Part 5 (1/2)
ON THE WAY TO BARNSLEY
I was only about eight miles from Barnsley, and I decided to make for that town, cutting across the fields. I pa.s.sed the house, I remember, where the father of Bosco, (best known as ”Curley Joe”), the famous conjuror, was born. I walked into Barnsley about eight o'clock the same morning. After weighing the matter over in my mind, I sought out and made for the wooden theatre in connection with which I had accepted an engagement at Halifax the week previous.
A FRESH RIG-OUT
I saw the old lady, but she would not believe at first that I was the actor she had engaged. I related my wanderings and troubles, but with a'
that it occupied some time to convince her that I was _the_ man. When she did come round a bit, she taunted me that I had sold my clothes for drink. However, we came to terms, and I was ”put on.” By-and-bye, she sent me to a second-hand clothes shop, where I rigged myself out in a sort of la-di-dah style, my habiliments comprising a pair of white linen trousers, a double-breasted frock coat, with military peak cap, and a few other little accessories, so that I was a perfect (or imperfect) swell again, despite the fact that my wardrobe did not amount in value to more than 5s of lawful British money.
FROM THEATRE TO POLICE COURT
The theatre had been completed in my absence, and, indeed, temporarily opened. Of course, I took part in the performances. We could usually draw full ”houses,” which were largely made up of colliers and their wives and children. But very soon some of the boys and girls of colliers wanted to go to the theatre oftener than their parents wished, and to this end, it was surmised, carried on a series of petty thefts to enable them to raise the admission fee. In fact, thieving in the town got to such a pitch that the police authorities interfered, and when the licensing sessions were held they opposed the renewal of the theatre license. The proprietress of the theatre, and the company, along with myself, had to appear at the sessions. I had not been in the court very long when my kind benefactor, the policeman from Clayton West, came up to me and shook me by the hand.
His sudden intrusion on my confused senses somewhat upset me, for I was afraid of the sight of him;-his parting words to me, after the fire at the barn, that I might be charged with ”wandering abroad without any visible means of subsistence,” crossed my scattered thoughts. But it was needless fear, for he soon showed me that he was still my friend, not my foe. After we had exhausted the usual preliminaries, I questioned him on the subject of the fire at the barn. ”Oh,” said he, ”You needn't be at all afraid about the fire. When Mr Norton came home he took it all in very good part. He was especially pleased when we told him that no lives had been lost. You were mentioned as having worked half-a-day at the mill, and he said he would much rather that you had gone on with your work.” But a stop was put to our conversation, for our ”case” was called on. Superintendent Burke-I mark him now-stood up and denounced the theatre in the interests of the community. He instanced several cases of petty thefts committed by juveniles for the purpose of raising money to go to our theatre. The presiding magistrate-Mr Taylor, I believe his name was-heard all the evidence which was brought against us, and then said that he was very sorry that anyone should go to the expense of putting up a theatre in Barnsley and then be unable to get a license to carry it on.
He said he would allow us to continue our performances a fortnight longer, provided admission was refused to children. The decision fairly upset ”Virgin Mary.” She thanked ”Your Wors.h.i.+p” as she stood in the box; but in the green room at her theatre she invoked the G.o.ds for vengeance on the court-and this in real dramatic style into the bargain. The last day of the fortnight came round. It was a Sat.u.r.day night, and we were playing ”Uncle Tom's Cabin” as a _finale_. This was a comparatively new production at the time, and we had a packed house. At the close of the performance our spokesman thanked the people for their patronage, and explained why we were going to depart from their midst. He promised that the proprietress would ”try again” at some future time.
A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE
The old lady paid off her company that night, and each of us was not a little astonished-not to mention pleased-to find his or her emolument 4s in advance of expectations. This was explained to be an ”honorarium.”
Some of the company promised to return when the theatre re-opened, if that should ever come to pa.s.s, but I did not promise to do so; I was determined to retire from the stage, being now what I considered ”tolerably well off.” I obtained permission to sleep in the theatre for the night. Before laying me down, I told the watchman to
”Call me early, watchman dear!”
But my parting with the theatre and stage life was not destined to be an agreeable one by any means. I made a shake-down bed on the stage, and ”lay down my weary head.” It would be about midnight when I heard a rustling at the drop scene. In a few moments the scene commenced to rise, being rolled up by an unseen hand, and when it had been raised a few inches I was not a little ”struck” to see a man's head appearing underneath the curtain. Now this was a bit of real, earnest acting-none of your unnatural, unfinished style. It was so realistic that I scarce knew what to do. I, of course, first of all concluded that I was going to be robbed, or that something of much more consequence to myself was going to take place. The curtain was slowly and noislessly drawn up-it went higher and higher, until the human head which had at first appeared developed into a human body-a man. My nocturnal visitor wriggled through the opening onto my side of the stage. Fortunately I had by my side my walking-stick. Quickly and quietly I seized that weapon of defence, and before the stranger would have had time-had he even desired-to say ”Jack Robinson,” I had dealt him a splendid blow on the side of the head with the stick. He groaned and rolled over, getting to the other side of the curtain. Then he resumed the perpendicular and took to his heels, without offering a word of explanation on the matter. I feel no qualm in saying that his exit was more hasty than his approach. I tried to think who my intruder could be, and my thoughts fixed upon the man who had been told off that night to commence watching the theatre.
RETURNING HOME
There was no more sleep for me that night, after the fore-going. I prepared myself, and in the early morning quitted the place where I spent a very pleasant part of my theatrical life. In the street I came across a policeman on his beat-not the one from Clayton West this time. I wished him ”Good morning,” and pa.s.sed on. From Barnsley I walked to Wakefield, and thence to Bradford, forward to Keighley by train.
A RECOLLECTION OF KEAN, THE ACTOR
On my way to Keighley, I could not but turn over in my mind the thoughts relating to the friends.h.i.+ps formed on the stage, or in connection therewith. I remember that one of the Barnsley company was an aged actor, Mr John Copeland. He interested himself very much in me, and gave me from time to time good advice. He told me to leave the stage, and take to some more reliable and permanent employment. He pictured himself as a result of sticking closely to the profession, saying he had had more than half-a-century of experience of its ups and downs. In his old age, though he loved the stage and warmly praised the art of acting, he held that the rewards were not commensurate to the skill employed, and that when these were forthcoming the temptations were so insidious as to be ruinous unless the moral atmosphere of the profession itself was purified. The old man's ideal was high and he was fond of saying that with all its defects-defects which were largely caused by the professionals themselves-the drama and the art of portraying it would last as long as human nature. I was drawn to the old man, and felt for him. I often took his part, especially where he had to appear in a gross character. At his time of life, he did not like to blacken his face, and on one occasion when we were playing ”Uncle Tiff,” the old man was grateful because I relieved him of that character. It was a pathetic part-a sort of n.i.g.g.e.r being left in charge of children after the parents' death. Old Copeland was a good actor, and he told me of having travelled with Edmund Kean, the great tragedian. He was then about eighty years of age, and was brimful of anecdote and humour about men and things on the stage. He himself was an author of many MS. plays, and the most agreeable of company, being an educated man. But we had to part company as I have already stated, and I went home, pondering over his advice. Now, my pen writes these lines descriptive somewhat of the breaking apart from those n.o.ble hearts, and that still more n.o.ble art of the drama.
Thespis, O! Thespis, founder of that n.o.ble art, Thou didst convey thy actors in a cart; But here the simple Thespian has to pad, And, though it makes his heart feel sad To leave his friends so far behind- Such friends.h.i.+p never more he'll find, Yet adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu!