Part 17

I well remember once going with a party—amongst others Lady Molesworth, Lord Torrington and Mr. Bernal Osborne—to Evans’ Supper Rooms. It was not a place, I fancy, to which ladies went as a rule, but both Lady Molesworth and I had wished to see it, and so it was arranged that we should go. The evening was not as successful as it might have been, as some of the party were in a bad temper; but we tasted the potatoes, for which the place was famous, and, during the course of the visit, I was introduced to the celebrated Paddy Green. He was brought up into the sort of box in which we sat by Mr. Bernal Osborne, who presented him to me with a long sort of speech in which he informed the old man that he was meeting a connection of the well-known Horace Walpole. Paddy Green, contrary to my expectation, was immensely interested at this, and, telling me he would go and get something which I ought to see, disappeared for a moment, only to return bearing with him the “Opera Pass” which had belonged to my literary kinsman, and which the old man was quite delighted to show me. He kept declaring, I recollect, that some day I should have it, and I always had a sort of idea that he would leave it to me. He did not do so, however, and at his death it was sold by auction, when it was purchased by Mr. Hambro of Milton Abbey.

Forty or fifty years ago theatres were few in number, and a visit to the play was considered a serious adventure and not a mere casual distraction as it is to-day, when places of entertainment are almost too plentiful in number. As girls, we used, I remember, to be sent to bed for two or three hours in the afternoon in order to rest before the excitement of witnessing a dramatic performance. The opera then, as now, was the most fashionable resort during the season; not, I think, that the opera itself excited any very keen interest—the ballet was the main thing; but as these were the days of Cerito and Taglioni there is little cause for wonder at such having been the case. Taglioni, of course, was not generally received, but, nevertheless, I once met her at a party, though I cannot remember where, or how she got there. Cerito, however, I perfectly well recollect seeing at a Mr. Long’s, at whose house in Grafton Street one used to meet all sorts of clever and interesting people, for he had the especial gift of collecting together notabilities of every sort. I was introduced to this famous dancer, who looked very pretty and demure and made an excellent impression upon every one.

Taglioni was the very perfection of grace, and her name is still remembered as a queen amongst dancers. Poor woman, her latter years were clouded by poverty and misfortune, and she was obliged to give dancing lessons in order to support her children. Her opinion of the modern school of dancing was extremely low, and she did not scruple to declare that it appeared to her both ugly and improper. “Dieu, qu’elles sont laides avec leurs indécences,” was the criticism she passed upon some ballerinas who claimed to be her successors at a time when the acrobatic distortion known as the cake-walk had not yet been invented. What indeed would she have thought of that? So-called dancing in these days is more often than not largely composed of wild gymnastic exercises, whilst skirt-dancing is too often but a series of feeble kicks executed by angular performers whose lack of grace is concealed by a number of voluminous swathings and petticoats.

When my sister and I went to the opera neither the performance nor the ballet attracted either of us as much as what was called “the crush-room,” which was our principal delight. This social institution is now totally extinct. In those days, however, directly the opera was over the fashionable portion of the audience at once adjourned to a hall arranged for people to wait in whilst their carriages were being fetched, and here the gay world would linger generally for at least an hour. The crush-room, indeed, was like a sort of informal evening party; but such an institution would have no success in these days of bustle and rush when every one is only too anxious to be first away, and so many are eager to betake themselves to the fashionable restaurants, the possible existence of which was undreamt of up to comparatively recent years.

I have seen nearly all the actors and actresses whose names to-day are but dim recollections of the past. Paul Bedford I well remember in a burlesque of Norma singing an excruciatingly funny song with a wreath of carrots and turnips on his head. He was the funniest comedian I ever saw, though his methods would perhaps be thought too broad at the present time when the stage almost ranks with the Church, and not a few theatrical people are as proud as if they possessed three eyes and a tail. Paul Bedford, besides being a comedian of extraordinary though very rollicking talent, was an excellent vocalist as well. He had, indeed, originally made his reputation in Lablache’s great part of Don Pasquale.

The late Mr. Toole, who often used to come and lunch with me, was the last of the comedians of the old school whose original personality was a principal cause of their success. Theatres to-day are, of course, far more luxurious than was formerly the case, everything being changed, from the lighting (in old days a very primitive affair) to the programmes, which used to be merely roughly printed slips of coarse paper.

Unfortunately I have no large collection of old theatrical programmes, and I always feel sorry that as a girl I did not keep the playbills of the day, which would now be of very considerable interest. One programme, however, I did carefully retain, treasuring it as a souvenir of two clever friends of mine—Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft, who retired from management in 1885, their last performance taking place on July 20 of that year. This farewell programme, as it was called, is decorated with a nice little photograph of the clever manager and manageress, whose retirement from the stage may be said at that time to have eclipsed the gaiety of the Metropolis.

