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.
HOUDIN
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.
THEATRE AT ROME
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.
OLD DAYS AT TÖPLITZ
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!