The ancient Grecian version of "Cinderella" is that of the story of a beautiful woman named Rhodope, who, whilst bathing, an eagle flew away with one of her slippers to Egypt, and dropped it in the lap of the King as he sat at Memphis on the judgment seat. The King was so attracted by the smallness and beauty of the slipper that he fell in love with the wearer, and afterwards made her his wife.

In Tuscany, Persia, Norway, Denmark, Russia, the story of "Dick Whittington" is well known. In all probability, like many other fairy tales, its origin was from a Buddhist source. The English version, that the Lord Mayor Whittington was the poor ill-used boy he is represented to have been in the popular tale seems quite impossible, since according to Stow (mentions Mr. Clouston) he was the son of Sir Richard Whittington, Knight. The story was current in Europe in the thirteenth century. In the chronicle of Albert, Abbot of the Convent of St. Mary of Slade, written at that period, it is related that there were two citizens of Venice, one of whom was rich, the other poor. It fortuned that the rich man went abroad to trade, and the poor man gave him as his venture two cats, the sale of which, as in our tale of the renowned "Dick Whittington," procured him great wealth.

On September 21st, 1668, Pepys makes mention in his diary of going to Southwark Fair, and of seeing the puppet show of "Whittington," which he says "was pretty to see." A Pantomime on the subject was also given by Rich early in the eighteenth century.

In Tuscany, the "Dick Whittington" story runs that in the fifteenth century, a Genoese merchant, who presented two cats to the King, was rewarded by him with rich presents.

In Norway, a poor boy, having found a box full of silver money under a stone, emptied the box and its contents into a lake—one piece, however, floated, which he kept, believing it to be good. His mother, hearing of this, thrust him out of doors; and he eventually obtained employment in a merchant's house. The merchant, having to make a voyage to foreign parts, he asked each of his servants what he should "venture" for him. The poor boy offered all he had, the silver penny, of which he was still the possessor. With this the merchant purchased a cat, and sailed away, but the vessel in which he was in was driven out of her course on to the shores of a strange country. The merchant going ashore went to an inn, and, in a room, he saw the table laid for dinner, with a long rod for each man who sat at it. When the meat was set on the table, out swarmed thousands of mice, and each one who sat at the table beat them off with his rod. The cat was brought into service, and sold for a hundred dollars, and soon put an end to the career of the mice. When the merchant had weighed anchor, much to his surprise, he saw the cat sitting at the mast head. Again foul weather came on, and again the vessel was driven to another strange country, where the mice were just as numerous as before. The cat was called in, sold this time for two hundred dollars, and away the merchant sailed. No sooner, however, was he at sea, than the cat once more appeared before him. The vessel was again driven out of her course to another strange country, over-run with rats this time, when poor pussy was sold a third time, for the sum of three hundred dollars. Again the cat made its appearance; and the merchant thinking to do the poor boy out of his money, a dreadful storm arose, which only subsided on the merchant making a vow that the boy should have every penny. When he arrived home the merchant faithfully kept his promise, gave the boy the six hundred dollars, and the hand of his daughter besides.

A Breton legend of the story of "Dick Whittington" runs that three sons go to seek their fortune, the eldest of whom, Yvon, possesses a cat. The cat again plays an important part. Yvon becomes the friend of the Lord of the Manor, and has gold and diamonds bestowed upon him in galore.

The Russian version is that a poor little orphan boy buys a cat, which some mischievous boys were teasing, for three copecks (about a penny). Taken into the service of a merchant the latter goes to a distant country, accompanied by the cat of the orphan boy. Puss making sad work of some rats, which threatened to make an end of the merchant in the inn, which he occupied. He ultimately sold the cat to the landlord for a sack full of gold. Returning home, on his way thither, he thought how foolish it would be to give all the money to the boy. Whereupon a dreadful storm arose, and the vessel, in which was the merchant, was in danger of sinking. The merchant, knowing that the storm had arisen through his change of purpose, prayed to heaven for forgiveness, when the sea became calm, and the vessel arrived safely in port, when the merchant paid over to the orphan boy all the wealth obtained by the sale of the cat.

