The "Halls."
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The nails.
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Pi^ured by CTScotson-CUirlc.
Published by T. Fisher Vtndn* ' tcma^.
\_All Riffkfs Reserved.'}
Contents
1. DAN LENO. 4. VESTA VICTORIA.
2. QEORQE ROBEV. 5. CHIRGWIN.
3. EUGENE STRATTON. 6. R. Q. KNOWLES.
7. MARRY RANDALL.
8. BESSIE WENTWORTH.
9. MARGUERITE CORNILLE.
10. HERBERT CAMPBELL.
H. MARIE LLOYD.
12. QUS ELEN.
13. ALBERT CHEVALIER.
14. HARRY BEDFORD.
15. ALEC HURLEY.
IG. BROS. GRIFFITHS.
17. T. E. DUNVILLE.
18. MARIE LOFTUS.
19. VESTA TILLEY.
20 G. H. MACDERMOTT.
21. PAUL MARTINETTL
22. ADA REEVE.
23. HARRIET VERNON.
24. LOCKHARTS ELEPHANTS.
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
THE MUSIC HALLS.
" The beat of the feet on the earth in the maddest merriest dancing ;
The glance of the eye that is glowing and bright, dancing, glancing;
The kiss of the lips that are ruddy and warm, entrancing :
These are ours,
In the hours
When the day is done, and the sweet of the night is come.
La-la, la-la,
La-la, la-la ! "
Nightshades : G. F. Monkshood.
-Y'V^ OSTLY, a music-hall artiste is a person who is
I JL6. neither an artiste nor a performer in a hall of
music : mostly, a music-hall artiste is a person
who has less right of existence, either as fact or as
name, than a pavement artiste ; mostly, a music-hall
artiste is a person who has to roar, bellow, screech,
caterwaul for supremacy throughout a mere orchestral
free-fight. However, the music-halls, and their show-
folk and merry-andrews, and their sons and daughters
of song and dance, are, in some cases, not entirely
devoid of merit. Them let us now consider.
Mr. Dan Leno is one of the greatest actors of our
time. That a man is not an Irving or a Wyndham, is
no reason for his being denied the appellation of actor.
In his own particular style, Mr. Leno has but a solitary
compeer — Mr. Arthur Roberts. Both are supremely
alive and alert ; both are astounding mimics ; both
9 c
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
are shrewd observers, and cunning reproducers of what
they have seen. Mr. Roberts is, of the two, the better
actor — the better man in assuming to be something
other than he is himself: as they could testify who saw
his clever, balanced, restrained performance of the
theatre-manager in Mr. Sydney Grundy's highly in-
teresting play, The Silver Shield. Mr. Leno, however,
could not disguise himself though he ransacked all the
workshops of Messrs. Clarkson and Nathan. And who
wants him to ? Certainly not the public ! And he has
his compensations. Mr. Leno is rather richer than
Mr. Roberts, rather riper, more bland, more unctuous, less
irritating, less mechanical. Beginning as a champion of
one of the most diabolic forms of human expertness —
clog-dancing, Mr. Leno has moved on to become a
master of twenty-minute, cheerful, happily-inspired,
pleasing exhibitions of ditty and monologue. He is
grotesque without seeming to be hideous ; he is unkempt
without seeming to be pediculous. He is often farcical
in the very extreme, often outrageous beyond measure ;
but he is always acceptable. He can make you laugh
every time : you cannot resist him. He can keep you
fixed in your seat till he has finished : you cannot wish
to be otherwhere. His gasp of surprise at seeing you
laugh, alternated with his own merriment in regard of
some fictitious jaerson's nonsense, is a thing to be up-
gathered and stored against a barren day of rain and
depression. Women assert that he is ' so silly ' ; but,
at his domestic allusions and feminine personalities, they
laugh as approvingly as loudly. Men assert that he is
wonderfully entertaining and amusing ; and they are
quite right. And so long as Mr, Leno does not try to
put his humour between two book-covers, but is content
to exhibit the same from behind the STuard of the foot-
lights, for just so long will he be recognised as a
lO
THE MUSIC HALLS.
comedian wlio nevei- fails — as a comedian who is not
only comic, but funny — as a comedian who not only
makes caricatures, but presents characters.
Mr. Eugene Stratton is an artiste. His range is
extremely limited ; but, within that range, he is
extremely good. Perhaps, some of his merit consists of
an ability (or a means) of persuading men to sell him
good songs ; certainly, when he gets a bad one, he can-
not make it acceptable. However, he rarely oftends.
His few faults are negative ones, and are more than
balanced by his many merits. He can whistle and
dance and sing ; and he can do all three quite well.
He can hold an audience as can few others : perhaps,
because he is always in earnest. He can make it listen
to what he has to say : perhaps, because he is never
too obvious. He is dexterous and fantastic ; and he has
a ' trick ' of imparting to his impersonations a savour
of melancholy that is delightfully piquant. Above all,
he is not only a humorist ; he is an idealist — which, in
the music-halls, is as pleasing as rare.
Mr. R. G. Knowles has a style ; and a very happy,
aiTestive, entertaining style it is. He is intelligent ; he
is cheerful ; he is vivacious — this last to a degree that
is almost feminine, but which is none the less catching
for that. He contrives to make partial atonement for
being an American by using English jokes, and French
ones. I wish he would invent more and remember less :
because 1, too, can read. However, I and a great
many thousands of others are much indebted to him for
that he can make us laugh. He keeps his face and
garments comic but clean ; he uses songs that have
ideas and that ai'e not stale ; and he makes a point of
omitting to be dull. For which omission, many thanks
Mr. Knowles !
Mr. T. E. Dunville, to some people, is as convulsing
II
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
as he himself is convulsive. He is Arthur Roberts
galvanised ; he is Edward Terry struck by lightning :
he is Mr. T. E. Dunville. Vellication, however, is not
humour. If he would be a trifle less epileptic, and a
trifle more distinct, it is to be surmised that both
himself and his audience would gain. Nevertheless,
Mr. Dunville has his moments ; and very good moments
thej^ are. And though, at times, he steppeth a-near
the perilous edge of things tabooed, no one is any the
worse for that ; and he is mostly able to provoke mirth
— from somebody or other.
Mr. G. H. Chirgwin, twenty or more years ago, was
struck by an idea ; he struck it back. The upshot of the
quarrel was " The White-eyed Kaftir." No doubt, it is
partly the fault of his public that he has never since
thought of much else. At all events, his popularity is
unabated ; and, though now and then he avails himself
of the privileges of an old favourite, he continues to be as
industrious as ever. He is an able musician, and a deft
trickster with 'properties.' He can play his violin like
the proverbial angel, and can extract humour from
articles so unpromising as clay pipes. His audience
greet him with ujjroarious welcome, and bid him farewell
with uproarious regret. And if his audience be pleased,
who else may grumble ?
The Brothers Griffiths, if they would acquire a little
new ' patter,' would continue to be amusing. About
twelve years ago, I heard them tell their audience that
they themselves were " mackerelbats," and ask of each
other " Which is me ? " ; about twelve days ago, I heard
them do precisely the same thing. In the interim,
however, I have met them on the Continent and in
various parts of the British Isles ; and, every time, I
have willingly joined in the laughter and applause with
which their performances are so deservedly greeted.
12
THE MUSIC HALLS.
Although, now, they mostly ' fake,' they are able
acrobats and clever clowns. And they are genuine
humorists. Tlieir " Blondin Donkey " is one of the
most hilarious things ever presented to the public ; their
lion-taming episode, though not quite so popular, is
equally as good : both are unique, funny, care-dispersing.
When, for example, the lion is a ti'ifle early in taking u]:)
his cue to roar, and the trainer admonishes him with :
" Too soon ! you silly lion ! " — well, then the listeners feel
that, for a time, they sit in a kingdom where the only
weeping is caused by laughter.
Miss Vesta Tilley is clever, bright, refined. She is
the one woman that has ever reconciled me (even
momentarily) to seeing a ' male impersonator.' God
forbid that I should ever again see a ' female imper-
sonator ' ! Miss Tilley is very popular ; and not without
reason. She can be amusing, volatile, adroit, and a
presenter of character — all in one song ; and while she is
on the stage, her audience is never bored.
Miss Bessie Wentworth — dainty and fair — always
presents a pleasing picture, and has the gift of making
a ' coon-song ' nearly tolerable.
Miss Marie Loftus — blithe and powerful — can dance and
mimic right merrily, and has the gift of perpetual still-
youngness.
