The Old Showmen and the Old London Fairs

It was a frequent boast of Richardson, that many of the most eminent members of the theatrical profession had graduated in his company, and it is known that Edmund Kean, James Wallack, Oxberry, and Saville Faucit were of the number. Kean always acknowledged that he made his first appearance in a principal part as Young Norval in Richardson’s theatre; but it is obvious from what is known of his boyhood that he must have been in the company several years before he could have essayed that character. So far as can be made out from his supposed age, he seems to have joined Richardson’s company in 1804, to the early part of which year we must assign the story told by Davis, who was afterwards associated in partnership with the younger Astley in the lesseeship of the Amphitheatre.

“I was passing down Great Surrey Street one morning,” Davis is reported to have said, “when just as I came to the place where the Riding House now stands, at the corner of the Magdalen as they call it, I saw Master Saunders packing up his traps. His booth, you see, had been standing there for some three or four days, or thereabouts; and on the parade-waggon I saw a slim young chap with marks of paint – and bad paint it was, for all the world like raddle on the back of a sheep – on his face, tying up some of the canvas. And when I had shook hands with Master Saunders, he turns him right round to this young chap, who had just threw a somerset behind his back, and says, ‘I say, you Mr. King Dick, if you don’t mind what you’re arter, and pack up that wan pretty tight and nimble, we shan’t be off afore to-morrow; and so, you mind your eye, my lad.’ That Mr. King Dick, as Master Saunders called him, was young Carey, that’s now your great Mr. Kean.”

Kean’s engagement with Richardson brings us to a portion of his personal history which is involved in the profoundest mystery. His biographers state that his mother, Anne Carey, was at the time a member of Richardson’s company, that Kean was unaware of the fact when he engaged, and that he left the troupe not very long afterwards, in consequence of his mother claiming and receiving his salary, the last circumstance being said to rest on the authority of Kean himself. Not much credence is due to the story on that account; for the great actor exercised his imagination on the subject of his origin and antecedents as freely as the Josiah Bounderby of the inimitable Dickens. But the results of a patient search among the gatherings relating to Bartholomew Fair in the library of the British Museum clearly prove that Kean’s mother was, when a member of Richardson’s company, the wife of an actor named Carey.

The only Careys whose names are to be found in any of the bills of Richardson’s theatre which have been preserved were a married couple, who for many years, including the whole period of Kean’s engagement, sustained the principal parts in those wonderful melodramas for which the establishment was so famous. If these people were Kean’s parents, what becomes of the story which has been told by his biographers, on the authority of Miss Tidswell? That they assumed to be his parents is undoubted, and it is equally beyond doubt that the relationship was unquestioned by Richardson, and the claims founded upon it acquiesced in by Kean.

“Windsor Fair,” said Richardson, in relating the story of Kean’s professional visit to Windsor Castle, “commenced on a Friday, and after all our impediments we arrived safe, and lost no time in erecting our booth. We opened with Tom Thumb and the Magic Oak. To my great astonishment, I received a note from the Castle, commanding Master Carey to recite several passages from different plays before his Majesty King George the Third at the Palace. I was highly gratified at the receipt of the above note; but I was equally perplexed to comply with the commands of the King. The letter came to me on Saturday night; and as Master Carey’s wardrobe was very scanty, it was necessary to add to it before he could appear in the presence of royalty. My purse was nearly empty, and to increase my dilemma, all shops belonging to Jews were shut, and the only chance we had left was their being open on Sunday morning.

“Among the Jews, however, we at last purchased a smart little jacket, trousers, and body linen; we tied the collar of his shirt through the button-holes with a piece of black ribbon; and when dressed in his new apparel, Master Carey appeared a smart little fellow, and fit to exhibit his talents before any monarch in the world. The King was highly delighted with him, and so were all the nobility who were present. Two hours were occupied in recitations; and his abilities were so conspicuous to every person present that he was pronounced an astonishing boy, and a lad of great promise. The present he received for his performance was rather small, being only two guineas, though, upon the whole, it turned out fortunate for the family. The principal conversation in Windsor for a few days was about the talents displayed by Master Carey before the King. His mother, therefore, took advantage of the circumstance, and engaged the market-hall for three nights for Edmund’s recitations. This was an excellent speculation, and the hall overflowed with company every night.

