‘Squash!’ said the gymnast. ‘As the nigger said, it wouldn’t be the falling, but the stopping, that would hurt us. But the risk would have to be considered in the screw; and then there is something in the offer to do the thing that ought to induce managers to offer us an engagement.’
In 1858, Astley’s had a rival in the Alhambra, which, having failed to realize the anticipations of its founders as a Leicester Square Polytechnic, under the name of the Panopticon, was converted by Mr E. T. Smith into an amphitheatre. Charles Keith, known all over Europe as ‘the roving English clown,’ and Harry Croueste were the clowns; and Wallett was also engaged in the same capacity during a portion of the season. One of the special attractions of the Alhambra circle was the vaulting and tumbling of an Arab troupe from Algeria. Vaulting is usually performed by European artistes with the aid of a spring-board, and over the backs of the horses, placed side by side. The head vaulter leads, and the rest of the company—clowns, riders, acrobats, and gymnasts—follow, repeating the bound until the difficulty of the feat, increasing as one horse after another is added to the group, causes the less skilful performers to drop, one by one, out of the line. The Arab vaulters at the Alhambra dispensed with the spring-board, and threw somersaults over bayonets fixed on the shouldered muskets of a line of soldiers. This feat has since been performed by an Arab named Hassan, who, with his wife, a French rope-dancer, has performed in several circuses in this country.
Vauxhall Gardens, which had been closed for several years, opened on the 25th of July, in this year, for a farewell performance, in which a circus troupe played an important part, with Harry Croueste as clown. Then the once famous Gardens were given over to darkness and decay, until the fences were levelled, the trees grubbed up, and the site covered with streets, some of which, as Gye Street and Italian Street, still recall the former glories of Vauxhall by their names.
Some reminiscences of the provincial circus entertainments of this period have been furnished by Mr C. W. Montague, formerly with Sanger’s, Bell’s, F. Ginnett’s, Myers’s, and William and George Ginnett’s circuses, and now manager of Newsome’s establishment. ‘Early in the spring of 1859,’ says this gentleman, ‘some business took me into the neighbourhood of Whitechapel, and while passing the London Apprentice public-house, I heard my name shouted, and looking round espied Harry Graham, whom I had known in the elder Ginnett’s circus. He was doing a conjuring trick outside a miserable booth, at the same time inviting the public to walk in, the charge being only one halfpenny. On the completion of the trick, he jumped off the platform, and insisted on our adjourning to the public-house, where he explained the difficulty he was in, having been laid up all the winter with rheumatic gout. On his partial recovery, he was compelled to accept the first thing that offered, which was an engagement with the owner of the booth, a man known in the profession as the Dudley Devil.
‘Poor Harry begged me to give him a start; so I came to an arrangement to take him through the provinces as M. Phillipi, the Wizard. This was on a Friday; on the following Wednesday he appeared at Ramsgate to an eighteen pound morning performance and a fourteen pound one at night, our prices being three shillings, two shillings, and one shilling, although in Whitechapel he would not have earned five shillings per day. Among other places I visited was Dartford, where I took the Bull Hotel assembly-room, which had been recently rebuilt, but not yet opened. Mrs Satherwaite, a lady of considerable distinction, kindly gave me her patronage, and I arranged for a band at Gravesend. On the day of the performance, towards the afternoon, the band not having arrived, I sent my assistant to Gravesend, with instructions to bring a band with him. Half-past seven arrived, the time announced for opening the doors, when a large crowd had assembled, as much out of curiosity to see the new room as the conjurer, and in a short time every seat was occupied.
‘Just before the clock struck eight, the time for commencement, in came my assistant, saying the band had gone to Dover, to a permanent engagement. I ran round to the stage-door, and told Graham. He said it was impossible to give the entertainment without music. In my despair, I rushed into the street, with the intention of asking Reeves, the music-seller, if he could let me have a pianoforte. I had not got many yards when I heard a squeaking noise, and found it proceeded from three very dirty German boys, one playing a cornopean, another a trombone, and the third a flageolet. On accosting them, I found they could not speak a word of English; so I took two of them by the collar, and the other followed. On reaching the stage-door, I could hear the impatient audience making a noise for a commencement.
‘Harry Graham, on seeing my musicians, said it would queer everything to let them be seen by the audience. “I can manage that,” I said; “we will just put them under the stage, and I will motion them when to go on and when to leave off.” In another moment M. Phillipi was on the stage, and received with shouts of applause from the impatient audience. On the conclusion of the performance, I went to the front, and thanked Mrs Satherwaite for her kindness, when she said, “He is very clever; but, oh! that horrid unearthly music!”’
‘On finishing the watering towns, I took the Cabinet Theatre, King’s Cross, where M. Phillipi appeared with success. One evening, to vary the performance, we arranged to do the bottle trick, and specially engaged a confederate, who was to change the bottles from the top of the ladder, through one of the stage-traps. By some error, the man took his position directly the bell rang for the curtain to go up, instead of doing so, as he should have done, at the commencement of the second part of the entertainment. M. Phillipi commenced his usual address, explaining to the audience that he did not use machinery or employ confederates, as other conjurers are wont to do; and to convince them, he pulled up the cloth of the table, at the same time saying, “you see there is nothing here but a common deal table.” To his surprise, the audience exclaimed, “There’s a man there!” But he was equal to the occasion, and went on with his address, taking the first opportunity to give the confederate a kick, when down the ladder he went.
‘At this establishment, while under my management, the earthly career of poor Harry Graham was brought to a close. For many years it had been his boast that his Richard III. was second only to Edmund Kean’s, and that he only lacked the opportunity to astound all London with his impersonation of the character. Now the opportunity had arrived, and he determined to play it for his benefit; but, unfortunately, the excitement of this dream of years was too much for him, and he died a few days afterwards. Those who are curious about the last resting-place of this world-renowned showman may find his grave in the Tower Hamlets cemetery.
‘In the following winter, I joined Ginnett’s circus at Greenwich, and found the business in a wretched condition. The principal reason for this state of things was, that the circus had only a tin roof and wooden boarding around, and the weather being very severe, the place could not be kept warm. I was at my wits’ ends to improve the receipts when, being one day in a barber’s shop, getting shaved, the barber remarked, “There goes poor Townsend.” On inquiring I found that the gentleman referred to had been M. P. for Greenwich, but in consequence of great pecuniary difficulties had had to resign. My informant told me that he was a most excellent actor, he having seen him, on more than one occasion, perform Richard III. with great success; and what was more, he was an immense favourite in Greenwich and Deptford, he having been the means, when in the House of Commons, of getting the dockyard labourers’ wages considerably advanced.