Mr. Harry Randall has a happy ' knack ' of finding
popular songs— songs with popular catch-words. And
because, in addition, he is rather comic, rather amusing,
and very distinct — he has won much favour and money.
Mr. George Robey has encasked the quintessence of
imbecility. Sometimes he decants his vintage, and from
the proceeds makes much fun ; sometimes he does not.
He is billed as " The Prime-minister of Mirth " ; but,
as * "'" '"■ also was called a prime-minister — well, the
appellation is scarcely a complete compliment. Never-
13
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
theless, Mr. Robey is nearly always funny. Now and
again, he is guilty of committing somewhat Noachian
japes and conceits ; but, on the whole, he is quite
original and almost new. And there is no denying
that he can make his audience laugh.
Miss Marguerite Corneille is an accomplished
musician ; also she is a captivating singer ; and she is as
good to look upon as she is to listen to. If there were
many more such artistes so placed, the music-hall would
be as highly esteemed as the concert-hall now is, and
would have the advantage of possessing some of the
latter's desirable refinement without any of its repellent
dulness.
Miss Vesta Victoria, whatever may be urged against
her occasional lack of decorum, has certainly never given
her audience an opportunity to complain of her lack of
sprightliness. She is vivacity itself Her power of
enlivening is great. She is provocative, but amusing.
Although she may not always please, she will rarely
offend. She may sometimes disturb ; but she will never
bore. And if, after listening to one of Miss Victoria's
not too subtle ditties, you still are of opinion that a young
lady should sing nothing but hynms — well, there are the
Salvation Army lasses to hand.
Mr. G. H. Macdei^mott began before 1 arrived ; he
will probably be hard at work long after I am gone. It
is understood that he supplied much entertainment to
our fathers ; it is possible that he will perform a like
kind office for our sons : thus he may more than com-
pensate for having failed so signally with an inter-
vening generation. Twenty and more years ago — to be
exact, in 1877 — when Admiral Hornby took an English
fleet, with decks cleared for action, through the Dar-
danelles, Mr. Macdermott used, under peculiar conditions,
a popular oath that has since been twisted into phrasing
14
THE MUSIC HALLS.
a state of mind from which no pei'son of inteUigence has
ever suffered. ' Jingoism ' once meant a non-desire to
fight, coupled with a fitness and an abiHty to do so.
' Jingoism ' now means war at any price, and that only ;
yet we find the term being used against men who are
so foolish as to think that Nelson and Wellington were
saviours of their country — being used against men who
are so misguided as to believe that our navy is the power
by which we lay us down to sleep in peace. If ' Jingoism '
be used to denote a desire for martial efficiency — well, I
can only say that the term should not be taken as one
of reproach. However, that this word, ' Jingoism,' came
to be coined from a song put into currency by Mr. ISIac-
dermott, was not his fault ; it was his fortune. That
his thrift has scarcely equalled his industry is — his own
business. And that there are people who wish him well,
for old sake's sake, is — their business. To this may be
added that, in the matter of ' lion comiques,' the old are
no worse than the new ; and that age is no more of a
crime than is youth ; and that Mr. ]\Iacdermott takes
rank as one of the greatest representatives of a type.
Miss Harriet Vernon is not great; she is 'immense.'
Though she rarely fills the bill, she always fills the
stage. Not that Miss Yernon depends upon her appear-
ance. She knows her business ; and of that business she
is a mistress. When her authors omit to fail her, she
omits to fail her authors. On those occasions, the public
responds with loud-voiced strong-handed applause.
Mr. Herbert Campbell is well known.
Mr. Alec Hurley I have not seen ; but I am told that
he is good.
Miss Marie Lloyd I have seen ; and I am told that she
is good.
Mr. Harry Bedford may one day have a following as
numerous as that of the Pied Piper of Hamelin — in
15
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
which last connection I refer, no doubt, solely to the
children. Let us hoj^e that Mr. Bedford's following,
when engaged in following, will be taken by their preceder
(as was promised Robert Browning's poetic-born little
ones) to " a land where it is always afternoon."
Mr. Paul Cinquevalli is an absolute master of his
business. And his title of The Incomparable is not only
enjoyed ; it is deserved.
Mr. Paul Martinetti is the finest pantomimist of our
day. His work at its best rises above mere agility. He
is magnetic and versatile. Without help of writing,
assisted only by music, he can move his audience to
vollej's of laughter and floods of tears.
Miss Ada Reeve is an artiste from her forehead to her
feet. She is clever almost beyond compare ; she is fragile
and dainty ; she is fine and delicate. Her singing is
pleasant : it is so distinct and well-managed. Her dancing
is delightful : it is so unforced and floating. As to her
gestures, she can talk with them. Than Miss Reeve,
there is no woman on the music-hall stage who possesses
a greater range from grave to gay, no woman who is a
completer mistress of impersonating those moods. And
if, in finesse, she has her superior, I do not know that
superior. She can be suggestive without being offensive.
Also, she can be pathetic without being funny, funny
without being pathetic. Her chief demerit is weakness ;
but if she were as strong as she is charming — well, as an
Irishman might say, she would not be so charming. That
I never derive artistic pleasure from a steam-roller, and
that I always prefer quality to quantity, are two reasons
why I refrain from adjourning to the bar when appears a
number that announces Miss Reeve.
Mr. Gus Elen is an example of the value (to the doer)
of imitation. But he has not copied in quite a right
manner. Unlike his prototype, he too much re-
i6
THE MUSIC HALLS.
sembles the real thing (the real thing that he portrays)
to be wholly pleasing. To measure the little by the
great, he is the Zola of costermongers, as his forerunner
was the Dickens. However, he has shown some skill in
selecting songs that suit him, and that have catch-words ;
and the public have whistled them, and repeated them,
and applauded them. Wherefore, it is to be surmised
that Mr. Elen is not without some favour-bring-inof
qualities ; and certainly he has won opinions that are
golden.
Mr. Albert Chevalier draws ; he does not photograph.
Mr. Albert Chevalier has ideas, not reflections: He is
an experimentalist and an inventor. He has written
verses that even so clever a man as Mr. Barry Pain must
have found useful to read before setting out to write under
the name of Tompkins. He is a trained musician : which
is why his own melodies are always quite original. He
can make use of the minor with an effect that is often as
pleasing as surprising ; he is as clever an executant as
he is a composer ; and he does not depend upon waltz
refrains. His chief artistic merit is this : he is a master of
his materials, and he never attempts to control what he
does not possess. He has little dignity and less repose ;
yet he rarely irritates his audience, and never makes him-
self ridiculous. His range histrionic, over both intellect
and emotion, is very extensive : he can be witty and
sentimental, humorous and pathetic ; and he can be
all four with conviction. He has no ' weight ' ; but he
does not lack ' grip'. He has no power ; but he does not
lack persuasion. The things that he says and does seem
always right and real : because he omits to be heavy or
violent, and because he can suggest with digital by-play
and facial movement what he would not succeed in
conveying with voice or stature. His ability to exhibit
character, though rather limited, is quite superlative.
17 D
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
He can not only move and speak like the people lie
portrays ; he can think like them. And he can not only
engage the attention of an audience ; he can satisfy it.
His success in the music-halls is to be attributed partly
to the fact that he was a success in the theatres —
in a word, he is an actor. He does not give one the
impression (as do so many of his fellow-workers) that
he could sell vegetables quite as well as he can sing songs,
that he could dispose of bad beef by mock-auction quite as
well as he can maintain a flow of 'character-patter.' No
— he has the power of disguising himself Those that
saw his performances at the old Court Theatre, and at
the Royalty, Strand, Avenue — saw good things. I
wonder how many of his actor friends who, in those
days, used to smile at his partiality for ' nose-paste ' in
his make-ups, and who, above all, used to rock with
laughter at his coster stories and ditties — I wonder how
many foresaw his successful climb to fame and fortune.
Certainly he himself did not ; or,, if he did, he concealed
his visionary knowledge. I have not met Mr. Chevalier
the man and storyteller, for several years, and it is highly
probable that he has long forgotten my very existence ;
but Mr. Chevalier the artist and artiste,* is still a friend
of mine. During his career in the music-halls, he achieved
the greatest success possible. He had magazine articles
written round him. I do not remember that he was ever
pictured as seated in his ' study.' I sincerely hope not.
