HOME FUN

COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
DODGE PUBLISHING COMPANY

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Not to produce workers of wonders or exponents of marvelous mysteries; not to launch on an already over-crowded market a host of professional or semi-professional entertainers—but rather to give to those who can find real pleasure in amusing others, such knowledge as shall enable them to transform the lagging winter hours into periods of sheer delight, has this book been written.

While in no sense does it claim to be an exhaustive guide to home amusements, it represents a serious effort to bring within the scope of one volume almost every form of popular home diversion.

The subjects have been dealt with from a simple but perfectly practical point of view. In addition to the different accomplishments being so explained as to be easily comprehended and acquired, the successful presentment of them is made possible at a minimum of expense. The greatest difficulty which formerly faced the amateur entertainer was the heavy cost of production, but even the most expensive form of amusement explained in the following chapters comes well within the modest “pocket-money bounds” of the average boy.

It is hoped that in “Home Fun” will be found much that is entirely new concerning subjects about which little or nothing has hitherto been written. Whereas the paths so well trodden by authorities on entertaining are here more or less passed over, excursions are made into equally fascinating by-ways, an acquaintance with the delights of which cannot fail to win success and widespread approval for the promoter of entertainments at home.

That those who follow the many chapters on subjects so amusing and diverse may obtain from them as great pleasure as he who has compiled them is the sincere wish of the author.

Cecil Henry Bullivant.

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HOME FUN

A great many people are deterred from embarking on the sea of amateur theatricals for the reason that the expense and trouble incurred in providing an adequate stage, and in finding plays suitable for amateurs, seem to outweigh other considerations.

The following hints and suggestions, then, are not intended for the lordly Thespians who would aspire to flaunt their histrionic powers in public assembly-room or civic town-hall. For them there are those who make it their business to erect stages, provide “swell” scenery, and all the paraphernalia required.

It is, of course, possible to act without a stage proper at all, especially if you happen to live in a house that boasts a double drawing-room with folding doors, in which case a curtain would also be a superfluity, for the doors could be closed and thrown open when the audience are in their places, though if a curtain should be deemed necessary it would be an easy matter to fix a rod from door to door.

But before going on to the description of how to erect a stage of a more pretentious character, it might be as well to offer a word or two of warning. Remember that private theatricals are rather apt to turn a house upside-down, so that before the performance is given it is of importance to see that all breakables are stowed away, and that superfluous furniture is disposed of.

If you are going to turn your drawing-room into a theater, take care that your guests can enter without having to pick their way in and out of needless chairs and tables. Details such as these may seem trivial. They are, nevertheless, just the things that may make or mar an entertainment.

Above all, let there be harmony. Once having chosen your stage-manager, see to it that his word is law. Nothing is more galling or[12] disastrous than for every one to try and “boss the show.” And if expense has to be considered, do not try to be too elaborate with your accessories.

It is, nevertheless, possible for any one to erect in any drawing-room of average dimensions a stage that will be found perfectly adaptable to plays made adequate for it, and that without calling in the aid of any professional carpenter or stage furnisher.

The stage can be constructed in the following simple manner:—Hire a number of ordinary benches or stout boxes of equal dimensions, and on these superimpose lengths of scaffold-boarding or planks. These latter should be of equal thickness throughout, in order that a perfectly level staging may be obtained. The whole may be made quite secure by the judicious use of nails, although care should be taken that no damage is done to the benches, or this will have to be paid for when they are returned. A floor covering of felt or linoleum will also prove serviceable.

An essential piece of stage furniture for amateur theatricals is the drop curtain. It can be made from two equal widths of some serviceable material such as dark cretonne, supported by brass rings on a stout bamboo rod, to either end of which are attached large steel eyes (A, A, Fig. 1).

The bamboo rod should be cut to such a length that when the eyes have been added, the whole can be fixed to steel hooks screwed into the picture-molding on either side of the room. Should any difficulty be experienced in procuring a rod of sufficient length, the difficulty may be overcome by the use of two shorter pieces joined at the middle by iron sockets.

In the case where it is intended to give the performance in either a schoolroom or a small hall, a curtain of much greater size and of stouter material would be required, and this latter can be supported[13] on a length of strong gas pipe held in position by brackets nailed to the wall at each end.

The arrangement for raising or lowering the curtain is shown in the diagram, in which A A is the rod. A number of small brass rings are then sewn to the back of the curtain, as at A X and A E. Top rings, much larger, are also attached to the curtain and passed along the rod. Cord is next run from X and E respectively through the rings at A, and allowed to hang loose as at D. The bottom of the curtain should be weighted with shot.

Four screens, two on each side, can also be requisitioned for the wings, and a small steady table placed in each recess (Fig. 1a) for moderator lamps—preferably of the self-extinguishing pattern, in case they should be upset by an untoward accident—to make up for the deficiency of footlights, though these can be provided by the aid of a little ingenuity, e.g. candle reading-lamps with shades and reflectors begged or borrowed from accommodating neighbors. Tin cans cut in half, and night-lights will serve the purpose equally well. Here, again, the inventive genius of the promoters of the enterprise will have to be called into play.

All risk of fire should be obviated as much as possible, and appliances for the swift extinction of a blaze near at hand.

By the judicious arrangement of the screens it will be possible to provide for exits and entrances on both sides of the stage.

Scenery, as a rule, proves a great barrier to the would-be promoters of amateur theatrical enterprises. The purchase of suitable surroundings for the presentation of various scenes is a luxury only to be indulged in by the well-to-do. In fact, to carry out an ordinary play on these lines involves the expenditure of many dollars. It is hoped that the practical instructions given here will not only[14] avoid such unnecessary and perhaps unwarrantable expense, but will also tend greatly to increase the interest of those taking part in the work.

Where scenery is required, it is as well to confine oneself to a play that takes place indoors, though, of course, it is possible even without a back-drop to give a praiseworthy presentment of an open-air scene by means of a plain background, against which are fastened boughs of trees, while the judicious grouping of greenhouse plants can be used at the sides, plus a plain green felt underfoot to add to the effect. However, even these small items run away with money. Cut boughs fade and need replacing, and this mode of constructing scenery will often be found by the would-be economist to cost more than he can reasonably afford.

Of course, for those who care to do so, proper mounted scenery all ready for use may be purchased, but undoubtedly the better plan is for the stage-manager to endeavor to find from amongst the members of his company one or two who are expert in the use of tools. Generally there are many such available, and by the aid of the following diagrams and explanatory notes a most useful interior box scene (comprising five “flats” which fit together and form the whole) can be constructed at a cost certainly not exceeding $5.00.

By repapering and making other obvious alterations, such scenery can be transformed as necessity demands to suit any particular play—that is to say, the addition of a few hangings and pictures, and the substitution of other appropriate furniture will speedily change a poor man’s kitchen or parlor into quite a presentable stage drawing-room.

To deal first with the “flats” or separate parts of the scenery. The primary essentials for these are a number of lengths of 2¹⁄₂-inch battening; other requisites being a plenitude of nails of all sizes, glue, brown paper or canvas, powdered color, and size. The purpose of this latter commodity is for painting the wood-work or any other desired article, such as a sideboard, dresser, or fireplace.

Cut the battening to lengths appropriate to the dimensions of the stage, or, in other words, with due regard to the height of the room and the width and depth of the platform.

Fig. 2 shows the general arrangement of the five “flats,” placed in the order shown, with the largest one, consisting of the double doors, in the center.

Now, as the width of these “flats” depends entirely upon the space they occupy when put into the position indicated by the diagram, the[15] stage carpenter must commence his plan of construction with this fact clearly in mind. Should a particularly large stage be available, then it may be desirable to extend the scenery, in which case one or more straight “flats,” similar to that numbered 4 in Fig. 2, can be added at each end or where desired.

The frame-work for the respective “flats” appears in Figs. 3, 4, 5, and 6, the method of joining corners being indicated by the elevation and sectional drawing depicted in the corner of Fig. 5. The vertical and horizontal supports are merely fitted in flush and glued. For doors and window openings a slightly stouter battening will be found necessary.

Fig. 3 gives a clear idea of the main lines of construction of a practical door, which is to be fixed to the “flat” by means of hinges.[16] When hingeing doors, take particular care so to place the hinges that the doors swing outwards—that is, from the point of view of the audience. This precaution obviates the necessity of painting both sides of the doors.

A reference to Fig. 4 shows a window opening which can be used either as a lattice, working on the same principle as the door, or as an ordinary window, which can be suggested by gluing a strip of wood horizontally across the center.

In Fig. 5 the central opening (the double doors of the plan) serves for curtains fixed to rods by means of sliding rings, or merely as French windows. Of all the “flats,” this is the most valuable, because it is capable of utilization in a multitude of ways. For instance, should the scene be an elaborate drawing-room, the opening will lend itself to French windows, through which can be seen park-land or gardens in the distance. Again, for the presentment of a humble apartment, it has only to be covered with a dresser or any other commonplace article of furniture. Should an opening be required to another room, curtains of course can be hung.

Fig. 6 depicts a plain “flat.”

The next operation is the covering of the frames, accomplished by the use of brown paper, or, should expenses permit, of canvas. The brown paper is first cut to the size required, and then glued to the frames, only the openings for windows and doors being left. If canvas is chosen for the covering, nailing will be found necessary. To prevent sagging, and to preserve the flat appearance of the material, coat thinly and evenly with a solution of size and water.

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The next item for consideration is papering. A visit to almost any paperhanger’s will reveal the fact, that the shopman possesses quantities of certain designs, perhaps not quite large enough to be of practical service to him for papering a room. In this circumstance the stage carpenter should be able, by the expenditure of a few cents, or a quarter at the outside, to obtain quite enough for his purpose. Next, he can procure from any builder’s yard a few lengths of architrave or beaded edging for doorways and windows. This will have to be mitered and fixed to the frames. A few slips of board, with beading along one edge, should also be purchased at the same time for fixing to the bottom of the frames to form the skirting. Now paste the wall-paper to the frames.

Having satisfactorily constructed all the “flats,” fix them together in the order shown in the plan—i.e. each to each—by means of pieces of bent zinc and screws. Additional supports are often required, such as iron brackets screwed to the bottom of the “flat” and the floor, as indicated by the crosses in Figs. 3 and 5.

To give a finished effect, paste brown paper over the whole of the door frames, and produce the appearance of panels by the addition of mitered thin beading or slips of wood (Fig. 7). The door panels may[18] then be painted according to taste with a mixture of any powdered color and dissolved size. The fixing of a knob or handle with a long screw renders the thing complete.

Reference to the plan marked Fig. 2 reveals the fact, that the two end “flats” (1 and 5 respectively) are alike. Now, while one of these “flats” may be utilized for an interior door (Fig. 3), it may be found extremely useful so to prepare its fellow that it represents an exterior cottage door, and to use it as a wing at one side of the stage in another scene. It should then appear as in Fig. 8. To obtain this result, a section of scenery has to be covered with brown paper or canvas, as already described for the interior door. Should canvas be decided upon, first prepare it by adding a coating of mixed size and whiting, to form a background for the painted design. In this case the door itself is covered on the outside with paper, and lines are drawn down to give an idea of planks nailed vertically together. A latch-handle can either be purchased and fixed for a few cents, or an imitation one painted in.

The lintel and doorposts are constructed by gluing or nailing battening of a sufficiently stout nature, that it projects to the degree indicated by the section in Fig. 8. The purpose of this latter projection is to allow for the addition of a latticed porch, which will give that picturesqueness so essential to stage scenery.

A glance at Fig. 9 will put the amateur stage carpenter in full possession of all details relating to the construction of this latticed porch. Of course, it will be found necessary to make two pieces of the part numbered 1—i.e. the batten frame and cross-pieces—as one will be fixed on either side of the door to support the roof. The lattice-work may be purchased in a length, or made from laths, and nailed to the frame. Fix the sides of the porch close up to the doorposts by means of zinc brackets and pins, as indicated by the two crosses. Next pin on the roof, as at 4, Fig. 9. Paint the finished porch bright green and the roof red.

A second reference to Fig. 8 shows that it suggests a design of bricks, covered with creeper or a tree. If necessary, treat the other side of the window “flat,” by painting it in similar fashion, and fix it alongside the door to form an additional wing.

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A very useful adjunct to the plain “flat” (Fig. 6) is a portable fireplace, which is depicted in detail in Fig. 10. To make this, buy a length or so of ³⁄₄-inch planking, one length of which should be cut for the mantelpiece, according to the size required. Next cut two supports of equal dimensions to form the sides (A, A, in elevation). These are nailed to the “flat,” and the mantelpiece is kept in position by two solid wooden brackets (D, D). Two slips are also added to the base of the supports at E, E. The piece C is let in flush with A, A.

Below this, to the back of the rectangular opening, attach a piece of very stout blackened cardboard, of the shape shown, leaving an opening for a real or a painted grate (F). Should the former be preferred, it may be produced from pieces of thin battening, as shown in the elevation and section.

To obtain a realistic effect, fill the grate with non-inflammable metal tinsel (C, C), and further to enhance the realism, support a small galley-pot on a blackened bracket or block of wood (A), the galley-pot being filled with cotton-wool soaked in methylated spirit. The application of a match produces a flame at B (see section of grate, Fig. 10).

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Fig. 11 gives the front and back view of this very useful piece of stage furniture, which may be utilized either as a counter, sideboard, or bottom of a dresser; or, appropriately draped and surmounted by a looking-glass, it may serve as a dressing-table.

The sections are illustrated in Fig. 12, the pieces marked 1 forming the sides, 2 the top, and 3 the front. Steel eyes are numbered 4, and their purpose is to hold the sides, front, and top together by strong cord, attached as in the back view of Fig. 11. 5 in Fig. 12 is a projecting panel, also seen in the front view of Fig. 11. 6 (Fig. 12) indicates the back supports to which the front joined boards are nailed. The beading which is fixed along three sides of the top is seen at 7 (Fig. 13).

Having thoroughly grasped the details outlined above, commence to make the sideboard from ³⁄₄-inch boarding.

To each of the side-pieces add a bottom support of stouter material, marked with a cross in Fig. 12. The front is next placed across the supports in such a position that the top fits down on them and holds all three pieces in place. (See dotted line at 7, Fig. 13; this diagram also depicts the separate pieces in elevation.)