The late Sir Henry Irving used constantly to send me any trifles which he thought likely to be of interest. I have a certain number of bookplates mostly sent me by friends, and having seen a new one designed for Sir Henry by Mr. Bernard Partridge, I told him how much I should like a specimen. Accordingly he sent me this bookplate, together with a rather amusing letter describing an adventure with Mr. Toole at Canterbury Cathedral, where the latter seized the opportunity of exercising his well-known love of joking—

15A GRAFTON STREET, BOND STREET, W.

MY DEAR LADY DOROTHY—The 15th will soon be here, and I hope that you will soon afterwards come to “Becket.”

Pray let me know when you can, on which night I may have pleasure of making you welcome.

On Saturday nights we play some other play, to be afterwards included in our American repertoire.

I was at Canterbury lately with our mutual friend, Toole, and greatly enjoyed the visit—until he began insisting to the attendants that I was a descendant of the great archbishop, and that my visit to the Cathedral would do much to make it popular.

So it seemed, for a little crowd soon collected, from which we were rescued by a most considerate canon, who insisted on conveying us safely to the crypt.

I am glad you like the bookplate which was designed by Bernard Partridge.—Believe me, dear Lady Dorothy, sincerely yours,

H. IRVING. _13th April 1893._

The public nowadays may be said to be satiated with amusements, but formerly it was quite otherwise, and anything new in this line was considered as a positive wonder. I well remember the sensation caused by the Exhibition of 1851, which in some mysterious manner was supposed to be the inauguration of an era of perpetual peace. I went there once alone with Charles Greville—“the gruncher” as he used to be called (a nickname which, I suppose, originated from the French word _grincheux_, for there were times when he could be anything but pleasant)—and we had to make our way through most tremendous crowds. I shall also never forget being nearly crushed to death on the last day of the same Exhibition, when I had gone quite alone. I got caught in the crowd, and being very small would have certainly been at least very seriously injured by the terrible crush, had not a friendly official thrust me into a place of safety in the shape of his little pay-box.

In old days conjuring (now almost entirely a children’s amusement) was far more popular than is at present the case. The prince of conjurers was, of course, Robert Houdin, who carried sleight-of-hand and legerdemain pretty well to perfection; in addition to this he was also a very clever man, whose mind was constantly on the alert, as the following little incident will show. Houdin was very popular with the Sultan and performed before him on many occasions. Being one day asked to the palace to dine, he said to his imperial host, “Your Majesty has several times been pleased to express some very flattering opinions as to my magical powers, and it is true that I have performed some rather difficult tricks. They, however, are nothing to the feat I shall now perform, provided your Majesty accords me full permission to do what I like with the watch which lies on that table.” At the same time he pointed to a wonderful specimen of the watchmaker’s art which, beautifully enamelled and embellished in the Louis XV. style (a present indeed from that King himself to a former Sultan), lay in a glass case close at hand. The required permission was given, whereupon Houdin rose from the table, and to the horror of all present, and to the visible annoyance of the Sultan, took up the watch and in full sight of every one threw it out of the window into the sea.

An awkward pause now ensued, and one which seemed ominous for the conjurer; but the fish just then making its appearance, Houdin, with the greatest self-possession, bade one of the servants take a particular dish to the Sultan and beg him to cut right across the fine turbot which it contained. This the Sultan did, and to his stupefaction discovered the Louis quinze watch beneath his knife. From that day Houdin’s prestige was greatly increased, whilst presents were heaped upon him by the Sultan, who thought it best to keep on good terms with such a wonderful magician. The explanation, however, of this feat—extraordinary as it appeared—is quite simple. Houdin had chanced to see the watch during a previous visit to the palace about a year before, and being a man of very alert intelligence, photographed, as it were, every detail upon his brain, having a vague idea that something might be made of it. Surely enough, he discovered the watch’s exact double in a curiosity shop in London—another gift from Louis XV. to some sovereign, which had fallen upon evil days. Securing the twin at a considerable price, he thought out the trick which so astonished the Sultan, and which, though it cost the conjurer a good sum, brought in a very handsome profit in the shape of increased imperial favour and the benefits resulting therefrom.

As a girl travelling on the Continent with my father I was taken to several theatres, which as a rule were terribly stuffy and uncomfortable. I remember, for instance, going to a theatre at Rome in 1845 with Lady Pellew, and there seeing a play which was really very amusing, though it left one with no desire to make a second visit.