In the Persian version, unlike the other legends, the cat is owned by a poor widow, who had been impoverished through her sons, and was left with only a cat. The sale of the cat produces great wealth; and the widow, Kayser, immediately sends for her sons to share her newly-acquired fortune. What follows is different to the other versions of these wonderful cat stories. The sons only too eager to share the wealth of their mother, fit out many vessels, and begin to trade largely with India and Arabia. Thinking that to acquire wealth by commerce alone, rather slow work, they turned pirates, and were a source of trouble and annoyance to the neighbouring states, till about 1230 A.D., when they were reduced to vassalage under Persian rule.

"The House that Jack Built" has its prototype in a sacred hymn in the Talmud of the Hebrews.

"Jack, the Giant Killer" and "Jack and the Beanstalk" are two very ancient themes coming from the North, of the time, it is said, of King Arthur, and of the days when "Giants were upon the earth." The well-known cry of the giants in these legends—

"Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman; Be he alive or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread,"

is also referred to by Shakespeare in "King Lear," in Act III., Scene 5, when Edgar sings:—

"Child Rowland to the dark Tower came; His word was still, fee, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman."

The English version of the story of "Jack the Giant Killer," must, therefore, be older than the time of Elizabeth. It is also a strange and significant fact that amongst the Zulus, and the inhabitants of the Fiji Islands, there are similar legends of the story of "Jack and the Beanstalk."

The story of "Jack and the Beanstalk" is also to be found in old Hindoo tales, in which the beans denote abundance. The Russians have a story in which a bean falls to the ground, and an old man, the Sun, climbs up by it to heaven. "The ogre in the land above the skies," observes Mr. Baring Gould, "who was once the all-father, possessed three treasures—a harp, which played of itself enchanting music; bags of gold and diamonds; and a hen which daily laid a golden egg. The harp is the wind, the bags of gold are the clouds dropping the sparkling rain, and the golden egg laid every day by the red hen is the producing sun." The same idea in "Jack and the Beanstalk" occurs in the fairy legends of the North and the East, as well as in Grecian stories.

In "Jack the Giant Killer," the gifts given to Jack are found in Tartar, Hindoo, Scandinavian, and German legends.

Now let us note briefly the origin of "Red Riding Hood" and "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood." All the other fairy stories that we know of are to be found in other countries, and springing originally from Asia, where they were made ages and ages ago.

The Wolf in the story of "Red Riding Hood" has been likened to the days of our own "Bluff King Hal," owing to the latter's suppression of the monasteries, and Red Riding Hood herself, whom the Wolf subsequently eats, with her hood and habit, was supposed to be typical of the monastic orders.

The Hindoo's version of the "Red Riding Hood" story is a pretty and fanciful one. Their idea was that there was always a great Dragon endeavouring to devour Indra, the Sun god, and to prevent the Sun from shining upon the earth, Indra ultimately overcomes the Dragon. Red Riding Hood, with her warm habit, is supposed to be the setting sun casting its red and glittering rays as it sinks to rest. The old Grandmother is Mother Earth; and the Wolf, the Dragon; and when all is dark and still, the Wolf swallows the Grandmother, namely, the Earth; and afterwards, as Night has fallen, the Evening Sun. The Huntsman denotes the Morning Sun, and he chases away all the dark clouds gathered during the night, and by doing so kills the Wolf; recovers the old Grandmother Earth, and brings to life again, Little Red Riding Hood. Another version (observes Mr. T. Bunce) is that the Wolf is the dark, and dreary winter, that kills the Earth with frost, but when spring comes again it brings the Earth and the Sun back to life.

In "The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood," the maiden has been likened to the Morning dawn, and the young Prince, who awakens her, with a kiss, to the Sun.

"Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves," in concluding this chapter, I may say, with "The Fair One with Golden Locks," forms to the superstitious the only two unlucky Pantomime subjects.

"Sindbad, the Sailor," taken from the "Arabian Nights," has its origin in Persian and Arabian tales.

Of all our Pantomime subjects, "Robinson Crusoe," seems to be the only one we can properly lay claim to as being "of our own make," so to speak, and written by Daniel De Foe, and, in the main, from the imagination. De Foe, it has been stated, derived his idea for this story from the adventures of one, Alexander Selkirk, a Scotchman, who had been a castaway on the Island of Juan Fernandez. The first portion of "Robinson Crusoe" appeared in "The Family Instructor," in 1719, of which De Foe was the founder. It, at once, sprang into popularity, and has left its author undying fame. De Foe was born about 1660 in the parish of St. Giles, Cripplegate, died 26th April, 1731, and was buried in Bunhill Fields.



CHAPTER XX.

Pantomime in America.

Pantomime, in America, had not a very long run, it being killed by the farcical comedy. Mr. E.L. Blanchard supposes that "Mother Goose" was the first Pantomime played in America, but this is an error, as it was not until 1786, when Garrick's "Harlequin's Invasion," and R. Pocock's "Robinson Crusoe" were played at the John Street Theatre, New York, that Pantomime made its advent in America. "Mother Goose" was afterwards played, but it did not suit the Yankee's taste. Rich's Harlequin, Gay of "The Beggars Opera," produced at Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, and which it is said made "Rich Gay, and Gay Rich," also went to America, and where, it is said, he became the Chief of an Indian tribe in the Far West. In the South Sea Bubble Gay held some L20,000. His friends advised him to sell, but he dreamed of greatness and splendour, and refused their counsel. Ultimately, both the profit and the principal was lost, and Gay sunk under the calamity so low that his life became in danger.

American Pantomimes consisted of a semi-pastoral "opening," performed almost entirely in dumb show, and a big trick Harlequinade, and down to the time of Pantomime's decease in America was it played like this.

George L. Fox made Pantomime highly popular in America. Born in May of 1825, he, as an actor and comedian in Yankee and Irish parts, held his own in popularity with the great Joseph Jefferson.

Fox might be properly termed "The Grimaldi of America," as he was the representative Clown of the land of the stars and stripes. His Clown's parts he dressed like Grimaldi, and with the whitened face and bald head of Pierrot, the French type of Clown.

The year that "Mother Goose" came to New York saw the introduction of a French troupe of Pantomimists, known as the Ravels. In imitation of these performers Fox introduced in the 'fifties ballet Pantomimes, and several Ravelsque pieces like "The Red Gnome" and "The Schoolmaster" with good results.

In 1862 Fox was at the Bowery Theatre, and, during his occupation of the same, he did much to popularise Pantomime. Half a dozen years afterwards we find him at the Olympic Theatre, New York, where he produced "Humpty Dumpty," which ran 483 nights, and for five years, till 1873, it held its place, on and off, in the bill. Altogether it was played 943 times. Fox, from this, was known as Humpty Dumpty, and, strangely enough, also, the Americans for long enough afterwards called every Pantomime "Humpty Dumpty."

Fox was a very good mimic, imitating all the Hamlets of the day, besides being a good melodramatic actor. He died October 24th, 1877, at Cambridge, Mass., of softening of the brain.

Tony Denier, a pupil of the Ravels, and a quondam friend of Fox, next took Fox's place in the estimation of the American public. Of Denier, we are told that he arrived in Boston in 1852, with the proverbial half-crown in his pocket. He was of French extraction, and descended from one of the best French families. In 1863 he was with P.T. Barnum, and appearing as a one-legged dancer. In 1868, he went into Pantomime, toured "Humpty Dumpty," and for some twenty years afterwards kept the Pantomimic ball merrily rolling until his retirement at Chicago into private life. Denier made Harlequinade tricks a speciality.