It is not worth while “spoiling the ship for a ha’p’orth o’ tar,” or, in this instance, the sideboard for a coat of paint. Before applying this latter, paste the structure over with brown paper, and then give it a coating of yellow ochre and size. A grained appearance may be produced by utilizing an old coarse comb, the fine grain being attained[21] with the thin teeth and the coarse grain with the stout. To obtain the graining, proceed as follows: on the dry coating of yellow ochre put a second coating of dark brown ochre, mixed with size as before, and whilst wet comb in zigzag lines.

The great advantage attaching to all the scenery and artificial furniture described is that it can be easily fitted together, taken to pieces, and packed flat, thus occupying a minimum of space. For practical purposes it will be found quite equal both in appearance and for durability to that for which many dollars are charged at a theatrical supply dealer’s.

The construction of home-made theatrical effects may be closed with brief hints regarding the much-needed and ever-useful back-cloth, which plays a part in most exterior scenes, such as park lands, gardens, &c. It consists of several lengths of calico joined together to form a square of the size required. This is then fixed on a large wooden roller with a similar roller at the bottom to weight it, and prepared with a coating of size and whiting.

A friend of unquestionable artistic ability should be asked to paint in a view or other scenery.

In scene-painting bear in mind that only the brightest and most vivid colors are to be used. The colors are made from powder mixed with size, and must be applied with broad touches for distant effects. The back-cloth can be fixed according to the means available.

For the proscenium, three pieces of wood to suit breadth and size of stage must be requisitioned, the portion destined for the top being gently sloped from an arch or apex in direct line with the center of[22] the curtain, and covered with some tastefully-colored paper which gives the appearance of heavy satin panels.

A sewing bee should be formed among the ladies interested in the company, and she who has sufficient prowess with her scissors should be chosen to cut the garments and superintend the needlework of her friends. This will prove a profitable way of spending the long winter afternoons.

Imitation hair wigs, beards, &c., may be procured at various prices.

The best plan to adopt in finding a play suited to the limitations of material of an embryo company is to spend a small sum on some “Guide to Selecting Plays.” In these pages will be found abundant suggestions and explanations of specimens, dealing from the simplest one-act, thirty minutes’ production to the five-act, three hours’ drama. The outline of each plot is given, and a summary of the dramatis personæ required.

Miss Keating’s “Plot of Potzentausend,” for example, is an excellent one-act play, in which only male characters are required. Interest in the fair sex is, however, cleverly maintained, for the four swains have each a lass to occupy their affections.

The costumes, a description of which is given on the front page, are of the time of Louis XIV., and the scene is a small frontier village in Germany. This is an admirable, amusing, and not too ambitious performance for boys home for the holidays.

Grindstone is a miller of a sour and unfriendly disposition. He is secretly involved in small political intrigues, and, in order to meet the Chevalier d’Espion without the knowledge of the villagers, refuses to allow the lads and lasses their usual yearly privilege of dancing in his barn, to which they naturally take exception. Grindstone’s personality and physical appearance are as gray, grim, and cold as the substance after which he is named. He is tight of lip, thin of figure, and possessed of a countenance which expresses a miserly cunning, dislike of frivolities, and hypocritical semblance of virtue. Although vastly respected, he is not overwhelmed with the affections of his fellow-men, and is termed, even by his servant Sacks, to be something of a rogue.

Sacks, his man, is a thick-set hunchback, with a round, jolly face and optimistic temperament, which presents a strong contrast to his master’s saturnine character.

Max, a young sergeant, of smart demeanor, is weighted by a sense of his own importance, insipid of face, and overbearingly superior in manners.

Louis, a lawyer’s clerk, pale and meek, rat-faced and rather wily, grasping in disposition, and something of a flirt.

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Fritz, a young peasant, whose sentences generally terminate with “as a body may say,” shows a priggish and cautious attitude to preserve his own skin at any cost. His expression is a delightful mixture of rustic placidity and guileless cunning.

The Chevalier d’Espion, a smart, condescending person of uncertain age and carefully preserved complexion; his gold lace and feathers lend him as irreproachable an aloofness and pride as the peacock demonstrates towards the jackdaw.

The table should be covered with a cloth sufficiently long to touch the ground on all sides. The rear of the high-backed chair and window-curtain are to be used as hiding-places, and must be practicable for the purpose. Small chairs and an old stool are also required. Except for a small lighted lamp which Sacks, the first to enter, places on the table, the stage is in darkness.

This play takes thirty-five minutes. The plot is built on the misunderstanding that arises between the four swains—who have unconsciously chosen the same place and hour to meet their ladies—and the Chevalier d’Espion, who, expecting to find a quartette of fellow-conspirators, mistakes them for such in disguise. Soldiers appear to arrest the Chevalier, who manages to escape. Sacks proves the identity of the rest, and so all ends happily.

The dialogue must be brisk and the action kept interesting. Acted in the right spirit, it cannot fail to produce roars of merriment. It has a further advantage of not being too great a strain on the memorizing powers of those who have never previously essayed to learn prose by heart.

A reliable prompter, concealed from the audience, should be close at hand. His business is to follow the dialogue intently, giving aid when necessary in a clear, low voice. Words should never be[24] whispered, nor too loudly spoken. A happy medium is acquired by experience.

The make-up required by the characters is as follows:—

Sacks (florid flesh tint), grease paint (red) No. 2¹⁄₂; a slight cobweb of good-natured wrinkles and crowsfeet, such as would be caused by laughter. Red, black, or gray wig, according to taste.

Grindstone (sallow flesh tint), chrome grease paint; peevish and discontented lines about the mouth, furrowed forehead, peruke slightly gray, nose paste to enlarge nose, sparse ruffled eyebrows.

Louis (sallow flesh tint), chrome grease paint; peruke any color fancied, premature wrinkles, small white. A few front teeth in upper gum stopped out with small noir.

Max sunburnt. Fritz ruddy. The Chevalier d’Espion bronzed. Officer and guard, 2¹⁄₂ medium flesh.

Another fascinating play for boys is “The Poor Relation,” also written by Miss Keating, and included with “The Plot of Potzentausend” in “A Series of Original Comedies.”

Grease paints should be composed of pure chemical fat and colors free from lead, otherwise they will make havoc with sensitive skins.

Artificial complexions should never be scrubbed from the face by means of soap and water.

Cocoa butter gently applied on the corner of a soft dry towel will rapidly erase every mark, and is an excellent tonic for the skin.

Grease paints, rouge powder, cocoa butter, spirit gum, sponge-towel, puff, crêpe hair, hare’s foot, patches, tongs, hairpins, joining paste, brush and comb, lip salve, liquid blanc de perle, scissors, mirror, mustache, vanquisher, needles, cotton, soap, sponge, &c., can be purchased in compact make-up cases at prices from $15.00 down to $2.50.

Amateurs are sometimes prone to stiffness and artificiality of gesture and exaggeration of expression, also to too much or too little movement. A perfectly natural manner can only be gained by throwing oneself whole-heartedly into the play, and uniting oneself with the other dramatis personæ. Acting editions of both playlets mentioned above may be obtained of Messrs. Samuel French, of 28 West 38th St., New York.

Each actor has, as it were, his little orbit of movement, but this should not be circumscribed in a conventional, studied manner. Ease and self-control should cover all mastered technique in voice, attitude, and gesture. Words should be clearly delivered, and pronounced without any pedantic phrasing or forced utterance; and this will only be achieved by constant and careful rehearsing. The personality of each character must be distinct and individual.

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When an amateur company is formed, each member should pay a fee in proportion to the strength of the casts and the drama they hope to produce. The stage-manager’s choice of characters should stand inviolable, providing, of course, he presents sufficient discretion and insight to distinguish between the different trends of talent possessed by his players.

In almost every company there are a few players who are inclined to fancy that they can do justice to a rôle given to some one else, rather than to the one they are studying. This is a form of very human discontent which Quince, the stage-manager of the players in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” had to battle against.

Flute bemoaned his fate, and excused himself from playing the woman’s part, on the plea, “I have a beard coming.”

Bottom was torn between a desire to undertake Thisby and the lion. “I will roar that I will make the duke say, ‘Let him roar again, let him roar again.’ ... I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove.”

As adamantine as the sagacious Quince against these eloquent appeals must be the modern stage-manager when the would-be tragedian importunes him to play the heavy rôle, or the individual who believes himself endowed with hidden genius, to portray the part of light comedian.

Thus only is success achieved.

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It is necessary that the amateur who wishes to make his efforts at private theatricals a success should have a fair knowledge of the art of “make-up.”

While no great amount of money need be expended, at the same time the best results can be obtained only from the use of good cosmetics. Grease paints, obtainable from any purveyors of theatrical appliances, are excellent and not very expensive.

There is no doubt that many people consider it quite sufficient to dab a little paint on the face, smear it over carelessly with the addition of some powder, and imagine, quite erroneously, that they are well made-up.

The outward signs of character are to be represented by “make-up,” and it is quite essential that this effect should be produced; therefore, with a slight knowledge of what is to be avoided, and what effected, the home-actor should attain to some degree of success.

“Wig-paste,” No. 2¹⁄₂, is usually considered the best foundation for pink complexions, and according to shade required, deeper colors can be used, such as 3, 4, &c. Thus, if being made up for the part of a pretty young girl, the first number is best; if for a middle-aged woman, No. 3; while for elderly men of choleric temperament No. 4 would be more suitable.

It must be borne in mind that the foundation of wig-paste should be carefully put on, and well smoothed before the structure or blending of colors to produce a natural appearance is commenced. Whether this is done well or badly will make all the difference to the final results.

Lining is an important part of “make-up,” by its aid the lines of the face being diminished or deepened, shadows created for sunken effects, and “high lights” produced—i.e. touching up the cheek-bones to give them prominence. By careful use of this latter branch of “make-up” the whole character of the face can be changed. High[27] lights are produced by a lighter shade of grease paint than that used for the rest of the complexion, being placed upon the feature to be emphasized; for instance, if the actor wishes his nose to appear thinner, he will draw a straight white line from the top to the tip, enhancing the effect with a careful application of the gray paint (Fig. 1a). The cheek-bone, nose, chin, and brow are parts of the face which are made up for high lights, though if wrinkles are to be accentuated this is usually done by the addition of a “high light” effect on each side of the existing dark line (Figs. 1b and 1c).

To make cheeks appear hollow, gray-lining paint is used, the effect of emaciation being produced by the careful blending of the last-named paint with the grease paint previously put on.

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Shadows, or low lights, give the effect of hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes, and instead of making features more pronounced, as is the case with a careful “high light” make-up, decrease the prominence which certain parts usually possess (Fig. 2). When making-up for a beldame, or some other character which should appear more than usually haggard, a striking effect is obtained by adding a spot of either dark-gray or brown, and blending it outwards.

The lining of the eyes requires special attention, more particularly as their appearance depends so much upon the change of the eyelids (Figs. 3 and 4); eyelashes too, when properly treated, make a vast difference to the usual expression.

When it is necessary that the eyelashes should be more pronounced, black grease paint is put on to the end of an artist’s stump, melted very slowly by being held over a candle or other flame, and so applied. Care should be taken, however, that no grease paint goes into the eye, so when melting it must not be allowed to become too soft. Black-lining grease paint is the best for eyelashes, and the amount applied depends entirely upon their natural thickness and darkness.

For darkening or lightening the eyebrows, grease paint “liners” are indispensable, and much preferable to India ink. Sometimes it is necessary to obliterate part of the eyebrow before the rest is “drawn-in,” in which case it is first of all coated with soap and then covered with the same grease paint as used for the groundwork of “make-up.” This done carefully, and toned to the same shade as the rest of face, leaves the actor free to “draw-in” any shaped eyebrow he desires. For a very thin eyebrow a toothpick can be utilized to advantage, a little melted grease paint being rubbed upon it, and the line drawn with it (Figs. 5 and 6).

For Oriental effects the obliteration of the eyebrows is essential,[29] and fresh ones with an upward tendency can be drawn-in at will, when once the natural ones have been made to disappear.

More often than not it is necessary to increase the eyebrows, making them look thick and heavy, and if Nature has endowed the player with massive ones, it is an easy matter to comb them up the wrong way and apply a small quantity of grease-paint; but if they are naturally thin the aid of false ones must be sought. Crêpe hair, which is an indispensable accessory to the “make-up” art, can here be brought into use, the ever-helpful “adhesia” being required as well.

The best plan is to model on a comb the eyebrow according to the shape desired; then, placing the latter in position, make it fast with the use of the adhesia, taking care that the gum is only on the edges and not on the hair of the real eyebrow.

To obtain a sinister expression, eliminate the outer edges of the eyebrows and paste a piece of crêpe hair over the eyebrows near the nose, the Mephistophelian effect being gained in the same way, except that the outer corners should curl upwards (Figs. 7 and 8). By fixing on pieces of crêpe hair so that they meet over the nose, a stern and even fierce expression is produced.

In making-up for the character of a juvenile, the strength of light on the platform or stage is to be taken into consideration. If a fairly strong light, the make-up must not be too deep, but the player will soon become experienced in this matter by taking the trouble to consider the effect of different lights.

Before commencing with the grease paints the face is well rubbed[30] with cold cream or cocoa butter, and wiped with a towel, so that none of the former remains visible.

The flesh-colored paint may now be drawn across the face several times, the method of procedure being: two lines across forehead, two on each cheek, one down the nose, and several on the neck (Fig. 9). With the palms of the hands this is smoothed over carefully, and finally rubbed quite lightly with a dry towel. The foundation is thus formed, and is really the most important part of the make-up, for if not carefully done the rest will be unsatisfactory. One of the chief facts to be borne in mind is that very little paint should be used, so little as to be scarcely seen.

Rouge is next applied, red-lining paint or paste lip-rouge being used upon the cheek-bones, and carefully smoothed until it tones with the flesh on the cheeks. After an application of powder, when the face feels perfectly smooth, comes the task of lining-in, which has already been described.