But I do remember that whatever success he won to, it
was worked for and deserved. In a world where popularity
and merit are so often kept apart, it is quite pleasing to
find them once in a while brought tofjether. Although,
of late, Mr. Chevalier does not seem to have caught the
public ear so completely as of yore, he has only to address
* All artist creates; an artiste perfm-nif.
i8
THE MUSIC HALLS.
himself from his new quarters with a certain amount of
persistence, to gain a position even better than was
his old one. He stood liighest among the few that
made the music-hall a thing to be taken seriously. He
will yet win to the pride of place long held by the
ever- to-be-lamented Corney Grain. And I, for one, shall
rejoice. For Mr. Chevalier is a man of fine talents finely
applied.
In addition to most of the ladies and gentlemen whose
pictures are in this book, and some of the several others
whose pictures are not but ought to be, many things may
be seen in the music-halls quite worthy of commendation.
The jugglers, and the acrobats, and even the trick
bicyclists, are mostly pleasing — if only because they do
not talk. Apart from their silence, one must admire the
dexterity, the grace, the ease, with which they accomplish
their astounding feats. Of course, in regard to some of
them, there occurs to the memory that case of a woman
preaching that reminded Samuel Johnson of a dog
standing upon its hind legs, and that caused him to say
it was not to be expected the thing should be done well
— it was merely surprising the thing should be done at
all ; and, in regard to most performing animals, one
immediately thinks of that young lady who jilayed a
piece of music so difficult as to make " Blinking Sam "
wish it had been impossible. But conjure up the sustained
application, the never-ceasing practice — conjure up the
years of labour and patience necessary to do these things
even badly ; then think of the hours of self-restraint, the
hours of hope deferred — think of the strength of wrist,
the sureness of eye, that go to making these tricks a
complete success ! Although certain of us strongly object
to seeing people court their death upon a high wire, or
encompass the murder of their self-respect by disrobing
upon a trapeze, we are all at agreeanoe in believing that
19
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
the average juggler and the average acrobat not only takes
his salary, but earns it.
Occasionally, one has the pleasing fortune to meet in
the progrannne with such names as Miss Lucy Clarke
and Mr. Curtis Dalton, and with those of other singers of
fine ballads and good songs. Would there were more such
artistes in the music-halls ! Not that I myself have the
slightest objection to witnessing, for example, the energetic
displays of agility and mock-malevolence given by fighting
tumblers of the order of the late Two Macs, or of the
present McNaughtons — especially if their 'patter' is as
delightfully uncouth and amusingly silly as that of the
first-named was and the last-named is. And as for true
pantomime — stories without speech, wit without words —
where shall one discover more brilliant exhibitions of fun
and frolic, dexterity and device, than those given by such
masters of their business as Mr. Charles Lauri and his
clever companions ?
Mr. John HoUingshead has written (in Plain English)
that the word music-hall is a " term of reproach applied
to the chosen nursery of the British Drama " ; and he
has written further that the Lord Chamberlain is a
" functionary in England who regulates court millinery
and dramatic litei'ature " ; and he has written further
still that " it is absurd that the Examiner of Plays
is empowered to strike out passages in dramatic works
represented at a hundred theatres, which j^assages can
be read or acted at ten thousand music-halls, delivered
from twenty thousand public platforms, and circulated in
a million books, pamphlets, and newspapers." Certainly,
the music-hall enjoys a surprising (if fortunate) immunity
from the meddlesome finger of the Censor ; and we might,
so far as stands the law, have had the wonder and pleasure
of seeing Madame Sarah Bernhardt performing Salome at
the Oxford, or a collection of English talent disjiorting
20
THE MUSIC HALLS.
with Ibsen's Ghosts at the Tivoli — providing the duration
of each performance were not more than forty minutes.
If the plays were acted in dumb-sliow, the performance
could last all the evening. just, subtle, and mighty
Law !
One of the worst charges that can be brought to
bear correctly against the nmsic hall is this : the music-
hall is too much of an educative factor. In short, to
paraplu'ase Mr. HoUingshead, the music-hall is the
chosen school-room of the Bi-itish Brain. How far this
is the fault of the British Brain, and how far the fault
of the music-hall, I will endeavour to decide later on.
Sufficient for the paragraph is the evil thereof! From
the music-hall come the melodies that fill the public
mind ; from the music-hall come the catch-words that
fill the public mouth. But for the fecundity of the
music-hall, how barren would be the land, how void the
chit-chat of the drawing-rooms, the parlours, the sculleries !
In what way, other than by apeing the latest contortion,
could 'Arry make 'Arriet gutfaw ? In what way, other
than by parrotising the latest witticism, could Edwin make
Angelina giggle ? And in what Avay, other than by
ambling through the latest skirt-dance, could Gwendolen
captivate the soul of Algernon ? How would the bean-
feasters conceal their sadness, if there wei'e no comic
songs ? How ^\'ould the Bank-holiday makers conceal
their boredom, if there were no waltz-refrains ? And
how would the urban and suburban classes and masses
beguile the tedium of slow hours, and find an excuse for
pausing in their ' life-work,' if there were no barrel-oi'gans
to brinkerty - brankerty, crinkerty - crankerty, drinkerty-
drankerty — and so on through a whole horrisonous
alphabet of machine-made discord ? For, although some
of us detest these hell-wrought instruments of torture,
others there are who adore them ; and, although some of
21
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
us consider that every person wlio to their manipulators
gives money should be hurled headlong into a mortar-
making mill, and indiscriminately ground to death by
mad organ-grinders, others there are who fondly believe
(what time they act upon their belief) that the dear hard-
working Sons of Saffron Hill should be not only greeted
with smiles of grateful approval, but given the means
whereby to feed their faces with fatted-fowl. However,
the music-hall is not entirely an unmixed curse. It
assuredly has too great an influence upon the British
Brain ; but, after all, it serves to take the masses (and
certain of the classes) temporarily out of themselves :
which must be a blessing — to them.
Some there are who noisily assert that the music-hall
induces the public to annihilate its health, murder its
time, squander its money : this last, it is broadly hinted,
being mostly the property of its employers. Of course,
the said public might be somewhat better engaged — might
be occupied in planning out great schemes for the ameliora-
tion of mankind, or in blowing bubble companies to keejj
the aristocracy in pocket-money, or in compiling magazine
articles and ponderous tomes concerning The Methods Of
Making My Neighbour A Better Man Than Myself
I have no intention whatever of reproaching the nnisic-
liall from an ethical standpoint. This absurdity I prefer
to leave to those compounds of actor and bully that so well
contrive to play their dual-parts in our pulpits, that so well
contrive to induce to sit at their feet an admiring multitude
of good ladies — good ladies with big hearts and little brains
— good ladies who appear to be desirous not so much of
wanting to cure immorality as of wanting to learn all
about it. Also, I prefer that, instead of me, the President
of the Woman's Well-wisher Society should air her views
on the subject, and her person on the platform : she would
be more amusing than I — and quite as useless. Besides,
22
THE MUSIC HALLS.
far be it from me to suggest that the music-hall pro-
grammes should be prepared for the use of Families and
Younof Persons. I would not have it thougfht that I
asfjire to sit on the right hand of the late Mr. Thomas
Bowdler : whose " peculiar happiness " it was that he
had so purged Shakespeare and Gibbon that they could
no longer " raise a blush on the cheek of modest
innocence, nor plant a pang in the heart of the devout
Christian." No — I should not like to add my name to
our language as a synonym for senseless expurgation.
And I have no wish even to attempt to climb to the
heights of Bleat that are scaled so easily by certain
wondrous men who, while they deceive themselves —
honestly but completely — into thinking that they are
i-aising aloft the Banner of the Ideal, merely denounce
artistry as an abomination, entertainment as an enormity,
beauty as a beast.
That brilliant and lovable genius, Robert Louis
Stevenson, has set down some arrestive words of wisdom
that, though written in 1888, still stand good. "A
strange temptation attends upon man : to keep his eye
on pleasures even when he will not share in them ; to
aim all his morals against them. This very year, a lady
(singular iconoclast •) proclaimed a crusade against dolls ;
and the racy sermon against lust is still a feature of the
age. I venture to call such moralists insincere. At any
excess or per^'ersion of a natural appetite, their lyre sounds
of itself with relishing denunciations ; but for all displays
of the truly diabolic — envy, malice, the mean lie, the mean
silence, the calumnious truth, the back-biter, the petty
tyrant, the peevish poisoner of family life — their standard
is quite different. These are \\Toug, they will admit, yet
somehow not so wrong ; there is no zeal in their assault
on them, no secret element of gusto warms up the
sermon ; it is for things not wrong in themselves that
23
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
they reserve the choicest of their indignation
If your morals make you dreary, depend upon it they
are wrong. I do not say ' give them up,' for they
may be all you have ; but conceal them like a vice, lest
they should spoil the lives of better and simpler people."
