career with her consent and approval, and--but I seem to have
begun, if not quite in the middle, rather far from the beginning, so I
had better go back and explain how Mr. Irving came to be inflicted with
the recitations of a young lady of fourteen.
My father, Charles Millward, was a familiar and popular figure in the
theatrical world. A clever journalist--amongst other things, he wrote
the London Letter to the Liverpool “Porcupine,” a bright little journal
which had a considerable reputation on the banks of the Mersey, and of
which he was at one time the proprietor--the author of many pantomime
“books,” and a prominent member, and one of the fathers, of the Savage
Club, in the days when the club-room had a sanded floor and its weekly
“function” was a tripe and onion supper, he was a typical Bohemian of
the witty, brilliant type of which there seemed so many in those days.
Born in Liverpool, my father, after being educated at the Liverpool
College School in Shaw Street, passed into the office of a general
merchant in South Castle Street, Liverpool.
There were no Greeks in Liverpool in those days--times have indeed
changed!
The shipping business of the few firms of that nationality in London
and Manchester was delegated to local agents, and at that time, too,
the great steamship companies of Burns and MacIver, Bibby, Moss, and
Papayanni were unborn, and clipper schooners and brigantines were the
only traders between Liverpool and the Mediterranean ports.
These traders usually loaded and unloaded in the King’s and Queen’s
Docks, and it was part of my father’s duty to see that none of his
firm’s packages were shut out. All packed goods for Russian ports were
sealed by the consul, who kept the wretched juniors waiting for his
“certificates” hours in his dingy old office off Mersey Street.
It was during my father’s apprenticeship that the Greek invasion of
Liverpool began, and towards the close of his articles he gazed for the
first time on a real live Greek. The young gentleman in question was
“consigned” to his employer with secret instructions to “learn all he
could as quickly as possible” and pave the way for the establishment
of a direct branch of the house instead of a mere agency. Other
young Greeks arrived in Liverpool about the same time with similar
instructions, and, as an inevitable result, the English agents
were soon swept away and the first Greek houses in Liverpool were
established.
The first of the invading firms was, I fancy, Messrs. Cassavetti
and Co., then followed Papayanni, who have made their name in the
commercial annals of the town. Messrs. Giannopulo, Cochilani and
Maovrogordato came next, and to them succeeded the Rallis, the
Lascaridis, the Negropontes, the Georgalas, the Prichas, and other
firms of classic name and honourable repute, and my father was
transferred, with the office fixtures, to the firm for which his
employer had previously acted as agent. Larger offices were rented
from Mr. George Holt (who sensibly collected his own rents in those
primitive days) in Fenwick Chambers, and my father occupied the
dignified position of cashier and chief clerk.
During the fitting-up of the new offices his Greek employer rarely
appeared, but one day he turned up as my father was settling accounts
with the “poor rates.”
“What is that?” demanded the Greek gentleman.
“The rates.”
As there seemed to be no poor rates nor local taxes in Greece, matters
had to be explained to my father’s bewildered chief, who, with a keen
appreciation of the situation, turned to the collector and said: “We’re
paying you prompt money, so of course you’ll allow the usual discount
for cash?”
That rate-collector cast a bewildered look upon the verdant foreigner,
and, with a groan, fled, leaving my father to explain matters.
It was surely the first and last experience of a rate-collector being
asked to allow discount for ready cash.
Those were the days of late hours for the juniors, and I have heard
my father tell how many a time he was kept until midnight waiting for
captains to sign bills of lading. Bahr, Behrend and Stewart’s office in
Cable Street rarely closed before the small hours, and their captains
were usually to be found when urgently wanted at an adjoining hostelry,
kept by the firm’s cashier, a Mr. Ryley, and later known as “Kelly’s.”
Another “late-hour” office was Leech, Harrison and Forwood’s, in North
John Street, where twelve to fifteen hours was quite a usual day’s work
for the clerks. But the “late-hour” custom was as general as it was
reprehensible. The leading merchants all followed it, and the droning
manner in which business was then conducted made it almost a necessity.
Hard-worked as he was, my father found time to indulge in his pet hobby
of private theatricals. Undeterred by the drudgery of office, he took
up the cause of the drama, and with several kindred spirits started,
in a room in Upper Newington Street, a very modest amateur dramatic
society, which in due time gave a performance which was very highly
praised.