The lip-rouge accentuates the lips (Figs. 10 and 11), and should it be necessary to make them of a more symmetrical appearance, this may be accomplished by extending the rouge a trifle beyond the natural outlines, though women need this little extra touch more often than men. When it is required to make the chin more prominent, a touch of dry rouge beneath the lower lip will accomplish the effect, still more being added to the cheeks if they are not quite colored enough (Fig. 12).

For juvenile darky parts, burnt cork will do instead of the grease paints.

[31]

This is perhaps the most difficult make-up, for it is much easier to go to one extreme from another, than to make a fairly young person look like a middle-aged one (Fig. 13).

In the case of a man it is advisable to depend on the addition of whiskers and mustache, and even glasses or spectacles lend age.

A sallow paint is usually required for middle-age make-up, and it can be blended with a lighter paint for pale effects; but to produce a hearty bloom or florid complexion, the application of a little red or brown is recommended.

The mid-gray wig is also an immense aid, but failing this, a small amount of powder sifted over the hair will give a similar effect.

If the character desired to be represented is carefully studied, notice being taken of where there is a high light and where the shadows of the face lie, there should be little or no difficulty in producing a lifelike representation.

Particular notice should be taken of wrinkles and lines, and these must be carefully blended as in Fig. 14.

The next essential is the wig, either gray or white being the most[32] useful. For the old age complexion it is better to get the grease paint for that purpose; but when the necessity for it is but seldom, an application of the sallow paint, or in the case of great emaciation, the addition of a little blue, well blended, will create quite a good effect.

Sometimes it is required that the nose shall be made larger; then the “nose putty” is called into play, carefully modeled on to the nose, and with the aid of the same grease paint as is utilized for complexion, made to correspond with the rest of the face (Figs. 15a, 15b, and 15c).

Dark shadows under the eyes can be produced by gray grease paint, but for the formation of crow’s-feet, the brown will be found the best.

The hands must receive careful attention when the face and neck[33] are finished, and “made-up” according to character. If juvenile, they require coloring; if middle-age, a little of the sallow paint: the veins accentuated, and the flesh made to look pale for old age parts (Fig. 16).

When measuring for a wig, take the various lengths and widths as indicated by the numerals in Fig. 17.

The most inexpensive of these necessary adjuncts to the home entertainer’s make-up are undoubtedly those he models for himself from crêpe hair, which can be bought in a plait and untwined as it is wanted, a coarse-toothed comb being passed through it. With a few twirls it can be made the desired shape and cut, and when wanted for a beard, opened out until it has a hollow cone-shape appearance, and placed on the chin after a thin coating of adhesia has been applied.

The same method applies to eyebrow and mustache making. When it is desired to create an unshaven, unkempt effect, pieces of crêpe hair are cut up exceedingly fine on to a newspaper, the chin covered with adhesia and the finely-cut hair sifted evenly over the skin. These little pieces are also useful for sprinkling where the false beard meets the face, in order to take away the “abrupt” appearance that is often produced.

Having told how to put on make-up, a few instructions for its easy removal may not be out of place. Whilst soap and water will take off the grease paint, the simpler method is to remove it with one of the following: Cold cream, cocoa butter, or olive oil. Vaseline is to be avoided, as it will often cause a growth of hair; and for this reason when purchasing cold cream it is advisable to procure the best, for in the cheaper makes vaseline is largely employed. Pieces of cloth kept specially for the removal of “make-up” are to be recommended, one for taking the chief layer off and another of soft texture for final rubbing before the much-needed wash is resorted to.

For dispelling traces of the prepared burnt cork used for minstrels and negro burlesques, a pure vegetable soap is all that is required.

[34]

The machinations of the full-fledged quick-change artist afford the mind of his amazed spectator much speculation and curiosity as to how his marvels of dexterity and transformation are achieved. His velocity would put summer lightning to the blush. His mind and body are as pliable and elastic as his face; his very nature appears to undergo a swift metamorphosis of changes in the adoption of the various manners, idiosyncrasies, attitude, and gait of the character he portrays. Although agile and unerring, he possesses something of the stoic calm of the hedgehog, and is as natural in his art as when partaking of a beefsteak in privacy.

He flashes before the vision on stage or drawing-room platform in dress so immaculate that it would seem to the uninitiated that his toilet is the result of hours of care and deliberation. In the costume of an old-world dandy he struts about, swaying his long-laced sleeves with exquisite grace over his snuff-box, the while he patters his part. A moment after, like a shooting star, he has swung himself through a door, reappearing almost instantaneously by means of another entrance, transformed in wig and attire to a totally different individual in age and character.

Thus he continues playing his many parts so nimbly that one can scarcely believe he has not a bevy of actors hidden in the wings ready to fly through doors and windows as quickly as a cork pops from a bottle.

That his agility is grounded on a studied method, and his versatile acting the result of wheels within wheels, well-oiled, and precise as the mechanism of a clock, is difficult to believe until his secrets of manipulation are revealed.

“How is it done?” whispers the youth, palpitating with aspirations to do likewise. Well, in only one way—that way simplicity itself, when once practice has made it perfect.

I am dealing now with the man who produces a play in which each rôle is played by himself, and will proceed to explain his[35] proceedings from the start, so that the ambitious amateur may, at the next Christmas party or home gathering, try a humble imitation, and gradually achieve glory and greatness in the eyes of his family.

Let us study the tools and qualities essential to the quick-change artist. His stock and properties are all inexpensive, save the wigs. It is not advisable to purchase cheap ones, as they soon show the signs of wear; while hair in good condition, and carefully kept, lasts for years.

His wardrobe contains garments of the cheapest material, and here the old clothes-bag of the house, in which articles doomed for a jumble sale are placed, is invaluable. A clever needle and a little ingenious manipulation result in splendid effects.

Every garment is made in one piece, and fastens at the back of the performer by means of clock springs, which may be purchased from any clockmaker (Figs. 1 and 1a). The springs are pliable bands of steel, cut and rounded, according to the size required, and punched with small holes, by means of which they are fixed with stitches to neck, waist, legs and wrists. These springs should be carefully[36] concealed in the hem, with sufficient material over to hide the opening at the back.

There is no time for fastening of buttons, tying of strings, adjusting of pins, or plastering of gum. Even the mustaches used are fixed by means of small silver springs, which adhere to the interior of the nostrils as firmly as the springs of eyeglasses pinch the top of the nose (Fig. 2).

The scenery required is also easily manufactured at home by the amateur carpenter. Thick brown paper, light wooden frames, or, better still, samples of wallpaper, fixed with small brass hinges, will serve excellently as an interior.

Until the student is far advanced in dexterity, it is wisest to limit his production to one environment.

The first thing, of course, is to choose a suitable piece. If you are clever with your pen, you may compose a sketch to please yourself. This is a good plan, for you will be governed in your production by what is most suitable and easy to your limitations. If, however, no suitable idea presents itself to you, go to any good dramatic firm, and spend a morning in looking through plays until you alight on something answering to your purpose.

In choosing a play, avoid an elaborate cast, complicated plot, or speeches. Long monologues are wearisome and monotonous; while, on the other hand, conversations of too rapid a character will be impossible to manage satisfactorily, however skillful your manipulation.

The novice should begin with a curtain raiser, containing two or three persons, and the movement should be brisk and interesting. Having fixed on his play, he studies his scenery.

He must have sufficient entrances and exits. To use only one, so that the audience always knows through which door he is about to appear, spoils the effect of his cunning. It is far more dramatic to burst upon them from a direction least expected, and, to do this successfully, as many doors or windows are necessary, as in a production played by several persons; but these should not be so placed as to be aggressively prominent,—curtains, palms, screens, a sham[37] cupboard or fireplace, by means of which sudden comings and goings lend a thrilling reality to every movement. Fig. 3 depicts a suggested plan.

The different costumes to be used should be numbered in the order required, and this is where a cool-headed and reliable dresser is absolutely essential.

To robe oneself by means of picking up garments and wigs from chair or different pegs is slow work, and leaves the stage empty for too long a time to keep the spectators interested in one’s movements. The swiftest manipulation will be too slow to those awaiting the re-appearance, and, unless the movement is kept jogging, there will be no semblance of reality in the performance.

The dresser plays a part no less important than the artist. Upon leaving the stage the latter immediately wrenches from his person the garment in which he has just appeared. The dresser is close to the exit with costume No. 2 held out widely. The performer walks straight into the clothes, of which the clock springs are widely expanded. In a flash they close round his person. Another dresser adjusts wig, beard, &c., as he passes to his next entrance (Fig. 4), with the result that he[38] appears to answer the remark made by himself in the character No. 1 without any break being perceptible to the audience. Whilst speaking the words in the rôle of No. 2, the dresser is awaiting him at the next exit with No. 3 or No. 1 clothes, (if No. 1 and 2 are having a conversation), which he has swiftly picked up from the floor when discarded.

It is obvious that in order to be of real service the dresser must be as familiar with the words of the play as the performer. It is not enough only to know the cues. He must, by his knowledge, calculate to a hairbreadth how long No. 2 takes to reply, and be prepared upon the instant of exit with the apparel of No. 1.

A plan of modes of entrances and exits should be arranged beforehand between actor and dresser, and never altered. Each sketch must be founded on a different plan, and in each the movements should be so carefully practiced that they become almost a habit. Any chance alteration or mistake leads to bungling and loss of time, for, if No. 1 disappears through the exit fixed upon for No. 2, naturally the dresser will not be there awaiting him, and this mischance will probably throw all the succeeding movements into confusion.

The quick-change artist is employed in a race with time, and, time being swift and fleet of foot, the human competitor cannot possibly afford to loiter or blunder.

In a play or sketch in which several characters are to be impersonated[39] it does not make for speed to have installed as many dressers behind the scenes. One, or at the most, two reliable and experienced assistants are ample. A larger number will only hinder the artist’s and their own movements.

That there is a certain amount of nervous strain about this mode of performance cannot be denied, but, by constant practice and coolness, the artist greatly facilitates the mental effort that accompanies his portrayals.

A sketch should at most be of a half-hour’s duration. The actor needs some knowledge of acting, and must be able to change his voice to the different pitches required. It should range from the high-pitched falsetto of the aggressive female type of uncertain years to the gruff bass of the dogmatic father, while the cooing notes of the immaculate heroine should be carefully cultivated.

The artist must of necessity be clean-shaven, so that he can adapt beard, “mutton chops,” or mustache as required.

Figs. 5 and 6 show completed examples of one-piece transformations. Fig. 7 depicts coat and breeches combined.

Most important of all the quick-change artist must be self-reliant, self-confident, and absolute master of emotions engendered by nervousness, for these lead to loss of memory where words and modes of entrance and exit are concerned. While on the stage his mind must be concentrated on the part he is playing to the exclusion of everything else,[40] his attention as completely focused upon the impersonation as though the other characters were being undertaken by different individuals.

For many of these practical suggestions the writer is indebted to a versatile quick-change artist, who willingly revealed some of the secrets connected with his favorite form of entertainment. He emphasized the fact that success is not achieved by means of numerous wigs and costumes—a performer may possess the most elaborate wardrobe, repertoire, and paraphernalia, and yet sadly fail to move the interest and sympathy of his spectators.

As this artist remarked, the true art lies in facial expression, gesture, attitude, and change of voice. These must be cultivated assiduously before any one-man play is produced, for it is only when the features are plastic as rubber, gesture and attitude the perfection of mimicry, the voice containing every note in the range in which language is expressed, that the steep ladder of success is scaled, and the timid novice becomes transformed into the popular resourceful artist.

[41]

A very popular means of amusing a house-party is the impersonation of various characters. It is an entertainment more suitable to the limits of a drawing-room than tableaux or amateur theatricals, which of necessity entail a certain amount of expense, scenery, lighting, and much labor and anxiety in securing and drilling an efficient cast.

Although it is doubtless true that this art needs some natural talent, skill, and mastery of detail, much can be done by practice and self-reliance.

A clever man in the street amuses a long line of patient theater-goers, his only paraphernalia being a soft, pliable disc of black felt.

The metamorphosis that article undergoes in his hands is a marvel. Dexterously he wields it—a mere twist, and it is the three-cornered biretta of a cardinal. Another, and it shades the villainous glare of a brigand, who appears quite capable of cutting the throats of his audience. A deft touch and a strut, and it tops the head of a swaggering dandy. Next it shades the solemn, ascetic features of the priest. Tipped to a different angle, and the cockney grins with happy-go-lucky impertinence. Thus it is used to represent every grade of society from the highest to the lowest of humanity.

But miraculous as that piece of felt seems, it is really the eyes and gestures of the artist plying it that lend it personality, power, and magic of transformation. In the hands of one ignorant of the tricks, it is a futile and clumsy piece of mechanism.

A man may put a tea-cosy on his head and look absurd; another does the same, and behold!—a living Napoleon stands before us. The greater the artist, the simpler the preparations used, for the skilled representative trusts to eyes, gesture, and figure rather than to the material used.

Elasticity of feature is essential. Without this it is impossible to produce a living likeness. One may possess wigs, beards, eyebrows, sham noses, and skulls of every imaginable shape and size, and yet fail through inability to assume the expression peculiar to the study undertaken.

[42]

In rehearsing impersonations a mirror is as good and true a friend as in reciting. Observe how faithfully it reflects every change in the human countenance.

Supposing the character studied to be that of King Lear. First read your Shakespeare and memorize the lines which reach the very crisis of the agony and woe of love of that unfortunate monarch, as when, turning to his ungrateful, malignant daughters, Regan and Goneril, he cries—

Understand the breaking, raging, heart-throbbing beneath them. Repeat them aloud before the glass, with wild, burning eyes and quivering lips, with shaking hands upthrown and tensely up-drawn figure, and by-and-by, if not at once, you will see King Lear peering at you distraught.

When you have thoroughly gripped that image you may crown it with snowy hair, pent brows, and ragged beard—but not till then.

And now, supposing, for a change—for there is nothing like variety—you undertake so utterly different a character as that of his faithful fool. Here no jingling bells and jester’s folly are needed to aid you, for these may be, and frequently are, but the danger signals to discerning eyes of incompetent treatment; you want his shrewd, loyal heart in your breast, his pulse beating in your brain, your finger-tips. His cunning grin must be a wavering crack in a wizened face as you memorize such caustic saws as—

“Thou hast pared thy wit o’ both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle; here comes one o’ the parings.”

This method of memorizing and voicing some sentiment characteristic of the figure presented, is only for private use during rehearsals.

Costume performances are dumb, and, this being the case, it is easy to realize how eloquent and exact the physical contour must be for faithful similitude.

Regard the idea as an object being photographed. When you have gripped it, and, as it were, posed it before the camera of your brain, focus, produce, and develop it on your features, which may well be likened to a film.

[43]

In order to master the idiosyncrasies, mannerisms, eccentricities, and habits of characters, study is essential, and for this reason it is probably best to acquire knowledge, not from imaginary heroes of fiction or drama, but from the fount of Nature.

Popular statesmen, musicians, admirals, soldiers, prelates, scientists, novelists, and famous actors walk our streets to-day, and each possesses some anomaly of expression, feature, speech, gesture, or mannerism which is distinctly his own, and distinguishes him from his kind. Just as no two leaves of a tree or petals of a flower are exact duplicates, so in mankind—no matter how subtle the anomaly—it exists, and must be fathomed and included in the portrait; delicately if it is delicate, proportionately broadly and ostentatiously as it is broad and ostentatious.

For example, there are some persons whose peculiarities are as evasive and subtle as the bouquet of a wine, the bloom of a grape. We feel their influence, we realize them to be the essence of their individuality, and yet we fail to catch and master them; while there are other persons we meet whose eccentricities flare out at us in a moment, and illuminate a character more fully and faithfully than any words.

The pouting lip, the flickering eyelid, the shrug, the drumming on the table with the fingers, the stroking of nose or chin, the revolving of thumbs, the pushing or patting of the hair, are eloquent signs that he who runs may read, and make his own. These may be called ostentatious mannerisms.

The subtle peculiarities are far more difficult to catch and convey faithfully. One man suddenly narrows his eyes and looks introspectively at you, or the mouth clinches unexpectedly over the teeth without any apparent reason. A pulse suddenly quivers into sight at the temples, and is gone again. The expression falls into repose, but that very stillness indicates a perplexing and evasive expression of temperament and individuality that you cannot catch to your own satisfaction. You may note coloring of hair, beard, mustache, &c. You may purchase their exact match, and find the likeness only a shell, because the essence that lends delicate fragrance and character has escaped you, and without it your representation, however flawless in coloring and texture, is as unsatisfactory and unreal as the marble statue to the human face and form.

Fundamental to the successful rendition of character impersonation is the cultivation of dexterity and quickness. The dumb representative[44] must have all his regalia of wigs, beards, eyebrows, hats, helmets, cloaks, &c., well arranged, and within easy reach.

In a sense he is a conjuror—a magician. His movements must be swift as lightning. Indecision creates a jar; a pause or bungling spells failure. A small velvet-draped stand or table placed behind him, and within easy reach, with each article ready in the order wished, is essential. In the center of this should be a mirror, with a good electric light over it, but shaded as much as possible from the audience (Fig. 1).

The stand must be draped in dark colors, so as to obtrude as little as possible on the audience. While in preparation, all other lights near you should be turned off, and only switched on for a moment or two the instant you are ready. The attitude should be struck in the dark, and this must be sure and swiftly taken, and absolutely in keeping with the character assumed. Avoid grease paints as far as possible.

A pianoforte or small orchestra playing some melody suitable to the impersonation will prove a most valuable adjunct to the imagination of artist and audience.

Avoid such hackneyed characters as Napoleon, the late Sir Henry Irving, the German Emperor, and similar portrayals that may be witnessed any evening at almost any vaudeville hall. An audience is[45] frequently more amused by the imitation of types than of individuals.

The fat saloonkeeper, the costermonger (Fig. 2), the blasé gentleman of fashion, the racetrack bookmaker, the ruddy countryman, the lady-killing curate (Fig. 3), and the typical Soap King (Fig. 4), the country rustic (Fig. 5), and many other such types are excellent studies for representation.

Although the character portrayals of the costumed and wigged impersonator depend on wordless demonstrations between the items and in ordinary evening dress, the artist may announce the name of the personality to be represented, or have it worked in almanac fashion and shown to the audience as it appears.

The former method, however, is quite usual, and perhaps more suitable to drawing-room entertainments.

[46]

It may be kept in mind that this style of performance should not be unduly long, and should never exceed twelve or fifteen minutes.

Speaking impersonations are more difficult to achieve successfully, for in them, as a rule, the artist has no regalia to depend upon. His hair, his face, his voice, his limbs, his fingers are his only aids, but these are more than sufficient for the talented and skilled performer. His voice is as elastic as his features in power of mimicry.

He should be clean-shaven, but with a plentiful crop of hair, which he can arrange and manipulate as he wishes with a mere twirl or pat of the hand, and these must be sympathetic and convincing expressions of his every movement. “There is no more expression in the back of the hand than in the back of the head,” yet of what subtle demonstrations is it not capable?

A whole epitome of human emotions may be demonstrated by the gradual unfolding of the flexible, sensitive fingers. The first finger raised, and intelligence and meaning begin to develop. The palms upturned, the shoulders uplifted, and the head slightly bent, and you see the suave helplessness typical of the Frenchman.

The arms flung outward, with the palms parallel, and the fingers falling naturally, indicate sentiments of affection, welcome, and cordial invitation. Stretched farther away, with fingers distended, and you have entreaty, desire, passionate pleading, and supplication. The wrists upturned, the fingers crooked, and grasping, and we see the personification of rage and avarice, while the raising of the open hand, what horror it indicates!

Yet the hand is only a part of the mechanism. Its soul is in the eye, which combines in partnership and signifies calm, candor, liberality, love, gentleness, meditation, resentment, boldness, defiance, wrath, and fear, in complete accord with its dumb component.

The nostrils inflate in scorn, the head is proudly raised in dignity or joy, and meekly bowed in humility; bent forward in shame, squarely upright, with firm compressed features, for determination and will power.

The artist must never be tempted to sacrifice his cultured discretion in a portrayal. For instance, to give the cockney the musician’s hand, or the priest the bookmaker’s wink, the sly housebreaker anxious to escape notice the loud, boisterous guffaw of the countryman, is to be guilty of the most insensate blunders.

Action and gesture should be skilled and practiced handmaidens[47] to the brain that molds the idea, and their service must be winged to respond.

The psychological treatment of characters depends and is influenced in no slight degree by temperament. The character the student is about to study has its peculiar atmosphere of mind and body, which unconsciously dictates and regulates its actions from head to foot. The most important temperaments are:—

1. The optimistic temperament, embracing impulsive, warm-hearted, sanguine, easily-pleased, tender, ambitious dispositions.

2. The pessimistic temperament, embracing nervous, timid, sensitive, overwrought, peevish, unstable, irritable, depressed, neurotic, restless, dissatisfied, cynical, morbid, self-conscious dispositions.

3. The artistic temperament, embracing extravagant, sympathetic, imaginative, languid, reckless, turbulent, excitable, hot-tempered, brooding dispositions.

4. The commercial temperament, which embraces the phlegmatic, lymphatic, enigmatic dispositions.

Now, the first way of approaching a new study is to consider what characteristics it possesses, and to what class of temperament it belongs, and, when this is decided, the student asks himself, what gesture will be the most symbolic and eloquent of that temperament?

This method, conscientiously adhered to, will provide a safe and firm groundwork for the beginner.

With judgment and sense, he will soon be able to place his character in its right niche, and to plan his actions in accordance, even if he has never seriously studied gesture. The movements of an open-hearted, liberal man are usually large, free, and liberal. He opens his arms widely for an embrace. He gives you his hand in greeting warmly, and with frank, cordial pressure. His eyes shine clear and steady below a benevolent forehead. His walk, with its free, steady swing, is the index of his generous and kindly disposition.

Now contrast him with the mean man, the usual type of which is pinched in physical delineation, action, expression, and thought. His hair grows sparsely on a skull, screwed as grimly to his face as the upper section of a bicycle bell to the lower. His eye is squeezed in a narrow slit of socket, roves backwards and forwards like a marble[48] in a puzzle-box. His mouth is withered in bitter antagonism for his fellow-men. To catch a generous smile upon his colorless lips is to surprise a sunbeam at midnight.

Of course, there are many shades in the scale between these extremes of the very liberal man and the very mean one, and the artist who is imitating the thrifty soul must remember the infinitesimal points of difference which distinguish him alike from the benevolent and avaricious.

And, in the wide margin of temperaments, an artist must be careful not to label and pigeon-hole his characters as if they were bottles of physic, for in the complex nature of one man there may be vast contradictions, just as in many good medicines there is a minute quantity of poison, so a disposition may be tinted with qualities not at all worthy of admiration.

There are occasions when the most impulsive becomes cold and hesitating, the most affectionate cruel, the most benevolent calculating, and the most patient, hot-tempered and passionate.

The artist must never forget the important crucible of circumstances which molds and forms each character, and sometimes is potent to change the most optimistic temperament to one of pessimism and cynical bitterness. Yet, while remembering this, one must probe beneath the stamped envelope of environment to decipher the hieroglyphics of the fettered soul inclosed.

One does not find the wild, untutored gestures of the stump orator in the refined politician, nor the turbulent raving of the fanatic in the sermon of the cultured ecclesiastic, while the expression natural to the plebeian is such as the aristocrat never indulges.

There are many natures so complex as to defy all classification, and to portray them successfully is an almost impossible matter unless one masters the delicate mechanism of their nature. A grandfather’s clock to outward appearance is a figured circle in a narrow wooden case, with softly regularly-moving pendulum, but get behind that exterior to the revolving wheels, and see what an amount of intricacies are involved. So the man who presents a calm, self-possessed exterior to the world, may in reality seethe with qualities not at all phlegmatic or level-headed.

In conquering the technicalities of character, one must, as far as possible, grip the crisis the personality has reached in his lifetime, and this is one reason why a historic character is easier to grasp than one contemporaneous. For example, he who portrays Napoleon in the flush[49] of success and victory, does not represent him as he who images him at the end of his career—broken-hearted, alone, and in despair, suffering the calumny and scorn of those who exhibited most faith and admiration of his sanguinary achievements.

Correct attitude and pose are extremely important, and should be carefully studied. The old man has tottering bowed knees, but the youth stands firmly.

The reverberation of the interior gestures rules and gives to the torso or trunk the inspiring grace of truth and beauty. It is only when a soldier or sailor on duty is being represented that the artist may stand bolt upright and move automatically. At all other times the torso should be held with flexible ease, ready to combine with eye, face and gesture, in the emotion and force of the impersonation. To portray the child with mature and abandoned gesture is to present a caricature of nature, and, in like manner, to represent the adult with the careless gestures of the child, is to convey the impression of one inane and undeveloped.

In attitude, remember the maxim of Cresollius: “Without the hand, no eloquence.”

To imagine a boy stealing jam with the wild eye and hand-clawing attitude of the miser snatching at gold is to exaggerate grossly and confuse the human emotions, and to paint comedy as the burlesque of tragedy. The hands are capable of such a vast amount of expression that they have been considered “numerous and copious as words themselves.”

While imitating characters, never be bound by the representations of other artists you have seen. See with your own eyes, study with your own brain, avoid that conventionality of fashion and ideas that cripples progress. Let your maxims be your own, and, when they are mastered, be not ashamed to demonstrate them with grand and self-reliant originality.

[50]

Every entertainer must have felt at some time or other the need of a short “gag” to fill up that awkward gap which so frequently occurs between the conclusion of one long piece and the commencement of another.

The mind of an audience is of a flighty nature and requires to be kept continually amused, or it will wander into paths of boredom; and many a good entertainment has failed for the simple reason that the ball has not been kept rolling.

It is during one of these uncomfortable pauses that the Universal Hat may be appropriately introduced, and, if worked well, it cannot fail to gain approval.

You can either buy or make a Universal Hat, and as to do the former will cost a dollar or more, whilst the latter can be done for less than half that sum, it is well to be your own hat-maker.

Obtain a piece of fairly strong black felt, measuring 24 inches square, and cut it into a ring, the diameter of the whole circle being 24 inches, with a hole in the center 7 inches across. That is all that is required as far as the hat is concerned, and the success of your piece will now rest entirely with yourself.

Arrange a screen behind which to retire, and have a good-sized mirror, so placed that you will be able to see in a moment how your head-dress suits. Keep a little rouge ready, as well as a burnt cork for blacking eyebrows, making mustaches, &c. Remember that quickness is a necessity, for the smarter you are in changing your hats the more the audience will appreciate the effect.

Now to give a few examples of what can be done with the universal hat, so arranged as to give scope for any amount of ingenuity in inventing new ideas.

Before beginning your show step from behind the screen, raise the ring of felt in your hand, and exhibit it to the audience. Then step back under cover, put the hat on your head, giving it a tilt in[51] front and a rakish tip to one side, assume a stern expression, and, if you have a dog-whip amongst the stage properties, grasp it firmly in your hand, and make an appearance before the spectators in the character of Buffalo Bill. Take care always to face the audience as in Fig. 1, otherwise the top of your head will be seen through the hole in the hat.

Remember that in this, as in all the other characters, a lot—indeed, almost everything—depends upon your expression, which should be entirely in keeping with the person you represent. Buffalo Bill must not wear a grin, but must appear as grimly in earnest as though he were hastening to the relief of the Deadwood stage.

Another point to bear in mind, is that you must not make a long appearance. A minute for each character is ample, and, as you appear before your audience, announce who you are in a tone suggestive of the person you are representing. A few remarks in keeping with the character will greatly add to the realism of your make-up, but let your words be like your appearances—brief and effective.

Napoleon makes a good character to represent, and his hat is very easily made. Draw two sides of the felt through the hole in the center, and pull the hat firmly down about your ears, as in[52] Fig. 2. Assume a stern expression, suggestive of Waterloo, thrust your left hand into your breast, hump your shoulders, and look fiercely at the audience as though you could see Wellington at the farther end of the room.

Later on in the performance you can represent Bonaparte’s great antagonist by making the hat in the same way, but wearing it with the peak forward as in Fig. 3.

