BROKEN DOWN ACTORS.

Press, Volume XLIII, Issue 6544, 13 September 1886, Page 3

BROKEN DOWN ACTORS.

Under this title the Pall Mali Gazette gives an interesting account of the work done by the Actors' Benevolent Fond. We make from it the following extracts-.—

60HB GRIM REALITIES.

" Bat surely," asks the innocent reader, 'actors and actresses of all people, can naver endure the pangs you nave mentioned—those fortunate beings who receive double pay, as it might be, in the high salaries and [applause of the multitude." My dear sir or madam, if yon are stagebitten, if you are seized with the desire j for tbe boards—a disease which ia causing sad ravages jost now—go to the modest little offices of the Actors' Benevolent Fund, and aak Mr Cempton for his advice, or for a scrap of his experienca in these matters. You will see and hear things that will waken you up to some grim realities, and teach you an admirable lesson. If one of these poor broken-down men and women were willing to give a lecture on their experiences of the etage, they might work an infinite amount oE good by warning off the would-be recruits who are daily pestering managers for engagements, regardless of the possible and probable fact that they are nopelessly incompetent and absolutely unfitted for the work they propose to undertake. H* may have beaux yeux, she may have beaux yeux; he a moustache to be worshipped, she hair worth a hundred pounds to a coiffeur. But beaux yeux and a wealth of golden hair are no equivalent for genius. Handsome men and pretty women! You may see thousands *rery day in a walk from Charing Cross to Hyde Park. Bat the salaries, too! The average salary of an actor or actreea in the provinces is not more than £2 a week —lees, not more, except in the oases of stars. London rates are higher; but there are enforced holidays, breakdowns, bankruptcies, failures, and a hundred accidents which may deprive the aator of his bread and throw him on the world. HOW THEY COME DOWN IN THB WOELD. Then, withia the last few years a silent revolutionhasbeen effected in the theatrical world by the uprooting of the old stock companies, and the introdaotion of the system of theatrical tours, playing London successes. Old actors of third or fourthrate merit, trained up to the "legitimate," find it impossible to keep op with the fashions and the demands of a new generation. A modern manager now requires hi 3 companies to dress well on and off the stage; ta look well; to cultivate the manners of •' society." For have they not to play in "society" comedies? Aβ the gradual change has been brought about, tbe "old theatrical hands" have had to give way to a younger generation who have been taught in the new school. It is these poor people who are the chief recipients of this merciful fund, which is a thousand times better than the dreaded parish. Another class which generally draws on j the fond is composed of the mediocre professional, who is not better than any one else, who can be safely entrusted with a email part, but who is giftei with no special genius. Nowhere is the stern law of the survival of the fittest at woik with greater activity than in the theatrical world. The utility man may live through a season or two; then comes another utility man who is a little better, and cuts i him out. The heart of a theatrical manager muet be of steel to withstand the appeals that are constantly made to it, whether for charity or 'or an engagement. A BTHANOS GATHEBINO. Mr Compton's little room was inconveniently crowded by the strange gathering which comes weekly about its affairs. Mothers and their children, old boys with terrible coughs and trembling hands; consumptive-looking girls (the result of scanty costume and the draughts which sweep the stage) ; old ladies whose names have figured in a thousand playbille, whose eyes have once been bright, and cheir laugh enchanting, now wrecks, blind perhaps, white-haired, their faces scored with a thousand privat one. I divulge no secrets, betray no confidences, bnt hide the biting poverty under a merciful veil, relating simply what passes, < only using them as facts to point a moral, and solicit the sympathy of those whose own woes and troubles must often have been dispelled by the contemplation of the world which is represented on the stage. The first who comes into the sanctum is a tottering old man with a few white locks still hanging over a limp white collar, round which is adjusted a black stock. He is seventy-one, a pantomimist, he has been " cut out," the piece was pronounced too long by the critics, it is the summer season, he is thrown on the world helpless. The old fellow was skilled in his haloyoD daye, his face is still handsome, though his eyes water, and the old red handkerchief is perpetually applied to them. A cough racks every joint; he is in receipt of hospital treatment, and pulls out a little bottle intended for a perfume, which is now used to hold some brown medicament for internal consumption. Hβ tells his story with many a convulsion, rises, bows, and totters out, hoping to gee work—at seventy-one. Enters an even more venerable gentleman, with keen eyes and a face that is striking still. He is ninety-one. He was a well-known actor once. He receives a small weekly grant from the fund, is lively, talkative, wideawake} he is writing his reminiscences, which will be full of interest. He also teaches music and writes songs. the swekt singes and thb platwsiqht's widow. Enters a pretty girl of sixteen or seventeen, ne?tly—nay, coquettishly—dressed in stuffs of humble material, but of bright colors, arranged with taste, which is perhaps inborn, with a little flower in her bossom, a purse in her hand, and a lively little dog held by a string as her chaperon. There is resolution in those bright eyes and that pleasant smile; for young ladies in search of employment resolution, polite resolution, is an essential requisite. She has walked scores of weary miles, and tramped, like a little heroine, from, theatre to theatre. Yet she is gifted with a beautiful voice, which has been greatly praised in a score of influential papers a year of two ago, and has delighted thousands or playgoer*. She is pre-eminently fitted for the stage. Why, then, is she on Mr Oompton's books? "I am 'betwixt and between,* neither a girl nor a woman, so it is difficult." Spruce and pretty, cheerful and bright, she has seen much trouble; tea and bread have been a familiar diet. An old lady this time seventy-four—once an actress; her husband, now dead, an actor and playwright, who wrote plays at £3 apiece. A handsome old lady, in shabby black and worn gloves. The husband died. His only legacy is a basket full ef M.S.S. The two had strngcled through fair and foul weather. Now what remains ? WATER WSABS A STOKE, BUT TEARS FETBIFY. And so they come and go, some evidently dying, others hovering on the borderland. Here is a poor woman and her child whose friends are across the sea; acuasge may save her life; England is fatal. Some large-hearted shipowner is to be found who will give a passage for the two. Another poor woman has walked many leaguee of London streets, written Heaven knows how many letters, all crying for the same—work, work, work. Water wears a stone; bnt (strange paradox) tears petrify. Hβ who serves a charity must needs be stone which water cannot wear. The coffers of the fnnd are ever in need of replenishment. Perhaps some of onr readers may be induced to give a helping hand to a good work.