The length was the same as an English play of those days—that is, from seven till past eleven—a melodrama, a pantomime, and a farce. The latter amused us mightily; it was a quiz upon the English, more laughable than fair, for it satirised their riding, an art in which our nation is not behind the Italians. The hero, an immensely corpulent John Bull, with a pert booby of a son, who answered “Yes, papa,” to everything, and walked about with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, was seen mounting a horse for the first time. This he accomplished by means of a crane which lifted him up, with his legs spread out, a good height into the air, and then let him drop on the horse’s back. After this followed a lesson in riding, in which John Bull fell off, as did his son, and then they ran against each other, boxing and fighting all the time, till eventually the son went on his knees and craved forgiveness from his daddy, who graciously held out his hand to be kissed. At the end the riding-master introduced a number of tumblers, who threw somersaults over four horses standing side by side and performed other feats of activity, in all of which they were immediately imitated and even surpassed by old and young John. It was great nonsense, but very funny. The audience was so filthy, and the smells so overpowering, that it gave us an idea of what we had heard used to happen in some American theatres, for many of the men took off their coats and sat in shirt sleeves which for colour would have shamed an Irish labourer. The upper ranks of Roman society went at that time only to the opera, and the audience of this theatre consisted entirely of shopkeepers and tradesmen, very different to an English audience of the same class, which behaves in a respectable and gentlemanlike way. These people were dirty to a degree, and might well have been old Westminster or St. Giles turned into the pit and boxes.

On a previous occasion some years before, at Töplitz, in 1838, we all went to a Jewish marriage. We had bought glass and garnets in some quantity, the latter being considered superior to the Oriental ones; indeed, a mania for buying had seized us all. We had thus been good customers of the Jews, who at that time lived in a quarter of their own and were very numerous there. In gratitude they invited us to their synagogue “to hear the pure worship of One God,” upon which I daresay they especially prided themselves in that image-adoring land; and one day a pretty Jewess ran after us in the street, and invited us to come and see a wedding. My father not only urged us to go but went with us himself. They had very beautiful music, and a sort of marriage song was sung by a single voice, with a chorus that would not have disgraced Braham, so full, so clear, and so sweet was it. The Hebrew chanting, of course, we could make nothing of, but the sermon or address to the newly married pair who stood up before the preacher was in perfectly intelligible Deutsch, and affected both bride and bridegroom to tears. It was a very pathetic homily, and alluded feelingly, though very delicately and distantly, to the present degraded state of the Israelites, urging them to seek their happiness all the more in the “heilige Himmelreich.” There was a certain degree of elevation about the whole ceremony, the only drawback being that we were sadly devoured by fleas, which my father somewhat flippantly declared to be of the true Jerusalem breed.

During our stay at Töplitz, a German newspaper was brought to my dear governess, Miss Redgrave, to translate, on account of its containing a libellous description of Queen Victoria’s habits, which were represented as being sadly gormandising. It purported to be copied from the English Court Journal, and pretended to detail all she ate and drank from rising until going to bed. This statement was denounced to the Minister in Dresden as a libel on Her Majesty, and accordingly he inquired into the matter, intending to complain of it, should it appear to be scandalous, but finding that it was only a simple statement of facts copied from an English newspaper he could say nothing to it. The German editor thought it necessary to explain the meaning of several words, particularly toast, “slices of bread roasted on the coals and buttered hot”; of these he declared the Queen habitually ate an uncounted number, whilst three helpings of turtle soup were said to have cooled the admiration of the Duke of Nemours!

XIV

Changes—Old customs—Country houses—A dispirited Conservative— Wigs—The last Bishops to wear them—Some witty replies— Nightcaps—Dr. Burney and Nelson—Posy rings—Mutton-fat candles in 1835—Belvoir Castle—Old-world country life—Poachers—The last of the smugglers—A terrible crime—Hanging in chains— Pressing to death—Books bound in the skin of criminals—Sussex roads—Old ironwork—Cowdray—The monk’s curse—Otway’s birthplace—Trotton—Charles James Fox—Midhurst and its tokens —Oratory in the country.

Within the last hundred years the changes wrought by steam and electricity have completely transformed the world, whilst making it, no doubt, a very much more comfortable planet to live in than it ever was before. Nevertheless, much that was picturesque and curious has disappeared; few old customs survive, though in certain places they are still (perhaps somewhat artificially) preserved. The practice of beating the bounds, for instance, is, I believe, still occasionally, in a very modified form, carried out in certain towns; but the serious necessity for it having passed away, it is more of a holiday pastime than anything else.

As late as the ’fifties the old custom of wassailing the orchards was still to some extent preserved in Sussex, where it was known as “apple-howling.” A troop of boys used to go round to the different orchards, and, surrounding the apple trees, repeat some quaint rhymes and shout in chorus, the leader of the band meanwhile producing some strange sounds from a cow’s horn. Part of the ceremony consisted in rapping the apple trees with sticks. At the present day this apple-tree superstition, to which Herrick makes allusion in his _Hesperides_, appears to be extinct.

