The suspension of the patent being thus taken off, the younger multitude seemed to call aloud for two play-houses! Many desired another, from the common notion, that two would always create emulation, in the actors. Others too were as eager for them, from the natural ill-will that follows the fortunate or prosperous in any undertaking. Of this low malevolence we had, now and then, remarkable instances; we had been forced to dismiss an audience of a hundred and fifty pounds, from a disturbance spirited up, by obscure people, who never gave any better reason for it than that it was their fancy to support the idle complaint of one rival actress against another, in their several pretensions to the chief part in a new tragedy. But as this tumult seemed only to be the wantonness of English liberty, I shall not presume to lay any further censure upon it.

Now, notwithstanding this public desire of re-establishing two houses; and though I have allowed the former actors greatly our superiors; and the managers I am speaking of not to have been without their private errors, yet under all these disadvantages, it is certain, the stage, for twenty years before this time, had never been in so flourishing a condition.

But, in what I have said, I would not be understood to be an advocate for two play-houses; for we shall soon find that two sets of actors, tolerated in the same place, have constantly ended in the corruption of the theatre; of which the auxiliary entertainments, that have so barbarously supplied the defects of weak action, have, for some years past, been a flagrant instance; it may not, therefore, be here improper to shew how our childish Pantomimes first came to take so gross a possession of the stage.

I have upon several occasions, already observed, that when one company is too hard for another, the lower in reputation has always been forced to exhibit fine newfangled foppery, to draw the multitude after them; of these expedients, singing and dancing had formerly been most effectual; but, at the time I am speaking of, our English music had been so discountenanced since the taste of Italian Operas prevailed, that it was to no purpose to pretend to it. Dancing, therefore, was now the only weight, in the opposite scale, and as the new theatre sometimes found their account in it, it could not be safe for us wholly to neglect it.

Cibber's antagonistical views towards Pantomime were shared, as we shall see, by a good many others.

Booth, however, a greater actor than Cibber, and a tragedian to boot, took a more business-like view of the proceedings, thinking thin houses the greatest indignity the stage could suffer. "Men of taste and judgment (said he) must necessarily form but a small proportion of the spectators at a theatre, and if a greater number of people were enticed to sit out a play because a Pantomime was tacked to it, the Pantomime did good service to all concerned. Besides, if people of position and taste could, if so minded, leave before the nonsense commenced—an opportunity they do not seem to have embraced since Booth reminded the opponents of Pantomime how Italian opera had drawn the nobility and gentry away from the play-houses, as appeared by the melancholy testimony of their receipts, until Pantomime came to the rescue when pit and gallery were better filled, and the boxes too put on a nobler appearance."



CHAPTER XV.

John Rich and his Pantomimes—Rich's Miming—-Garrick, Walpole, Foote—Anecdotes of Rich—Pope—The dance of infernals in "Harlequin Sorcerer"—Drury Lane—Colley Cibber—Henry Fielding, the Novelist—Contemporary Writers' opinion of Pantomime—Woodward, the Harlequin—The meaning of the word Actor—Harlequins—"Dr. Faustus," a description—William Rufus Chetwood—Accidents—Vandermere, the Harlequin—"Orpheus and Eurydice" at Covent Garden—A description—Sam. Hoole, the machinist—Prejudice against Pantomime—Mrs. Oldfield—Robert Wilks—Macklin—Riot at Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre—Death of Rich.

It was in 1717 that Rich devised this new form of entertainment, though it was not till 1724, when "The Necromancer, or History of Dr. Faustus" was produced by Rich, which took the town by storm, that Pantomime became such a rage. It has been stated that what induced Rich to turn his attention to Pantomime was the bringing over of a German, named Swartz, who had two performing dogs that could dance. They were engaged at L10 a night; and brought full houses. However, be this as it may, in the "Daily Courant," of December 20, 1717, we find him, advertising for his "Italian Mimic Scenes"—as he, for long enough, so termed his Pantomimes—as follows:—

"Harlequin Executed: a new Italian Mimic Scene between a Scaramouch, a Harlequin, a Country Farmer, his Wife, and others."

Of Rich and his early Pantomimes, Davies observes:—

John Rich was the son of Christopher Rich, formerly patentee of Drury Lane Theatre, and he imbibed from his father a dislike of people with whom he was obliged to live and converse. His father wished to acquire wealth by French dancers and Italian singers, than by the united skill of the most accomplished comedians. The son inherited the same taste, and when he came into the patent, with his brother Christopher, of Drury Lane, and after having ineffectually tried his talent for acting in the part of the Earl of Essex, and other important characters, he applied himself to the study of Pantomimical representations at Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre. To retrieve the credit of his theatre Rich created a species of dramatic composition unknown to this, and, I believe, to any other country, which he called Pantomime. It consisted of two parts, one serious, the other comic; by the help of gay scenes, fine habits, grand dances, appropriate music, and other decorations, he exhibited a story from "Ovid's Metamorphosis," or some other fabulous history. Between the pauses of the acts he interwove a comic fable, consisting chiefly of the courtship of Harlequin and Columbine, with a variety of surprising adventures and tricks, which were produced by the magic wand of Harlequin; such as the sudden transformation of palaces and temples to huts and cottages; of men and women into wheelbarrows and joint stools; of trees turned to houses; colonnades to beds of tulips; and mechanics' hops into serpents and ostriches.

It is a most remarkable fact that the Pantomimes that Rich brought out, all of them could be written down as successes. In the exhibition of his Pantomimes, Mr. Rich always displayed the greatest taste. He had also acquired a considerable reputation as a performer of the motley hero under the name of "Lun Junr," as he was so designated on the bills at that time, and he was the first performer who rendered the character of Harlequin at all intelligible in this country. To others he taught the art of silent, but expressive, action, the interpreter of the mind. Feeling was pre-eminent in his Miming; and he used to render the scene of a separation with Columbine as graphic as it was affecting. Excellent were his "statue scenes" and his "catching the butterfly;" so also were his other dumb show performances.

Of Rich, Garrick wrote:—

"When Lun appeared with matchless art and whim, He gave the power of speech to every limb; Though masked and mute conveyed his quick intent, And told in frolic's gestures all he meant."

Rich, however, erred in thinking himself a better actor than a Pantomimist; and, in fact, he thought himself a finer actor than the great Garrick himself. "You should see me play Richard!" was a favourite cry of his.

In 1782, after seeing the Pantomime of "Robinson Crusoe," Walpole said, "How unlike the Pantomimes of Rich, which were full of wit, and coherent, and carried on by a story."

As I have shown above, Rich had, like many other people, his own particular little idiosyncrasies, and when in the season 1746-7 he netted nearly L9,000 from his Pantomimes, to the chagrin of Garrick and Quin, he was very angry and much annoyed because he, as Harlequin, had contributed little or nothing. Another mannerism of his was to despise the regular drama on these occasions, and he has been known to look at the packed audience through a small hole in the curtain, and then ejaculate, "Ah! you are there, you fools, are you? Much good may it do you!"

Rich used to address everyone as "Mister." On one occasion Foote, being incensed at being so addressed, asked Rich why he did not call him by his name. "Don't be angry," says Rich, "I sometimes forget my own name." "I know," replied Foote, "that you can't write your own name, but I wonder you should forget it."

The first of Rich's successes was "Harlequin Sorcerer." On its production Pope wrote:—

"Behold a sober sorcerer rise Swift to whose wand a winged volume flies; All sudden, gorgon's hiss and dragon's glare, And ten horned fiends and giants rush to war. Hell rises, heaven descends, and dance on earth, Gods, imps and monsters, music, rage and mirth, A fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball, Till one wide conflagration swallows all; Thence a new world to nature's laws unknown, Breaks out refulgent with a heaven its own; Another Cynthia her new journey runs, And other planets circle after suns. The forests dance, the rivers upwards rise, Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies; At last, to give the whole creation grace, Lo! one vast egg produces human race."

Of Harlequin, in "Harlequin Sorcerer," being hatched from an egg by the rays of the sun. This has been called a master-piece of Rich's Miming "From the first chipping of the egg (says Jackson) his receiving of motion, his feeling of the ground, his standing upright, to his quick Harlequin trip round the empty shell, through the whole progression, every limb had its tongue, and every motion a voice."

As probably occurring in "Harlequin Sorcerer," there is an amusing incident. The belief in the possibility of a supernatural appearance on the stage existed (says an old writer) about the beginning of the eighteenth century. A dance of infernals having to be exhibited, they were represented in dresses of black and red, with fiery eyes and snaky locks, and garnished with every pendage of horror. They were twelve in number. In the middle of their performance, while intent upon the figure in which they had been completely practised, an actor of some humour, who had been accommodated with a spare dress, appeared among them. He was, if possible, more terrific than the rest, and seemed to the beholders as designed by the conductor for the principal fiend. His fellow furies took the alarm; they knew he did not belong to them, and they judged him an infernal in earnest. Their fears were excited, a general panic ensued, and the whole group fled different ways; some to their dressing-rooms, and others, through the streets, to their own homes, in order to avoid the destruction which they believed to be coming upon them, for the profane mockery they had been guilty of. The odd devil was non inventus. He took himself invisibly away, through fears of another kind. He was, however, seen by many, in imagination, to fly through the roof of the house, and they fancied themselves almost suffocated by the stench he had left behind. The confusion of the audience is scarcely to be described. They retired to their families, informing them of this supposed appearance of the devil, with many of his additional frolics in the exploit. So thoroughly was its reality believed that every official assurance which could be made the following day did not entirely counteract the idea. The explanation was given by Rich himself, in the presence of his friend Bencraft, the contriver, and perhaps the actor of the scheme, which he designed only as an innocent affair, to confuse the dancers, without adverting to the serious consequences which succeeded.

I have met with another author, who, in giving an account of this transaction, places it as a much earlier period, and says it was during the performance of "Dr. Faustus," and that when the devil took flight he carried away with him the roof of the theatre. This story may be alluded to in a very curious work, entitled, "The Blacke Booke" (a proper depository), "London, printed in black letter, by T.C. for Jeffery Chorlton, 1604." "The light burning serjant Lucifer" says of one, running away through fear of fire at a brothel, "Hee had a head of hayre like one of my divells in 'Doctor Faustus,' when the olde theatre crakt and frighted the audience."

Emulating Rich, Drury Lane then followed with "Mars and Venus," of which Colley Cibber says: Was formed into something more than motion without meaning into a connected presentation of dances in character, wherein the passions were so happily expressed, and the whole story so intelligibly told by a mute narration of gesture only, that even thinking spectators allowed it to be both a pleasing and a rational entertainment; though, at the same time, from our distrust of its reception we durst not venture to decorate it with any extraordinary expense of scenes or habits; but upon the success of this attempt it was rightly concluded that if a visible expense in both were added to something of the same nature, it could not fail of drawing the town proportionately after it.

From this original hint there (but every way unequal to it) sprang forth that succession of monstrous medlies, that have so long infested the stage, and which arose upon one another alternately, at both houses, outvying in expense, like contending bribes on both sides at an election, to secure a majority of the multitude.

If I am asked (after condemning these fooleries myself) how I came to assent or continue my share of expense to them? I have no better excuse for my error, than confessing it. I did it against my conscience, and had not virtue enough to starve by opposing a multitude that would have been too hard for me.

("The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give," has always been an axiom of the stage; and worthy Colley Cibber, notwithstanding his antagonism, and the rivalry of Rich, had too good a knowledge of this truism not to do otherwise but follow the popular voice.)

Notwithstanding then (Cibber continues) this, our compliance with the vulgar taste, we generally made use of these Pantomimes, but as crutches to our weakest plays. Nor were we so lost to all sense of what was valuable, as to dishonor our best authors in such bad company. We still had a due respect to several select plays, that were able to be their own support; and in which we found constant account, without painting and patching them out.... It is a reproach to a sensible people to let folly so quickly govern their pleasures.

Henry Fielding, the novelist, was one of Harlequin's assailants. "The comic part of the English Pantomimes," he says, "being duller than anything before shown on the stage could only be set off by the superlative dulness of the serious portion, in which the gods and goddesses were so insufferably tedious, that Harlequin was always a relief from still worse company." Eager for theatrical reform, the "Weekly Miscellany" of 1732, said that plays were not intended for tradesmen, and denounced Pantomimes as infamous.

Another competitor, who entered the lists against Rich, was Thormond, a dancing-master, and at Drury Lane Theatre he produced "Dr. Faustus," in 1733. Speaking of this Pantomime, Pasquin mentions that "An account is very honestly published, to save people the trouble of going to see it."

In a Pantomime produced at Drury Lane in the following year, there were Macklin, Theo. Cibber (who ultimately lost his life by shipwreck in the Irish Sea, in company with a troupe of Pantomimists), Mrs. Clive, and Mrs. Cibber. At the performance it was announced that the money paid would be returned to anyone who went out before the overture; but no one availed themselves of the concession. Commenting on the occurrence, a contemporary writer observes:—"Happy is it that we live in an age of taste, when the dumb eloquence and natural wit and humour of Harlequin are justly preferred to the whining of Tragedy, or the vulgarity of Comedy."

Garrick, at Drury Lane, finding his audience with no heart for tragedy, and that they must have Pantomime, very wisely said, "If you won't come to 'Lear' and 'Hamlet,' I must give you Harlequin." And Harlequin he did give them, in the person of Woodward, one of the best of Harlequins that ever trod the stage. A contemporary print of the time, represents Woodward being weighed in one scale, with all the great actors of the day in the other, and Woodward makes them all kick the beam.

To satirise the prevailing fashion, Garrick penned the following:—

They in the drama find no joys, But doat on mimicry and toys; Thus, when a dance is on my bill, Nobility my boxes fill; Or send three days before the time To crowd a new-made Pantomime.

Garrick's success, however, was, I am of opinion, undoubtedly owing to his being such a clever Pantomimist. "We saw him," says Grimm, "play the dagger scene in 'Macbeth' in a room in his ordinary dress, without any stage illusion; and, as he followed with his eyes the air-drawn dagger, he became so grand that the assembly broke into a cry of general admiration. Who would believe that this same man, a moment after, counterfeited, with equal perfection, a pastry cook's boy, who, carrying a tray of tartlets on his head, and gaping about him at the corner of the street, lets his tray fall, and, at first stupified by the accident, bursts at last into a fit of crying?"

All our great actors have been good Mimics, and herein, doubtless, lies the secret of their success. The mere intonation of words unaccompanied by a strict knowledge of "that dumb, silent language," Pantomime, is only parroting. Herein, therefore, lies the true imitativeness of the actor, and the natural form of acting. The word actor "Is a name only given to the persons in a dramatic work, because they ought to be in continual action during the performance of it." It does not mean that the actor is to stand still, and to be in action only with his tongue when speaking his "lines." No! he bears the honoured name of actor, and he should bring the full power of gesture language—Pantomime—that he has at his control into play in order to be convincing in the character that, for the time being, he is.

Action (mentions Betterton, in his "History of the English Stage," 1741), can never be in its perfection but on the stage. Action, indeed, has a natural excellence in it superior to all other qualities; action is motion, and motion is the support of nature, which without it would sink into the sluggish mass of chaos. Life is motion, and when that ceases, the human body so beautiful, nay so divine, when enlivened by motion, becomes a dead and putrid corpse, from which all turn their eyes. The eye is caught by anything in motion, but passes over the sluggish and motionless things as not the pleasing object of its view.

The natural power of motion, or action, is the reason that the attention of the audience is fixed by any irregular, or even fantastic action, on the stage, of the most indifferent player; and supine and drowsy when the best actor speaks without the addition of action. The stage ought to be the seat of passion in its various kinds, and, therefore, the actors ought to be thoroughly acquainted with the whole nature of the affections, and habits of the mind, or else they will never be able to express them justly in their looks and gestures, as well as in the tone of their voice and manner of utterance. They must know them in their various mixtures, as they are differently blended together in the different characters they represent; and then that excellent rule in the "Essay on Poetry" will be of equal use to the poet and player:—

Who must look within to find These secret turns of Nature in the mind; Without this part in vain would be the whole, And but a body all without a soul?

A few words more just to lay further stress on the importance of Pantomime, and then to return to our History. Take any part in any play, strip from it in its enactment the whole of its gesture language, could we realise that the actor appearing in it was portraying nature for us? Replace the Pantomime so essential to the part, and the character becomes—or rather should become if properly played—a creature of flesh and blood the same as ourselves. Pantomime, on the other hand, does not require words to be spoken to express its meaning, as it is quite expressible without.

A contemporary account of the production of the Pantomime "Harlequin Dr. Faustus," at Drury Lane Theatre, forms interesting reading, in addition to providing a contrast with present-day Pantomime.

Every action is executed to different agreeable music, so adapted that it properly expresses what is going forward; in the machinery there is something so highly surprising that words cannot give a full idea of it. The effects described seem to be marvellous, considering the state of theatrical mechanism. A devil riding on a fiery dragon rides swiftly across the stage. Two country men and women enter to be told their fortunes, when Dr. Faustus waves his wand, and four pictures turn out of the scenes opposite, representing a judge and a soldier, a dressed lady, and a lady in riding habit; the scene changes to the outside of a handsome house, when the louting men, running in, place their backs against the door. The front of the house turns, and at the same instant the machine turns, a supper ready dressed rises up. The countrymen's wives remain with the Doctor, who (afterwards) goes out. He beckons the table, and it follows him. Punch, Scaramouch, and Pierrot are next met by the Doctor, who invites them into a banquet. The table ascends into the air. He waves his wand, and asses' ears appear at the sides of their heads. A usurer lending money to Dr. Faustus demands a limb as security, and cuts off the Doctor's leg, several legs appear on the scene, and the Doctor strikes a woman's leg with his wand, which immediately flies from the rest, and fixes to the Doctor's stump, who dances with it ridiculously. The next scene opens, disclosing the Doctor's study. He enters affrighted, and the clock strikes one; the figures of Time and Death appear. Several devils enter and tear him in pieces, some sink, some fly out, each bearing a limb of him. The last, which is the grand scene, is the most magnificent that ever appeared on the English stage—all the gods and goddesses discovered with the apotheosis of Diana, ascending into the air.

The tricks that formed part and parcel of the Pantomimes, in causing surprise and wonderment, placed Harlequin, for his extraordinary feats, in the first rank of magicians. Oftentimes, however, they were the cause of many accidents.

Chetwood—William Rufus Chetwood—who had, in the eighteenth century, a bookseller's shop in Covent Garden, and was, for twenty years, prompter for Drury Lane, a writer of four plays, and a volume of sketches of the actors whom he had met, says:—"A tumbler at the Haymarket beat the breath out of his body by an accident, and which raised such vociferous applause that lasted the poor man's life, for he never breathed more. Indeed, his wife had this comfort, when the truth was known, pity succeeded to the roar of applause. Another accident occurred in the Pantomime of 'Dr. Faustus' (previously referred to), at Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, where a machine in the working threw the mock Pierrot down headlong with such force that the poor man broke a plank on the stage with his fall, and expired; another was sorely maimed that he did not survive many days; and a third, one of the softer sex, broke her thigh."

Vandermere, the Harlequin, one of the most agile that ever trod the stage, on one occasion, in the pursuit by the Clown, leaped through a window on to the stage, a full thirteen feet. Performing at the Dublin theatre one night, having a prodigious leap to make, the persons behind the scenes not being ready to receive him in the customary blanket, he fell upon the stage and was badly bruised. This accident occasioned him to take a solemn oath that he would never take another leap upon the stage; nor did he violate his oath, for when he afterwards played Harlequin another actor of his size, and of considerable activity was equipped with the parti-coloured habit, and when a leap was necessary Vandermere passed off on one side of the stage as Dawson—Vandermere's understudy—entered at the other, and undertook it.