It should be added that the audience, being admitted free, and being
provided with tea and coffee between the pieces, were expected to be
eulogistic. Other performances followed, and as my father was the
acknowledged leading actor of the company, he began to regard himself
as the coming man. He had even been permitted to write a notice of his
own performance in a local paper, so his assumption seemed justifiable.
One evening, however, his evil genius appeared in the shape of a gentle
youth, with chubby face and flaxen hair, who expressed a desire to join
the theatrical ranks.
“What can you play?” asked my father.
“Anything,” replied the gentle youth, with becoming modesty.
The company was then rehearsing the old farce, “The Illustrious
Stranger,” in which my father played Benjamin Bowbell, so the mild
young stranger was cast for a small part and won my father’s heart with
some ingenuous praises of his acting.
The eventful night arrived, and my father was happy in the belief
that not only was a great personal triumph in store, but that my
grandfather--whose hatred of actors and acting, even of the amateur
variety, was deeply rooted--had been kept in the dark.
His hopes and fears had been imparted to his new friend, whose sympathy
cheered him, and whose watchfulness filled him with a sense of
security. The two youths dressed in the same room, but as the friend
only appeared in the last scene, he generously acted as “dresser” and
assisted my father in his make-up.
About twenty minutes before the rise of the curtain the dear young
friend pronounced my father’s “make-up” perfect, and left the
dressing-room for a moment, to return with the ghastly news that my
grandfather was “in front.”
“The old man,” he said, “is in the most awful rage, and threatens all
sorts of things if you put a foot on the stage!”
“What on earth’s to be done?” cried my father in terror. “How did he
get wind of it?”
“I’ll tell you what to do,” replied his kind friend. “Get out of your
clothes and make-up, and clear off home as fast as you can. _I’ll_ try
to get through the part for you.”
As my grandfather was not a man to be trifled with, the advice was
quickly followed, and as speedily as possible my father fled home from
the scene of his expected triumph. An hour afterwards, my grandfather
arrived home panting, shook him warmly by the hand, and assured him
that he “would never be taken in again.”
My father was properly grateful to his kind young friend--until next
day. Next day he learned that the bland young gentleman, having made
up his mind to play the part (in which he was letter-perfect), had
written anonymously to my grandfather, and----! The worst of it was,
he played the part to perfection; the audience--my father’s invited
guests--applauded him enthusiastically, and my father was forgotten!
The same ingenious youth since then played many practical jokes. He
also played many parts. A good fellow, a fine actor, and a Liverpudlian
bred and born, E. A. Sothern’s name will live long in theatrical
history, and not only as the original Lord Dundreary.
Not long after this catastrophe my father began to dabble in
journalism, and became an acknowledged paragraph writer for the weekly
newspapers (there were no dailies then), and occasionally acted as
dramatic critic.
It was in the year 1853 that steady-going Liverpudlians were startled
by the announcement of the publication of the town’s first daily
newspaper. Up to that time there were the “Albion” on Monday, the
“Courier” on Wednesday, and the “Journal,” “Mail,” and “Chronicle”
on Saturday. Other semi-weekly papers were the “Standard,” “Times,”
and “Mercury.” It was a jog-trot age journalistically, and, taking
the Liverpool papers all in all, they possessed a high average of
respectability.
The “Albion,” the property of the Bean family, was edited by Mr.
Herbert, and sub-edited by Mr. Whitehead, later a thriving auctioneer,
and its business man was Mr. Thomas Atherton, founder of the firm of
Wade and Atherton. The “Courier,” the great Church and State organ, was
the pride of the Tory party, but the editor who was later to bring it
into its highest prosperity, Mr. John Willox, who died some years ago
Sir John Willox, was at that time receiving his journalistic training
in the office of Messrs. Lee and Nightingale.
Of the Liberal papers the chief were the “Journal,” edited by Mr. M.
J. Whitty, the “Times,” under Mr. Thomas Bains, on which, under the
fostering care of the sub-editor Mr. Thomas Lee, my father fleshed
his maiden steel, and the “Mercury,” with which were connected Hugh
Shimmin, Edward Rushton, C. E. Macqueen, John Finch and Nathaniel Caine.