Pantomime in America may be said to have lived about a quarter of a century; but in the autumn of this year (1901) Pantomime, as we now know it in this country, made its first appearance at the Broadway Theatre, New York, when last year's Drury Lane annual, "The Sleeping Beauty and the Beast," was successfully presented. It is very probable that this class of entertainment will become very popular in America.



CHAPTER XXI.

Pantomimes made more attractive—The Restrictive Policy of the Patent Houses—"Mother Goose" and "George Barnwell" at Covent Garden—Lively Audiences—"Jane Shore"—"Harlequin Pat and Harlequin Bat"—"The first speaking opening"—Extravagence in Extravaganzas—The doom of the old form of Pantomime—Its revival in a new form—A piece of pure Pantomime—Present day Mimetic Art—"L'Enfant Prodigue"—A retrospect—The old with the new, and conclusion.

Pantomimes, as they grew, were made more and more attractive, "new scenery, decorations, and flyings" were introduced, and with new "flyings," of course, more accidents.

The restrictive policy adopted by the Patent theatres—till the repeal of their patents (1843)—towards the minor houses, which gave to the former the sole and only right of performing the "legitimate" was, by the minor theatres, infringed in many ways. The means adopted was the employment of Pantomime in the depiction of plays adapted and considered suitable for the minor theatres. These were entirely carried on by action, and when the actor could not express something that had to be explained, like the names of characters, a scroll, with the necessary details inscribed thereon, was unrolled in full view of the audience. These entertainments were very popular at the close of the eighteenth century, and they were also the means of providing some first-class Pantomimists—as, for instance, Bologna and D'Egville.

In a couple of volumes by Mr. J.C. Cross, entitled, "Circusiana," the author of many of these old "dumb shows," the reader can see what they were like. The scripts of these plays consisted, like our ancient "Platts" and the Italian Scenarios, of principally stage directions.

John Palmer, the actor who died on the stage of the Theatre Royal, Liverpool—now used for the purpose of a cold storage—after uttering, in the part of "The Stranger," the words "There is another and a better world," found that, after building his theatre, the Royalty, in Wellclose Square, that he was prohibited its use, used to give Pantomimic representations, and just in a similar way as what the minor theatres did, as mentioned above.

It is amusing to note how the titles of some of Shakespeare's works—which at one time the Patent theatres had the monopoly—were got over; "Hamlet" has been known to have been played as "Methinks I see my Father;" "Othello," as "Is He Jealous?;" "Romeo and Juliet," as "How to Die for Love;" "The Merchant of Venice," under "Diamond Cut Diamond," and so on. Music and dancing also were introduced ad lib into these performances.

The Pantomime of "Mother Goose," produced at Covent Garden, December 29, 1806, which ran 92 nights, was preceded by "George Barnwell," and brought some L20,000 into the theatre treasury. Strangely enough, for about thirty years, it was the unvarying rule to play "George Barnwell" at this theatre on a Boxing Night, which, from all accounts, owing to the liveliness of the gods and goddesses assembled on these occasions—the Tragedy was as much a Pantomime as the Pantomime proper that followed. Of these "merry moments" Dibdin recalls that Tragedies, Comedies, and Operas were doomed to suffer all the complicated combinations of "Pray ask that gentleman to sit down," "Take off your hat?" and the like. "But the moment," continues Dibdin, "the curtain goes up (on the Pantomime), if any unfortunate gentleman speaks a word they make no reply, but throw him over directly."