How little do we know of the tragic ending of these poor unhappy Pantomimists' lives. Their names even have not been handed down to us, and they, like probably many more with whose quips and quiddities we have laughed at with infinite zest, have long since gone "to that bourne from whence no traveller returns," and perhaps, "unwept, unhonoured, and unsung."

On February 12, 1739, Rich produced, at Covent Garden (opened in December 1732, with Congreve's "Way of the World"), "Orpheus and Eurydice." On the mounting something like L2,000 were spent.

Rich devised the scenario and comic scenes. Lewis Theobald wrote the libretto, and George Lambert—founder of the Beefsteak Club—painted the scenery. Hippisley played Clown, Manager Rich was the Harlequin, and Signor Grimaldi, father of the celebrated Mime, to be noted further on, was the Pantaloon. This is the first instance of a member of the Grimaldi family (says Mr. W.J. Lawrence) appearing in English Pantomime.

The following was the argument and the curious arrangement of the scenes:—Interlude I.—Rhodope, Queen of Thrace, practising art magic, makes love to Orpheus. He rejects her love. She is enraged. A serpent appears who receives Rhodope's commands, and these ended, glides off the stage. Here the comic part begins. In the Opera (as practically it was) a scene takes place between Orpheus and Eurydice. Eurydice's heel is pierced by the serpent, behind the scenes. She dies on the stage—after which the comic part is continued. Interlude II. Scene: Hell. Pluto and Orpheus enter. Orpheus prevails on Pluto to restore Eurydice to him. Ascalox tells Orpheus that Eurydice shall follow him, but that if he should look back at her before they shall have passed the bounds of Hell, she will die again. Orpheus turns back to look for Eurydice, Fiends carry her away. After this the comic part is resumed. Interlude III.—Orpheus again rejects Rhodope's solicitations. Departs. The scene draws, and discovers Orpheus slain. Several Baccants enter in a triumphant manner. They bring in the lyre and chaplet of Orpheus. Rhodope stabs herself. The piece concludes with the remainder of the comic part.

"'The Scots Magazine' for March, 1740, says:—'Orpheus and Eurydice' draws the whole town to Covent Garden, whether for the Opera itself (the words of which are miserable stuff) or for the Pantomimical Interlude, with which it is intermixed, I cannot determine. The music is pretty good, and the tricks are not foolisher than usual, and some have said that they have more meaning than most that have preceded them. The performance is grand as to the scenery. What pleases everybody is a regular growth of trees, represented more like nature than what has yet been seen upon the stage, and the representation of a serpent so lively as to frighten half the ladies who see it. It is, indeed, curious in its kind, being wholly a piece of machinery, that enters, performs its exercise of head, body, and tail in a most surprising manner, and makes behind the curtain with a velocity scarcely credible. It is about a foot and a half in circumference of the thickest part, and far exceeds the former custom of stuffing a bag into such likeness. It is believed to have cost more than L200; and when the multitude of wings, springs, etc., whereof it consists, are considered, the charge will not appear extravagant. The whole Royal family have been to see this performance; and, from what can be judged, everybody else will see it before the end of the season, the house being every day full at 3 o'clock, though seldom empty till after eleven."

Sam Hoole—father of the translator of Tasso and Ariosto—was Rich's chief machinist at this period, and the inventor of this famous serpent. He had, according to Cumberland, a shop where he sold mechanical toys. Having a large stock of serpent toys left on his hands he became a ruined and bankrupt man.

"Orpheus and Eurydice" was revived by Rich in 1747, and again in 1755; when it ran 31 nights. In 1768 it was reproduced by his successors at Covent Garden. In October, 1787, it was again put in the bill, and this time by Royal Command, it was said.

Of the number of Pantomimes brought out by Rich I shall not dilate on, and those that I have referred to will, doubtless, show what all these "plays without words" were like.

During the summer season of 1761, at Drury Lane, Murphy and Foote endeavoured

"From Pantomime to free the stage And combat all the ministers of the age,"

by ridiculing the popular amusement in having the character of Harlequin hung in full view of the audience in a play entitled "The Wishes." When the catastrophe was at hand Murphy whispered to Cumberland: "If they don't damn this, they deserve to be damned themselves!" No sooner were the words uttered than a turbulent mob in the pit broke out, and quickly put an end to the dire fatality with which Pantomime and its hero, Harlequin, were threatened.

Christopher Rich gave the first engagement to the afterwards celebrated actress, Mrs. Oldfield, and, previously, a similar kindness to Robert Wilks, about the year 1690, at the salary of fifteen shillings a week, with two shillings and sixpence deducted for teaching him to dance. Another famous performer, Macklin, was also introduced to the stage by this family.

At the Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, in 1721, there was a memorable riot, caused by some drunken aristocratic beaux, owing to an alleged insult, which one of their number was supposed to have received. The beau referred to, a noble Earl, had crossed the stage whilst Macbeth and his lady were upon it, in order to speak to a companion who was lolling in the wings. Rich told the noble Earl that for his indecorum he would not be allowed behind the scenes again, which so incensed the latter that he gave Manager Rich a smart slap on the face, which Rich returned. Swords then were drawn, and between the actors and the beaux a free fight ensued, which ended in the former driving the latter out of the theatre. The rioters, however, again obtained access, and rushing into the boxes, cut down the hangings, besides doing other damage, when, led by Quin and a number of constables, several of the beaux were captured, and taken before the magistrates. The end of it all was that the matter was compromised; but, in order to prevent a recurrence of such disorderly scenes, a guard should attend the performances. The custom of having the military in attendance at our theatres—which the above affray was the primary cause—was in vogue for over a hundred years after this event.

Rich lived to see Pantomimes firmly established at Drury Lane and Covent Garden. Drury Lane did, for a few years, discard it in favour of spectacle, but ultimately found it advisable to return to Pantomime.

At the beginning of the 'sixties of the eighteenth century—1761—died the father of Harlequins in England, and also—as he has been called—of English Pantomimes, and there is, I believe, a costly tomb erected to his memory in Hillingdon Church-yard, Middlesex.

Rich left Covent Garden Theatre to his son-in-law, Beard, the vocalist, with the not unpleasant restriction, however, that the property should be sold when L60,000 was bid for it, and for which sum it ultimately passed into the hands of Harris, Colman, and their partners.



CHAPTER XVI.

Joseph Grimaldi.

The year 1778 marks an epoch in the History of Pantomime, as just over three-quarters of a century before marked another epoch, the introduction of Pantomimes to the English stage. On December 18th, 1778, was born Joseph Grimaldi—afterwards the Prince of Clowns, and the son of Giuseppe Grimaldi ("Iron Legs"). Joe's first appearance was at Sadler's Wells on April 16, Easter Monday, 1781, he not being quite three years old. Dickens, in the "Memoirs of Grimaldi," has given us from the Clown's own diary, which Grimaldi kept close up to the time of his death, on May, 31st, 1837, a full and true account of the life of this remarkably clever Pantomimist. To add to what Dickens has written of "Only a Clown" (which doubtless the reader is already acquainted with) would only be like painting the lily; and, perhaps, I cannot do better in honouring his memory than by quoting the words of Mr. Harley at the annual dinner of the Drury Lane Fund, spoken in the June following Grimaldi's death:—"Yet, shall delicacy suffer no violence in adducing one example, for death has hushed his cock-crowing cachination, and uproarious merriment. The mortal Jupiter of practical Joke, the Michael Angelo of buffoonery, who, if he was Grim-all-day, was sure to make you chuckle at night."

A contemporary writer of Grimaldi's days thus eulogises the Prince of Clowns:—

As a Clown, Mr. Grimaldi is perfectly unrivalled. Other performers of the part may be droll in their generation; but, which of them can for a moment compete with the Covent Garden hero in acute observation upon the foibles and absurdities of society, and his happy talent of holding them up to ridicule. He is the finest practical satyrist that ever existed. He does not, like many Clowns, content himself with raising a horse-laugh by contortions and grimaces, but tickles the fancy, and excites the risibility of an audience by devices as varied as they are ingenious. "He uses his folly as a stalking-horse, under cover of which he shoots his wit;" and fully deserves the encomium bestowed upon him by Kemble, who, it is said, pronounced him to be "the best low comedian upon the stage."

There are few things, we think, more delightful than a Pantomime—that is, a good Pantomime, such as is usually produced at Covent Garden. We know there are a set of solemn pompous mortals about town, who express much dignified horror at the absurdities of these things, and declaim very fluently, in good set terms, upon the necessity of their abolition. Such fellows as these are ever your dullest of blockheads. Conscious of their lack of ideas, they think to earn the reputation of men of sterling sense, by inveighing continually against what they deem to be frivolity; while they only expose more clearly to all observers the sad vacuum which exists in their pericraniums. Far, far from us be such dullards, and such opinions; and let us continue to laugh heartily at our Pantomimes, undisturbed by their tedious harangues; "Do they think, because they are wise, there shall be no more cakes and ale?" The man who refuses to smile at the humours of Grimaldi is made of bad materials—hic niger est—let no such man be trusted!