“Mrs. Carey joined me on the following Monday at Ewell Fair; and all the family, owing to their great success, came so nicely dressed that I scarcely knew them. Mrs. Carey and her children did not quit my standard during the summer. After a short period, I again got my company together, and with hired horses went to Waltham Abbey. I took a small theatre in that town, the rent of which was fifteen shillings per week. It was all the money too much. My company I considered very strong, consisting of Mr. Vaughan, Mr. Thwaites, Master Edmund, his mother, and the whole of his family, Mr. Saville Faucit, Mr. Grosette, Mr. and Mrs. Jefferies, Mr. Reed, Mrs. Wells, and several other performers, who are now engaged at the different theatres in the kingdom. Notwithstanding we acted the most popular pieces, the best night produced only nine shillings and sixpence. Starvation stared us in the face, and our situation was so truly pitiable that the magistrate of the town, out of compassion for our misfortunes, bespoke a night.”

It is singular that Richardson does not mention Carey, his chief actor, in this communication; but the words “the whole of his family” must be supposed to include Carey and, I believe, a daughter. In every bill of the period the names of Mr. H. Carey and Mrs. H. Carey appear as the representatives of the heroes and heroines of the Richardsonian drama; and the absence of any direct mention of the former is much less remarkable than the fact that he has been altogether ignored by every biographer of Kean, while the supposed mother of the tragedian is invariably styled Miss Carey.

It is exceedingly improbable that the mystery involved in these discrepancies and contradictions will now ever be cleared up in a satisfactory manner. One thing alone, amidst all the confusion and obscurity, seems certain; namely, that the Careys were in Richardson’s company before Kean joined it, and that, whether or not he believed them to be his parents, he dropped their acquaintance when he threw off their authority. Raymond says that when Kean, after his marriage, visited Bartholomew Fair, he was recognised by Carey, who was standing on the parade of Richardson’s theatre, and ran down the steps to greet him; the tragedian seemed mortified, treated the strolling actor coldly, and “slunk away, literally like a dog in a fair.”

In pondering the probabilities of the case, it is obvious that considerable allowance must be made for the obscurity which envelopes the origin of Kean’s existence. Their only authority being Miss Tidswell, it is natural that the biographers should suppose the woman who passed for Kean’s mother with Richardson and his company to be the Nancy Carey of her story, and mention her as Miss Carey. But the evidence of the bills, which cannot have been known to them, forces upon us the re-consideration of the story of Kean’s parentage which has hitherto passed current. Miss Tidswell’s story can be reconciled with the facts only by the hypothesis that Anne Carey, subsequently to Kean’s birth, became the wife of H. Carey, the sameness of name being due to cousinship, or perhaps merely a coincidence. Kean’s illegitimacy may have been known to Richardson, whose knowledge of the circumstance would explain the reason of his speaking of Mrs. Carey as the mother of Master Carey, while he says nothing to warrant the supposition that he regarded her husband as the lad’s father.

But everything about Kean’s early life is mysterious and obscure. How and when did he acquire the classical lore which he seems to have possessed? Certainly not while he was roaming the streets of London, frequenting all the fairs, and practising flip-flaps; nor while travelling with Saunders, Scowton, and Richardson, and rejoicing in the cognomen of Mr. King Dick. As little likely does it seem that he could have acquired it at that subsequent period of his life when the leisure which his profession left him was passed in disreputable taverns, in low orgies with the worst companions.

“You see this inequality in the bridge of my nose?” he once observed to Benson Hill, the author of a couple of amusing volumes of theatrical anecdotes and adventures. “It was dealt me by a demmed pewter pot, hurled from the hand of Jack Thurtell. We were borne, drunk and bleeding, to the watch-house, for the night. When I was taken out, washed, plastered, left to cogitate on any lie, of an accident in a stage fight, I told it, and was believed, for the next day I dined with the Bishop of Norwich.”

My task does not, however, require me to follow Kean’s fortunes from the time when he left Richardson’s company, and obtained an engagement at a provincial theatre. The date is uncertain, but his name does not appear in the bills of 1807, and he had probably turned his back on the travelling theatre in the preceding year.