Seemingly afterwards, at Pantomime time, "Barnwell" was discarded in favour of "Jane Shore," as in "The Theatrical Magazine" we find a writer penning the following:—

A few years since it was the established rule to play "George Barnwell," by way, we suppose, of a "great moral lesson" to the apprentices of London. In this age of innovation this venerable custom has been broken down, but the principle seems not wholly to have been abandoned. "Jane Shore" has supplanted "Barnwell," and the anxieties of the age, are, it would appear, now directed towards the softer sex. Seriously speaking, we consider these Christmas selections as exceedingly absurd. Visitants at this period of the year frequent the theatre less for the purpose of seeing the play than the Pantomime, and at both theatres it was this evening their chief, and almost only, attraction; for the tragedy of Rowe, which is of very little merit, derived but trifling interest or effect from the performers who personated the prominent characters. Moreover the lessons of the pulpit have unfortunately but too slight an influence on those who attend them, and we are rather fearful the moral benefits to be derived from these stage lectures, to the apprentices and servants of the metropolis, do not countervail the loss of pleasure sustained by those who would be so much better pleased; and, therefore, perhaps, taught by a lively comedy, satirising some of the light vices or laughable follies of the age. We trust this theatrical nuisance will be for the future reformed; we can almost excuse the holiday folks for being turbulent, when we reflect upon the insult offered to their understandings, in the treatment they receive on these occasions.

In 1830, at Covent Garden Theatre, Peake introduced into the Pantomime of "Harlequin Pat, and Harlequin Bat" a "speaking opening." Pantomime, however, pursued the even tenour of its way until the production at the Adelphi, about 1857, of a Pantomime, with a "burlesque opening," and "the thin end of the wedge" was provided, written by Mark Lemon. In the Harlequinade, Madame Celeste appeared as Harlequin a la Watteau, and Miss Mary Keeley was the Columbine. These Extravaganzas, from the pen of Planche, with scenery by Beverley, and all under the management of Vestris, afterwards became quite the rage.

I have previously referred to the excellence of Beverley's scenes under the regime of Madame Vestris. Extravagance in Extravaganzas, like "The Blue Bird," "Once Upon a Time," and the like, caused the managers, in the matter of scenery, to enter into serious competition with one another.

Pantomime, it was thought, was doomed, as its decease at this epoch seemed impending. It managed, however, to come again into popular favour, but in a very different shape. Instead of the usual comic Pantomime it was played by two different sets of performers, and having no connection with one another. The opening scenes, like a soap bubble, began to grow larger and larger, the double plot was abandoned, the Transformation scene became the principal feature, and a long Harlequinade at the end.

In the Pantomime of "Red Riding Hood," written by F.W. Green, and produced at Her Majesty's Theatre, during the 'eighties, an effort was made to compose and invent a piece of pure Pantomime. The Vokes family, J.T. Powers, and others, appeared in this Pantomime.

In France and Italy particularly, the Mimetic Art still flourishes; but in this country it is practically a lost Art. One of the best examples, and most successful, we have had in recent years of this ancient form of entertainment in this country was that of "L'Enfant Prodigue," played by Mdlle. Jane May and a French Company of Pantomimists. There are, however, several other very brilliant Pantomimists excellent in their Art, like the Martinetti troupe, the two brothers Renad, and the Leopolds.

"It is a pity (observes Dickens, in 'The Theatre') that the knowledge of it (Pantomime) cannot be more extended among our modern actors and actresses, so few of whom understand anything about the effectiveness of appropriate gesture. A few lessons in the business of Harlequin would teach many a young man, for instance, the simple lesson that arms may be moved with advantage from the shoulder as well as from the elbow; and so we should get rid of one of the awkwardest, ugliest, and commonest of modern stage tricks. And there would be nothing derogatory in the study. Many of our most distinguished actors have graduated in Pantomime."

Mr. Davenport Adams, writing in "The Theatre," for January, 1882, on the decline of Pantomime, says:—