Can there possibly be a more captivating sight than that which the theatre presents nightly, of hundreds of beautiful children all happy and laughing, "as if a master-spring constrained them all;" and filled with delight, unalloyed and unbounded, at the performance of one man? And shall that man go without his due meed of praise? Never be it said! No, Joey! When we forget thee, may our right hand forget its cunning! We owe thee much for the delight thou hast already afforded us; and rely upon thee, with confident expectation, for many a future hour of gay forgetfulness. Well do we remember, in our boyish dreams of bliss, how prominent a feature thou didst stand amongst the anticipated enjoyments of Christmas; how the thoughts of home, of kindred, and release from school, were rendered ten-fold more delightful by the idea of thy motley garb and mirth-inspiring voice, which ever formed the greatest enjoyment our holidays afforded. Heaven be praised, we still are children in some respects, for we still feel gladdened by thy gambols, as heartily as we did years ago, when we made our periodical escape from the terrors of our old pedagogue's frown, and went with Aunt Bridget ("Happier than ourselves the while") to banquet upon the Pantomimic treat provided for us. "All wisdom is folly," says the philosopher; but we often incline to think the converse of the proposition correct, when we see thee put thy antic disposition on, and set the audience in a roar by the magic of thy powers.

It is thought by many persons that Grimaldi is seen to greater advantage on the small stage of Sadler's Wells, than on the more capacious one of Covent Garden; but, this is an opinion with which we cannot coincide. He always appears to us more at his ease at the latter house; to come forth exulting in his power, and exclaiming, "Ay, marry, here my soul hath elbow-room." His engagement there has certainly been a lucrative speculation for the proprietors. "Mother Goose," we believe, drew more money than any other piece which has been produced during the present century; and no Pantomime since brought forward at Covent Garden has been unsuccessful; which is mainly to be attributed to his inimitable performance of Clown. It is scarcely possible for language to do justice to his unequalled powers of gesture and expression. Do our readers recollect a Pantomime some years ago, in which he was introduced begging a tart from a pieman? The simple expression, "May I?" with the look and action which accompanied it, are impressed upon our recollection, as forming one of the finest pieces of acting we ever witnessed. Indeed, let the subject be what it may, it never fails to become highly amusing in the hands of Grimaldi; whether it is to rob a pieman, or open an oyster, imitate a chimney-sweep, or a dandy, grasp a red-hot poker, or devour a pudding, take snuff, sneeze, make love, mimic a tragedian, cheat his master, pick a pocket, beat a watchman, or nurse a child, it is all performed in so admirably humorous and extravagantly natural a manner, that spectators of the most saturnine disposition are irresistibly moved to laughter.

Mr. Grimaldi also possesses great merit in Pantomimic performances of a different character, which all are aware of, who have ever seen him in the melodrama, called "Perouse," and other pieces of the same description.

We cannot better terminate this article, than with a poetical tribute to his powers, addressed to him by one of the authors of "Horace in London," who appears to have had a true relish of his subject:—

Facetious Mime! thou enemy of gloom, Grandson of Momus, blithe and debonair, Who, aping Pan, with an inverted broom, Can'st brush the cobwebs from the brows of care.

Our gallery gods immortalize thy song; Thy Newgate thefts impart ecstatic pleasure; Thou bid'st a Jew's harp charm a Christian throng, A Gothic salt-box teem with attic treasure.

When Harlequin, entangled in thy clue, By magic seeks to dissipate the strife, Thy furtive fingers snatch his faulchion too; The luckless wizard loses wand and wife.

The fabled egg from thee obtains its gold; Thou sett'st the mind from critic bondage loose, Where male and female cacklers, young and old, Birds of a feather, hail the sacred Goose.

Even pious souls, from Bunyan's durance free, At Sadler's Wells applaud thy agile wit, Forget old Care while they remember thee, "Laugh the heart's laugh," and haunt the jovial pit.

Long may'st thou guard the prize thy humour won, Long hold thy court in Pantomimic state, And, to the equipoise of English fun, Exalt the lowly, and bring down the great.

Again we are told "That his Pantomime was such that you could fancy he would have been the Pulcinello of the Italians, the Harlequin of the French, that he could have returned a smart repartee from Carlin. His motions, eccentric as they were, were evidently not a mere lesson from the gymnasium; there was a will and mind overflowing with, nay living upon fun, real fun. He was so extravagantly natural, that the most saturnine looker-on acknowledged his sway; and neither the wise, the proud, or the fair, the young nor the old, were ashamed to laugh till tears coursed down their cheeks at Joe and his comicalities."

Grimaldi used sometimes to play in two different Pantomimes at two different theatres, when he would have to go through some twenty scenes.

Unlike the painting of the face with a few patches adopted by the modern Clown, Grimaldi used to give one the idea of a greedy boy, who had covered himself with jam in robbing from a cupboard. Grimaldi dressed the part like a Clown should be dressed. His trousers were large and baggy, and were fastened to his jacket, and round his neck he wore a schoolboy's frill—part of the dress, in all probability, borrowed from the Spanish Captain and the French Pierrot.

At Drury Lane on Friday, June 27, 1828, he took his farewell benefit. The following being the bill:—

Mr. Grimaldi's Farewell Benefit, On Friday, June 27th, 1828, will be performed JONATHAN IN ENGLAND, after which A MUSICAL MELANGE, To be succeeded by THE ADOPTED CHILD, and concluded by HARLEQUIN HOAX, In which Mr. Grimaldi will act Clown in one scene, sing a song, and speak his FAREWELL ADDRESS.

With the reader's permisson, I will give, from his "Memoirs," the address he spoke:—

"Ladies and Gentlemen:—In putting off the Clown's garment, allow me to drop also the Clown's taciturnity, and address you in a few parting sentences. I entered early on this course of life, and leave it prematurely. Eight-and-forty years only have passed over my head—but I am going as fast down the hill of life as that older Joe—John Anderson. Like vaulting ambition, I have overleaped myself, and pay the penalty in an advanced old age. If I have now any aptitude for tumbling it is through bodily infirmity, for I am worse on my feet than I used to be on my head. It is four years since I jumped my last jump—filched my last oyster—boiled my last sausage—and set in for retirement. Not quite so well provided for, I must acknowledge, as in the days of my Clownship, for then, I dare say, some of you remember, I used to have a fowl in one pocket and sauce for it in the other.

"To-night has seen me assume the motley for a short time—it clung to my skin as I took it off, and the old cap and bells rang mournfully as I quitted them for ever.

"With the same respectful feelings as ever do I find myself in your presence—in the presence of my last audience—this kindly assemblage so happily contradicting the adage that a favourite has no friends. For the benvolence that brought you hither—accept, ladies and gentlemen, my warmest and most grateful thanks, and believe, that of one and all, Joseph Grimaldi takes a double leave, with a farewell on his lips, and a tear in his eyes.

"Farewell! That you and yours may ever enjoy that greatest earthly good—health, is the sincere wish of your faithful and obliged servant. God bless you all!"

Poor Joe was buried in the burying-ground of St. James' Chapel, on Pentonville Hill, and in a grave next to his friend, Charles Dibdin. May the earth lie lightly over him!



CHAPTER XVII.

Plots of the old form of Pantomimes—A description of "Harlequin and the Ogress; or the Sleeping Beauty of the Wood," produced at Covent Garden—Grimaldi, Pere et Fils—Tom Ellar, the Harlequin, and Barnes, the Pantaloon—An account of the first production of the "House that Jack built," at Covent Garden—Spectacular display—Antiquity and Origin of some Pantomimic devices—Devoto, Angelo, and French, the Scenic Artists—Transparencies—Beverley—Transformation Scenes.

Of the plots of the old form of Pantomime and what these entertainments were generally like, graphically, does Planche describe them.

How different (he says) were the Christmas Pantomimes of my younger days. A pretty story—a nursery tale—dramatically told, in which "the course of true love never did run smooth," formed the opening; the characters being a cross-grained old father, with a pretty daughter, who had two suitors—one a poor young fellow, whom she preferred, the other a wealthy fop, whose pretensions were, of course, favoured by the father. There was also a body servant of some sort in the old man's establishment. At the moment when the young lady was about to be forcibly married to the fop she despised, or, on the point of eloping with the youth of her choice, the good fairy made her appearance, and, changing the refractory pair into Harlequin and Columbine, the old curmudgeon into Pantaloon, and the body servant into Clown: the two latter in company with the rejected "lover," as he was called, commenced the pursuit of the happy pair, and the "comic business" consisted of a dozen or more cleverly constructed scenes, in which all the tricks and changes had a meaning, and were introduced as contrivances to favour the escape of Harlequin and Columbine, when too closely followed by their enemies. There was as regular a plot as might be found in a melodrama. An interest in the chase which increased the admiration of the ingenuity and the enjoyment of the fun of the tricks, by which the runaways escaped capture, till the inevitable "dark scene" came, a cavern or a forest, in which they were overtaken, seized, and the magic wand, which had so uniformly aided them, snatched from the grasp of the despairing Harlequin, and flourished in triumph by the Clown. Again at the critical moment the protecting fairy appeared, and, exacting the consent of the father to the marriage of the devoted couple, transported the whole party to what was really a grand last scene, which everybody did wait for. There was some congruity, some dramatic construction, in such Pantomimes; and then the acting. For it was acting, and first-rate acting.

To give the reader a further insight into the old form of Christmas Pantomimes, I cull the following from "The Drama," a contemporary magazine of the period (1822):—

In compliance with the long-established custom of gratifying the holiday visitors of the theatres with Pantomimic representations at this season of year, a new piece of that description was produced at this theatre (Covent Garden) last night, December 26th, 1822, under the title of "Harlequin and the Ogress; or the Sleeping Beauty of the Wood." The introductory story is taken from the well-known tale of "The Sleeping Beauty," in "Mother Bunch's Fairy Tales," which had before been "melodramatised," but had not hitherto been taken for the groundwork of a Harlequinade.