Patrick O’Brien, the Irish giant, exhibited himself for the last time in 1804, when he advertised as follows: —

“Just arrived in town, and to be seen in a commodious room, at No. 11, Haymarket, nearly opposite the Opera House, the celebrated Irish Giant, Mr. O’Brien, of the Kingdom of Ireland, indisputably the tallest man ever shown; is a lineal descendant of the old puissant king, Brien Boreau, and has, in person and appearance, all the similitudes of that great and grand potentate. It is remarkable of this family, that, however various the revolutions in point of fortune and alliance, the lineal descendants thereof have been favoured by Providence with the original size and stature, which have been so peculiar to their family. The gentleman alluded to measures nearly nine feet high. Admittance one shilling.”

O’Brien had now realised a considerable fortune, and he resolved to retire from the public gaze. Having purchased an old mansion near Epping, and on the borders of the forest, he took up his abode there, keeping a carriage and pair of horses, and living quietly and unostentatiously the brief remainder of his life. He died in 1806, in his forty-seventh year, when his servants made use of his fame and his wardrobe for their own emolument, dressing a wax figure in his clothes, and exhibiting it at rooms in the Haymarket, the Strand, and other parts of the metropolis.

The rival theatres of Richardson and Scowton attended Bartholomew Fair in 1807, when the former produced a romantic and highly sensational drama, called The Monk and the Murderer, in which Carey played the principal character, Baron Montaldi, and his wife that of Emilina, the Baron’s daughter. The following announcement appears in the head of the bill: —

“Mr. Richardson has the honour to inform the Public, that for the extraordinary Patronage he has experienced, it has been his great object to contribute to the convenience and gratification of his audience. Mr. R. has a splendid collection of Scenery, unrivalled in any Theatre; and, as they are painted and designed by the first Artists in England, he hopes with such Decorations, and a Change of Performances each day, the Public will continue him that Patronage it has been his greatest pride to deserve.”

The scenery of the drama comprised a Gothic hall in the Baron’s castle, a rocky pass in Calabria, a forest, a rustic bridge, with a distant view of the castle, a Gothic chamber, and a baronial hall, decorated with banners and trophies. In the fourth scene a chivalric procession was introduced, and in the last a combat with battle-axes. The drama was followed, as usual, by a pantomime entitled Mirth and Magic, which concluded with a “grand panoramic view of Gibraltar, painted by the first artists.”

Saunders was there, with a circus, and seems to have attended the fair with considerable regularity. He was often in difficulties, however, and on one occasion, after borrowing a trick horse of Astley, his stud was taken in execution for debt, and the borrowed horse was sold with the rest. Some time afterwards, two equestrians of Astley’s company were passing a public-house, when they recognised Billy, harnessed to a cart which was standing before the door. Hearing their voices, the horse erected his ears, and, at a signal from one of them, stood up on his hind legs, and performed such extraordinary evolutions that a crowd collected to witness them. On the driver of the cart coming from the public-house, an explanation of Billy’s appearance in cart-harness was obtained with the observation that “he was a werry good ’orse, but so full o’ tricks that we calls ’im the mountebank.” Billy, I scarcely need say, was returned to his stall in Astley’s stables very soon after this discovery.

Miss Biffin was still attending the fairs, painting portraits with her right shoulder, and in 1808 attracted the attention of the Earl of Morton, who sat to her for his likeness, and visited her “living carriage” several times for that purpose. In order to test her ability, he took the portrait away with him, after each sitting, and thus became satisfied that it was entirely the work of her own hand, or rather shoulder. Finding that the armless little lady really possessed artistic talent, he showed the portrait to George III., who was pleased to direct that she should receive instruction in drawing at his expense.

The Earl of Morton corresponded with this remarkable artist during a period of twenty years. She was patronised by three successive sovereigns, and from William IV. she received a small pension. She then yielded to the wish of the Earl of Morton that she should cease to travel, and settled at Birmingham, where, several years afterwards, she married, and resumed, as Mrs. Wright, the pursuit of her profession.

Ballard’s menagerie held a respectable position between the time of Polito and Miles and that of Wombwell and Atkins. The newspapers of the period do not inform us, however, from whose menagerie it was that the leopard escaped which created so much consternation one summer night in 1810. The caravans were on their way to Bartholomew Fair, when, between ten and eleven o’clock at night, while passing along Piccadilly, the horses attached to one of them were scared by some noise, or other cause of alarm, and became restive. The caravan was overturned and broken, and a leopard and two monkeys made their escape. The leopard ran into the basement of an unfinished house near St. James’s Church, and one of the monkeys into an oyster-shop, the proprietor of which, hearing that a leopard was loose, immediately closed the door. What became of the other monkey is not stated.