General Wolfe is another easy character to assume. His hat is made in this way. Lay the felt ring flat on the table, lift up one side, draw it towards you and then pass it downwards through the hole. Pull back the piece that you have passed through the hole, in the direction from which you took it in the first place, and you will find it has made a hat of the shape shown in Fig. 4. When you fit it on your head pull it firmly down towards your ears, but not too tightly, and the effect will be complete. A little practice will serve to perfect you in making the twists necessary for this and other hats, and patience will soon reward you. To heighten the resemblance to General Wolfe, whiten your cheeks with a little chalk and draw them slightly in, to give the appearance of being haggard and wan. If you can get a sword, point to the ceiling with it enthusiastically, as one can imagine the General did when he encouraged his men to climb the Heights of Abraham.

As a contrast to these more exalted personages, you can now appear as the coal driver; although if you wish to increase the realism by smearing your face into a state of suitable dirtiness with burnt cork, it would be advisable to leave this character to the last. To make the hat, lay your felt flat as before and draw up a piece from the rim as was done in the case of General Wolfe. Now, instead of passing it completely through the hole, push it only halfway through, giving[53] it what may be called a half twist. It will then appear as in Fig. 5, ready for wear. Draw it tightly over your head, and slouch upon the scene, putting your hand to your mouth and shrieking “Coal O!” in a cracked voice.

You may now appear as a priest in a biretta. Place the felt upon the table and then draw a side from below, up through the hole, exactly[54] the reverse way from that in which Wolfe’s hat was made. When you have drawn it right through, bend it down and pass it up through the hole once more, thus making two twists. It then resembles Fig. 6, and if you draw it upon your head with the broad brim flush against the forehead, the impersonation will be striking. Tuck a little lapel of white into the collar, raise your right hand with two fingers extended, and face the company with as pious an expression as you can assume.

As a last example, an effective appearance may be made as the famous Pied Piper of Hamelin. Having laid the felt flat, make a twist from below upwards, as you did in the former hat—the priest’s biretta. But for this hat only one twist is required, so when you have done this, the hat will appear as in Fig. 7. You must now put your hands in the opening and stretch it as wide as possible, thus making the rolls very taut and firm. Turn the felt over and fit it on the head as shown in the picture. Draw your collar up, take a tin whistle in your hand, and pipe a few notes before making your appearance. Then slink into view with a cunning smile upon your lips, reciting these lines from the poem:—

[55]

Of course these are but hints. An ingenious person will soon discover endless other ways of adapting the Universal Hat in such a manner as to keep the audience amused for some considerable time. Always remember, however, these two axioms—

[56]

Some people imagine that a black face, a pair of large check trousers and a rather dilapidated hat, are all that’s necessary to make a nigger minstrel. This is, however, a great mistake, and whosoever feels the stirring of an ambition to amuse his friends with a nigger entertainment, must not be discouraged if he finds the road harder than he expected. Its difficulties, however, are far from insurmountable.

For a really successful nigger entertainment seven persons are necessary; the interlocutor—usually known as Mr. Johnson—one bass and one tenor singer and four “end-men.” The troupe should be arranged as shown in Fig. 1. Now, before describing what to do, a few words as to how you should arrange yourselves will not be out of place. The stage should be raised, if possible, to enable any member of the audience to see the performers. Unless you are performing[57] a farce or drama, such as will be described later, a curtain is not absolutely necessary, provided the troupe can get to the stage without having to pass right through the assembled company.

As far as “make-up” is concerned, this should present no difficulty whatever. Many barbers, and some music shops, can supply “nigger black,” which must be rubbed into the face and hands, after the skin has been well washed and dried. When the performance is over the black can easily be removed by means of soap and hot water. To redden the lips and enlarge the mouth, use carmine or rouge; cover the lips and paint them to appear as though stretching almost from ear to ear (Fig. 2). Cheap wigs can be obtained for but a small sum from any hairdresser. Those of Mr. Johnson and the sentimentalists should be as shown in Fig. 3, while each of the “end-men” should provide himself with one similar to that depicted in Fig. 4. The “interlocutor” and sentimentalists usually wear ordinary evening dress, the “end-men,” however, wearing frilled collars, cuffs and fronts, as shown in Fig. 5. A complete outfit comprising stockinette face, head, eyes, teeth, and hat can be purchased for about $2.50.

[58]

Music is a necessity with a troupe, and you will accordingly require another person to play the piano as an accompaniment to the songs and choruses, as well as for the overture and instrumental pieces. It is also presumed that the members of the troupe have fairly good voices and are able to sing, not only in tune but in time with one another.

In serious or sentimental songs, such as “Swanee River” and other favorites, the “end-men” must forego their love of mirth and take part in all solemnity, reserving their facetious behavior for a more timely moment. After these remarks the principal characters in the troupe may be discussed.

The interlocutor is one of the most important persons upon the stage. It is his duty to introduce each number of the programme to the audience; to be the butt of the “end-men’s” jokes; and to assume upon every occasion an air of the utmost ignorance and simplicity, that shall prove an admirable foil to the exuberant humor of his companions. He must appear absolutely innocent of any idea of the answers to the riddles and conundrums asked, and must reply to the occasionally personal remarks of his friends with the utmost suavity and good humor. In short, what with helping the others to sing and keeping the ball rolling generally, Mr. Johnson is responsible, to a large extent, for the success or failure of the entertainment.

The “end-men,” with whom lies the task of producing most of the fun of the nigger entertainment, must be possessed of a ready wit—able to tide over awkward pauses, prepared with some “gag” when the fun is beginning to flag, and capable of turning disaster into a mighty success. From Mr. Johnson’s placid obtuseness they will be able to draw much sport, and bandying jokes at each other’s and the interlocutor’s expense, should keep the audience shaking with laughter.

Whilst on the subject of jokes a note of warning may be struck. The moment humor changes to vulgarity, it produces disgust in any respectable audience. It is therefore well worth while to think over the regular jokes you intend introducing into the performance, and if[59] there be any that are in the remotest way likely to offend the feelings of any person in the company, cut them out.

There is another point worth remembering in the matter of jokes. It may seem a truism to remark that a joke should be funny, yet the very funniest of jokes will fall flat if it is not led up to suitably. Don’t ask Mr. Johnson a conundrum in a meek tone as though you were requesting him to tell you the time. His immovably suave ignorance will extract the answer from you, it is true, but the chances are ten to one that the audience have either missed the question or will fail to see the point of the answer.

Jokes should be introduced by a certain amount of patter which serves to engage the attention of the hearers in such a way that when the inevitable fun really comes they are perfectly prepared to appreciate it. Books can be bought containing numbers of these jokes with the suitable patter, and these will prove very useful to the amateur, who must nevertheless remember that success really depends upon the way in which he springs the joke upon the audience.

And now a word about the singing. It goes without saying that the larger the troupe and the better trained the voices, so much the more enjoyable will be the choruses. The number of songs from which to select is legion; the best plan is to write to some leading musical publisher, telling him what you want. He will be only too pleased to send his catalogue with some advice as to what will prove suitable. Avoid any comic songs with a double or doubtful meaning, and keep to strictly characteristic songs as far as possible. Old favorites never fail to win applause, and are always safe to fall back upon; but do not be too conservative—try some novelties.

Nigger entertainments are usually divided into two parts, the first consisting of songs and “gags,” as the short dialogues and impromptu jokes are called, whilst the second is devoted to stump speeches and one-act dramas or farces. So far as stump speeches are concerned, excellent collections are published by the leading publishers of that class of entertainment. Your bookseller will obtain a catalogue for you, and a choice can then be made. The speeches should be very carefully learnt by heart, together with the appropriate gestures (for which full instructions are always given), and unceasingly practiced until you are able to make your stump oratory bring down the house with delight.[60] Stump speeches are the province of the “end-men,” and properly delivered, can be relied upon to prove one of the successes of the evening.

With regard to one-act dramas and farces, a very exhaustive catalogue can be furnished by publishers, with full instructions as to how they should be performed. A word of advice, however, to the intending actors. Too much care cannot be expended upon preparation and rehearsals. Nothing will go of itself in this world, and least of all plays and sketches; it is a fatal mistake to imagine that the smallest drama or even “gag” will succeed by its own merits and with only a little help from yourself. Endless trouble and care must be taken in preparing the simplest joke, and boisterous as the fun may prove upon the stage, it cannot be spontaneous, but must be diligently rehearsed again and again before it can be presented to your audience.

Your great object is, not to enjoy the fun yourself but to make the others enjoy it, and if this is borne in mind, you will not only amuse them but have a delightful time yourself. Again, never forget that in a play one actor relies upon another to repeat the actual words of the “book,” as cues and stage directions depend upon verbal accuracy. Do not, therefore, introduce any novelties of your own—learn the words and keep to them, for any original introductions on your part may throw the whole play into disorder, exasperate the other actors and disgust the audience.

To keep to the “book” is easy enough, and if you act in earnest—and this is essential for the most comic pieces—you will find no difficulty in sustaining your part correctly and intelligently. Do not laugh at your own jokes, unless you are instructed to do so, but keep a grave face and appear as though to find yourself in the most farcical situations were a matter of everyday life.

To give an idea of a reasonably simple programme which shall include a farce, the following is suggested:—

PART I

Overture on the piano. A march.

Chorus. Some song in which all voices can join.

Solo. Preferably a sentimental song.

Jokes. Properly led up to by an end-man.

Comic Song. Also by an end-man.

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Solo. Another sentimental song. And so on for ten or eleven turns, after which comes the

Interval. During this the pianist can entertain the audience with some operatic piece.

PART II

Chorus. As above.

Piano Solo. Whilst this is being played the stage should be prepared for the

Stump Speech.

Curtain and Piano Solo. During which the stage is arranged for the

Farce.

Solo. Sentimental song.

Finale.

This programme must, of course, be adapted to any exigencies of time, space or other circumstances, but will serve as an example of what can be done.

To conclude with a few hints as to the actual entertainment. If possible, have a sufficient number of programmes printed, or carefully and legibly written by hand, as the most tolerant audience grows restive if it does not know “what comes next.” Distribute these, and let one of your party make it his business to see that the company are properly and comfortably seated. Begin punctually; if your audience have to wait they become impatient, and as there are few people more incapable of seeing a joke than impatient folk, it will be to your own advantage to begin at the proper time. Be as silent as possible behind the scenes; it is very tantalizing for the spectators to hear a wild rushing hither and thither, hoarse whispering, and the various signs of excitement in which they are not allowed to participate.

Of course a certain amount of bustle is unavoidable, but reduce it to a silent minimum. Do not be shy; remember in the first place that the black hides all your blushes, and in the second place that nobody is there to see you, but to see a “nigger” who is going to make them laugh. Half of your audience have probably done the same in their time, whilst the other half would have done so if they could; so take heart, and show them all how really well it can be done. However well-disposed your company may be, do not let that be any excuse for slovenliness on your part, but let it rather incite you to work all the harder, so that when everything is finished and the black is off your faces, the universal opinion will be—“We would never have imagined that it could be carried out so well!”

[62]

In the previous chapter hints have been given to enable a party of five or more performers to give a Nigger Minstrel Entertainment. The object of the following is to show how one or two people can contrive to amuse their friends with a few negro performances.

The pieces are suitable either as items in a variety entertainment, or as convenient “gags” to be introduced between longer entertainments when the interest of the audience is to be sustained by some timely diversion.

It might be remarked, by the way, that it is surprising how much the effect of a joke depends upon the humor of the audience. If they are feeling in a happy and pleasant frame of mind, the mere sight of a comic man is sufficient to bring forth roars and shrieks of laughter. But if a gloom or lack of interest has settled over the company, even the comic genius of the late Dan Leno would most probably have failed to raise a smile.

There are two things almost invariably associated with nigger songs—a banjo and bones. Proficiency with both these is necessary before attempting to give an entertainment.

Practice and a quick ear are indispensable for playing or even strumming a banjo. A very little practice will enable you to strike chords with ease, whilst a quick ear will show when they should be played.

To make a successful “hit” with the “bones” is a question, more or less, of knack.

A set of four bones costs about $1.00. When buying take care they are sound, i.e. with no crack or flaw, and that they contain no core of pith, as this is liable to dull the sound, rendering it quite impossible to obtain the sharp clean click so necessary for successful rendition.

Having obtained your bones—a pair for each hand—you must know how they should be held. Notice they are slightly curved, as in Fig. 1. With a pair in each hand place the ends between the first and second and second and third fingers, the convex sides towards[63] each other (Fig. 2). Hold No. 1 (the bone between the first and second fingers) fairly firmly, although not so stiffly as to rob it of a distinct spring. No. 2 (the bone between the second and third fingers) must be rapped up against its companion by the action of the third and fourth fingers.

A sharp shake of the hand will make the bones clap together, while if you keep the hand quivering and also work bone No. 2 vigorously a continuous rattle is produced.

A good plan, when once you are accustomed to having the bones between the fingers, is to hold the hand with the knuckles upwards, the bones pointing to the ground, as in Fig. 3. By this means the fingers are allowed freer play. At the same time a better appearance is given to the exhibition.

At first you will find your rattles jerky and spasmodic, but do not be content until you have the bones so entirely under command that you can make a long rattle as easily as a solitary tap, remembering that the less exertion you betray the better will be the effect.

Your own ear will show you how to introduce them into the music. Do not drown the air—the bones are only intended to give a point, to accentuate certain parts and not to render them inaudible. A smart rattle may be given at the commencement of the music and at the conclusion of the song.

All jokes should be introduced by a certain amount of conversational patter between the Interlocutor and “Bones.”

Mr. Johnson, the interlocutor, is always a very simple-minded[64] person, unable to see any joke until it has been fairly thrown at him, and perfectly innocent in the presence of the most obnoxious puns. He has a certain patronizing air with his companion which only serves to make his innate simplicity more delightful. Mr. Johnson maintains an impassive face in the most ludicrous and trying situations by his very matter-of-fact behavior, extracting all kinds of smart things from the funny man.

“Bones” is the very reverse of Mr. Johnson. He is up to all the latest catches, full of quips and puns, is possessed of a never-failing store of quaint experiences and remarkable stories, the most improbable of which are gravely swallowed by Johnson. Yet the big red lips on his broad black face must be immovable and never show the least symptom of a smile as he recounts with stolid solemnity his marvelous doings to his credulous friend.