The piece opens in one of the fabled grand caverns under the Pyramids of Egypt, in which the three fatal sisters of Mother Bunch's Mythology are seen spinning and winding a ball of golden thread, the fastening of which to the wrist of the Sleeping Beauty is intended to add another century to the duration of her life, and of the power which the Ogress, or Fairy, has exercised over her, and her possessions, for the preceding hundred years. The ball having been completed, with the due quantum of magic incantation in such cases prescribed, is consigned to the care of Grim Gribber, the porter of the castle, with directions to attach it to the wrist of the lady in the chamber of sleep, whither he accordingly proceeds for that purpose; but overcome by the soporific influences of the atmosphere of that enchanted place, he falls into a deep sleep ere his task is accomplished. The Prince Azoff, with his Squire Abnab, straying from a hunting party into the enchanted cedar grove, encounters the Fairy Blue-bell, protector of the Sleeping Beauty, who imparts to the Prince the story of her enchantment, furnishes him with a magic flower to protect him from the influence of the Ogress, and instructs him in the means of releasing the Beauty at the expiration of the term of her first enchanted sleep, which is then drawing to a close. In the amazement which seizes the Prince on finding himself in the chamber of sleep, at the splendour of everything around him, and the sight of the Sleeping Beauty with her surrounding train of attendants, whose faculties are all enchained in the same preternatural slumber, he lets fall the magic flower, and becomes thereby subject to the power of the Ogress, from which he is, however, rescued on the instant by the protecting interference of the Fairy Blue-bell. But in punishment of his neglect, he is condemned to wander for a time in search of happiness with the now-awakened Beauty, pursued by the relentless Ogress and her servant, Grim Gribber. The whole of the persons engaged in the scene now undergo the prescriptive Pantomimic changes, and the ordinary succession of Harlequinade adventures, tricks, and transformations ensue.

Our old favourites, the Grimaldis, father and son, Mr. Ellar as Harlequin, and Mr. Barnes as Pantaloon, were hailed, on their appearance, with the warmth of greeting to which their excellence in their several parts fully entitles them, and displayed their wonted drollery, gracefulness, and agility: and Miss Brissak, who, for the first time, appeared as Columbine, acquitted herself with tolerable credit, and was very well received.

The scenery in general was marked with that characteristic beauty and highly-finished excellence, which have long distinguished the productions of this theatre: and the panoramic series of views of the River Thames, from Greenwich to the Nore, on the passage of the Royal flotilla for Scotland, and its arrival in Leith Roads, probably surpass everything of the kind before exhibited. There are several diverting tricks and ingenious changes. Grimaldi's equipment of a patent safety coach at Brighton, in particular was highly amusing. The machinery, which is, in many instances, of a most complicated description, worked remarkably well for a first night's exhibition; and the whole went off with a degree of eclat, which must have been exceedingly gratifying to the managers, as auguring the probability of such a lengthened run for the piece as may amply recompense the pains and expense which have been so lavishly bestowed in its preparation. The house was filled in every part, and the announcement of the Pantomime's repetition was received with the most clamorous approbation, undisturbed by a single dissentient voice.

The first production of "The House that Jack Built," at Covent Garden, on December 26, 1824, also reads interestingly:—

The Pantomime is before us, and we should ill-repay the pleasure it afforded us, if we did not acknowledge and make public its excellence. The name implies the source from which it is taken, and we had, therefore, the supreme pleasure of renewing our friendship with those very old acquaintances, the "Priest all shaven and shorn, the maiden all forlorn, the cow with the crumpled horn, the dog that worried the cat, that killed the rat, that eat up the malt, that lay in the House that Jack built." This, of course, gave us, as it appeared to do many others, great pleasure, "For should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind." Mr. Farley, however, who supports (like an Atlas) all the weight of bringing forward these annual pieces of fun and foolery, and who appears to be as learned in the mystic lore of "hoary antiquity," as he is in the mysteries of all the wonders of the tricks, changes, and mechanism of the Pantomimic world, has let us this time into a secret, which will doubtless cause much erudite argument, and pros and cons from various sage antiquarians for months to come, in that invaluable work of old Sylvanus Urban, 'yclept the "Gentlemen's Magazine." As the play-bills on which this important piece of information is to be found, will doubtless be bought up by all the mystogogii of the Metropolis, and shortly become scarce, we shall take the liberty of inserting it in our imperishable pages, for the benefit, not only of posterity, but for those of our own day, who are infected with the building mania, and who, we think, ought to make Mr. Farley some very valuable present to mark their sense of the obligation they are under to him, in consequence of the benefit which must accrue to them from it. It appears from this fragment in what manner Jack became possessed of his house, and which it never before occurred to us, to enquire. Thus then the mystery is elucidated by Mr. Farley.

Jack's Wager;

"By virtue of one of our forest charters, if a man do build a dwelling upon common land, from sun-set to sun-rise, and enclose a piece of ground, wherein there shall be a tree growing, a beast feeding, a fire kindled, and provision in the pot, such dwelling shall be freely held by the builder, anything to the contrary, nevertheless, notwithstanding." Forest Laws.

Accordingly Jack, in the opening scene, is represented just before nightfall, as completing his dwelling, by putting on the chimney pot as the finishing stroke; he then claims his bride, Rosebud, from her father, Gaffer Gandy, who refuses his consent, having determined on bestowing her hand on one Squire Sap. Jack, in despair, repairs to Poor Robin, the village astrologer, who is intently observing an eclipse of the moon (which, by-the-bye, is most excellently managed), and relates his griefs. The old man cheers his drooping spirits, by casting his nativity and finding by his observations, that Jack's stars are of the most benign influence, and that all his wishes shall be fulfilled. The marriage of the maiden all forlorn with the Squire is on the point of being completed, when Venus (one of whose doves had been preserved by Jack) dispatches Cupid to the assistance of the despairing lovers, by the magic of whose powerful wand the usual Pantomimic changes are effected in a trice—Jack becomes Harlequin; Rosebud, Columbine; Gaffer, Pantaloon; the Squire, the Lover; and the Priest, the Clown. Mirth, revelry, fun, frolic, and joviality are now the order of the day, and the scene changes to a view of Hyde Park and the Serpentine River on a frosty morning in January: in which is represented, with admirable effect, a display of patent skating. An oil cloth is spread upon the stage, a group comprised of various laughable characters are assembled on it, and skate about with as much rapidity, and precisely as though it were a sheet of ice. The adroit skill of old stagers on the slippery surface, with the clumsy awkwardness and terror of novices in the art, are well represented. A prodigious fat man makes his appearance; when a race is called for, he, of course, tries his prowess, when the ice cracking beneath the heavy weight assembled on it gives way with a heavy crash, and "Fatty" is consigned to a watery bed. Assistance is immediately tendered, when, by Harlequin's power, a lean and shrivelled spirit of the deep rises from below to the great alarm of the beholders, and whose limbs continue to expand till his head touches the clouds. The whole of the scene is one of the most laughable and best managed in the Pantomime. Kew Gardens, on a May-day morning, is also a very pleasing scene, in which some pretty Morris dancing is introduced. The Barber's shop, in which shaving by steam is hit off, is excellent in its way, but not so well understood in its details, as to make it equally effective in representation. Vauxhall Bridge, and the Gardens which succeeds it, are also charmingly painted by the Grieves, and from hence the Clown and Pantaloon take an "Aeronautic excursion" to Paris. This is a revolving scene—the balloon ascends—and the English landscape gradually recedes from the view—the gradual approach of night—the rising of the moon—the passing of the balloon through heavy clouds—and the return of day, are beautifully represented; the sea covered with ships, is seen in distant perspective with the French coast; a bird's-eye view of Paris follows, and the balloon safely descends in the gardens of the Tuileries. The adjoining palace, mansions, and gardens being brilliantly illuminated, give the scene a most splendid and picturesque effect. A variety of other scenes, but far too numerous to mention individually, deserve the highest applause, particularly the village of Bow, Leadenhall Market, with a change to an illuminated civic feast in the Guildhall; Burlington Arcade at night, and the village of Ganderclue by sunrise. The Temple of Iris, formed of the "radiant panoply of the heavenly arch," by Grieve, is most brilliant.

The advent of Pantomime, early in the eighteenth century, gave a special fillip to spectacular display, as they were all announced to be set off with "new scenery, decorations, and flyings."

Some of the stage devices of Pantomime are of considerable antiquity; as, for instance, the basket-work hobby-horses, that figured as far back as the old English Morris dances, to be revived in the French ballet of the seventeenth century, and, in after years, in English Pantomime.

The Pantomime donkey is at least, we are told, 200 years old. In "Arlequin Mercure Galant," produced in Paris in 1682, by the Italian Comedians, Harlequin made his entrance on a moke's back—and the merriment afterwards being greatly enhanced when Master "Neddy," with Pan seated on its back, suddenly came in two, to the consternation of the beholders. To the Italian Pantomime Comedians we owe many of our stage devices and tricks. The statue scene in "Frivolity," played by the Messrs. Leopolds, was introduced by the Italians in "Arlequin Lingere du Palais," when this piece was performed at Paris in 1682. Again, the device of cutting a hole in a portrait for an eaves-dropper's head to be inserted, was used in "Columbine Avocat" as far back as 1685.

In "Arlequin Lingere du Palais," played at the Hotel de Bourgogne in October, 1682, there was represented two stalls—an underclothier's and a confectioner's. Harlequin dressed half like a man and half like a woman, with a mask on each side of his face to match presides in this dual capacity at both stalls. Pasquariel, who comes to buy, is utterly bewildered, and is made the target of both jests and missiles of monsieur of the confectioners, and mademoiselle of the adjoining stall. Possibly the shop scenes in our English Harlequinades may have originated from this. A similar idea to the above was given in O'Keefe's Pantomime of "Harlequin Teague; or the Giants' Causeway," performed at the Haymarket in 1782. Charles Bannister appeared in this Pantomime and sang a duet as a giant with two heads, one side representing a gentleman of quality, and the other a hunting squire. Mrs. German Reed, about 1855, appeared representing two old women, between whom an imaginary conversation was held, Mrs. Reed turning first one side of her face to the audience, and then the other. Fred Maccabe, in his "Essence of Faust," had also a similar allusion, and by many "transformation dancers" was it used. The antiquity of many other devices could be noted, but I must desist, yet I cannot help remarking that even here we have more exemplifications of history repeating itself.