To the foregoing, I add that there is just as much
immorality in the music-hall as men and women choose
to take there — and no more. The mental morass into
which so many of our professional moralists flounder and
sink is that of mistaking offences against art for offences
against religion. Believe me, my dear stipendiary
gospel-gossips, my dear salaried salesmen of lip-devotion
— yes, and even my dear paid but honest vendors of
virtue and faith — believe me, that vulgarity and stupidity
and incompetence are in no wise to be confounded with
immorality. But there ! What else than such a blunder
(or falsity, or self-swindle) is to be expected from people
that are paid to be good ? Paid to be good I Come
now, that, in its own way, must be as deforming as being
paid to be bad.
Take the music-hall as an affair of artistry. In that,
time after time, the music-hall fails — fails lamentably as
completely. Rare it is that a rose is inermous ; but that
is scarcely a reason why Ave should be forced, when seated
in a music-hall, to wear a whole crown of thorns. Rather,
bedeck us, Artistes, with the paper- wreath of flowers
and ' property ' crook of the stage shepherdess ! Instead,
too often, Watteau is wronged into " Wot ho ! " ; Dresden
is degraded into the Isle of Dogs ; and the canvas trees
and lime -lit dells are made to shiver and resound
with a wild welter of instrumental noise and I'aucous
bellowings.
Perhaps, the greatest sinners are the men. The majority
of them are not artistes at all ; they are not even artizans :
for, although their favourite would-be flouts and jeers are
24
THE MUSIC HALLS.
directed at the British workman, they themselves are the
worst craftsmen that ever followed a calling. And failure
as a music-hall artiste — of their kind — is failure indeed :
one might as soon expect a hod-carrier to fail. Too often,
these men are mere professional uglies, mere practitioners
of the hideous ; too often, they are beautiful as gargoyles
and graceful as bears, without being either quaint or
amusing. Some are not content to transform themselves
into things of absurdity and laughter ; they must need
become thingfs of horror and loathinsf. Some are not
content to array themselves in appropriate garments
flecked with colour, and provocative of mirth ; they must
need bespread upon their persons unnecessary rags
maculated with mud, and suggestive of parasites. A
few go even so far as to make capital out of their
personal deformities. Of course, we know that writers
— a Dante, a Heine, a Dickens, a Lamb — occasionally
make capital out of their personal emotions; and, equally
of course, we know that musicians and painters— a
Beethoven, a Chopin ; a Blake, a Romney — sometimes
do likewise. But the result is rather different ; and
mostly tends to good, or at least to art. However,
it is better, of course, that these freaks (I beg pardon !)
these abnormals should be collected under the roofs of
music-halls and given each the salary of a secretary of
state, rather than that they should be spread about the
streets and set to selling matches or to working usefully.
If the latter were so, we should always be meeting them ;
as it is, they can be avoided. And to declaim against
them is to break a beetle on a wheel.
Rather, let our tears of blood be reserved for the
ladies. Concerning that little matter of abnormality, I,
for one, am in no wise overjoyed upon seeing a woman
bring her occipital into close contact with her glutseus.
Of course, if the public likes that sort of thing — well,
25 E
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
that is the sort of thinor the pubHc likes. Therefore,
although I omit to praise, I do not offer to blame —
the performer. But v.dth regard to certain of the bodily
contortions that I once had the ill-luck to witness, I
must declare that I j^earned fbi' a sialogogue : this that
I might have expressed my opinion the more copiously.
And should you remind me that I am using anatomical
and medical words, I shall remind you that I am dealing
with anatomical and medical things. It may be that I
am over-finical and hyper-fastidious, it may be that 1
am not long for this world, it may be that some time
since I ought to have dej^arted foi- another ; but while
I am here, I shall continue to confess that I see neither
charm nor merit even in a young lady doing the
' splits.' To me, the action is v/hat Rudyard Kipling's
navvy l)ecame on a certain occasion — " purely disgustful."
It is not only unseemly, it is ungraceful ; it is not only
unlovely, it is unnecessary. However, turn we to the
ladies that stand upon their feet. Some sing like
dancers ; others dance like singers. Most ' get through '
their business in a manner precisely opposed to that
that they should. Of course, many are not expected to
do much ; but when these so completely fulfil expectation,
I am none the less disappointed. Some are all leg and
no larynx, all figure and no foi'm, all manner and no
matter. And what a had manner ! Often they sing
with their limbs. M. Zola's Nana, when, once upon a
time, she broke down in a song, cunningly wriggled her
hips, to distract attention from her incompetence. Some
of our music-hall ladies do nothing else.
Man has compelled woman to conceal her legs ; she
has retaliated by exposing her breasts. Concerning the
stalls of a theatre, and some other places, this is a whole
truth ; concerning the stage of a music-hall, and, for that
matter, the stage of certain theatres, tliis is a half
26
THE MUSIC HALLS.
truth. There .she gives a display that is not only
pectoral ; it i.s pedalian, patellic, pelvic : a display that
includes almost everything. Please record that I am
not reproacliing her for this. If the limbs are not
too obviously over-padded, and the costumes not too
obviously over-coloured — well, who am I that I should
quarrel with a masterpiece ? F(jr Woman is a master-
piece. Confucius has said so ; and as, to my knowledge,
he did not add in what wai/ she is a masterpiece, I
have never doubted him. Of course, a congenital stupid
may evolve from the slowly-churning matter of his
brain a debateable belief that a woman in ' tights ' is
suggestive of a butterfly that has flown a yai'd or so
too near the sun and gotten its wings burnt off. But
you may think otherwise. And, as for me, what I am
concerned about chiefly is that she shall be capable, not
incompetent ; that she shall sing and dance, not screech
and dally. Let her be an artiste, and (as with Dumas
heroine that loved much) much shall be forgiven her.
Indeed, did she but fulfll the condition that I here set
down, there would be nothing to forgive ; there would
be only something to praise. And whenever I meet
with that something, the praise is given ungrudgingly
and extensively.
So much for the manner ; now for the matter.
This concerns both performers feminine and performers
masculine. The corybantic comedians who assume to
be the high - priests of wit and humour, and the
vellicating vestals who pretend to keep alight the
sacred lamp of frivolity and fun — are equally to blame
in regard of the stufl' they elect to shout and deliver,
are equally to blame in supposing that perspiration is
art and that noise is craftsmanship. To keep to the
matter — and to leave the manner for good — their songs
and monologues are bad. They are not vicious ; but
27
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
they are vulgar. They are not indecent ; but they are
indehcate. And this brings us to an additional cause
for complaint. Vulgarity may l)e alert and amusing,
indelicacy may be adroit and alluring ; but, too often,
these ditties and ' wheezes ' are none of those things.
And, mostly, they are not even vulgar and indelicate ;
they are merely dull and silly.
However, once upon a time, I heard a certain hysterical
cockney — who was drawing as salary (in fact, not in fancy ;
in negotiable cheques, not in newspaper paragraphs) a
sum of money that, differently applied, might have done
much good in the world — well, I heard this said
hysterical cockney ejaculate during his performance a
certain remark (about a possession peculiar to fish) that
should properly have won him a sound ' booting ' from
every man in the audience. What occurred was that
some of the men laughed, and most of the women,
having first dutifully tittered, looked to the men for ex-
planation. It is to be hoped that that was not given
them. Witticisms of this kind are of such .stuff as dirt
is made of, and their little life is rounded with a srroan
— or .should be, in public. Nevertheless, I repeat that,
usually, the songs and ' patter ' native to the music-halls
are merely dull and silly.
Stui)id gaiety not only bores ; it saddens. Sometimes,
when seated in a " Home of Melody and Mirth," I could
emulate the Walrus and Carpenter — I could " weep
like anything." Says somebody, somewhere, somehow,
" Talk not to me of grief till thou hast seen the tears
of warlike men." Talk not to me of anguifth till thou
hast endured certain performances at certain music-halls.
I say certain advisedly. For, at others, I have seen
some truly admirable performances — which is why I (and
a vast multitude) have visited music-halls more times than
one ; which is why so many of us so often permit our
28
THE MUSIC HALLS.
hopes to triumph over our memories ; which is why so
many of us so often sit out a whole programme-full of the
bad in trust that we may at the last meet with one thing
that shall be good.