The following dialogue is arranged for these two characters. Mr. Johnson asks Bones all kinds of simple and apparently harmless questions; but Mr. Bones replies with a constant succession of puns and jokes:—

Johnson. So you’ve been enjoying yourself, William, lately, I understand. Dining out a good deal?

Bones. Oh yes, that’s right. I’d dine with anybody.

Johnson. Yes, but I’m told you dined with the Mayor last week. Is that right?

Bones. Oh yes, that’s right.

Johnson. Then I suppose you had an excellent dinner—plenty to eat and drink. What was the menu?

Bones. Well, to tell you the truth, there was a lot of ’em there, but I don’t recollect him.

Johnson. Ah, you don’t understand me. I mean what was the bill of fare?

Bones. Oh, well, it was a pretty fair bill. I believe it cost him about $300.

Johnson. No, you don’t understand me. I mean what dishes did you have to eat?

Bones. Well, we didn’t eat any dishes.

Johnson. No, no, of course not; but what did you have to eat and drink?

Bones. Well, I believe the first thing we had to eat was something to drink.

Johnson. And what did you have to drink, then?

Bones. Well, it was a new soup.

Johnson. A new soup! Well, I should like to know what that was. What was it called?

[65]

Bones. Oh, I don’t remember exactly what it was, but you might mention the names of a few to help me.

Johnson. Well, was it Mullagatawny?

Bones. No, it wasn’t Multigatony.

Johnson. Was it Mock Turtle?

Bones. No, it wasn’t him.

Johnson. Was it gravy?

Bones. No.

Johnson. Was it spring?

Bones. No, it wasn’t spring, it was summer.

Johnson. Well, I must give it up, William. What was it?

Bones. Oh, I know, it was what they call—er—er—shadow soup.

Johnson. Oh, then, it must be a new soup. I’ve never heard of shadow soup.

Bones. Never heard of shadow soup?

Johnson. No, I haven’t. I should like to taste that. How is it made?

Bones. I’ll tell you. You go down to the market, buy a nice chicken, take it home, stretch a line across the yard, hang the chicken in the middle of the line, put a nice clean pail of water under the chicken, and when the sun comes out it casts its beautiful rays on the chicken, reflects the shadow in the pail of water, and that’s what they call shadow soup.

Johnson. Oh, you go down to the market, buy a nice chicken, take it home, stretch a line across the yard, hang the chicken in the middle of the line, put a nice clean pail of water under the chicken, and when the sun comes out it casts its beautiful rays on the chicken and reflects the shadow in the water, and that’s what they call shadow soup.

Bones. Yes.

Johnson. But, my dear sir, you’ve forgotten one of the principal things.

Bones. Oh, have I? What’s that?

Johnson. What’s that? Why, supposing you have no sun?

Bones. Well, then—you have no soup.

A little extra effort in the matter of make-up might be attempted for stump speeches, for the orator should be as “seedy” as possible in the way of costume. A tattered coat and battered hat are usually considered essential to the character, whilst an old dilapidated umbrella, of bulky form and shapeless proportions, is useful for brandishing at the emotional parts or thumping as the impressive points in the speech are reached.

[66]

The stump orator should deliver his speech mounted upon a rickety chair or table, for his exaggerated endeavors to maintain his balance will be certain to cause fun amongst the audience.

Having taken his position with much danger, and with a familiar look at the spectators, the speaker may embark upon the lecture. He should speak distinctly and slowly, pausing every now and again to illustrate his remarks with some quip or to steady himself upon the very rocky pulpit.

As an example he may take the following, which will serve for the opening sentences of a stump speech on “Sound”:—

Ladies and Gentlemen, and others. I have much, I have much (puts hand in pocket as if to feel how much money he has), I say I have much—much feeling of proudness in assembling here in large numbers before you—me—you here dis even. The subject of my investigation has been for many long years, that is to say early years, short years, new years, old years, pig’s and donkey’s ears, and the rest of the human race. I say the subject of my intellectual and not at all less pig’s-head-a-frying lecture on the various means of communicating our thoughts, words, title-deeds, and other chattels, such as sauce-pans, frying-pans, umbrellas, knobbed sticks, brick-bats and bricks without bats, I say the subject of this important question, whether it be the pop-shopular question or whether it be unwise to mention, or otherwise in dimension, let it be understood that previous to preparing myself to begin—to commence, I must ask a few questions about the temperaments, detriments out-o-debtriments, cape-abilities, cloak-abilities, hats, caps, boots, shoes, underlinen, socks, and other kind of earthenware. I say before I, as I said before I said “I say before”—this subject can be clothes-properly dissolved, we will, although I say it myself, ladies and gentlemen, I say we shall, ladies, we shall all be dead men. (Takes pinch of snuff, wipes nose with wet part of handkerchief, wiping off some black. Resumes dialogue.)

Taking it for granted that the would-be minstrels have reasonably good voices, the only difficulty will be “selection.” Of course a great deal of tact is required to know what class of music is best suited to the audience.

Have as much variety as possible. Do not confine yourself exclusively to comic songs or to sentimental ditties alone. At all costs keep your audience cheerful and amused. Too much humor is apt to nauseate, but too much melancholy will certainly spell failure. Try to gauge the temper of your company, and if they seem to prefer the[67] serious to the comic parts on your programme, or vice versâ, make as quick and effective an alteration as you can. They must be made to appreciate you—not simply to tolerate you.

To have a piano accompaniment is a distinct acquisition if the voices be of doubtful merit. For accomplished singers a banjo is quite sufficient, but the amateur will certainly find that a friend at the piano is very handy and reliable. This is, of course, entirely a matter of individual taste and circumstances.

A very good selection of nigger dialogues, speeches, &c., can be obtained from any theatrical publisher. The entertainer will be furnished with useful ideas for a programme, including some of the most successful minstrels’ songs and drolleries.

As the Stump Orator would say, “We must now draw a delusion to our not over long lecture,” feeling confident that the amateur nigger will find his entertainment as great a source of pleasure to himself as of amusement to the audience.

[68]

Tableaux may be divided into two important classes—the portrayal of abstract qualities, which usually includes motionless figures posed in sustained attitudes, and historic and romantic groups, in which the actor is allowed some occupation.

[69]

The first class is most difficult of successful achievement. In it, the whole gamut of emotions common to mankind may be symbolized, and in these attitude and gesture are governed by the mind, which should be revealed in every muscle, curve, and limb of the human frame.

Strength, courage, fidelity, chivalry, purity, and honesty should be posed in such a manner that the simple grandeur and dignity of these attributes cannot be mistaken. The hero, the martyr, the ascetic, the fanatic have each a commonly recognized type and pose.

The shrinking form of the coward—he who fears all things greater than himself—must bear the stamp of the puny soul unveiled. The eye of the hypocrite, the cunning, the evil and degraded, is as different from the gaze of the pure of heart as the muddy, stagnant pool is different from the wide, blue expanse of salt sea—the air of a foul room from the breath inhaled beneath the open sky.

[70]

And in the same way that grand music is expressive of all human emotions, and as welcome to the ear as the song of birds, so form and color, attitude and character, in living pictures are potent emblems of the strength and weakness of complex humanity.

The figure that is to symbolize Hope must possess that wondrous attribute in herself, otherwise no trickery of dress or limelight can make her anything but a caricature of the spirit of optimism.

So that, in order to portray virtues and vices as they are, the stage manager’s craft reaches beyond superficial knowledge. Psychology and intuition are even more important to him than experience regarding blending of colors, arrangement of lights and grouping of forms, for the human mind is the keynote in which his music is revealed, the touchstone of his secret, the mystic spirit dominating the symmetry of gesture.

In the choice of individuals, personal character is weighty—pink and white flesh tints, however perfectly blended in a face, do not stand for Patience, Charity, or Sympathy unless the heart behind is pulsed on the pivot-springs of these virtues, for the experienced eye of the spectator probes beyond paint and attitude, and knows perfectly well whether these virtues are rightly embodied or merely distorted mimicry.

Therefore the stage manager of tableaux vivants, before all else, needs penetration in recognizing and choosing exponents suitable to interpret the abstract conditions he is anxious to depict, and it is only when his choice is made that the training, grouping, and scenic effects need be considered.

Tableaux vivants are in character not unlike a symphony. The theme in both is important. In the latter, the interweaving of other parts enhances the beauty of the dominating strain, as in the former, where harmonizing colors and stage effects, important as they are, remain ever subordinate to the principal conception aspired.

Of course, in the training of subjects, it is very necessary that one attitude should be maintained by each figure and remain unbroken from the lift to the fall of the curtain, and this without rigidity of body, unless the characteristic is typified in rigid lines; but even more important is the necessity that the mind should not waver nor the features change to an expression not in harmony with the attribute typified.

Hope does not frown or smile, and all nervous twitching is absent from the tranquil face and figure of Serenity. Courage shows a lofty brow and steady eye—the shoulders are squared resolutely, but not aggressively.

Mercy, Pity, Love, Gentleness, Sweetness, and Charity are most[71] perfectly imaged by women, who naturally possess these virtues; Dignity, Determination, Steadfastness, and Chivalry by men. But the stage manager need not limit himself by any conventions in this particular, for it sometimes happens that a woman’s face and form breathe characteristics usually found in certain types of manhood, while a man’s countenance may be eloquent of the gentle virtues typical of womanhood.

The thoughts of each character must be concentrated on the part undertaken, and the onlookers absolutely forgotten. As far as possible the actors should forget that there is a certain amount of strain in the immovable pose, otherwise limbs will twitch and the balance and pose be in peril. With sufficient practice it will not be difficult to remain in the attitude fixed upon for the few minutes after the curtain is lifted. It is only at first that the limbs, either through inexperience or nervousness, prove rebellious. The impersonators should not be afraid to breathe regularly, for this prevents artificial rigidity.

Figures should not be crowded together. A small stage, such as would be used in a drawing-room, requires a picture in proportion. The dresses and lights should blend harmoniously with the background and frame.

Fig. 1 depicts the lighting arrangement at back of frame. The guard-wires, running from side to side, are to prevent the possibility of dresses catching fire. The footlights usually consist of ordinary night-lights with illumination glass covers. Behind these are tin shades for reflectors. Electric light, if available, can be substituted for oil lamps as shown. In the same sketch a curtain-raising apparatus also appears. Two persons should be chosen for its manipulation, and be always stationed in such a position that they can draw and divide the curtain at the given signal.

Every separate production is timed by the stage manager or some other reliable person, and the duration of each should be exact. Three, or at the most four, minutes are ample time for the audience to take in the details of the picture, and the instant the curtain is drawn another group is arranged, the actors being perfectly familiar with the position and pose they are to take, going to their places without confusion or disorder.

In a succession of group-pictures different groups of actors are necessary, for it is impossible for the same persons to change their costumes in the minute or so that intervenes before the succeeding spectacle.

[72]

Where the number of players amounts to fifteen, twenty, or twenty-five, the number of tableaux arranged upon can be divided between them, and the productions, consisting of from two to five figures, arranged in such a way that during group A’s tableaux group B is ready in the wings and takes the stage the instant group A disappears through a different exit to the dressing-room. Next, group C takes group B’s place in the wings, and so on with all the groups. In this way each has a few minutes in which to change.

Confusion and fussing will be prevented by each group knowing exactly their manner and mode of entrance. Some plan, which renders it impossible for group A leaving the stage to collide with group B in the wings, must be fixed upon. Because the tableaux take[73] place in a strange drawing-room, where there is not much accommodation possible behind the platform, and few entrances and exits, is no adequate excuse for any bungling or confusion.

However limited the space, the stage manager and his company should hit upon some plan that makes for order and precision. To do this, the performers should come early to rehearse entrances and exits, and then memorize them, for any mistake behind the scene, even if of so slight a character that it does not retard the productions, is apt to disturb the nerves of the players, and rob them of their necessary calm.

There should be no laughing or talking, for sounds easily penetrate through a drawing-room, and not only disturb the audience, but draw from their task the attention of the group occupying the stage.

The stage manager, who feels unable to represent abstract qualities perfectly, would do well to avoid them altogether.

It may happen that his actors include a few who are absolutely raw material where tableaux are concerned, and upon such occasions he should always have a few studies in his repertoire in which motionless poses are not necessary.

For example, a pretty novice, sitting at a spinning-wheel, weaving imaginary threads from a spindle of flax, will do very well as Penelope, spinning her endless garment during the absence of Ulysses. In a simple white or colored gown, with her hair falling over her shoulders, and her head bent slightly over the wheel, she makes a pleasing picture.

Cinderella, seated on the floor, gazing into the cinders, with her hands clasped round her knees, is another quite easily adopted attitude.

Another pretty scene, acted over the spinning-wheel, is the Lady of Shalott, weaving “a magic web with colors gay,” and peering from time to time at the mirror above her, which reflects “the highway near, winding down to Camelot.”

In this tableau the facial expression is wholly different from that which dominates Penelope’s features. Penelope’s labor is inspired by stratagem, to keep her unwelcome suitors at bay. Her soul is steeped in a patience so melancholy that it verges on despair, whereas the Lady of Shalott “weaves by night and day,” because she believes she is chained to her task by an awful power. If she pauses a moment, a curse will fall upon her. Her eyes, therefore, are wild with fear, her face contorted, her fingers pluck the threads feverishly, and there is none of Penelope’s listlessness in her wild agonized concentration.

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History and fiction teem with incidents that can be easily translated into groups, wherein an absolutely motionless attitude is not required.

The three witches in “Macbeth,” in their cone-shaped hats, tattered rags, and disheveled hair, their wild, evil prophecy, seared in the deep lines of their withered faces, haunched on the ground conspiring together.

Guinevere, prone on the convent floor of “the holy house at Almesbury”; King Arthur, fully armed, and stained with battle, bending over her in agonized tenderness, pity, and shame; and many other examples, which will easily be found by the stage manager, ambitious to exhibit pictures more unique than those usually adopted.

The materials used for characters need not be expensive or difficult to procure. Cheap sateens, muslins, velveteens, gold paper pasted over cardboard and large buttons, glass diamonds and emeralds, tinsel and silver braid, bright-colored ribbons from the remnant basket, discarded shoes and stockings, transformed by cheap dyes, vari-colored beads, imitation ermines, tin swords and armor—all these are useful and effective beneath the lime-light.

Backgrounds may be arranged by means of curtains draped over the walls in colors that blend or contrast harmoniously as desired with the tableau produced. Properties, such as old wine flagons, lamps, &c., may be fashioned by means of cardboard, cut in the necessary shape, gummed together, and covered with gold or silver paper.

Fancy dress magazines and illustrated histories will reveal many secrets to the stage manager. Better still, a visit to a museum, when he is in doubt about the shape and period of some article he requires, and observation of the properties utilized in historic or Shakespearean[75] plays will well repay time and trouble spent. Duplicates in lead, wood, or tin of almost any old article can be fashioned well enough to answer his purpose.

When a large group of figures is to be arranged, light wooden ladders, placed in a semicircle, and covered with some appropriate color, make easy and adaptable tiers, on each step of which a figure is posed, or an arrangement of tiers for back-stage grouping can be made as shown in Fig. 2.

The most expensive aids in the stage manager’s paraphernalia—and these, alas, there is no overcoming—are the supply of the lime-light and the loan of the wigs. But in this direction he should not be too ambitious, contenting himself at the start with a moderate outfit in accordance with his means and inexperience.

[76]

One of the most popular indoor entertainments for winter evenings, or indoor parties, both with children and “grown-ups,” is charades. Not only do they afford amusement to the audience, but the players themselves obtain a good deal of fun from their efforts to baffle those who are listening to them.

Suppose, for instance, that a “party” is composed of some twenty people. About five or six of them are selected to go outside, choose a word, which can easily be split into syllables, each making a word in itself.

The players must not waste too much time in planning how best to act the words, or the audience will show signs of impatience. This can also be averted by the hostess arranging for a musical, or other little “stop-gap” to fill up the time which must necessarily elapse between the moment when the players retire and their subsequent appearance.

Having thought of a little sketch which will take in all the several parts of the word chosen, the players arrange impromptu scenery and start the first act, taking care to bring in the first syllable, and yet not giving it undue prominence. This care must be observed all the way through the charade, as the fun is much greater when the listeners cannot guess the word too easily.

If the word chosen is “Indignation,” it is split into three syllables—In, dig, nation.

These words having been acted, in the last scene the complete word is brought in, and as it is through this act the audience will listen most carefully for a clew, the players, if they wish to baffle them, should do their best to bring in a variety of words in order to mislead the listeners.

In many cases a little scenery adds considerably to the successful presentation of charades. A “window” frequently proves of service. But it may happen that the end of the room where the actual window is situated does not lend itself conveniently to the performance of the[77] charade, and in this circumstance the best plan is to improvise an “artificial window,” which, being portable, can be used in any required position.

A start can be made in construction by procuring a sheet of strong white paper of the requisite size. With India ink or chalk the thick black lines, as shown in Fig. 1, are painted in. The dotted lines represent the sheet of paper, the four holes the positions at which the nails fasten it to the wall, and the finished effect of an interior window is obtained by the draping of art muslin or curtains, as suggested by the diagram.

Oftentimes a little exterior scene is wanted. A simple way of improvising a cottage is that of using two screens placed as shown (A, A, Fig. 2). A plank or the shelf of a cupboard is placed across the top (D, Fig. 2), and kept in position either by nails or gimlets screwed into the top of the screens.

A tablecloth of any bright color, preferably red, is stretched from points (B, B, Fig. 3), slanting downwards and slightly over the edge of the screens.

Two “artificial windows” (C, C, Fig. 3) should be then pinned to[78] the screens, and the exterior of cottage is complete, an additional artistic effect being produced by fixing flower-stands with ferns in positions as shown (E, E, Fig. 2).

At first sight it might seem out of the question to produce a really passable scene representing “the rolling deep.” This may be easily carried out, however, by a careful study of Fig. 4, and the requisitioning of such commonplace articles as a large white sheet, which is stretched and nailed to the wall, a few rolls of stout white-backed wall-paper, hassocks, boxes, and old brown or gray cloths.

The wall-paper is cut into three lengths corresponding with the width of the sheet, one about 18 inches in depth (A, Fig. 4), the next 28 inches (B, Fig. 4), and the third 34 inches (C, Fig. 4).

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At each end a piece of wood is fastened (D, Fig. 4), behind which is glued a block of wood or small weighted box (E, Fig. 4).

The lengths of paper, marked A and B, are cut in zig-zag fashion at the top in order to produce the appearance of waves, the effect being enhanced by an application of blue paint used as shown in the diagram. The strip of paper marked C forms the horizon, therefore the top of this should be left straight and painted blue to a depth of about 10 inches.

To complete the effect, boxes, hassocks, and stools of different heights are grouped round and covered with the gray cloths to represent rocks (F, F, Fig. 4).

An empty barrel and a few coils of rope flung carelessly about help to make a more realistic scene, and well guarded lamps placed between the slips representing waves throw them up into necessary prominence.

A portable tent is made from a few sheets of brown paper glued together to form a huge square (A, A, A, A, Fig. 5), the paper cut out[80] to the shape described (B, B, B, B, Fig. 5), and folded at the dotted lines, C, C, C, C.

The whole is then arranged over three poles, crossed and tied together at the top, an opening or entrance being formed by the segment cut away.

A highwayman’s mask will prove easy of construction, and a thing of delight to the average boy. Moreover, it will often find a place in charades.

On a width of black sateen or any other suitable material a design is drawn as shown in Fig. 6, marked with chalk and cut away to fit the face. A piece of thin black tape is fixed to either side, so that the mask may be tied round the head just above the ears.

Amongst the highwayman’s outfit there must certainly be a pair of high boots, but as these are not found in every household, it may be as well to give a few simple directions for the making of them.

From several sheets of stout brown paper four pieces of the shape indicated at (A, Fig. 7), are cut. So that the tops of the boot shall not crack when the leg is bent, small pieces of paper are gummed at either side, as shown (B, Fig. 7).

Only the fixing of a piece of tape, or double fold of the paper for the instep, remains to be done (C, Fig. 7), and an excellent pair of highwayman’s boots is to hand.

[81]

An ordinary pliable felt or straw hat can be easily and quickly transformed into a three-cornered highwayman’s hat. A study of Fig. 8 will explain where the stitches are to be taken from the brim to the crown.

Two hard felt derby hats properly treated make an excellent representation of a policeman’s helmet, which will very often be found useful for charade acting.

It is first of all necessary to cut off the brim of one of the hats at the point where the band comes. The crown of the second one is also cut off, but some three inches above the band.

The first crown is next carefully fitted over the brim portion of the other one, and tacked round firmly so that the two pieces do not slip.

The headgear now presents the appearance of an abnormally high derby hat.

The curved part of the brim is cut away, and the front shaped to a point, as shown in Fig. 9, and the brim at the back is nicely rounded.

The usual ornamentation may be suggested by the application of chalk, the addition of a large-sized wooden button mold glued to the top of the crown, a chin-strap of shiny black leather completing the article.

A Chinaman is a character quite easily portrayed, and one which can be simply represented by pressing into service articles of everyday use.

[82]

From a piece of pale pink sateen the head covering (A, Fig. 10) is fashioned, a string run through at C to be drawn out or in at will; and a piece of rope or twist of darning cotton, B, sewn on at the back for a pigtail.

Then if the would-be Chinaman wishes to cover his head still further, the lid of the linen basket provides him with a hat, when a piece of braid or black paper has been fixed to the rim, and a string sewn on for the chin-strap.

A highly-colored dressing jacket and a pair of rather loose white trousers complete the Chinaman’s outfit.

Whilst some people consider the ordinary charades the best fun, there are others equally ready to admit that they prefer the “dumb” representation of words chosen, one of the most popular of these being the “advertisement” charade, wherein some well-known poster is chosen and acted in silence.

A well-known soap advertisement which has been so popular for years serves as an excellent illustration. There are few, if any, who could not recall the picture.

A man, dirty of face and hands, with torn clothing, sits at a table writing a letter.

A faithful representation of this can be easily produced by the aid of soot smeared carefully over the face and hands, and a wig of tousled hair.

Perhaps a dozen advertisements can be “played,” a few moments elapsing between each for the audience to write down their “guesses” on slips of paper, which are afterwards collected, and a prize awarded to the competitor who has the largest number of answers correct.

The two following examples of charades are given so that the players may fit in their own words. If the charades need to be written in dialogue form and committed to memory days before they are played, much more trouble is given, and the game becomes a somewhat irksome one.

Enter two boys dressed as highwaymen. For this purpose art muslin scarves tied round the waist, hats and masks as already[83] described, and toy pistols are enough, with a scenery of trees painted on some stout paper.

First boy addresses his comrade in tones of mystery, glancing to right and left as though he is expecting somebody. At length he holds up a warning finger: “Hist! The Baron comes this way!”

They secrete themselves and wait until the Baron approaches. He looks round, whereupon the two highwaymen jump out, secure him, and make off.

The Baron’s servants arrive on the scene too late, but vow they will track the robbers, and start off in hot pursuit.

End of First Act.

Baron asleep in one corner of a tent (made as previously described).

The robbers are eating their dinner, and talking in low tones of the ransom they expect to get for their prisoner. Whilst they are talking the Baron awakes. They are so intent upon their conversation that they do not observe him arise, creep up, and steal their food. He eats it, and returns to his corner again.

The ruffians discover their food is gone and are furious, but do not suspect their prisoner, who they suppose is still slumbering.

The Baron is so amused at their efforts to find the thief that he begins to laugh, rocking himself to and fro, and at last shouts, “I ate it, I ate it.”

Just as they are about to flog him a noise of tramping feet is heard, and they hasten to see who is coming.

End of Second Act.

Baron and his faithful retainers are sitting by the seashore, and he is telling them how he made his escape from the robbers.

As they are talking an old beggar comes along. The Baron at once recognizes him as one of the robbers, and gives orders that he is to be seized and bound. Presently the other one arrives, and he is treated in the same way.

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Finally the Baron promises to forgive them if they will give up highway robbery and go to sea.

End of Third Act.

Enter several boys in ragged clothes as newsboys. They are shouting papers for sale, and the chief thing that can be heard is “Extry—Capture of a Baron at Sea.”

The boys discuss the news, and at last one of them bursts into a fit of laughter after having opened the paper. The others crowd round to see what is causing the merriment.

Laughingly he explains that it is not an account of an exciting piratical affair, but merely the report of the capture of a Baronetcy in England by a fair cousin from the United States.

Scene.—Widow Frankey’s kitchen. Representation of this made by use of window described above, kitchen table and chairs, plates, pastry board, &c.

Widow Frankey, in apron and cap, is busy making pastry, and talking to herself about her son Jack, and wondering when he will return from the errand on which she has sent him.

Jack appears. Tells his mother where he has been, and she scolds him for being so slow.

He goes out in a temper, and Widow Frankey leaves her work, sits down and cries, finally falling asleep.

Jack returns, finds his mother asleep, and determines to make up for his ill-temper by finishing the pudding she has already begun.

(An amusing scene can be shown here by the funny mistakes he makes, putting into the pudding all kinds of odd ingredients, amongst them a bean.)

His mother awakes, to find dinner set, and ready.

There is great fun over the pudding when the widow finds the bean.

End of First Act.

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Scene.—Corner of market-place, where a flower-seller has her stall. For this purpose a table, draped with art muslin, with a few pots of ferns on it, and some flowers made from tissue paper, will be all that is required.

Girl sits on a stool doing up bunches of flowers.

Jack comes along running, and in his hurry knocks the table over.

Flower-seller pretends to be very angry, and insists upon Jack’s paying for the damage.

He does so, and the girl laughingly gives him the stalk of a flower for fun. He puts it in his button-hole and walks off, leaving the girl laughing.

End of Second Act.

Scene.—Widow Frankey’s kitchen.

Jack returns to his home, and tells his mother of his escapade, showing her the stalk which the flower-girl had given him.

Just then the door opens, and the flower-girl enters, throws Jack’s money on the table, telling him she took it only for a joke. He returns the stalk to the girl, who laughingly tells him that it is a beanstalk.

Widow Frankey retires, and Jack tells the pretty flower-girl that he loves her.

End of Last Act.

[86]

The musical sketch occupies a high and prominent position in the scale of entertainments given by the individual. With many it is more popular than ventriloquism, impersonations, reciting, or conjuring, and needs as much skill and study as any of these other accomplishments. For its successful rendition the artist must be equipped with

He must also be well versed in the popular topics of the day, and be able to dish them up in an attractive manner to suit the humor of his various hearers; and, of course, a certain amount of natural talent is indispensable.

In this mode of entertainment there should be no pause. The whole time the artist should either be engaged in patter or playing, and he must go from anecdote to anecdote smoothly and without jerkiness, always relating his stories as if they were his own experiences.

He should begin an after-dinner story in some such way as—

“The other night, when dining with my friend, Mr. A., I had the misfortune to be stuck down beside his elderly maiden aunt, Miss Dimbledock, who my host had previously informed me was a stanch adherent to the Blue Ribbon Army. Now, as Mr. A. is her only living relative, he naturally expected to inherit her wealth, and consequently had given instructions to Coggledab, the butler (who on ordinary occasions served as coachman), that especial attention and care were to be lavished upon her severe and abstemious person; but, alas, he had forgotten to instill him with her principles, and the result was that the poor old lady was mortally offended, for, ere[87] we had reached the second course, Coggledab leaned over her chair in a fatherly and solicitous manner that well became his white hairs and portly person, and whispered in a voice that penetrated every corner of the room:

“‘Gin, whisky, or brandy, Mum? You can’t be enjyin’ of yourself! You’re not drinkin’!’

“And it is to this apparently trivial incident that a year ago a flourishing dogs’ home was opened in New York, and that my poor friend Mr. A. can be seen any day selling matches at his post in Times Square! And talking of the importance of trivialities, reminds me of an adventure that befell me the other day. I had hired a taxi-cab, and was just stepping into it——,” &c., &c., thus introducing quite a different anecdote.

Now, the outlines of the incident of Mr. A.’s dinner-party are taken from a comic paper, but twisted and colored to suit the requirements of the artist; and there are many stories that may be dished up in similar manner, while frequently personal experiences are extremely humorous when rightly treated.

