OLD IDENTITY DAYS IN OTAGO

Otago Witness, Issue 3775, 20 July 1926, Page 77

OLD IDENTITY DAYS IN OTAGO

By

R. S.

(Fob the Witness.) I have always remembered my first real introduction to a theatrical performance, which happened about '6B. I had previously been taken to theatres when too young to appreciate the plays, or to understand in the least what they were intended to represent, but enlightenment came in good time. The theatre had been accepted as a fairly good place for one to go to sleep in to the music of the orchestra, after blinking wonderingly for a few minutes at the great blaze of light, and the people crowding into the stalls and pit, and to be subsequently roused up and wrapped in a warm coat preparatory to being taken out into the chill atmosphere of the street. One of my schoolmates, perhaps a year or two older, had been employed occasionally at work which took him pretty frequently into town, and also provided him with a good supply of pocket-money. In a chat one day he described the wonderful sights to be seen and things heard at the Princess Theatre, especially some of the comical sayings and doings of Charley Wilmot, a well-known and very popular comedian of that time, and my mind was so inflamed by his tales that I determined to reach the playhouse by hook or by crook. It was arranged that we should meet on a certain evening and find our way to the theatre, which was a good few miles from my home, and, as it was a “steal away,” the whole distance there and back had to be negotiated on the sturdy understandings provided by Nature. We met accordingly at the appointed time and place, and trudged merrily into Dunedin—the start of an adventure which resembled in some manner the long tramp of John Halifax and young Fletcher to listen to the famous Sarah Siddons of long ago. Every boy and girl who has the opportunity should read the wonderful story of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” I have wandered through wonderful natural scenery since, but the memory of that first night at the old Princess Theatre still remains—the picturesque scenery, the music of the orchestra led by Mons. Fleury, the well-known violinist; the uproarious mirth caused by the comicalities of Charley Wilmot, who, like Sir John Falstaff, wqs not only witty in himself, but the cause of wit in other men; the graceful dancing of Jenny Nye; the whole, one continuous ntmospher of light and laughter from the raising of the curtain to its fall; and then out into the cold, dark street to face the homeward journey. Of course, though completely worn out, I had to wander a long way off my own track to see my friend to his home, and then face the final four-mile trudge. It was too much. Left alone in the darkness, mv strength gave out, and, after struggling along for a mile or so, I burrowed into a friendly oat stack to have a jest. The continuous rustling of rats looking for food amongst the straw did not keep me long awake, and it was well on in the morning when I was roused by the sound of an excited argument close at hand. “It s a rat, I tell you,” a girl’s voice cried. “A rat!” replied the deeper tones of a boy. “You silly; who ever heard a rat snoring?” Which shows that, at an early age, I had contracted that detestable but very prevalent habit. Ari • hour later my tale of adventure was being listened to by my mother, whofee anxiety at my unaccountable disappearance was dispelled by my safe return. . The scenic artist of those days of yore was a' Mr Willis, who could conjure up the most marvellous scenery and sta£e effects with a few pots of paint and sundry other odds and ends. He was frequently called to the footlights to receive the plaudits of an appreciative audience. numerous gathering of theatrical folk had made Dunedin their headquarters for lengthy periods. During the gold-rush excitement Clarence Holt and his familv were residents for a time; and, later on, some star of greater magnitude would occasionally illumine the ranks of the actors and actresses who had made Dunedin their permanent abiding place. Of these latter there was a fairly strong company, some of whom were clever and versatile, taking on tragedy ? drama, or burlesque with equal readiness, and displaying also equal aptitude for either. Of Shakespearian actors I recollect two and Cox. The latter played “Hamlet” in a huge black wig and bushy black whiskers. He was, I imagine, an actor of note, but his “rig out” settled any interest I might otherwise have taken in him. Mr Talbot was a very fine Shakespearian actor, and his “Hamlet” and “Macbeth” were, I thought, masterpieces. He had a fine presence, and looked and acted the characters to perfection; but later he appeared as “Sir Pertinac Macsycophant.” That, I think, was the name of the chief character—in fact, of the only character, for, if I remember aright, it was a monologue. In it the actor sustaining the Tole of the wealthy, mean-spirited, old Soot, relates how he came to London from Scotland a penniless, friendless adventurer; and how, by