The keepers ran about, calling for a blanket and cords, to secure the leopard; but every person they accosted shut their doors, or took to their heels, on learning the purpose for which such appliances were required. After some delay, a cage was backed against the opening by which the leopard had entered the building, below which it growled threateningly as it crouched in the darkness. With some risk and difficulty, it was got into the cage, but not until it had bitten the arm of one of the keepers so severely that he was obliged to proceed to St. George’s hospital for surgical aid.

Malcolm, describing Bartholomew Fair as it was seventy years ago, says, – “Those who wish to form an idea of this scene of depravity may go at eleven o’clock in the evening. They may then form some conception of the dreadful scenes that have been acted there in former days. The visitor will find all uproar. Shouts, drums, trumpets, organs, the roaring of beasts, assailing the ear; while the blaze of torches and glare of candles confuse sight, and present as well the horror of executions, and the burning of martyrs, and the humours of a fair.” Though, “the blaze of torches and glare of candles” cannot be said to constitute a “scene of depravity,” and “shouts, drums, trumpets, organs, the roaring of beasts,” though tending to produce an “uproar,” cannot be accepted as evidence of vice, since the former sounds accompany the civic procession of the 9th of November, and the latter are heard in the Zoological Gardens, the newspapers of the period bear testimony to the existence of a considerable amount of riot and disorder at the late hour mentioned by Malcolm.

In those days, when the lighting was defective and the police inefficient, it is not surprising that the “roughs” had their way when the more respectable portion of the frequenters of the fair had retired, and that scenes occurred such as the more efficient police of the present day have had some difficulty in suppressing on Sunday evenings in the principal thoroughfares of Islington and Pentonville. The newspapers of the period referred to by Malcolm afford no other support to his statement than accounts of the disorder and mischief produced by the rushing through the fair at night of hordes of young men and boys, apparently without anything being attempted for the prevention of the evil. In 1810, two bands of these ruffians met, and their collision caused two stalls to be knocked down, when the upsetting of a lamp on a stove caused the canvas to ignite, and a terrible disaster was only prevented by the exertions of a gentleman who was on the spot in extinguishing the flames. In 1812 many persons were thrown down in one of the wild rushes of the “roughs,” and an infant was dashed from its mother’s arms, and trampled to death.

Richardson, who was always on the alert for novelties, introduced in 1814, at Portsmouth, the famous Josephine Girardelli, who in the same year exhibited her remarkable feats in a room in New Bond Street. The following hand-bill sufficiently indicates their nature: —

“Wonders will never cease! – The great Phenomena of Nature. Signora Josephine Girardelli (just arrived from the Continent), who has had the honour of appearing before most of the Crowned Heads of Europe, will exhibit the Powers of Resistance against Heat, every day, until further notice, at Mr. Laxton’s Rooms, 23, New Bond Street. She will, without the least symptoms of pain, put boiling melted lead into her mouth, and emit the same with the imprint of her teeth thereon; red-hot irons will be passed over various parts of her body; she will walk over a bar of red-hot iron with her naked feet; will wash her hands in aquafortis; put boiling oil in her mouth! The above are but a few of the wonderful feats she is able to go through. Her performances will commence at 12, 2, 4, and 6 o’clock. Admission 3s. Any lady or gentleman being dubious of the above performances taking place, may witness the same, gratis, if not satisfied. Parties may be accommodated by a private performance, by applying to the Conductor.”

The portrait of this Fire Queen, as she would be styled at the present day, was engraved by Page, and published by Smeeton, St. Martin’s Lane. It represents her in her performing costume, a short spangled jacket, worn over a dress of the fashion of that day; the features are regular and striking, but their beauty is of a rather masculine type. The hair appears dark, and is arranged in short curls.