The “Chronicle,” formerly the property of Messrs. Ross and Nightingale,
but in its later days owned by Messrs. Willman and Smith, was edited by
Mr. John Dignan, one of the real old school of journalists. Ponderous
in style, but painstaking and conscientious, John Dignan’s editorship
gave a solemn tone to the paper. But once out of his editorial
sanctum, behind his “yard of clay” in the old “Brunswick,” or imbibing
his half-pint of Welsh from brown jug and tallboy in the “Coach and
Horses,” the solemn editor was one of the most jovial souls. It was in
his company that my father first met Thomas Spencer, to whose inventive
genius the great firm of Elkington and Co. originally owed most of
their fame and prosperity.
The time of my father’s entry into journalism was a period of
transition, and most of those old steady-going papers were in their
death-throes. On Saturday, September 21, 1853, Mr. Charles Willmer
brought out the “Northern Daily Times,” at the price of threepence
a copy, or fourpence stamped. Mr. Samuel Phillips Day was the chief
editor, and the staff consisted of a sub-editor, a financial editor,
six leader-writers and six reporters, one of the latter being my
father’s friend, Justin McCarthy, later member for Longford and head
of the parliamentary staff of the “Daily News.” In June, 1855, the
price of the paper was reduced to twopence, and a fortnight later still
further reduced to a penny.
The fight was a plucky one, but the town was not then equal to the
maintenance of a daily, and after a fitful existence the “Northern
Daily Times” died through lack of nourishment. But the seed had been
sown.
During the death-throes of the “Northern Daily Times,” my father’s
colleague, Mr. M. J. Whitty, conceived the notion of following up the
idea which had ended so disastrously for Mr. Willmer’s paper, and
startled the public one fine day by announcing the penny “Daily Post.”
How that famous paper blossomed into success under the founder’s
vigorous management, how it maintained its prestige under the brilliant
editorship of his successor, Mr. E. R. Russell, later Sir Edward
Russell, and who died quite recently Lord Russell of Liverpool, are
facts well known in journalistic history.
Later the “Mercury” became a daily, and still later was absorbed by
the “Post,” but it should not be forgotten that Charles Willmer was
the adventurous pioneer of the Liverpool penny daily, and was, in one
sense, the Northcliffe of his day.
About this time, thanks to the introduction of Robert Brough, my father
was made a member of an old-fashioned club of journalists, who held
their weekly meetings at a quaint old hostelry in Basnett Street,
called “The Coach and Horses,” long since swallowed up by the huge
Compton House. The chief members of the club were John Dignan, then the
editor of the “Liverpool Chronicle”--Robert Brough, Ross--also of the
“Chronicle,” Herbert of the “Albion,” and Michael James Whitty of the
“Journal” (grandfather of Dame May Whitty).
Shortly after my father’s admission to the club there was some little
stir in theatrical circles over the advent of a new actor whom Mr.
W. R. Copeland, then manager of the Theatre Royal, had engaged for
“leading business.” The wily manager had given the new man a Saturday
evening for his first appearance, as in those days Saturday was an
“off” night, and shrewd managers were accustomed to venture “new stars”
on the nights when the theatre was worst attended. Then, if the new
appearance turned out to be a failure, he could be quietly sent to
the right-about with few people the wiser, and the manager little the
poorer.
On the first Saturday night of his admission to the club, his editor
told my father that a new actor--a young man from Edinburgh--was to
make his first appearance in Liverpool, and, as a notice was expected
in the Monday “Albion,” it was decreed that someone was to go and see
him. The programme--that gloomy old play “The Iron Chest”--was not
attractive, and no one volunteered, so my father, as the recruit, was
ordered to report the doings of the unknown.
[Illustration: THE MILLWARD FAMILY.]
[Illustration: CHARLES MILLWARD.]
Abusing his luck, he left the cosy club-room, and in two or three
minutes found himself one of about a score of people in the dress
circle of the Theatre Royal. The house was not a quarter filled and
was a listless one, and even the “orders” in the boxes and pit looked
depressed. The play proceeded drearily until the monotony of the
performance was broken by the entrance of the Sir Edward Mortimer--a
tall, slim young man, graceful in bearing, of good presence, with
expressive face, brilliant eyes, and a “taking” voice. A decidedly
attractive appearance, but unmistakably nervous. The young man’s
entrance roused the audience a little; and their awakening made him
forget his nervousness. Presently the pit muttered approbation, and the
gallery began to applaud. The dress circle ceased to yawn, the “orders”
lost their lethargy, and the house made the pleasant discovery that an
actor of undoubted ability was before it. At the fall of the curtain my
father returned to report to his editor. He explained how the new actor
had worked on his audience, how he had been called before the curtain,
how a delighted manager had appeared and had announced that his new
“star” would appear as Hamlet on the Monday, and how the house had
applauded rapturously.