dint of the most cringing servility to those with whom it suited his plans to curry favour, he had succeeded in attaining wealth and a title. At heart, however, he was still the same miserable, scheming creature that he had ever been. Talbot was undoubtedly a Scotsman. The ea6e with which he spoke the broad “Doric” demonstrated that, and it was a wonderful deliveration of character; but the actor lost caste with at least one of his admirers, for never after did I see him on the 6tage in Shakespearian plays, but a memory of the time-serving “Macsycophant” intervened, and spoilt my enjoyment. It is strange that, if an attempt is made to hold the “land of the mountain and the flood” or its natives up to ridicule on the stage, a Scotsman will usually be fouiid willing to undertake a leading part. Ii early manhood I made acquaintance with several of the actors resident in Dunedin, and have a warm recollection of the interest one good fellow of them— Mr J. B. Steele—took in me when a boy. I was dangerously ill with pneumonia, resulting from a neglected cold. The elder brother, to whom I have elsewhere referred, called to see me, and in the subdued murmur characteristic of sick-room conversation told me that Mr Steele had been asking for me the evening before. From the stage he had spotted my brother standing at the back of the pit, and in the interval sent the call boy to say he wished to see him in the vestibule. The play was “Hamlet,” and Steele was, as usual, the “ghost.” He opened his overcoat to show that he was “in armour clad,” and explained that he was disinclined to clank into the pit with that gear on. “But,” he said, “I saw you, and came out to enquire how your young brother is? I like the boy.” I attempted to voice my thanks to Mr Steele for his kind recollections of me, but a lump rose in my throat, and I was forced to stop. Had I been in better fettle I should have thought it great fun to picture the ghost of tne Danish warrior king taking a trip from the cemetery, in full armour, to ask for a sick boy; but, as it was, I felt deeply affected. Mr J. B. Steele, standing over six feet in height, square-shouldered and erect, gave an ideal representation of the departed warrior, and no “Hamlet” in Dunedin at that time would be considered correctly staged without., him in the part. I remember poor old Jack’s indignation when a Dunedin paper made some caustic comments about the unsteady progress of the ghost across the stage on a certain occasion, and suggested that, as an inebriated ghost in “Hamlet” could not be tolerated, the management should take steps to have the important part entrusted to safer hands. “Never more sober in my life,” declared Mr Steele, and went on to explain how the shade of the departed monarch was made to glide across the stage on a platform running on castors, and one of these being loose had made the platform run far from smoothly. Consequently “the ghost” had great difficulty in keeping his balance. “If that confounded reporter had made those objectionable remarks on almost any other night the play was running, he would have had better grounds for having a dig at me, but last night—- ’Pon mv soul, it’s annoying,” grumbled the irate actor. However, Mr J. B. Steele continued to take the part of the ghost on many subsequent occasions. Those were some of the happenings ot fifty yeans ago among the theatrical fojk of that time, but tho6e have gradually joined the ranks of that great army which is continuously moving on towards the “undiscoverwl country” from which no traveller returns; and in these days it is improbable that their sayings and* doings should prove interesting to a people who .have, possibly, heard nothing of the actors. The more popular dramas of those days of auld lang syne one rarely hears of now. The last play of more than ordinary interest which I saw in Dunedin, just before leaving “home,” was “Our Boys,” of which the cast was an extraordinarily strong one. Mr and Mrs Hoskins (Miss Florence Colville) and Mr and Mrs Lingard (Miss Alice Dunning) appeared in the leading parts, and were supported by a remarkably capable company. In the burlesques, which were then frequently staged, the singing was generally of a high class, and a special feature was distinct enunciation; the dancing was also particularly good. Within the last twenty-five years theatrical singing and dancing have steadily deteriorated. Rarely is attention given to clear enunciation in singing, and the dancing is, generally, of a description that may be acquired by school children in a few hours’ tuition. Comparisons are odious !—but when one joins an audience of the present day, and listens t'o the kind of play ordinarily staged—usually a mixture of comedy and farce; or, still more wearisome, endures an infliction of American ideas of humorous incident in a picture show—where one has had the opportunity of making a comparison, theie can be no hesitation in awarding the palm to the entertainment of bygone days in a question of which exercised the better influence, educationally and morally, on the people. A brief recollection of one or two once well-known actors may interest old timers. Miss Jenny Nye I saw at Wanganui in the ’Bo’s. She had arranged some toilet requisites and toys on a temporary stall near the old theatre in Ridgway street, and the plucky little actress tripped about with a light, springy step, trimming up her stock in trade; but her face was faded and careworn, and her eyes earned a tragic, forlorn, and hopeloss expression. William Horace Bent I also saw about that time. He was billed to appear in connection witl; a local entertainment, and I made a point of being there. He was good, but not up to his usual stand-

ard, and, in a conversation alter the show, explained why. He had. to finish up at the Christchurch theatre late on the previous night and catch the steamer at Lyttelton to allow him to keep his appointment at Wanganui. After his act at Christchurch was over, he tumbled with his kit into a waiting hansom at the stage door, and urged the driver to get the possible out of his nag to enable them to catch the train for • Lyttelton. Knowing that every second had its value in the race, Bent opened the cab door and leant forward, bag in hand, ready to alight. Consequently, when the cab pulled up with a sudden jerk, the poor fellow was shot out on his face on the paved road. His lips were scarred and swollen, some of his teeth had been knocked out, and it was a marvel that he was able to speak at all. He had had no opportunity to have the injuries attended to. and assured me that he had suffered dreadfully all through the trip and the performance, and was quite worn out through want of sleep. Yet he had kept his audience that evening in a continuous Tipple of laughter by his comicalities, and had responded to encores innumerable without a murmur. He had to catch an early train or beat next morning, so that he presently limped off to bed in the old Rutland Hotel, remarking as he went that he hoped he would be able to sleep for an hour or two and fee] in better fettle to face next day’s journey. Verily, there are times when, to misquote from the Policemen’s Chorus in the “Pirates,” “an actor’s life is not a happy one!”