Scenical representations and mechanical devices in Italy had long been made a fine art, and an English traveller and critic observes that our painting compared to theirs is only daubing. I find among their decorations statues of marble, alabaster, palaces, colonnades, galleries, and sketches of architecture; pieces of perspective that deceive the judgment as well as the eye; prospects of a prodigious extent in spaces not thirty feet deep. As for their machines I can't think it in the power of human wit to carry their inventions further. In 1697, I saw at Venice an elephant discovered on the stage, when, in an instant, an army was seen in its place; the soldiers, having by the disposition of their shields, given so true a representation of it as if it had been a real elephant.

In Rome, at the Theatre Capranio, in 1698, there was a ghost of a woman surrounded by guards. This phantom, extending her arms and unfolding her clothes, was, with one motion, transformed into a perfect palace, with its front, its wings, body, and courtyard. The guards, striking their halberds on the stage, were immediately turned into so many waterworks, cascades, and trees, that formed a charming garden before the palace. At the same theatre, in the opera "Nerone Infante," the interior of hell was shown. Here part of the stage opened, and discovered a scene underneath, representing several caves, full of infernal spirits, that flew about, discharging fire and smoke, on another side the river of Lethe and Charon's boat. Upon this landing a prodigious monster appeared, whose mouth opening to the great horror of the spectators, covered the front wings of the remaining part of the stage. Within his jaws was discovered a throne of fire, and a multitude of monstrous snakes, on which Pluto sat. After this the great monster, expanding his wings, began to move very slowly towards the audience. Under his body appeared a great multitude of devils, who formed themselves into a ballet, and plunged, one after the other, into the opening of the floor. The great monster was in an instant transformed into an innumerable multitude of broad white butterflies, which flew all into the pit, and so low that some often touched the hats of several of the spectators, and at last they disappeared. During this circumstance, which sufficiently employed the eyes of the spectators, the stage was refitted, and the scene changed into a beautiful garden, with which the third act began.

The scene painter, Devoto, painted the scenery and decorations for the Goodman's Fields Theatre, where, it is interesting to note, David Garrick made his first London appearance in 1741. His first appearance on any stage had been made at Ipswich on Tuesday, 21st July, in the same year, under the name of Lyddall. Garrick, during his time, introduced many novelties in the way of scenery and transparencies, acting on the suggestions of Signor Seivandoni, the scenic artist at the Opera-house, and the fencing master, Dominico Angelo. These transparencies became the talk of London, and it has been known for several plays to have been written so as to introduce them. The first transparent scene is said to have been the "Enchanted Wood," introduced in "Harlequin's Invasion," at Drury Lane, the painter being one French, the scenic artist of the theatre.

Beverley, the scene painter for Madame Vestris, half a century ago, brought fairy, or Pantomime, scenes to great perfection. Leopold Wagner, speaking of them, says:—"We have it upon the authority of Mr. Planche that these were almost entirely due to the skilled efforts and successes of Mr. William Beverley, who, in the nature of Extravaganza, so impressed the public with his fine talents as an artist upon theatrical canvas, that gorgeous scenes became quite the rage, and how, year after year, Mr. Beverley's powers were taxed to the utmost to outdo his former triumphs, and how the most costly materials and complicated machinery were annually put into requisition until the managers began to suffer."

Speaking of the production on the 26th December, 1849, of "The Island of Jewels," Planche says, "The novel, and yet exceedingly simple, falling of the leaves of a palm tree, which discovered six fairies, supporting a coronet of jewels, produced such an effect as I scarcely remember having witnessed on any similar occasion up to that period. The last scene became the first in the estimation of the management. The most complicated machinery, the most costly materials were annually put into requisition, until their bacon was so buttered that it was impossible to save it. Nothing was considered brilliant but the last scene. Dutch metal was in the ascendant. It was no longer even painting, it was upholstery. Mrs. Charles Mathews herself informed me that she had paid between L60 and L70 for gold tissue for the dresses of the Supernumeraries alone." I wonder what Mrs. Mathews would say if she could now visit this terrestrial sphere of ours?

All this love of spectacular display soon began to supersede the good old-fashioned Christmas Pantomimes.

In his work, "Behind the Scenes," Mr. Fitzgerald very graphically describes the Transformation scene of later days, and now becoming nearly as obsolete as the Harlequinade. All will recall in some elaborate transformation scene how quietly and gradually it is evoked. First the gauzes lift slowly one behind the other—perhaps the most pleasing of all scenic effects—giving glimpses of the Realms of Bliss seen beyond in a tantalising fashion. Then is revealed a kind of half glorified country, clouds and banks evidently concealing much. Always a sort of pathetic, and, at the same time, exultant strain rises, and is repeated as the changes go on; now we hear the faint tinkle—signal to those aloft on the "bridges" to open more glories. Now some of the banks begin to part slowly, showing realms of light with a few divine beings—fairies—rising slowly here and there. More breaks beyond, and more fairies rising with a pyramid of these ladies beginning to mount slowly in the centre. Thus it goes on, the lights streaming on full in every colour and from every quarter in the richest effulgence. In some of the more daring efforts the femmes suspendues seem to float in the air or rest on the frail support of sprays or branches of trees. While, finally, at the back of all the most glorious paradise of all will open, revealing the pure empyrean itself, and some fair spirit aloft in a cloud among the stars; the apex of all. Then all motion ceases; the work is complete; the fumes of crimson, red, and blue fire begin to rise at the wings; the music bursts into a crash of exultation; and, possibly to the general disenchantment, a burly man, in a black frock coat, steps out from the side and bows awkwardly. Then, to a shrill whistle, the first scene of the Harlequinade closes in, and shuts out the brilliant vision.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Pantomimic Families—Giuseppe Grimaldi—James Byrne, the Harlequin and Inventor of the modern Harlequin's dress—Joseph Grimaldi, Junior—The Bologna Family—Tom Ellar—The Ridgways—The Bradburys—The Montgomerys—-The Paynes—The Marshalls—Charles and Richard Stilt—Richard Flexmore—Tom Gray—The Paulos—Dubois—Arthur and Charles Leclerq—"Jimmy" Barnes—Famous Pantaloons—Miss Farren—Mrs. Siddons—Columbines—Notable Actors in Pantomime.

In the histrionic profession the genius of hereditary is shown over and over again; and no more so than in Pantomimic families. For, if blessed with a numerous progeny, the sons became—the eldest, of course, could only, as the place of honour, be Clown—the others, Harlequins, Pantaloons; the daughters, Columbines; and, perhaps, Harlequinas.

In the last chapter but one I have referred to Grimaldi's father, Giuseppe Grimaldi, "Iron Legs," and now let us recall something more of the sire of so worthy a son.

As a dancer—as his father was before him—and Pantomimist, Giuseppe Grimaldi, before coming to England, had appeared at the fairs of France and Italy. In 1758 Giuseppe made his first appearance on the stage of Drury Lane, under Garrick's management, in a new Pantomime dance, entitled, "The Millers."

For some thirty years afterwards the Signor continued to be a member of the Drury Lane corps de ballet, and appearing as Clown, Harlequin, and Pantaloon.

In 1764, Giuseppe played Harlequin in a Clown-less Pantomime at Sadler's Wells, and in the Drury Lane Pantomime of the same year, though there were Harlequin, Pantaloon, and Columbine in it, there was no Clown. Drury Lane was then only open in the winter, and Sadler's Wells in the summer months.

A notable Harlequin was Mr. James Byrne, the ballet-master. "Mr. Byrne," says Grimaldi, in his "Memoirs," "was the best Harlequin on the boards, and never has been excelled, or even equalled, since that period."

Mr. Byrne came of a well-known dancing family, and to him we owe the introduction of the tight-fitting dress worn by Harlequin. Until the production of the Pantomime of "Harlequin Amulet, or the Magic of Mona," at Drury Lane Theatre, written by Mr. Powell, produced at Christmas, 1799, by Mr. Byrne, and which ran until Easter, 1800—it had been the loose jacket and trousers of the ancient Mimes. It had also been considered indispensable that Harlequin should be continually attitudinising in the five different positions of Admiration, Flirtation, Thought, Defiance, and Determination; and continually passing from one to the other without pausing. Byrne, for newer attitudes, abolished these postures, but long afterwards the old form of posing was, and is still, retained by the exponents of Harlequin.

In this Pantomime, Byrne, as Harlequin, appeared in a white silk close-fitting shape, fitting without a wrinkle, and into which the variegated colours of time-honoured memory were woven, and covered with spangles, presenting a very bright appearance.

Mr. Byrne, also gave the character of Harlequin an entirely new reading. The colours of Harlequin's dress had every one a significance, as follows:—Red, temper; blue, love; yellow, jealousy; brown or mauve, constancy. When Harlequin wore his mask down he was supposed to be invisible. On his mask he had two bumps, denoting knowledge on the one hand, and thought on the other, whilst in his cap he wore a hare's foot, and a worked device on his shoes, indicating flight and speed. Can we not from the bumps of knowledge and the hare's foot trace the characteristics of the god Mercury, which, as previously stated, was the prototype of Harlequin. With the bat, or magic sword, the gift from the fairies to him, Harlequin was supposed to be invulnerable, and if he lost his sword he would fall into the power of the Clown.

Byrne's innovation was not resisted, and it was well received, and ever since this memorable occasion, the character of Harlequin has, for the most part, been dressed as Byrne dressed it. The significance of the present-day variegated colours of Harlequin's costume are somewhat different to the above, and denote: red, fire; blue, water; yellow, air; and black, earth. These—the four elements—are typical of the regions governed by Mercury.