The young and nervous actor who made his first appearance in Liverpool
as Sir Edward Mortimer in “The Iron Chest” was to make a great name for
himself, and to become the last and perhaps greatest of the old school
of tragedians, and his name was Barry Sullivan.
The theatre thus began to possess a powerful attraction for my father
and his youthful friends, and it was not long before they constituted
themselves into a regularly organized body, “The Liverpool Literary and
Dramatic Society,” of which Mr. Robert Crompton was first president.
About this time a number of local philanthropists conceived the idea of
establishing what may be termed coffee-room places of amusement in the
lower quarters of the town. A committee was appointed, including such
well-known Liverpool names as Mr. Philip Rathbone, Mr. George Melly,
and other local worthies. Recreation rooms were taken in Bevington Bush
and other festive localities, in which coffee was provided at a penny
a cup, with no charge for draughts or newspapers, and the members of
the dramatic society gave their services as entertainers. A sort of
“free-and-easy” was established, at which on certain nights members of
the committee orated and recited, and the penny people might volunteer
sentimental and comic songs.
One eventful evening my father appeared to entertain the penny audience
with a lecture on Thomas Hood, with readings from his works by
Frederick Maccabe, Robert Crompton and other friends. Mr. George Melly
was in the chair, and Mr. Philip Rathbone superintended the “front of
the house.”
The lecture seemed to go well; several of the poet’s masterpieces were
admirably recited by my father’s friends, and he felt he had time
to take it coolly. But how was it that the chairman was continually
mopping his face? Above all, how was it that the lecturer, taking
it coolly as he thought, had not a dry thread on his back? Then the
chairman began to show obvious signs of distress. A powerful recitation
of “The Bridge of Sighs” brought out a big display of handkerchiefs,
which were used, however, to mop foreheads instead of eyes; the members
of the committee were visibly dissolving. There was a pervading feeling
of moist depression.
“For heaven’s sake,” whispered the chairman, “cut it short, or I shall
melt!”
“There are only four people left in front!” hissed a committeeman, and
the Hood lecture came to an abrupt end.
There was a bread bakery beneath the recreation room, and the baker had
chosen the precise hour at which the entertainment started to “fire-up.”
My father’s first journey to London was in 1851, the year of the Great
Exhibition, but, I fancy, far more important to him than the Great
Exhibition was the fact that the great object of his existence--up
to that period--had been attained, and that living, breathing actors
and actresses of real celebrity were nightly speaking his words and
delighting crowded audiences with his wit.
A dear friend, Joe Nightingale, and himself had given birth to a real
live piece, which had been accepted by Mr. Benjamin Webster, and had
been brought out at the Adelphi Theatre, where it ran for seventy-one
nights.
So, in a sense, my association with the Adelphi Theatre started before
I was born.
The name of the piece was “Bloomerism,” or “The Follies of the Day,”
and in the cast were Miss Woolgar, Miss Kathleen Fitzwilliam, Miss
Ellen Chaplin, George Honey, Paul Bedford, Parselli, and the famous O.
Smith. Alfred Mellon was musical director, and Leigh Murray, the father
of Alma Murray, stage manager.
Much of the success of the piece was due to the friendly offices of
Albert Smith and Robert Brough. My father had long been on terms of
affectionate intimacy with the latter, and had made the acquaintance
of the former when Smith was gathering material for his novel,
“Christopher Tadpole.” Cheshire salt mines had been explored, ham and
eggs eaten at the old “Ring o’ Bells” at Bidston, and George’s Dock
carefully inspected and made a note of. The novelist and entertainer
was also accompanied in his rambles by another friend, Mr. Joe
Nightingale, one of the founders of the big printing firm of Lee and
Nightingale.
Albert Smith, William and Robert Brough, and other old friends gave my
father a hearty welcome in London, and introduced him to the Kingdom
of Bohemia. To celebrate the Adelphi success, a supper party was given
within the shadow of Temple Bar in the chambers of Mr. Soutar, of the
“Morning Advertiser,” and as the guests emerged from their friend’s
chambers day was beginning to dawn.