"We may say of present-day Pantomime that the trail of the music-hall is over it all. I admit the extreme ability of certain music-hall comedians. I object, however, altogether, to the intrusion of such artists into the domain of Pantomime, and I do so because they, and others not so able, bring with them, so to speak, an atmosphere which it is sad to see imported into the theatre. They bring with them, not only their songs, which, when offensive in their wording, are sometimes made doubly dangerous by their tunefulness; not only their dances, which are usually vulgar, when they are not inane, but their style and manner and 'gags,' which are generally the most deplorable of all. The objection to music-hall artists on the stage is, not only that they take the bread out of the mouths of 'the profession,' which is a minor consideration for the public, but that they have the effect of familiarising general audiences, and children especially, with a style and a kind of singing, dancing, and 'business' which, however it may be relished by a certain class of the population, ought steadily to be confined to its original habitat. The managers are, of course, very much to blame, for it is by their permission, if not by their desire, that youthful ears are regaled with 'W'st, w'st, w'st,' and similar elegant compositions. Such songs as these would not be tolerated by paterfamilias in his drawing-room, yet, when he takes his children to the Pantomime, they are the most prominent portion of the entertainment."

In the last century, Pantomimes, in the form so dear to our forefathers, sometimes twice yearly—at Easter and Christmas—were given. The comic and other scenes were in that true sense of the word humorous and funny. The reason was not far to seek, as they were all played by actors. The music-hall had not, as far as Pantomime was concerned, made such inroads as at the present time it has done into the dramatic profession. Clown, to pater and materfamilias, and others, was a source of genuine enjoyment; and though they may have passed the sere and yellow leaf of age, the laughs and hearty merriment of their grand-children gathered around them made them think of other days, when they were young themselves. Picture them all, dear reader, sitting in the Family Circle—now termed the Dress Circle—a happy party with smiling and contented faces, laughing at some genuine acting—Pantomime though it be—no double entendre songs, and nothing to be ashamed of.

To the young a visit to the Pantomime was invariably a yearly occurrence to be joyfully remembered till the next Boxing Day came round again. Do they, or can they, understand Pantomime in its present form? I very much doubt it.

When towards the close of the 'fifties, and the double plot was abandoned, the character of Harlequin began to be played by women, the origin of what is now known as the "principal boy," and some acrobatic turns, or other speciality business, began to be introduced during the course of the Pantomime, which greatly discounted the efforts of Harlequin and Clown.

Another competitor that took up the running to the abolition of Clown and his companions, was the music-hall, which began introducing Pantomimes and ballets. The first to do this, some years ago, was the Canterbury, other halls soon following suit.

The managers of the theatres took up arms, with the result that various decisions, chiefly averse to the music-halls, were obtained. A decision of the Court of Common Pleas left the music-halls in a position to give ballets with costume and scenic effects without any such control or precautions as was exercised in theatres under the Lord Chamberlain's authority. The duration of the litigation was all owing to the vague definition "Stageplays in the 6 and 7 Vict. c. 68," and of "Music, dancing and public entertainments in the Act 25, Geo. II., c. 30."

Of present-day Pantomime, with the immense sums spent annually on its gorgeous spectacular display and costly dresses, there is no necessity for me here to dilate upon, as it is a subject that is well known to us all. All that is beautiful about it is due principally to the scenic artists and the costumiers. The best parts are, as a general rule, allotted to music-hall "stars," whose names will draw the most money. And the followers of Thespis have, until the reign of King Pantomime is over, to take oftentimes second-class places in the Pantomimic form of entertainment of the present day.

In the old days everyone looked forward to the performances of Clown and his companions; but little by little their business went, until finally this has dwindled down to about one or two scenes—which, in some few instances is still retained.

And now to formally "ring down," and in writing the "tag," there is, I may say, with the sound of the prompter's bell, a melancholy ring as the passing knell of Clown and his merry companions, and the "tag," as it were, their epitaph.

Pantomimes—as our forefathers knew them—have become a thing of the past, and the survivors, Clown and his comrades, the former whose quips and quiddities, in childhood's happy days, many of us still lovingly remember; the wonderment with which we gazed at the magical tricks wrought by Harlequin and his wand; the quaint conceits and ambling gait of Pantaloon; and, last but not least, bewitching Columbine, with whom, most likely as each year came round, in youthful ardour we fell anew in love's toils, are all rapidly vanishing into the dim and distant past, and to live in the future only in the memory.



CURTAIN.

THE END