Mr. Byrne was at Drury Lane in the time of Garrick. He died December 4th, 1845, in the eighty-ninth year of his age. Mrs. Byrne, who was also a dancer, pre-deceasing her husband by a few months in her seventy-fourth year.

Joseph Grimaldi, son of "Old Joe," made, at twelve years of age, his first appearance at Sadler's Wells in 1814, playing Man Friday to his father's Robinson Crusoe. For several years both father and son played together in various Pantomimes; and it was thought that before young Joe there was a brilliant future. This, however, was soon dissipated, as he embarked upon vicious courses, and through a blow on the head received in some brawl "He became a wild and furious savage; he was frequently attacked with dreadful fits of epilepsy, and continually committed actions which nothing but insanity could prompt. In 1828 he had a decided attack of insanity, and was confined in a strait waistcoat in his father's house for some time."

From engagements at Drury Lane, Sadler's Wells, the Pavilion and the Surrey Theatre in turn, he was dismissed, finally "Falling into the lowest state of wretchedness and poverty. His dress had fallen to rags, his feet were thrust into two worn-out slippers, his face was pale with disease, and squalid with dirt and want, and he was steeped in degradation." This unhappy life came to a final close in a public-house in Pitt Street, off the Tottenham Court Road.

Signor Pietro Bologna, a country-man and friend of Giuseppe Grimaldi, Joe Grimaldi's father, brought with him from Genoa his wife, two sons and a daughter. They were all Mimes, and, in a Pantomime produced in 1795, entitled, "The Magic Feast," Signor Bologna was Clown, and his son, "Jack" Bologna, was Harlequin; the latter being also Harlequin to Grimaldi's Clown, both at Covent Garden and Sadler's Wells. "Jack" Bologna married a sister of Mary Bristow, Joe Grimaldi's second wife, and the mother of poor young Joe.

Tom Ellar was another famous Harlequin, first making his appearance at the Royalty, Goodman's Fields, in 1808. For several seasons he played Harlequin at Covent Garden.

Many years ago penny portraits of Mr. Ellar "In his favourite character of Harlequin," were published by a Mr. Skelt, or a Mr. Park, of Long Lane, Smithfield, and were the delight of those, who, if living now, are old and gray.

Tom Ellar died April 8, 1842, aged 62. Previous to his death he must have fallen upon evil days, as Thackeray, in 1840, wrote: "Tom, who comes bounding home from school, has the doctor's account in his trunk, and his father goes to sleep at the Pantomime to which he takes him. Pater infelix, you too, have laughed at Clown, and the magic wand of spangled Harlequin: what delightful enchantment did it wave round you in the golden days 'when George the Third was King?' But our Clown lies in his grave; and our Harlequin Ellar, prince of many of our enchanted islands, was he not at Bow Street the other day, in his dirty, faded, tattered motley—seized as a law breaker for acting at a penny theatre, after having well nigh starved in the streets, where nobody would listen to his old guitar? No one gave a shilling to bless him: not one of us who owe him so much!"

Another Pantomime family were the Ridgways. Tom Ridgway was Clown under Madame Vestris's management at Covent Garden.

There have been several Bradburys since the time of Grimaldi's great rival, Robert Bradbury, died July 21, 1831, who wore on his person nine strong "pads," in order to go through some extraordinary feats.

The Montgomerys; the Paynes, Harry and Fred; nor should the name of "Old Billy" Payne be omitted. "Billy" Payne it was, it will be remembered, who, in 1833, helped, from the stage of Covent Garden, the dying Edmund Kean.

Then there were the Marshalls, Harry and Joseph; Charles and Richard Stilt; and a very original and amusing Clown, Richard Flexmore, died August 20, 1860, aged 36. Tom Gray, a famous Clown of Covent Garden, died January 28th, 1768, aged upwards of 100 years; the Paulo family of Pantomimists; Dubois, Arthur and Charles Leclerq, Walter Hilyard, and many, many others.

In the 'twenties and 'thirties a popular and famous Pantaloon was "Jimmy" Barnes, died September 28th, 1838. Barnes, in the summer of 1830, was engaged to play in an English company at Paris, but they had hardly commenced to perform when the Revolution of July broke out. Some years afterwards Barnes published in "Bentley's Miscellany," from his old original M.S., an amusing and illustrated account of his wanderings.

Amongst other Pantaloons there have been—Thomas Blanchard, died August 20, 1859, aged 72; William Lynch, died June 29, 1861, aged 78; R. Norman, died September 16, 1858, aged 70; George Tanner, died February 8, 1870; and Paulo, a member of Mr. Charles Kean's Company at the Princess's Theatre, had as Pantaloon appeared in many Pantomimes. It is a notable fact that a good number of our Mimes were long-livers.

Long before Miss Farren, afterwards Countess of Derby (died April 21, 1829), first charmed a London audience, we hear of her in 1772 at Wakefield in one of her first parts—if not her first—that of Columbine. She could both sing well and dance gracefully. One of the earliest "parts" that even the great Mrs. Siddons (that afterwards was), when a young girl, played, was in connection with Pantomime, as Combes remembered to have seen her "Standing by the side of her father's stage, and knocking a pair of snuffers against a candle-stick to imitate the sound of a wind-mill, during the representation of some Harlequinade."

In days gone by Madame Leclerq, Carlotta Leclerq, Charles Kean's Columbine in the seasons of 1850-1-2, E. Dennett, Emma Boleno, died October 18th, 1867, aged 35; Marie Charles, who died from an accident by fire, Pavilion Theatre, January 21, 1864, and others have won considerable fame in the part of Columbine.

Amongst those who have played Harlequin in days gone by, have been the elder Kean, and the well-known actor, Mr. Wilson Barrett, who, early in his career, played this part for an extra two shillings and sixpence "thrown in," to augment his then weekly salary of seventeen shillings and sixpence; whilst Sir Henry Irving tells us that he also has appeared in Pantomime, in the character of a wicked fairy, named Venoma, in days since past, for a small monetary emolument.



CHAPTER XIX.

Popular Pantomime subjects—Poor Pantomime Librettos—Pantomime subjects of our progenitors—The various versions of "Aladdin"—"The Babes in the Wood"—"Blue Beard"—"Beauty and the Beast"—"Cinderella"—"Dick Whittington"—"The House that Jack Built"—"Jack the Giant Killer"—"Jack and the Beanstalk"—"Red Riding Hood"—"The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood"—Unlucky subjects—"Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves"—"The Fair One with Golden Locks"—The source of "Sindbad the Sailor" and "Robinson Crusoe."

It may be of interest in this History of Pantomime to note the origin of some of our most popular present day Pantomime subjects, besides showing many of our present day Pantomime libretto writers that in such well-known themes as "Aladdin," "Cinderella," and others, there is no need to cast their stories pretty much in the same groove, year after year, when by drawing on the fairy-lore of the East much that is new and original, for present-day English Pantomimes, is waiting the attention of their skill and ingenuity.

Though the stories of popular English Pantomimes are practically the same each year (why I do not know), yet, not content with this, in many of our large cities and towns we frequently see the same Pantomime title not only "billed" at one theatre, but perhaps at several others. This clashing and clashing year after year with one another's titles (I say nothing about the "plots," as these, in many instances, only consist of a half-penny worth of author to an intolerable deal of music-hall gag), cannot but, I have long been of opinion, adversely affect the box-office receipts, unless, of course, the Pantomime-goer makes a point of "doing the round," so to speak, which, however, is not generally the case.

As Pantomime writers in the early days there were Thomas Dibdin, son of Charles Dibdin, the writer of nautical ballads, Pocock and Sheridan. Dibdin was one of the best of Pantomime librettists, and from the years 1771 to 1841 his prolific pen, as a writer of Pantomimes, was never idle, as from it came some thirty-three Pantomimes, and all successes. Amongst other literary luminaries, in after years, as writers of Pantomime Extravaganzas, there were J.R. Planche, E.L. Blanchard, W. Brough, Mark Lemon, H.J. Byron, Wilton Jones, and John Francis McArdle.

History always repeats itself we know, and poor Pantomime books were not unknown as far back as half a century ago, as the subjoined parody on the "Burial of Sir John Moore," by the late Albert Smith plainly shows:—

Not a laugh was heard, not a topical joke, As its corse to oblivion we hurried; Not a paper a word in its favour spoke On the Pantomime going to be buried.

We buried it after the Boxing Night, The folks from the galleries turning; For 'twas plain it would scarcely pay for the light Of the star in the last act burning.

No useless play-bill put forth a puff, How splendid the public had found it, But it lay like a piece that had been called "stuff," With a very wet blanket around it.

After this digression for one brief moment more, let us take a passing glance at some of the Pantomime subjects which our progenitors delighted in. They had not the continual ringing of the changes on half-a-dozen Pantomime subjects, as we have at present, but revelled in such attractions as "Harlequin Don Quixote," "The Triumph of Mirth, or Harlequin's Wedding," "The Enchanted Wood or Harlequin's Vagaries," "Hurly Burly, or the Fairy of the Wells," "Blue Beard, Black Beard, and Grey Beard," and many others. However, to return.

Of the Pantomime subjects, whose origin we are going to enquire into, let us first commence with "Aladdin."

According to the many versions of this popular story in Europe and Asia, it would seem that its origin originally was of Buddhist extraction. In our common English version of "Aladdin," in "The Arabian Nights," which was taken from Galland's French version, it is doubtless an Eastern picture. It does not occur, however, in any known Arabian text (says Mr. Clouston, in "Popular Tales," and to whose work I am indebted for much of the information for this chapter) of "The Thousand and One Nights" (Elf Laila wa Laila), although the chief incidents are found in many Asiatic fictions, and it had become orally current in Greece and Italy before it was published by Galland. A popular Italian version, which presents a close analogy to the familiar story of "Aladdin" (properly "Ala-u-d-Din," signifying "Exaltation of the Faith") is given by Miss M.H. Busk, in her "Folklore of Rome," under the title of "How Cajusse was married."