Whence do music-hall artistes emanate ? Personally, I
do not care. So that they be but artistes — true artistes —
they may come, for all I wish, from the court, the camp,
the grove, the vessel, or the mart ; they may get them-
selves born in the gutter or on the kerbstone ; they may
arrange for their names to be entered on Life's Book from
the mansion or from the palace. As a matter of truth,
music-hall artistes, in general, arrive from all stations of
existence ; but, mostly, from somewhere a long way down
the line. To those, good luck !
The following letter (which was once shown me), even if
it does not interest, may at least amuse : —
Dear Sir,
Reading of your Advertisement In the Eutracte that you Learn
step danceing i want you to Oblige me by letting me know how much you
Charge for Each lesson i have got a Notion of danceing and please let me
know when you Give your lesson and hurry Up has this could be very
important For you.
i remain
Yours truely,
J D ,
Drew's Buildings junijicr St.
King daTi<l Lane Shadwell.
I do not say that this brief, bright, brotherly person
ever won to a hundred pounds a week. But
Few people set out in life with a dominant idea of
entering the music-halls professionally ; they that reach
there, mostly drift there — which remark applies equally
to the average actor. Parenthetically, when is some
good-hearted but disinterested Samaritan going to write
a book on How To Get Off The Stage ? Numbers of men
and women that have burnt their wings in the footlights
would be glad to take their scorched and disappointed
29
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
persons elsewhither. Nevertheless, one still meets with
the following kind of thing. Fancy the man who was
capable of all that is tliere set forth — fancy him wanting
to be but a mere actor !
Sir,
I beg to .say that I am in quest of a situation as assistant stage-
manager, designer, assistant scene-painter, elocutionist, and instructor of
stage-groujiing. Would be pleased to turn mjself useful in the fencing
department and at making-up from any period. I am a first-class figure-
drawer, ancient and modern. I speak French, Spanish, Russian, Moorish,
and American. I have travelled about Europe, and Heligoland, and
Morocco, and New York. I am a good rider, good sailor, good polo-player.
Can sing in five languages, and dance in any style you like to mention.
Can play the piano, and throw the hammer. Am well educated in history
of armorial bearings, costumes, shields, devices and public-house signs.
Composer of verise of every description. Skctcher of all kinds of things.
Age 31 — height 5 ft. 8 in. — complexion very fair. Doctors tell me that
although my teeth arc brittle they will last for some time. The tip of my
right ear is missing, and I have an ugly scar on the left breast. But I don't
think it ought to stand in my way. I should be glad to give my .services
to any company in London or on toiu-. Uf course, I should prefer a salary.
But that need only be small — at first.
Trusting an answer, and thanking you heartily in anticipation of same,
I am, sir,
Yours faitlifully,
FERDINAND ST. J .
(Late Valet D Cliili").
The reply this Admirable Crichton received I am not
at liberty to disclose. But, although this Master of
All the Arts appears to liave done, and to be ready to
do, and to intend doing, every possible thing in this
worst of all possible worlds, I have not, so far, met
him as an actor. And yet the good fellow stood
an excellent chance of success, if only because of
his vast possession of a complete lack of self-humour.
Nevertheless, I have been told that it is possible to
meet with many men of this all-round type (and women
too, for that matter) wandering aindessly about on the
stage, disguised as ' professionals ' : good swimmers,
30
THE MUSIC HALLS.
good shots, good lookers, good liars ; anything but good
actors. Now and again, these gentlemen, having carried
themselves on the boards, for some years, take to
carrying the boards on themselves, for some purpose :
in brief, they advertise the performances of future
sandwichmen.
And so, by uneasy stages, I arrive at " Poverty
Corner." But I do not intend to remain there.
" Abler pens than mine " have described that well-
known junction of roads, with its Monday - morning-
gathering of the halt, the poor, the mean, and the
aggressively ugly. As for my own impressions, they are
iluly set down in another place. However, I may state
here that, although I am not in the habit of viewing the
AVaterloo Road through " a mist of tears " — as certain of
our lady novelists would say — I yet do not look upon it
through a wreath of smiles. Around and about " Poverty
Corner " there is much matter for laughter ; but there is
little matter for mirth.
Mr. George Moore has written words to the effect that
an actor is a person wlio repeats what another person has
invented. This is quite true, so far as it goes. But it
does not allow for the additional truth that an actor may
repeat an author's invention exceedingly well ; and thus,
after all, may be possessed of great mei'it. Of course,
unfortunately, an actor can repeat an author's invention
very badly ; equally of course, and equally unfortunately,
an author can invent very badly. That is precisely what
so many of the \\Titers for the music-halls persistently do.
What are their subjects ? I have no desire to answer.
Not being absolutely facinorous, I will spare you — spare
you both the truth and an exaggeration. As for a
bui-lesque of most of these amazing works, none but
themselves can be their parody.
What is their language ? Cliche for their sentiment,
31
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
slang for their humour. Abstention from giving samples
of such things, does not imjjly a plenitude of kindness ;
it only exhibits a lack of cruelty.
However, please read a sentence that has been written
about the subject in hand by Professor Walter Raleigh in
his brilliant book on Sti/Ie. Speaking of slang, bad slang,
and the low taste of a certain section of the public, he
says : — " The pottle-headed lout who in a moment of
exuberance strikes on a new sordid metaphor for any
incident in the beaten round of drunkenness, lubricity, and
debt, can set his fancy rolling through the music-halls, and
thence into the streets, secure of applause and a numerous
sodden discipleship." Now, this is severe : not only
because it is severe, but because it is true.
Clever things may be said about drunkenness, lubricity,
and debt — by clever people. But these people are not
clever ; they are not even smart. Here and there one
may meet with a writer for the music-halls who is
' tricky ' ; and that is the best that can be said : there are
degrees of intelligence even among oysters — at least, so we
may surmise. Mostly, however, these hop-leaved versifiers
of the Strand, these up-to-date disciples of Aristo-
phanes and Anacreon, are stupid — immeasurably and
incommunicably stupid. They lounge always along the
line of least resistance ; and so — unhasting but unresting —
they contrive to shamble forward, forward, forward to
beyond the ultimate outposts of inanity.
Lest it should be imagined that the j^i'esent critic is a
man who has failed in creating that which he can merely
criticise, he sets out hot-hand to write down the truth : he
has never tried ; he could not succeed ; and, if he could, it
would be of no value — to him.
This conveys me to one of the reasons for the superla-
tive badness of these compositions. They are of small
worth — either in the bringing of fame, or in the bringing
32
THE MUSIC HALLS.
of fortune — to their producers. It is only their repeaters
who acquire the ' kudos ' ; it is oidy their repeaters who
acquire the ' shekels.' No one thinks for a moment of
the man who lurote the song. That Mr. Bullmouth or
Miss Brassthroat " adequately rendered " the same, is
more than sufficient for the amusement-seeking audience.
After all, why should sorrow seize them, why should their
hearts bleed to the white, because the inventor received
but a miserable sum for an article that the high-salaried
shouter is at liberty to go on repeating three and four
times a night for over twelve months ?
It may be urged that these compositions are not worth
more than is paid for them. Granted — if their intrinsic
value be considered ; not granted — if their accidental value
be considered. Andrew Fletcher, of Salton, knew a wise
fellow who believed that, if a man were permitted to make
all the ballads of a nation, he need not care who should
make the laws. And I know another wise fellow who is
of opinion that — if the men that make the laws (however
queerly) would arrange for the men that make the ballads
(however poorly) to have a proper, a greater, share of the
income derived (by others) from the outcome of their
brains — the world would be rid of a certain amount of
wrong.
Dumas the elder, to make a play, wanted four boards,
two actors, and a passion. Some other j)eople, to make a
' sketch,' want four boards, two impostors, and a vulgarity.
At times, one chances upon a piece of work from their
hands that is not wholly bad ; mostly, however, one finds
a mere forcible-feeble mixture of melodrama and maud-
linality. And, no doubt, things in this quarter remain as
they are, owing to the fact that writing for the music-halls
is the one province of Art that, so far, has not been
entered by women : perhaps, because they wish to prove
Pope's statement in regard of fools and angels.
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
Concerning the music ! Mostly, it is mere noise :
blatant, blaring, barbarous ; strident, streperous, shocking.