Amongst the party were “Gus” Mayhew, Robert and William Brough, Andrew
Halliday, George Augustus Sala, and others, and they started cheerfully
homeward. As ill luck would have it, they came into collision with a
party of opposition revellers, and from words came to blows.
Some hours later my father accompanied Brough to Mayhew’s room, and
found “Gus” in bed with a bandaged head. To him they recounted their
deeds of valour in the morning’s grey.
“We let them have it hot,” said Brough. “One of ’em, a big ruffian,
set on me, but I knocked him down and bumped his head against the
kerbstone.”
“Did you?” said Mayhew, in his gloomiest manner and raising his
bandaged head, “_I was the man!_”
The callers hurriedly left the sick room, and that same afternoon my
father returned to Liverpool.
Meanwhile the Literary and Dramatic Society throve and prospered, and
went in for annual “state” performances, in spite of gloomy prophecies
to the effect that “play-acting” would bring ruin upon its members.
Amongst the original members are many names well known in Liverpool
annals, such as W. H. Peat, the founder of “The Journal of Commerce,”
T. C. Leete, of the well-known firm of Branch and Leete, T. W. Hughes,
J. H. Nightingale, Barry Sullivan, W. M. Nuttall, W. J. Hammond, Fred
Maccabe, George Meyrick, Fred Cummins, J. Forwood Tafe, and many
others, who became prosperous merchants and professional men.
The Society’s first venture as a constituted body was on behalf of the
Free Public Library, and it contributed some hundreds of volumes to the
town Library. Almost immediately afterwards, the Town Council adopted
the Free Library, and the town was asked for its support, but the
Literary and Dramatic Society were the first donors to the Shaw’s-brow
Library.
In addition to the “annual” performances, the Society had occasional
“wanders” into other towns, some of which were successful, and some of
which were--well, not quite so successful.
On one occasion, fresh from a big success in Liverpool with Douglas
Jerrold’s “Rent Day,” when over one hundred and fifty pounds had been
taken for a charity, my father and his friends took the piece, company,
and dresses to Bolton, and opened there to a five-pound house.
To make matters worse, W. J. Hammond, a nephew of Douglas Jerrold,
who played the part of Bullfrog, tried to coax the “gods” into a good
humour, and this was how he did it.
When the hisses began to predominate, he addressed the audience as
follows:--
“Have you chaps done up there?”
Whereupon the king of the gallery bawled:
“Noa; but it’s time _thou_ had.”
The curtain had to be dropped before the end of the comedy, to my
father’s disgust, for the second piece was to have been a new and
original farce from his pen.
Bullfrog’s loss of temper and defiance of the gallery got his fellows
into serious trouble. In an angry speech to the “gods” he intimated to
the sixpenny patrons that the company--amateurs as they might be--were
ready and willing to “take on the lot of ’em!” When the curtain was
abruptly dropped, the stage door-keeper appeared and announced to the
company that “Th’ gallery’s waitin’ for ye.”
It was.
The patrons in the upper regions had cheerfully accepted the challenge,
and were at the stage door anxious for the appearance of the
challengers.
Another dramatic venture of my father’s about this time was an
entertainment which he had composed called “The Rose, Shamrock and
Thistle, or Gleanings from the Minstrelsy of England, Ireland and
Scotland,” and which his friend E. L. Hime, the composer and vocalist,
took for a short tour, but, I fear, without success.
I always remember my father’s humorous description of the fate of this
youthful venture.
The first “show” was in the Isle of Man, during Whitsun week, and the
success was such that on the second night the piano had to be dispensed
with, and on the third night the gas was turned off. Then on to Wigan,
from which city Mr. Hime wired proudly that success was assured, as he
had secured the patronage of the Mayor.
Tremendously impressed, the author took a first-class return from
Liverpool to Wigan in order to be present at the historic performance.
His first disillusionment was not long in coming. It was Friday
night--the colliers’ pay day--and groups of men were assembled in the
street leading from the station. He mildly asked a gigantic collier who
blocked and blacked the way if he could direct him to the hall.
“A dunno, but a can punch thy yead,” was the giant’s immediate reply,
and he seemed miserable when my father declined to “have it out for
half a gallon.”
But worse was to come.
