Bohemian Days in Fleet Street

by William Mackay

While this ditty was the vogue, the Great Macdermott firmly believed that he and Lord Beaconsfield were the two principal Conservative forces of the day. With the capital he made out of his patriotism he retired from the music-hall stage. Unkind rivals declared that his patriotic howling had cracked his voice. He set up a “Music-Hail Agency” in the Waterloo Bridge Road, and joined the redoubtable Jack Coney in “making a book.” History holds no further record of him and his deeds.

About the same time James Fawn, Herbert Campbell, and Charles Coborn, began to demonstrate to the public—and this fixes their place in the elusive story of the evolution of the music-hall—that it is possible to have a song in which there shall be real humour, the nice delineation, a “taking” tune, without any appeal to that which is lowest and most bestial in the minds of the public. Then followed Chevalier, Dan Leno, and the comic singers of the present day, with whom, of course, these reminiscences have nothing to do.

Perhaps the most deplorable feature in the entertainments given by music-hall managers in the early days of my acquaintanceship with those places of entertainment was the lady performer. Those terrible young (or middle-aged) persons who were announced as the “Sisters” So-and-So, and were inevitable on every stage, always succeeded in putting a portion of the audience into a bad temper. Their short coloured skirts, their fixed smirk, the mechanical steps of their dance, their metallic voices—these things have left an impression not pleasant to recall. They couldn’t sing. They couldn’t dance. And their “make-up” proved that they couldn’t even paint. Still, there were women appearing before the patrons of the “’alls” who possessed the authentic gift. One of the earliest of these was Jenny Hill. “The Vital Spark” they used to call her on the bills.

In her choice of subject she allowed herself a wide range, alternating between the pathetic and the humorous. She was very clever in depicting the coster class. She was the forerunner of Bessie Bellwood in that department. And I have always held that she was possessed of much higher artistic qualities than fell to the lot of poor Bessie. And she had the same readiness of retort when the “gods” in the gallery felt called upon to interpose with humours of their own. At the “Mogul” Jenny Hill had frequent opportunities of exhibiting her skill in this direction, and never failed to score off her saucy admirers on the slopes of cloud-capped Olympus. Bessie Bellwood revelled in the same sort of conflict. But it must be admitted that the older artist had the command of a more subtle and good-humoured method. Bellwood’s retorts were often coarse, and always stung. But, although the less accomplished performer of the two, Bessie Bellwood made a quicker jump into fame and achieved a wider popularity than her older rival. It was another case of getting hold of a song that has a “hit” in it. “What cheer, ’Ria! ’Ria’s on the job!” lifted the unknown genius immediately into the front rank—a position which she kept till her death. The regard in which this absolutely untaught woman was held was shown by the thousands of the public that turned out to follow her funeral, and line the streets through which the procession to the cemetery passed.

It was with the utmost difficulty that Bessie Bellwood could be induced to study a new song. She had no love for music. She had plenty of money, she was fond of racing and Society and fun of all kinds. She could read and write, but that was about all. Arthur Williams was the only man I ever met who seemed to know anything of her early life, and he always declared that her occupation, before she went on the stage, was that of skinning rabbits in the East End. Notwithstanding the obscurity of her origin and the paucity of her attainments, she was the chosen domestic companion of a Duke and of a Marquis!

It may seem strange, to a generation possessing only an experience of the chastened variety theatre of the period, to learn that in my day a person entirely lacking in education should attain to a foremost position on the music-half stage. But the thing was by no means uncommon. An amusing case in point occurs to me. Hollingshead, of the Gaiety, was always on the lookout for “talent,” and he was not at all particular as to the source from which he drew it. Calling on him one day at the theatre, I found him considerably upset by a discovery which he had just made. He had long admired the performance of a certain music-hall artist, and, when an opportunity arose, he offered him a part in a burlesque then in course of preparation. Good terms were offered. The music-hall artist was flattered, and the offer was accepted. But when his part was handed to him by the stage-manager, it was found to be of no earthly use to him, for he could not read! Fortunately, the artist’s ignorance in other matters came to Hollingshead’s assistance in determining the engagement. For the contract had been signed in the gentleman’s name by a friend, and was invalid!

One of those incidents by which one may note the progress of an evolution comes in its natural order in this place. Albert Chevalier had failed to obtain from the general public supporting the theatre the amount of attention and critical admiration that was accorded to him freely by the judicious few. For years he was known at club banquets and the like as the writer, composer, and singer, of those coster songs which have since won for him fame and fortune. In a burlesque of “Aladdin” put on at the Strand Theatre by Edouin, Chevalier introduced his famous “’Armonic Club.” Its humours appealed for the moment, but it did not make one of those “hits” the impact of which sets all the town tingling. And for a long time after the run of the Strand “Aladdin” Chevalier was unable to obtain “a shop.” He was one of the many unfortunate artists whose peculiar vein of talent had not found the proper assay.

When he was at last offered an engagement as a music-hall singer, he naturally hesitated at taking a step which he rightly regarded as irrevocable. He recognized the fact that his acceptance meant a renunciation of the theatre. And to his profession—hard mistress though she had been—he was deeply attached. I was one of those friends to whom he repaired for advice over what appeared to him a momentous issue. I am glad to recall the fact that I strongly advised him to take the plunge. Nor was I ever in doubt as to the success of his songs with an audience even then emerging from under the spell of the raucous and “rawty” comiques. A number of us went to the Pavilion to witness his début. We had scattered ourselves all over the hall—it was the new building, and not the stuffy old hole of the seventies—and we were prepared to act as an unsalaried claque. But our services were never needed. With great judgment, Chevalier had selected as his first song “The Coster’s Serenade.” It went home at once. The delicacy of the art appealed alike to stalls and gallery. This refinement of treatment was novel. It was something like a revelation to the “gods.” The song went with a will. And Chevalier’s fortune was assured. We who had attended as unpaid and unwanted claquers were not without a vocation, after all. We were watchers at the parting of the ways. The old music-hall of the Great Vances and the Bessie Bellwoods was passing away. The new order of the Fragsons and the Margaret Coopers was imminent.

It is difficult, in tracing the course of any evolution, to attribute exactly the dates of transition, or to assign scientifically the contributing causes of change. But I think that one would not be far from the truth in attributing to three causes the wonderful improvement which has taken place in music-hall conditions and entertainments in the course of a generation.

In the first place, the erection of more modern, more pretentious, and more comfortable buildings on the ruins of the ancient pest-houses almost necessitated a performance from which should be eliminated the more objectionable features of the old pothouse programme. In the second place, due importance should be given to the persistent efforts of managers of the Charles Morton school, who, foreseeing the possibilities of the variety show, cherished high ideals, but cherished them on strictly business lines. In the third place, one must allow something for an improvement in public taste. This factor is—for reasons which I cannot discuss here—the least potent. But it is far from being negligible. It is a case, indeed, in which the supply created the demand, not where the demand created the supply.