If you tell me that this is usually the fault of the
executants, I must say that the composers are equally
to blame. Several of the latter appear to have been
born and bred in a brass-foundry : which remark applies
even more strongly to the ' arrangers ' : their work, too
often, is a case of directing other peojjle to crash and
smash, and blare away at random. Amid such insurrec-
tions of noise, for something soft and soothing, a man shall
wait in vain. Rarely does one meet with a movement
that is graceful and cultured ; rarely does one meet with
a melody that is fantastic and riant. And as for sweet-
ness, it is unknown— to the composers for the music-halls.
That these minor weavers of sound are not Wagners nor
Beethovens, need scarcely preclude them from being, say,
second-rate Wallaces or Balfes — or even a Mr. Leslie Stuart :
who, if at times a trifle commonplace and obvious, is always
completely fluent and melodious. They might take a leaf
from the score of Mr. Walter Slaughter : an admirable
workman who has not forgotten that there are quite
several instruments rather more important than the drum
and the cymbal ; and who has proved that, in music, it is
possible to be popular yet pretty, popular yet tuneful,
popular yet original. There is no thief like a musical
thief But why do these particular devotees of Euterpe
so often steal from each other ? Why do these inter-
breeding compilers for music-halls so often merely
reproduce each others' banalities ? Why do they not
take horse for the British Museum ? Why do they not
examine those forty operas of which Handel was the
composer ? If they did that, they might possibly repeat
something original. In any case, they might possibly, for
a while, from the waltz refrain.
Whose fault is it that the artistical bad runs rampant ?
34
THE MUSIC HALLS.
Whose fault is it that the artistical bad is greeted with
tumult of acclaim '. In brief, who is to be condemned ?
" That brute of a public, that ass of a public, that detest-
able, stupid, degraded pig of a public I " — as Charles
Mackay once called it.
Since such is so, small wonder that the artistic battle is
often to the weak — small wonder that the artistic race is
often to the slow — small wonder that success (in the music-
halls and elsewhere) is often achieved by sheer incompe-
tence ! I had thought of paraphrasing the following
epigraph to the nineteenth chapter of The Naidahka; on
second thought, I prefer to present it unmutilated : change
but a few of the words, alter the local colour, and the tale
is told of ourselves. Listen ! It is the makers (let us
suppose) of our national ballads, the makers of our songs
for the people. They speak :
" We be the gods of the East-
Older than all-
Masters of mourning and feast,
How shall we fall ?
" Will they gape to the husks that ye proffer,
Or yearn to your sung \
And we, have we nothing to offer,
Who ruled them so long
In the fume of the incense, the clash of the cymbal, the blare
of the conch and the gong ?
" Over the strife of the schools
Low the day burns —
Back, with the kine from the pools.
Each one returns
To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows
and the tulsi is trimmed iu the urns."
Mr. George Moore, in his haste, has written that " the
public is a filthy cur," and that " it is the duty of every
artist to kick it in the ribs on passing." This is as forcible
as incorrect. The public is merely indiscriminative. At
any rate, I trust that it was not because the public was
35
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
filthy that it bought some twenty thousand copies of that
unpardonably dull book Evelyn limes ; what time, for
example, it was comparatively neglecting so praiseworthy
a piece of work as Modern Pcmitiwj ; the most brilliant
thing of its kind ever produced. No — the public is not
filthy ; it is mei'ely indiscriminative : it cannot tell the
good from the bad. Concerning matters artistic, the
brain of the public works in a manner that is chiefly
feminine. The public likes a thing, or it does not like a
thing ; and if one asks the public Wh}- ? — lo, it answers
Because I do, or Because I do not ! To sum up, the dear
public is in the womanly position of knowing ])recisely
what it likes, and of being utterly unable to render a
reason.
Nevertheless, the dear public can render an opinion :
and it can do so (at the theatre, for instance) very
vehemently, very disgracefully, very unnecessai-ily.
There, time and again, it forgets that an opinion, and a
quite adverse opinion, can be loudly expressed by silence.
Why become uproarious, when an unbroken quiet can chill
the very marrow of the most conceited actor, or author,
that ever puffed his chest with pride ? Noise is a waste of
energy, noise defeats its own object ; silence gives the
maker no trouble, silence is most effective to the end.
When the rest is noise, those that are judged inunediately
upconjure tlie word conspiracy. And " organised
opposition," too ! Think how easy to say, think how easy
to believe, think how ea.sy to think ! The {jhrase is as
facile as alliterative. Ah I my dear j^ublic, kindly accept
the fore-uoiny: truths as from one havinsf knowledire : and.
when next you are in act (honestly, or otherwise) of
rendering an opinion on a first performance, please
remember that ' behind the curtain ' nobody ever pre-
supposes a conspiracy of silence.
Additionally, there is to be considered this : in the
36
THE MUSIC HALLS.
theatre, your disapproval when loud is not heard : the
assaulted perceptions of your condemned ones become
occupied only with your inability to judge. Did you but
take the matter quietly, the author and the actors might
take the matter correctly ; and so might you.
Remember that unhappy winter night of 1894 when, at
the St. James's Theatre, Guy Domville was born and
murdered. Remember the behaviour of a particular band
of Yahoos that upon this occasion thought it good to
ululate and caterwaul at a certain pair of defenceless
men : the one of whom, during the previous four years,
had given to his patrons the absolute best" of the dramatic
work of that period ; the other of whom, during many a
long day, had presented to the literature-reading world
some of the most beautiful specimens of sheer writing with
which it is acquainted. Did not their past records save
these men from what was more than mere disapproval,
from what was unmitigated insult ? Oh, no ! They were
screeched and howled at as if they had been guilty of
assaulting a little child. And what, after all, had
Mr. George Alexander and Mr. Henry James been so
fascinorous as to do ^ . . . They had failed to please.
Robert Louis Stevenson pre-phrased this situation in its
entirety. " The artist steps forth out of the crowd and
proposes to delight : an impudent design, in which it is
impossible to fail without odious circumstances."
And liow had this jmrticular ])air of artists failed in their
impudent design ? Had they written and spoken dis
respectfully of the ladies that were in the theatre ? Had
they denounced and cursed the Crown, or reviled and spat
upon the Bible ? Had they presented a work filled with
anti-patriotism ? Had they presented a play compounded
of obscenity ? None of those things. They had been
* Stmliffht and Shadow, J'ke Idhr, Lady Windermere's Fan, Lihci-itj
Hall, The Second Mrs. Tanqtieray.
57
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
guilty of bringing a piece of delicate literature before the
footlights. Consequently, the crowd, having caught the
culprits red-handed, set to work and carefully stoned them
in the market-place.
Now, this act of justice was the more noticeable because,
only two hours previously, that same crowd had caused to
come before the curtain a gentleman who had compiled a
farce^a farce without one memorable line — a farce made
acceptable chiefly with ' business ' invented by the actors
— a farce that was a piece of as flat burglary as ever was
committed. Well, and what did those discriminative
judges, those dispensers of praise and blame, do to that
gentleman ? Him they i"eceived as though he had been
the saviour of his country.
Mr. Dash Dash, who, apparently, bought a copy of Six
Months Ago and sold it again under the title of Too Happij
J)i/ Half, was made the hero of the evening. Mr. George
Alexander and Mr. Henry James, who, in their respective
ways, succeeded in presenting a piece of fine acting and a
piece of fine writing, were received as though they had
been guilty of an accumulative crime of arson and rapine
and murder.
The foregoing is not set forth to point an epigram or
adorn a sneer ; neither is it given as a little fairy story.
It is an historical fact ; and surely no great effort of
imagination is required to picture the Yahoos — the Yahoos
that helped to make this historical fact — as going out the
next night and applauding sincerely, if boisterously, either
a man howling a singultous song concerning his supposed
powers of swilling beer, or a woman, well-stripped, thrusting
lierhead backwards, backwards, till, for their admiring gaze,
she ultimately protruded the same from between her
tortured knees.
Mr. John Hollingshead, in his collection of entertaining
and brilliant sketches called Footlights, has set down some
38
THE MUSIC HALLS.
shocking truths in regard of "A Discerning British
Pubhc." He has put his indictments into the mouth of
a created character ; but, although the voice is the voice
of Signor Lunatico, the hand is the hand of John Holhngs-
head. Note the first paragraph : —
" I dare say the pubhc thinks itself a remarkably clever
creature — always right, always rational, always amiable,
always beyond criticism ; but I don't. I've seen a good
deal of it, too, in my time ; and I ought to know. People
flatter it, and toady it, and call it fine names, and jjretend
that its enlightenment is beyond question, and its judg-
ment final ; while they believe the very opposite in their
secret hearts, and give utterance to their real opinions in
places where their voices have no influence."