A good natured looking old man one day knocks at the door of a poor tailor out of work; his son, opening the door, is told by the old man that he is his uncle, and he gives him half a piastre to buy a good dinner. When the tailor comes home—he was absent at the time—he is surprised to hear the old man claim him as a brother, but finding him so rich he does not dispute the matter. After the old man had lived some time with the tailor and his family, literally defraying all the household expenses, he finds it necessary to depart, and with the tailor's consent takes the boy Cajusse with him, in order that he may learn some useful business. But no sooner do they get outside the town than he tells Cajusse that it is all a dodge. "I'm not your uncle," he says, "I want a strong, daring boy to do something I am too old to do. I'm a wizard—don't attempt to escape for you can't." Cajusse, not a bit frightened, asks him what it is he wants him to do; and the wizard raises a flat stone from the ground, and orders him to go down, and after he gets to the bottom of the cave to proceed until he comes to a beautiful garden, where he will see a fierce dog keeping watch. "Here's bread for him. Don't look back when you hear sounds behind you. On a shelf you will see an old lantern; take it down, and bring it to me." So saying the wizard gave Cajusse a ring, in case anything awkward should happen to him after he had got the lantern, when he had only to rub the ring, and wish for deliverance. Cajusse finds precious stones hanging like frost from the trees in the garden underground, and he fills his pocket with them. Returning to the entrance of the cave, he refuses to give up the lantern till he has been drawn out; so the wizard thinking merely to frighten him replaces the stone. Cajusse finding himself thus entrapped rubs the ring, when instantly the Slave of the Ring appears, and the youth at once orders the table to be laid for dinner. He then calls for his mother and father, and they all have an unusually good meal. Some time afterwards, Cajusse had returned home, the town was illuminated, one day in honour of the marriage of the Sultan's daughter to the Vizier's son. He sends his mother to the palace with a basket of jewels, and, to demand the Sultan's daughter in marriage. The Sultan is astounded at the purity of the gems, and says he will give his answer in a month. At the end of the same week the Grand Vizier's son is married to the Princess. Cajusse rubs his lantern and says "Go to-night and take the daughter of the Sultan and lay her on a poor pallet in our outhouse." This is done, and Cajusse begins to talk to her, but she is far too frightened to answer. The Sultan learns of his daughter's whereabouts, and does not know what to make of the strange business. The son of the Vizier complains to his father that his wife disappears every night, and comes back just before dawn. Cajusse now sends his mother to the Sultan with three more baskets full of jewels, and the Sultan tells her he may come and see him at the palace. Having received this message, Cajusse rubs the lantern, gets a dress of gold and silver, a richly caparisoned horse, four pages with rich dresses to ride behind them, and one to go before, distributing money to the people. Cajusse is next married to the Princess, and they live together in a most magnificent palace with great happiness. By-and-bye the old wizard hears of this, and resolves to obtain the lantern by hook or by crook. Disguising himself as a pedlar he comes to the palace calling out the familiar "New lamps for old." By this means he obtains the precious lamp, and immediately transports the palace and the princess to an island in the high seas. Cajusse, by the aid of the magic ring, quickly follows, to find his princess a prisoner in the power of the wizard. He then gives her this advice: "Make a feast to-night; say you'll marry the old wizard if he'll tell you what thing would be fatal to him, and you will guard him against it." The princess gets from the magician the fatal secret. "One must go into a far distant forest," he says "Where there is a beast called the hydra, and cut off his seven heads. If the middle head is split open a leveret will jump out and run off. If the leveret is split open, a bird will fly out. If the bird is caught and opened, in its body is a precious stone, and should that be placed under my pillow I shall die." Cajusse accomplishes all these things, and gives the life-stone to the princess, together with a bottle of opium. The princess drugs the wizard's wine, and when he had laid his head on his pillow (under which was the stone) he gave three terrible yells, turned himself round three times, and was dead. After thus ridding themselves of their enemy, Cajusse and his bride lived happy ever afterwards.

Aladdin's adventure with the magician in the enchanted cave has also its counterpart in Germany (see Grimms' German Collection).

Another "Aladdin" version is the tale of Maruf, the last in the Bulak and Calcutta printed Arabic texts of the "Book of Maruf" in "The Thousand and One Nights." The story is to the effect that Maruf had given out that he was a rich man, under which false pretence he marries the Sultan's daughter. The tale he spread about was that he was expecting the arrival of a rich caravan, which contained all his princely wealth. After they were married, Maruf confesses to his wife the imposture he has practised on them. She urges him to fly, or his head would be forfeited, and procures him a disguise to flee the country. He does so, and, whilst journeying through a village, he sees a man ploughing in a field, whom he asks for food. Whilst the latter is away, Maruf continues the ploughing, where the man had left off, and the ploughshare strikes against something hard in the ground, which turns out to be an iron ring in a marble slab. He pulls at the ring, and Maruf discovers a small room covered with gold, emeralds, rubies, and other precious stones. He also discovers a coffer of crystal, having a little box, containing a diamond in its entirety. Desirous of knowing what the box further contains, he finds a plain gold ring, with strange talismanic characters engraved thereon. Placing the ring on his finger, he is suddenly confronted by the Genii of the Ring, who demands to know what are his commands. Maruf desires the Genii to transport all the treasure to the earth, when mules and servants appear, and carry it to the city which Maruf had left, much to the chagrin of the Vizier, who did not like Maruf. Maruf, during a great feast prepared for the occasion, tells the Sultan how he became possessed of the treasure, when the Sultan begs the loan of the ring, which Maruf hands to the Vizier to give him, and which no sooner does he get, than he commands the Genii to convey Maruf to some desert island, and leave him to die. The Vizier also serves the Sultan the same way, and then he turns his attention to "Mrs. Maruf," whom he threatens with death if she refuses to marry him. At a banquet she makes the Vizier drunk, obtains possession of the ring, secures the return of Maruf and the Sultan, and the decapitation of the Vizier.

The "Babes in the Wood" was registered on the books of Stationers' Hall as a ballad as far back as 1595.

To take another familiar Pantomime subject, "Blue Beard," this story is said to have been invented as a satire on our King Henry VIII. There is little doubt, however, of it originating from a very ancient source; and to afford the reader all the possible information on the subject, a writer in "The Drama," a magazine of the beginning of the last century has the following, though he does not state his authority for the information:—

As this extraordinary personage has long been the theme, not only of children's early study and terror, it will be gratifying to peruse the character of that being who really existed, and who was distinguished in horror and derision by the strange appellation of "Blue Beard."

He was the famous Gilles, Marquis de Laval, a Mareschal of France, and a General of uncommon intrepidity, who greatly distinguished himself in the reigns of Charles VI. and VII., by his courage, particularly against the English, when they invaded France. He rendered such services to his country, which were sufficient to immortalize his name, had he not for ever tarnished his glory by the most terrible and cruel murders, blasphemies, and licentiousness of every kind. His revenues were princely; but his prodigality was sufficient to render even an Emperor a bankrupt. Wherever he went he had in his suite a seraglio, a band of players, a company of musicians, a society of sorcerers and magicians, an almost incredible number of cooks, packs of dogs of various kinds, and above 200 led horses. Mezerai, an author of great repute, says, that he encouraged and maintained men who called themselves sorcerers, to discover hidden treasures, and corrupted young persons of both sexes to attach themselves to him, and afterwards killed them for the sake of their blood, which was requisite to form his charms and incantations. These horrid excesses may be believed, when we reflect on the age of ignorance and barbarism in which they were certainly too often practised. He was at length, for a state crime against the Duke of Brittany, sentenced to be burnt alive in a field at Nantz in 1440, but the Duke, who was present at his execution, so far mitigated the sentence, that he was first strangled, then burnt, and his ashes buried. Though he was descended from one of the most illustrious families in France, he declared, previous to his death, that all his terrible excesses were owing to his wretched education.

"Blue Beard" was first dramatised at Paris, in 1746, when "Barbe Bleu" was thus announced:—Pantomime—representee par la troupe des Comediens Pantomimes, Foir St. Laurent. It was afterwards dramatised at the Earl of Barrymore's Theatre, Wargrave, Berks., and in 1791. After that the subject was produced at Covent Garden Theatre as a Pantomime.

"Beauty and the Beast," the latter a white bear, is to be found in "Popular Tales from the Norse," by Mr. Dasent, and in the collection of "Popular Tales from the German" by the Brothers Grimm. As a ballad the story of "Beauty and the Beast" is a very old one.

"Cinderella" is to be found in the language of every European country. In ancient Hindu legends it appears; in tales related by the Greek poets it is also to be found.

The story of "Cinderella," according to the ancient Hindu legends, is that of the Sun and the Dawn. Cinderella has been likened to Aurora, the Spirit of the Dawn, and the fairy Prince of the legend is the morning Sun, ever closely pursuing her to make her his bride. The Hindu legend of the lost slipper is that a wealthy Rajah's beautiful daughter was born with a golden necklace, which contained her soul, and, if the necklace was taken off and worn by someone else, the Princess would die. The Rajah gave her on her birthday a pair of slippers with ornaments of gold and gems upon them. The princess went out upon a mountain to gather flowers, and whilst stooping there to pluck the flowers, one of her slippers fell into the forest below. A Prince, who was hunting, picked up the slipper, and was so charmed with it that he said he would make the wearer his wife. He made his wish known, but no one came to claim the slipper; at length word was given to the Prince where to find the Rajah's daughter; and shortly afterwards they were married. One of the wives of the Prince, being jealous of the Rajah's daughter, stole the necklace, put it on her own neck, and then the Rajah's daughter died. The Prince, afterwards, found out the secret of the necklace, and got it back again, and put it on his dead wife's neck, and she came to life, and they lived ever afterwards in the greatest harmony.