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.
THE CRUSH-ROOM
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.
OLD PLAYBILLS
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—