Mr. Hollino-shead's character is one of those roi^jues,
vagabonds, outcasts called a play actor, who, having made
a certain amount of money and acquired a certain amount
of fame by using, in the legitimate drama, every kind of
clap-trap trick with which he was acquainted, determines
to gain, without so much trouble and hypocrisy, still more
celebrity and fortune by devoting himself to — the tight-
rope. In due season, his first appearance is announced.
Blood-red placards, bestrewing the walls of the metropolis,
proclaim that a certain SigJior Lunatico has been engaged,
at an enormous expense, to go through one of the most
daring acts upon the aerial rope ever presented to a
discerning British public.
" The day, the hour, the minute, arrived at last ; and
never had such an audience assembled before at the Royal
Greenacre Gardens. Every publicity had been given to the
entertainment — the prospect of sudden death had been deli-
cately hinted at — nothing, in fact, had been neglected by
my intelligent manager, who had long felt the public pulse
in such matters ; and the result was that 20,000 happy and
amiable beings were accommodated within the grounds,
39
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
while 50,000 more clung desperately to the walls of their
paradise, and a larger number still were damned in the outer
darkness of a remote distance. People were trampled under
foot, like a field of corn ; the weakest went to the wall, and
never came back again ; mothers squeezed into the crowd
with children at the breast, and — lawk-a-daisy ! who
would have thoitght it ? — the poor helpless innocents were
smothered ; housetops were worth a guinea a foot in pure
virgin gold ; and every chimney within a mile of the place
was the home of some straining column-stander. The tall
old elms chat encircled the gardens were full to bowing
down with eager human fruit ; platforms of slender planks
were hurriedly raised, which snapped like egg-chests under
a brewer's dray, crippling many a determined sightseer in
the splintered ruin ; tall men were looked upon with dan-
gerous spite by soiled and battered dwarfs, who felt inclined
to bound upon the giants' shoulders, and wind themselves
in their hair, like star-fish amongst the sea-weed. A row
of scaffolding before some newly-raised carcases of buildings
at no great distance was stormed like a fortress, and at
almost the same cost ; while the empty unseasoned skeletons
of dwellings seemed to rock under the weight of heavy men,
who clung: to them as to a sinking wreck ; and in the
outskirts of the ci'owd a boy was murdered by a savage
gang of costermongers, because he refused to give up a
telescope."
What was the hell-sent miracle that wrought this wide-
spread madness ?
" A human being had undertaken to ascend a cord
stretched from its root in the earth to a small harbour of
refuge near the top of a lofty tree, some 200 feet high ;
and, while in the centre of his perilous journey — at the half-
way house of death — by throwing several clear somersaults
in mid-air, he would linger and dally with a fearful suicide:
which was just covered, but not concealed, by the thin
40
THE MUSIC HALLS.
disguise of a clever gymnastic entertainment. Truly the
British public had much ground for priding itself upon its
rapid advance in taste and humanity ! "
There is a little delay. Then the manager goes to the
room of the ex-actor, now Signor Lunatico, fearful that at
the eleventh hour he has repented of his rashness.
" ' My dear sir,' he said, ' don't let mo hurry you at such
a moment, but the people are beginning to get impatient.'
" ' Couldn't you murder a baby, a waiter, something of
that kind,' I replied, ' to appease them ? '
" ' Sir ? ' he returned excitedly, not seeming to com-
prehend me.
" ' Suppose,' I said, ' I feel heart-sick and unequal to the
eflFort ? '
" ' Mr. War I beg pardon I Signor Lunatico I '
gasped the manager and projirietor of the Royal Greenacre
Gardens. " I trust that I am dealing with a gentleman I '
" ' Yes,' I replied ; ' but gentlemen are human, and this
experiment requires nerves that are superhuman.'
" ' Mr. — Signor ! ' returned the manager, ' this is no time
for bandying words. There's fifty thousand people in and
about my gardens who will tear everybody and everything
to pieces if they're disappointed — ---'
" ' Of their prey ? ' I filled in.
" ' Sir ! ' returned the manager, becoming more and more
excited, ' I don't understand you ! '
" ' Are they Christians ? ' I continued. ' Are they white
men ? '
" ' Sir ! ' repeated the gasping manager, ' I don't under-
stand you — they've paid their money ! '
" ' Oh, I beg your pardon,' I said. ' Kindly announce
that I shall be ready in a second.'
" ' Thank you, signor,' he said, much relieved, as he left
the place ; and the next moment I heard the loud brass
band playing the ' Conquering Hero.' "
41 G
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
Well, he does it. Step by step, he mounts and moves
along the rope. As his howling enemies, the public, stand
surging below and uttering what they intend for applause
every time he moves his motley-covered limbs, he feels a
contempt for his fellows that comes near to ecstacy. He
duly effects his somersaults at a point from where the
enlightened British audience look more contemptible still ;
and from his jjeaceful haven in the lofty tree-top they
appear quite to sink into utter insignificance.
" The daring feat, after a few months' performance, lost
at once its novelty and its reputation for daring. As I
demonstrated by experiment that a series of somersaults
could be effected with the same mathematical certainty
upon a rope 150 feet above the ground as upon the ground
itself, my visitors fell off by degrees, and the advanced
prices of admission were considerably diminished. From
the moment that the shadow of death no longer hovered
over the feat, an enlightened British audience could see
nothing wonderful in it."
The foregoing, though written in 1883, is still applicable.
" Paid their money " I Exactly ! But I have yet to learn
why a first-night audience is able to give (if so it wishes)
such an exhibition of inanity and vulgarity and brutality
as would disgrace a cock-pit or a bear-garden — and yet
is permitted to go unpunished ; while, if a second-night
audience (money or no money) did a similar thing, they, in
all likelihood, would be washed out of the theatre straight
into the street with firemen's hose, and smitten (care-
fully but hard) on their silly heads with batons of rates-
paid policemen. However, although the Guy Domvillc
episode is in no wise the only one of its kind that I have
witnessed, we may continue to hope that there will come a
time when an enlightened and discerning British public
shall realise that the most convincing and sufficing method
of stating disapproval is by omitting to praise. And if I
42
THE MUSIC HALLS.
am told that an audience — which, if it be pleased, is
expected to laugh and applaud — should, if it is not pleased,
be permitted to howl and boo — well, I can only rejoin that
there are quite a number of degrees in conducting the ex-
pression of one's emotions between, say, patting a man on
the shoulder and spitting into his face.
Who fill the music-halls ? The public. What public ?
People from both town and country : the second wanting
to see life ; the first wanting to avoid it. Does each win
to the goal of his desire ? The countryman thinks Yes ;
the townsman is not sure : both are seemingly content.
After all, the public is as easily pleased as it is hardly
satisfied. It absorbs and enjoys, for example. The
Sorrows of Satan, set forth by a too-industrious person
whose name escapes me ; whom, however, I remember
as possessed of a supreme genius for making a short
story long, and a long story longer. When a boy, I was
once amazed at seeing a pint bottle filled to the very cork
with a quantity of dry pyrogallic acid that I knew to be
just one ounce. It was a triumph of bulk over weight.
But I never realized the allegorical value of this
phenomenon till I came upon a quarter-of-million words
presenting an amount of matter that could easily, and
should properly (allowing it worth doing at all) have been
phrased by something less than fifty thousand. I have
reason to believe that this wonder-working conjurer, whose
name still escapes me (perhaps because it was not upon the
title-page of the book to which I noio refer) once set down
Mr. Rudyard Kipling — that master of depth and concen-
tration — as being shallow and expansive. This minute
curiosity of criticism I have mentioned merely to remind
myself (and all whom it may concern) that the public has
not taken Mr. Kipling to its bosom ; Mr. Kipling has
taken the public to his. The author of Barrack Room
Ballads is a very strong man — this being a truth which I
43
CHIEFLY CONCERNING
have had the jDleasure of assisting another writer to record
elsewhere ; * and the author of Barrack Room Ballads has
gripped the pubUc by the heart ; and he has made the
pubhc all his very own ; and he has handled it and dandled
it and thrilled it to the soul. When a father takes up a
baby and carefully throws it to the ceiling and carefully
catches that baby and makes it coo and chuckle with
delight, no unprejudiced observer alleges that the strength,
and power, and cunning, and merit is being exhibited by
the baby. To sum up from the foregoing contrast of a
pair of popular favourites — one may easily see that, unless
a man is possessed either of a private income or of a
supreme talent and never-failing fecundity combined with
an indomitable will and an unfaltering persistence, it is
better for him that, rather than offer to the public
things difficult, small, subtle, strong, deep, wise, he sell
to it things facile, bulky, obvious, weak, shallow, foolish.