The hall at last found, the “door” was opened, and there was a rush
of two to the shilling seats, but those two came in with an “order”
from the printer and the billposter. Then two or three “sixpences”
sauntered in and began to make themselves disagreeable because it was
announced that the performance would not start until the arrival of the
Mayor. The total receipts at last amounted to about fifteen shillings,
with liabilities of seven or eight pounds, when my father’s spirits
were cheered by the arrival of the Mayor, a puffy little gentleman,
accompanied by a family comprising at least a dozen persons. Hastily
reckoning them up to produce to the speculation a sum of three pounds
sterling, my father respectfully saluted the chief magistrate and added
a nervous application for the price of admission.
“Why, dom it man!” said Wigan’s potentate. “What dost thee mean? I’m
th’ Mayor, and th’ patron, and, dom thee, what _more_ dost ’ee want?”
So the Mayor and his entourage were “dismissed,” the “sixpences” were
returned, the curtain never rose, and the two theatrical adventurers
once more sought the railway station.
In spite of these youthful experiences, which were not exactly
encouraging, my father continued to write and to dabble in journalism
and play-writing. Amongst his great friends at this time was Mr. M.
J. Whitty, the editor of the Liverpool “Daily Post,” and one of my
father’s favourite stories was of attending a political meeting with
him in support of Mr. Gladstone’s candidature for South Lancashire. The
meeting was held in the Liverpool Amphitheatre, and feeling ran high,
for it was the memorable election at which Mr. Gladstone was defeated
for Oxford University. It had soon become obvious that his seat for the
University was lost, and he had been nominated for South Lancashire.
The Amphitheatre was packed, crowds thronged the streets outside and
Mr. Gladstone’s reception was overwhelming. My father sat in one of the
boxes with Mr. Whitty and other friends, and the editor of the “Daily
Post” grimly hinted that he didn’t “think the building was strong
enough for the noise.”
Mr. Robertson Gladstone was in the chair. Mrs. Gladstone was in a
stage-box, and with her sat Mr. W. H. Gladstone, who had that day been
elected member for Chester.
Mr. Gladstone had begun his speech when a telegram was placed in his
hand.
After reading it, he said, with that pathos and dignity so peculiarly
his own: “I stand before you the rejected of Oxford,” and the audience
received the announcement with hisses and groans. There was a moment’s
lull, and then one jubilant voice was heard shouting: “Three cheers for
Oxford!”
Like wolves the indignant audience turned upon the unlucky soul who
had uttered the fatal words. In vain the chairman, the candidate, and
other leaders on the platform tried to quell the storm, but it was
not until the tactless gentleman’s coat had been torn from his back
that he was safely landed beside them. Then it was discovered, to the
consternation of the audience, that he was a prominent local Liberal.
“Let me _complete_ my speech,” he pleaded breathlessly; “let me
_complete_ my speech. What I intended to say was: ‘Three cheers for
Oxford, _which has sent us such a candidate_!’”
And the poor old gentleman immediately became the lion of the evening,
although his coat had a moment before been torn from his back.
My father’s association with Liverpool continued for some time after
he had set up his tent in London, for, in conjunction with two of
his greatest friends, Tom Cope, of tobacco fame, and Hugh Shimmin,
he started a bright little weekly paper, “The Porcupine,” of which
Mr. Shimmin was the editor, and which achieved much more than a local
reputation, owing largely to the dramatic criticisms and the brilliant
“London Letter”--the first of its kind--which were contributed by my
father. In his standard two-volume life of Irving, Mr. Austin Brereton
quotes largely from the “Porcupine” criticisms.
How well I remember that “London Letter!”
Like so many writing men, my father loathed the manual labour of pen
and ink, and when I grew old enough he used me as an amanuensis. The
political parts used to bore me to death, but I revelled in the work
when we came to the theatrical criticisms.
His first pantomime, “Little Snow White,” was produced in Liverpool
with great success, one scene in particular, of a looking-glass dance,
the looking-glass being in reality of gauze with another dancer behind
it--a novelty at the time--creating quite a furore. “Little Snow White”
was later produced at the Adelphi, with Mrs. John Wood in the title
rôle, and achieved a big success.
Another Liverpool connection which he kept up for many years was with
the Liverpool Autumn Exhibition at the Walker Art Gallery, to which he
was the corresponding honorary secretary in London, and on behalf of
which he used to visit the studios of the leading artists in company
with his friends Mr. Philip Rathbone and Alderman Samuelson, in order
to select pictures for the annual show.