EDWIN HARRIGAN.
A few performers have been successful in making reputations as North of Ireland characters, but they are very few. Ferguson and Mack were for a time at the head of this class of variety comedians, but they got lazy, failed to exhibit anything like extensive originality, and carted their old jokes and stale "business" to England and back, until they have fallen pretty much to the rear ranks. Harrigan & Hart, who have a large theatre in New York, and whose play, "Squatter Sovereignty," had a run of almost a year, are now the best known and really the cleverest of the members of the profession who make a specialty of Irish comedy. Billy Barry and Hugh Fay have made fame and money with their laughable "Muldoon's Picnic," and there are probably a score of others whose efforts would be worth mentioning if they could be recalled at this moment. As in all other lines, however, the ranks have been filled up with men and boys who are even more ignorant and ridiculous off the stage than on; who have graduated from newspaper hawking and boot blacking routes to the back door of the stage, and whose limited powers of mimicry, whose retentive memories for old and poor jokes, and whose rhinoceros-hide cheek—absolute "gall" they would call it themselves—are their only recommendations to any consideration. They, like all other really bad actors, look down upon every brother professional and imagine that they alone have attained to the privileged height above which there is no firm foothold for anybody else. It is the pleasing prerogative of all poor artists to have hallucinations of this kind, and to dwell in temples of fame that are built upon the sands of their own imaginations. Nobody ever disabuses them of their egotistical ideas, and if anybody attempted to do so he would be set down as the very gausiest of "guys" for his pains.
TONY HART.
The Irish comedian, and especially the eccentric gentleman who hails from the North of Ireland, has multiplied so rapidly of late that the stock of jokes with which the original North of Ireland comedian started out many years ago has been turned over thousands of times, and occasionally a modern audience actually cry when they are made parties to the ghoulish crime of resurrecting the dead and buried gags. It is my intention to here present the picture of a team of North of Ireland comedians, and give an idea of the manner in which they amuse their audiences; for some of the people who go to the theatre are so guileless and so easily tickled that they find themselves greatly amused by a dialogue teeming with ancient Hibernianisms. The stories chosen are invariably of the most vulgar and disgusting character, abounding in references and suggestions that would not be listened to outside of the theatre. The peddlers of these rare bits of stage humor choose all manner of make-ups to set off their stock in trade. A gorgeous plaid suit with baggy trousers and short coat topped by a high white hat, and the outfit completed with a cane; or a wardrobe consisting of a semi-respectable thin-sleeved, square-tailed frock coat and high-water broadcloth pants, with polished and towering stove-pipe hat; or a hod-carrier's rig; or any half-idiotic attempt to duplicate a workingman's get-up—a "gas-house tarrier," who tells you about Micky Duffy having got a job to wheel out smoke or to suck wind from bladders,—any of these may be chosen. The clothes may differ, but the jokes, the "business," and the facial pictures will always be found the same. Canes and stove-pipe hats—white or black—are even more necessary for the success of an Irish comedian than is talent of any kind; the canes are used for thumping the floor of the stage, and the stove-pipe hats for banging each other in the face, for this class of comedians always travel in pairs. There is a great deal of floor-thumping and hat-slapping in one of their acts, and among the rough acrobatic aspirants to fame the feet are freely used upon each other, and there is a reckless lot of falling and tumbling in breakneck style upon the stage.
In making up his face the Irish comedian generally likes to indulge in a shrubbery of beard around the neck under either a clean shaven or stubble-strewn chin; if he aims at anything like decency in his appearances he will affect only brushy side-whiskers. A red expression around the nose and under the eyes, and a red or black wig to match his special eccentricity, complete his needs in this respect. The two specimens of Irish comedians that I have chosen for presentation here were of the alleged neat type in their profession. They were travelling with Tony Pastor when I saw them, and in their outward aspect greatly resembled Harry and Johnny Kernell. They were credited with holding a high position in their particular line, and their names were on the walls and fences in letters a foot long; in addition to this they came on late in the programme, which is always a sure indication of the importance of the estimate placed on an act or artist by the management.
But here comes one of them. The Stein Sisters have just finished a song-and-dance, "the flat," for the street scene comes together, the orchestra with a wild flourish of bass drum and cornet strikes up a familiar Irish melody, and, after a few bars, one of the comedians enters. He is tall, wears a gray woollen suit of fashionable cut, a hat that never in the world would sit on an Irish head; a red-haired wig, partly bald, is secured under the hat; gaiters with black over-gaiters clothe the feet, and the face is smooth and genteel, except upon the chin, whence a long thin beard protrudes like a plowshare. An ordinary twenty-five-cent cane puts the finishing touches to his wardrobe. He looks like a hack-driver out for a holiday, or a Kerry Patch politician dressed for a Skirmishing Fund picnic. He faces the audience from the middle of the lower part of the stage as boldly as if he were going to entertain them with something new. He pretends to be angry, and when the music has ceased, begins to pace wildly up and down the front of the stage, as he shouts regardless of all the rules of common sense and elocution:—
"The oidea av callin' me a tarrier! Why a Spanyard can't walk the shtreets nowadays widout bein' taken for a Mick or a tarrier!"
There are always a few indiscreet people in the audience who laugh at this sally, and the comedian goes on: "But there's no use talkin', my b'y's bad as the rest av 'em. Whin he wint away from home, two years ago, he sez to me, sez he: 'Father, whin you hear from me ag'in I'll be President av the United States.' I got a letter from him last week sayin' he was wan av the foinest shoemakers in the State's prison." This also raises a laugh, and he continues: "But there's nawthin' but trouble in this wurrld. The other day I bought a horse, and the man tould me he'll throt a mile in two minits; and be heavens he could do it only fur wan thing—the disthance is too much fur the toime. [Laughter by the audience.] I'm railly ashamed ivery toime I take that animal out a roidin', fur I've got to put a soign upon him sayin', 'This is a horse.' [Laughter.] My woife an' her mother tuck the horse out fur a droive in the park the other day; the horse run away, the buggy upsot, an' my woife and mother-in-law war thrun out an' kilt. Now, whether you belave me or not, more than five hundred married min have bin afther me thryin' to b'y that horse. [Laughter by the male portion of the audience.] But I won't sell him, because I'm thinkin' av gettin' married ag'in meself. [Laughter.] I've got a gerrl—she's a swate crayther av sixteen summers, several hard winters [titter], and I think she's put in a couple av hard falls [laughter]; but she'll spring up ag'in all right. [Loud and indiscriminate laughter.] I tuck her to the shlaughter-house the other day to see 'em kill hogs. She wuz watchin' 'em butcher the poor craythers whin all to wonst she turns to me an' sez, sez she, 'Whin'll yure turn come, dear John?' [Laughter.] We're married now. My woife is very fond of cats. Three weeks ago she axed me to make her a prisint av wan, and I tuck wan home. That noight the cat got into my woife's bed-chamber, got into the bed, sucked her breath, and in the mornin' my woife was dead. The other noight I wint out an' got dhrunk, wint home and got in bed; the same cat kem and sucked my breath, and be heavens! whither ye belave me or not, in the mornin' the cat was dead!"
There are many persons in the audience who seem not to have read this story in the original Greek,—for it appears among the queer things Hierokles, the Joe Miller of ancient times, wrote,—and these persons laugh at the ghastly joke, while the orchestra gives a chord, and the comedian, tilting his hat forward, flourishing his cane and walking around the stage with the air of a man who has done an act of charity of which he is proud, at last comes down to the foot-lights and sings:—