Wassailing at Christmas time was, of course, a totally different thing altogether, of which possibly some vestige has survived to the present day, though in a very modified form. In the days, not so very long ago, when Sussex labourers could not read, they were absolutely dependent upon tradition for their songs, which, in many cases, were exceedingly quaint. Two favourite ones were the “Blind Beggar’s Daughter of Bethnal Green” and the well-known “Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.” Others were “Lord Bateman was a Noble Lord” and “A Sweet Country Life.” These old songs used to be sung by parties of carol singers who went from house to house, well assured of receiving a warm and hearty welcome.

Formerly, of course, people who lived in the country were much more dependent upon the shops in the local village than is now the case, when everything can be got down from London with the greatest ease. Most country houses of any size had a large brew-house attached to them, where home-made beer was brewed for the labourers and servants; this was at all events exceedingly wholesome, being quite free from all adulteration. Country households were also more or less self-dependent in other ways, and many articles of domestic use were made at home, which in these days are purchased from the huge emporiums with which London abounds. Those were the days of feather-beds, and the feathers of chickens and of game-birds were not thrown away as to-day, but carefully preserved and picked in order that they might be utilised as stuffing for this somewhat hot and uncomfortable sort of couch.

At my old home in Norfolk two women were kept constantly employed at this work. I can still see in my mind’s eye old Phœbe Barwick, as she was called, picking away together with another aged character—they never seemed to stop from morning to night, a room being specially set aside for their use. Phœbe’s companion has ever lived in my recollection by reason of the fact that when she heard the news of my brother’s election, as member for East Norfolk, in 1835, she rushed downstairs, seized a huge dinner-bell, and rang a pæan of exultant triumph on the lawn in front of the house. My brother himself was imbued with but little political fervour even at that time, and in his later years his efforts on behalf of the Conservative party were limited to sending on one occasion a cartload of hares into his market town as presents for the Tory electors. The Liberals, however, having made the driver drunk, proceeded to distribute the hares amongst their own supporters, a proceeding which my brother ever afterwards declared had thoroughly disgusted him with all political propaganda.

In my early childhood there were still men living who had not abandoned the eighteenth-century fashion of wearing a wig. This custom, indeed, did not entirely die out with the coming in of the nineteenth century, some old-fashioned people continuing to wear these head-coverings as late as the early ’thirties. The last man to wear a pigtail is said to have been one of the Cambridge dons, who retained it as late as the year 1835. The higher clergy did not abandon their wigs till a somewhat later date. As recently as 1848 Bishop Monk wore a wig whilst officiating at an ordination at St. Margaret’s, Westminster. Archbishop Sumner, however, is said to have been the very last ecclesiastic to discard this head-covering, which Bishops Bagot and Blomfield had been the first to lay aside. Bishop Blomfield was a divine who was noted for his wit, and his sayings were sometimes very amusing. He was once engaged in a controversy with a learned man as to the mental superiority of the East over the West, and after much argument his opponent as a parting shot said, “Well, at any rate the wise men came from the East—you can’t dispute that.” “Surely,” retorted the Bishop, “that was the wisest thing they could do.”

On another occasion, at a party where a lady in an extremely _decolleté_ gown excited a good deal of attention, some one remarked to him: “Her appearance is really quite scandalous. Did you ever see anything like it?” “Never,” replied the Bishop; “at least, not since I was weaned.”

When wigs were first abandoned the new fashion of wearing the hair was not by any means universally popular, and in some country districts old-fashioned parishioners were by no means enamoured of the change in their pastor’s appearance. A certain clergyman, for instance, who at the beginning of the last century determined to follow the new fashion, and having discarded his wig, appeared in the village street with a cropped head, was severely snubbed by a lady parishioner whom he had consulted as to the effect of this change in his personal appearance. Her remark was, “Once a man, twice a child.” For many years, indeed, people of the old school considered this innovation a most undignified change.

Nightcaps, which were once universally worn, have now pretty well gone the same way as wigs; in old days every one, not only men, but also women, wore them, and they were considered as indispensable as any other article of ordinary attire. There is a well-known story relating to the celebrated Dr. Burney which illustrates this.

Dr. Burney, whilst staying with Nelson at Merton, discovered that he had omitted to bring any nightcaps with him, and so borrowed one from the great admiral. Sitting up to study before retiring to bed, the cap somehow caught fire in a candle, the end portion of it being consumed, upon which Dr. Burney wrote out the following lines, which he sent with the remains of the cap to his host on the following morning:—

Take your nightcap again, my good Lord, I desire, I would not detain it a minute; What belongs to a Nelson, where’er there’s a fire, Is sure to be instantly in it.