If, after all this, you should ask me what I am ' driving
at,' I would answer that I do not so much deplore the
success of the one, as that I lament the mere correspond-
ing success of the other. And / would ask you Why, in
the name of all that's proportionate, when eighty thousand
copies of Tlie Sorroivs of Satan can be disposed of, why
should not Barrack Boom Ballads sell to the extent of
twenty millions ?
Hitherto have I written chiefly of things as they are ;
now will I write only of things as they could be. Come !
Let us dream.
Lo, we are in a place of perfection ! The music-hall has
departed ; in its stead is a hall-of-music. The palace
of varieties is now but a building where can be found
differences only of kind and not of degree. And things
* " Rudyard Kipling : An Attemjil at A/iprecialion." By G. F. Monkshood.
44
THE MUSIC HALLS.
are so ordained that evening shall be young and night-
time blue. And, although Raucous indeed is gone with his
red Nose, and Sot's singultous Songs, where no one knows
— " still a Ruby kindles in the Vine and many a Garden
by the Water blows."
Here (in our dream, be it remembered) is no massing of
the gross masquerading as the gay, no death-like dulness
put forth as all that there is of most brilliant. Here is no
riot of fact, but only a revel of fancy. Here is no rule of
the plumes, but only a reign of the roses. And the roses
are beautiful, fragrant, inermous ; and the plumes, though
forced to abdicate in favour of the flowers, are no longer
mere black feathers fit only for funerals, but are re-dyed to
whiteness and wedding-value.
Gone is the hideous and the hateful ; gone is the un-
happy and the unnecessary. Gone is the lady con-
tortionist with that anxious grin flickering upon her
troubled face ; gone is the perverted girl with those far-
flung legs stretched flat and wide apart. Gone are the
horrisonous discords ; and in their stead are melodies
sweet and harmonious. Gone are the honeyless words of
stupidity ; and in their stead are sayings sweet and wise.
Gone are the rags maculated and pediculous ; and in their
stead are garments comic but clean, garments occasionally
unkempt but invariably undisturbing. And the costumes
of the women, though rich and gay and shining, are
coloured correctly.
As for the authors — though they are not precisely
duplicates of Burns and Beranger, yet have they in them-
selves something of W. S. Gilbert and W. E. Henley ;
though they are not exactly makers of national ballads and
immortal songs, yet (as with the two last-named) are they
always witty and inspiring, always masters of rhyme and
reason, always producers of the original and the well-
expressed. For example, no longer do the}'' write concern-
45
CHIEFLY CONCERNINQ
ing wine and woman as if they knew nothing about either ;
no longer do they permit themselves to believe that age
cannot wither nor custom stale the infinite vulgarities of
the cab-rank and the race-course. And so we may desist
from exhorting them to be less bad : for they now, though
not always quite equal, are always quite good. They are
intelligent and satisfying : because they are rightly en-
couraged. They are reliable and pleasing : because they
are rightly paid. They are not only prolific ; they are
fruitful : because they are presented (as was Ung, long-
ages ago) with " the little gift in the doorway and the
praise no gift can buy." And they are not only popular
and duly appreciated ; they are competent and finely meri-
torious : because the public has grown discriminative, and
become intolerant of the bad, and desirous only of the good.
Especially has the music imjDroved. It is now in the
hands of trained men : who are as properly rewarded as
should be all artists that are worthy of their pay. These
men show that a piece of work can be technical without
being tiresome, can be the more craft-like without being
the less enchanting ; and they contrive, in the manner of
Alfred Cellier and Sir Arthur Sullivan, that a melody
shall be cultured, sweet, riant, graceful, and yet have the
mercantile qualities of being easy and memorable. The
tunes of the music-hall (in our dream, be it still remembered)
possess all the merits of those of the concert-room, with
an added fire of spontaneity and an accessional charm of
resource. Modelled more upon the French and less upon
the German, or quaint and dear and flowing as is ever the
best of the English, these tunes are very popular — as
popular as was Ta-rara-hoom-de-ay , or any other dreadful-
sounding abomination of the past.
And lo ! — in our dream-built hall-of-music — we now hear
Voices and see Visions.
' I am the Spirit of Song : I appease ; I do not aj)pal.'
46
THE MUSIC HALLS.
'I am the Spirit of Dance: I enchant ; I do not repel.'
' I am Gaiety : I enliven; I do not depress.'
* I am Pleasure : I renovate ; I do not destroy.'
' I am Entertainment : no longer can you say with truth
that it is better to work than to be amused.'
Anon the melody changes, and we hear a song of the
open road. Again the melody changes, and we hear a song
of the open sea. And the steady sturdy tramp-tramp of
armed men gives place to the mighty on-coming swash-
swash of ironclad ships. And, loud and high, the voices
are heard of such writers as Algernon Charles Swinburne,
with his Word for the Navy, and William Ei-nest Henley,
with his England, My England. And, higher still, and higher
(as a ' runner ' might tip with fire if a vast illumination
surprised a festal night, outlining round and round Paul's
dome from pillar to spire) comes — not, as this paraphrase will
perhaps imply, the accents of Kobert Browning and his
'cello strains of Love — but the notes of Kudyard Kipling
and his trumpet blasts of Imperialism. Little matters it,
now, that the music-hall is more of a schoolroom than a
playgrouftd for the British Brain : there is something good
to learn ; and not the pothouse pleasantries of such doggrel
as " We don't want to fight, but, by Jingo, if we do, we've
got the ships, we've got the men, we've got the money too I "
Instead, are to be heard the rhymes and reasons of that con-
summate literary artist who is the acclaimed and accredited
mouthpiece of the nation that, though imperfect, is the best
that has ever had being on the face of the known globe —
the man who gave that splendid shout. The English Flag
— the man who sounded that note of warning, Recessional —
the articulate man who sang A Song of the English.
And in the palace of which we are dreaming may be
distinguished many other voices — equally great, equally
potent ; but all different. Man does not live by patriotism
alone.
47
THE MUSIC HALLS.
In their own time, Shakspeare and his fellow craftsmen
dominated the thought of all England, uplifted the hearts
of the people to issues braver and finer. Whence was the
message delivered ? From the playhouse ! . . . In our
time, the play is mentally naught beside the novel and
the newspaper. Attack a subject in print, leave it for dead
— long after, it shall be found on the stage, not only alive
but pretending to have been born there . . . In the future,
we may find ideas truly starting into life from the theatre
itself. What if others sliould germinate in the very music-
hall ?
The future ! Ah, that is a convenient place — for
dreams !
GEORGE GAMBLE.
Dan Iieno.
*' Standing on the Steps of the
t^eft^eshment t^oom."
re
vT?
e;>^
K-^
>»-.„'^^
V
y J
George t^obey.
"pirst Pt'ize at the Beauty Shouu."
<«
Eugene Stpatton.
The Cake CUalk."
Vesta Vietofia.
"Ho, thanks, flot fop me I"
Chipgcain.
"The Oihite Eyed Caffif."
^. G. t^nocjules.
**fldam and Eve."
**TatehoI CUhat hoi
99
§
Bessie UizntuioPth.
"Coons I"
flQafguefite Cofnille
"The Simple CDaid."
HePbePt Csxmphelh
"Running to Olaist"
Li^'
1 ^^^r^ " "'^
{
r
^^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^H
■
^^^^^^^^ v^^B
H
.§
1
^
ffiame liloyd.
** Evet^ything in the Gat^den's
Liovely."
Gus Elen.
" The Golden Dustman.
i»
r
2^A
Albert Chevaliet'.
**Talk of a Time I vae did 'aVe a
Timel me did 'aVe a f^oaringTitne."
Hsxppy Bedford.
"R Little Bit off the Top."
"The Best Ltittle Ulotnan in the
CUide, Olide Olotrld."
The Bpos. Griffiths.
T. E. Dunville.
"The Seientifie man."
fllarie lioftas.
**She bisped uuhen She said
• Ves.' "
Vesta Tilley.
''iDoixxn the Strand, That's the
liand of the midnight Son."
$
G. H- fllaGdepmott
"Ole don't cuant to fight.
f9
^1^ \ I
Paul flQartinetti.
In *• {Robert maoait^e."
Ada l^eeve.
«« T4.'
It's flU gone douxn in my
Diat^y."
§
HaPPiet Vepnon.
"In Days of Old."
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