Elliston engaged in a show speculation at this time, having contracted with a Dutchman, named Sampœman, for the exhibition of a dwarf, named Simon Paap. He hired a room in Piccadilly for the purpose and engaged an interpreter; but the speculation was a failure, and Elliston was glad to obtain Sampœman’s consent to the cancelling of the contract. He made a more successful venture when, at the close of a bad theatrical season at Birmingham, he announced the advent of a Bohemian giant, who would toss about, like a ball, a stone weighing nearly a ton. Few modern giants have possessed the strength ascribed to the seven-feet men of old, and such an athlete as the Bohemian would have been worth a visit. The theatre was filled, therefore, for the first time that season; but when the overture had been performed, and the occupants of the gallery were beginning to testify impatience, Elliston appeared before the curtain, looking grave and anxious, as on such occasions he could look to perfection. Evincing the deepest emotion, he informed the expectant audience that the perfidious Bohemian had disappointed him, and had not arrived.

“Here,” said he, producing a number of letters from his pockets, “are letters which must satisfy every one that I am not to blame for this disappointment, which I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, is to me one of the bitterest of my existence. As they are numerous and lengthy, and are all written in German, you will, I am sure, excuse me from reading them; but, as further evidence of the good faith in which I have acted in this matter, you shall see the stone.”

The curtain was drawn half-way up, and the disappointed Brums were consoled with the sight of an enormous mass of stone, and with the announcement that they would receive, on leaving the theatre, vouchers entitling them to admission to the boxes on the following night, on payment of a shilling. Elliston thus obtained two good houses at no other extra expense than a few shillings for the cartage of the pretended giant’s stone ball, the Bohemian being merely a creation of his own fertile imagination.

Sampœman’s arrangement with Elliston having proved a failure, the little Dutchman was transferred to Gyngell, who exhibited him in his show in Bartholomew Fair and elsewhere, in 1815. There are three portraits of Simon Paap in existence, showing a striking resemblance to little Mr. Stratton, commonly known as Tom Thumb. One of them, drawn by Woolley, and engraved by Worship, probably for advertising purposes, bears the following inscription: —

Mr. Simon Paap

“The celebrated Dutch dwarf, 26 years of age, weighs 27 pounds, and only 28 inches high; had the honour of being presented to the Prince Regent and the whole of the Royal Family at Carleton House, May 5th, 1815, and was introduced by Mr. Dan. Gyngell to the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor, Sept. 1st, 1815; and was exhibited in the course of 4 days in Smithfield to upwards of 20,000 persons; is universally admitted to be the greatest wonder of the age.”

Another portrait, engraved by Cooper, and published by Robins and Co., is better executed; but the third is a poor sketch, taken three years later, and unsigned.

Richardson presented this year, on the first day of Bartholomew Fair, The Maid and the Magpie, and a pantomime, “expressly written for this theatre,” entitled Harlequin in the Deep, terminating with a panorama, “taken from the spot, by one of our most eminent artists,” representing Longwood, in the island of St. Helena, and the adjacent scenery, interesting to the public at that time as the place of exile selected by the Powers lately in arms against France for Napoleon I. Pocock’s drama was, of course, greatly abridged, for drama and pantomime, with a comic song between, were got through in half an hour, and often in twenty minutes, when the influx of visitors rendered it expedient to abbreviate the performance. Shuter’s signal, corrupted into John Orderly, was used by Richardson on such occasions.

A daily change of performances had at this time become necessary, and Richardson presented on the second day “an entire new Chinese romantic melodrama,” called The Children of the Desert, and a comic pantomime, entitled Harlequin and the Devil. On the third day the pantomime was the same, preceded by “an entire new melodrama,” called The Roman Wife.

This year there first appeared in the fair an eccentric character named James Sharp England, known as “the flying pieman.” He was always neatly dressed, with a clean white apron before him, but wore no hat, and had his hair powdered and tied behind in a queue. Like the famous Tiddy-dol of a century earlier, he aimed at a profitable notoriety through a fantastic exterior and a droll manner; and he succeeded, his sales of plum-pudding, which he carried before him on a board, and vended in slices, being very great wherever he appeared. The present representative of the perambulating traders of the eccentric order is a man who has for many years strolled about the western districts of the metropolis, wearing clean white sleeves and a black velvet cap placed jauntily on his head, and carrying before him a tray of what, in oily and mellifluous accents, he proclaims to be, “Brandy balls as big as St. Paul’s! Oh, so nice! They are all sugar and brandy!”