The artist should study and cultivate the correct and various methods of telling a story, remembering Pope’s adage—

If the style of writing is important, how much more is the manner of verbal narration. The wittiest story may fall to pieces in the hand of the inartistic, while the most trivial incident humorously handled may be greeted with shrieks of merriment.

The raconteur must give his audience the impression of frank geniality and friendliness without familiarity, his attitude cunningly eloquent of the man who is about to open his heart to a confidante.

Orchestra chairs and gallery are his bosom friends. He twinkles and patters at them right merrily. If he paints their peculiarities or laughs at their social ways he must flavor his babbling with the tender fun of that greatest of humorists, Charles Lamb, who never aped or scoffed at physical deformity, and was never cynical at another’s expense.

The caricatures depicted by mimicry must be cleansed of that sour Voltaire bitterness and cruelty, the artist always remembering[88] that he is performing in order to beguile, and he must cultivate that delicate tact which prevents him from imitating the withered idiosyncrasies supposed to be typical of the old maid in the drawing-room, when he knows that some spinster relative or friend is present.

The public possesses a vast fund of humor, and there is nothing it loves so much as a hearty laugh, but its risibilities should be handled as delicately as a trout is tickled, and if they are only provoked at the dear expense of some unfortunate individual, they are coarse and vulgar, and the artist himself is culpable. The broad double meanings of apparently innocent witticisms one might have heard at some vaudeville halls should be rigorously avoided. There are gentlemen, fine-souled and clean of mind, in your gallery as in your orchestra chairs. Treat them as such. Appeal to the best, to the refined sense of the ludicrous that lurks in every mind, and you will be as welcome in the most select drawing-room as in the theater.

Humor and fun are as bracing and purifying a tonic as a breath of sea air. They should be steeped in the salt ozone of wit, but never in the withering blight of vulgarity.

The artist should be large-souled and natural in attitude and gesture—a gentleman from head to heel in the best sense of the word—and the result will brace up and encourage him, for he will observe the faded city merchant laughing with the heart-whole abandon of the child.

It is not necessary, and it may become even monotonous, to pose forever as the comedian who sees fun in every incident around him. A great and versatile artist, now deceased, in the middle of his recital would sit down at the zither when the room was still ringing with laughter, provoked by his keen shafts of humor, and win tears by the exquisite pathos of the refrain: “The mill will never grind with the water that is past.”

Maudlin melodrama is not pathos any more than vulgar mockery is humor. A thin veil lies between tears and laughter, and both are nearer the surface than some artists realize. Both are noble and wholesome, and so should never be made puny by too little giving or rendered grotesque by too much.

A most effective means of self-accompaniment is the harp, and one moreover which adapts itself exquisitely to the subtle charm and changing qualities of the human voice, but only in the performer’s more serious moments. To twang at this instrument and pose above[89] it in the attitude of the comedian, to pluck it banjo fashion, is to displease and jar the sensibilities of the most uninitiated of the audience.

The dual art is a stumbling-block to many a versatile artist, and its perfection needs a tremendous amount of persevering and diligent practice. There are some gifted performers to whom the art of pattering or reciting to music is inborn, and so extremely facile, but to the less fortunate it presents discouraging obstacles, and the power of improvising an accompaniment suitable to the anecdote or poem related is not given to the majority.

However, the student should remember and be encouraged by the fact that “steady effort attracts unknown powers to our aid,” and work on determinedly until the difficulty is mastered.

In studying the dual art, the beginner is apt to hammer the words to the accompaniment, or the accompaniment to the words, and it seems at first impossible to arrive at that perfect blending of voice and music which is essential to this kind of performance. Another extremely common fault is to emphasize the wrong word or the wrong note, with the result that the achievement becomes meaningless.

The ear should be trained to the rôle of an exacting critic, and when this power is developed it will demonstrate faithfully wherein the failure of co-operation lies.

Music should never be suffered to overburden the words of the poem or anecdote related. It is usually but a ground-work upon which the artist builds, “at most, an undercurrent of answering emotion.” The instant it flows through the floodgates of restraint it obliterates the meaning and the sense of the words as the waters of a burst dam obliterate the natural features of dry land.

Another serious fault to be found in the rendition of the inexperienced student is permitting the time of his accompaniment to swing into his voice. Against this he must be severely on his guard, or he will develop a wearisome habit of chanting in monotone.

While taking pains to blend his voice with his accompaniment, he must take equal care to keep both distinct and apart. This sounds paradoxical, but practice and self-criticism will prove that both are true and possible.

The speaker should learn to harmonize his music so exquisitely with his words that to the uninitiated the accompaniment seems rather extempore improvising than the result of toil and diligence. As a matter of fact, it is extremely rare that even the greatest artists dare[90] trust to the inspiration of the moment to provide them with adequate accompaniment.

An artist may have a theme or motif borrowed from some composer, and he may be sufficiently gifted to plan it out and develop it for himself, but always with careful thought and deliberation before he gives it public expression.

The dual art is as full of vagaries and traps as the French language, and at first the student who finds himself handicapped by inability to conquer it, cannot do better than study some poems written to music, and at these he must work steadily before he attempts to patter to accompaniment.

A few musical poems mastered will go far to secure him an air of ease and self-possession.

For instance, undertake some such study as Racine’s tragedy of “Athalie,” which has been so exquisitely set to music by Mendelssohn. In the opening bar of “Allegro Moderato,” a few notes are played to introduce the passage, “Where do those women and their children go?” Then there are a few more notes, followed by the words, “The Lord hath laid the queen of cities low.”

The four succeeding bars are treated in the same way. The music ceases while “Her priests are captives” is recited. Then a chord is struck, and the voice goes on unaccompanied, “Her monarchs are rejected.” Another chord, “Her godly rites forsaken, unprotected.” The sixth bar opens with a chord, and is followed by the words, “Down, temple! Cedars, down!” and terminates with four semi-quavers.

This is an intensely dramatic poem, written in rhymed Alexandrines, and the student must take great care not to rend the words from the accompaniment, or the accompaniment from the words. The short phrases and detached chords must punctuate and emphasize the sentences, and lend weight and finish to the whole. This is not a difficult task when compared with such a study as “The Dream of Jubal,” in which the music accompanies the words in strict time, the combination of voice and pianoforte flowing smoothly, the components dependent and yet never waiting for each other.

The only way to reach perfection is to study the poem and music separately at first, until the student is fairly familiar with both. Then continue them with the aid of a metronome until the technicalities of the mechanism, which include correct emphasis, pauses, and rhythm, and the proper flow of the phrases, are mastered.

When this has been frequently rehearsed, the student may try his powers without the metronome, and gradually, but surely, he will master the antagonistic forces arrayed against him.

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The artist who possesses a natural gift of composition will find it extremely useful, for there are many exquisite poems which, although seeming to clamor for a musical accompaniment, have not yet been touched; but this combination is fraught with perils, and those who approach it must be for ever wary of the grotesque and unfit.

In burlesque, of course, the artist has great license in the matter of accompaniment. He may exaggerate and slash his pianoforte (taking care never to drown his voice), and achieve the absolutely absurd and ludicrous, but, in the poems or patter that need delicacy, lightness of touch, melancholy cadences or bubbling, merry notes, he cannot be too careful in the theme he chooses to aid and color his portrayal. In such pieces, the right attitude, the right gesture, the right expression must be studied and gripped, so as to add their subtle beauty to the whole. The accompanying sketch shows the correct attitude at the piano, or rather, the attitude generally adopted by the professional musical-sketch artist. The body is turned “three-quarters” to the audience, the head full-faced, the left foot working the pedals, while the right usually follows the direction in which the performer is looking.

[92]

Whilst “vamping,” or the improvising of a musical accompaniment, is considered by many anything but a classical accomplishment, yet those who can accompany in this way are a decided help to a general or children’s party.

In either case among the guests will be found some who possess the gift of song, either comic or sentimental, but who lack the power or the ability to play their own accompaniments.

Moreover, it may happen that the services of a skilled pianist are not available, and in these circumstances any one who can vamp will be deemed a useful acquisition.

The object of this chapter is not to give either intricate or comprehensive instruction, but rather to suggest, even to those who have had no musical training, a few rules whereby they will be enabled to step into the breach occasioned by the absence of an accomplished player.

An ordinary piano has fifty notes, comprising A, B, C, D, E, F, G, in succeeding order.

The whole keyboard is divided into two portions—treble and bass, the former starting from the fourth C up from the left; the notes below the fourth or middle C comprise the bass. (See Fig. 1. Arrow denotes middle C.)

Each black note above a white is its sharp, and each below its flat. For example, taking the treble note G, the black note above it is G sharp, the one below it G flat.

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Before starting to vamp to a song, the singer must hum over a line or so of the song in order that the “vampist” may keep both the time and tone in his mind for transference to the piano.

His ear will tell him when he has struck a few chords whether they are in the key in which the song is written. If he finds that when a few bars of the song completing a distinct or rhythmical period have been hummed the note finished on is C, then he will know that the key is C, and find his chords as suggested by the diagrams given.

There are three principal chords in a key which are sufficient to cover the range of melody. Starting in C, the first chord for the right hand from the little finger to the thumb is made up of the notes middle C, bass G, and bass E. The left hand strikes the octave C immediately below the right hand thumb on E. (Fig. 1.)

The second chord starts from little finger of right hand on F, first finger on C, and thumb on A in bass, the octave F, below the right hand A, being struck in the bass. (Fig. 2.)

The third chord starts with little finger of right hand on G, third finger on F, and thumb on B in bass, the left hand striking the octave G below the B on which thumb of right hand is placed. (Fig. 3.)

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To complete the melody it is necessary to go back to the chord started with, taking it up an octave or eight notes higher in both hands.

The relative changes are brought about by the use of the following chords. Striking the F sharp with the little finger of right hand, the first finger is placed on the D, and the thumb upon middle C, the left hand taking the octave F sharp immediately below middle C. (Fig. 4.)

The second change starts with little finger of right hand on G, first finger on D, and thumb on B below middle C, the octave G in left hand completing the chord. (Fig. 5.)

Another change is produced by the use of the next two chords.

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Striking G sharp with the little finger of the right hand, the first finger strikes E, and the thumb D; the octave G sharp being struck in the bass by the left hand. (Fig. 6.)

The twin chord to the one just described is made by placing the right hand little finger on A, the first finger on E, and the thumb on middle C; the octave A, immediately below middle C, being struck by the left hand. (Fig. 7.)

The final change necessary is produced by the two following chords.

The little finger of the right hand is placed on C sharp, first finger on A, and the thumb on G, both the latter notes being bass—that is, below middle C. The left hand strikes the octave C sharp in the bass. (Fig. 8.)

The last chord is made by striking D above middle C with the little[96] finger of the right hand, A below middle C with the first finger, and F also below middle C with the right hand thumb; the left hand takes the octave D in the bass. (Fig. 9.)

By a study of the chords set forth above it is seen that the octave struck by the left hand in every case is a lower tone of the note played by the little finger of the right hand—viz., if the little finger of the right hand strikes G in the treble, the octave G is played by the left hand in the bass.

An effective ending to a vamping accompaniment is brought about by the use of a “run.” Starting from the C in the bass below the middle C (indicated by arrow on diagram), and playing the E and G with first and second fingers, the thumb is taken under, on to the middle C and the action repeated twice, the run finishing on the fourth C in the treble. (Fig. 10.)

It is useful and interesting to bear in mind that any chord can be made by placing the little finger on a note desired, missing the next two covered by the second and third fingers, striking the note covered by first finger, missing the next, and striking the one covered by the thumb.

Having committed the above chords and “run” to memory, the performer can play them to suit the time in which the accompanied song is written.

[97]

To possess a gramophone or phonograph is to be already furnished with the means of giving a very successful and pleasurable entertainment. There are so many “entertainments” that do not entertain, and so many “amusements” that do not amuse, that it is a distinct relief to know where to turn when a mixed party of guests have honored you with their presence.

With the number of gramophones, phonographs, talking-machines and zonophones now on the market, it is not the object of this chapter to specialize any particular make or type of article. As in most things, quality means expense, and there is little use in hoping for fine results from a cheap machine. Any respectable dealer will give useful advice as to the type of gramophone worth buying, and it must be left with you to make your own choice.

Presuming you have obtained your machine and accustomed yourself to the manipulation of its various parts, the next point to be considered is how a successful programme may be carried out for an entertainment.

In nothing, perhaps, is that old adage that “tastes differ” so true as in music. One person may shiver with disgust at everything but Bach, whilst her neighbor probably can appreciate nothing but old ballads; or whereas paterfamilias beats time ecstatically to the familiar old pieces of Verdi and Rossini which he remembers from his boyhood, his cultivated son is impatient for something out of “Elektra.”

Now it is the business of the entertainer to satisfy and please all these people—to send none away empty, but to make each person feel what a pleasant evening he or she has had. Whilst fully recognizing the difficulty of producing this result, it is hoped that the following hints may serve to render the construction of a catholic programme a little easier than would at first appear.

Records are of two kinds—instrumental and vocal. By blending these successfully a very charming variety can be obtained which will materially assist in keeping the programme from lapsing into sameness.

[98]

Commence with a stirring overture or a rousing march that will set the feet of your audience itching to mark time. Avoid anything dreamy or languorous; let their attention be attracted by a bold stroke, by the rattle of drums and the blaring of cornets and trombones. Sousa’s marches, the “Stars and Stripes” for instance, are admirable pieces to start the evening with, arousing the attention and stirring the blood of every healthy person in the room.

Having now excited the interest of your audience, give them some vocal music. Choose a good quartette of well-known singers in a selection or song from some up-to-date opera, or even from one of the old Italian favorites. “The Barber of Seville,” “La Bohême,” or “La Tosca,” all provide very fine quartettes.

The next piece might be a good instrumental solo, on violin, ’cello, piccolo or clarionet. Let it be short and characteristic; preferably a piece fairly well known to the majority of your audience.

At this point it may be remarked that people invariably like hearing what they already know. The gramophone is more generally appreciated when it reproduces a song or piece of music that the audience has heard before; whilst the machine is scarcely suitable for the introduction of wholly new music. Of course it is impossible to form an entire programme on these lines, but when making the selection of records, if you bear this fact in mind it will save you from obtaining a number of outlandish pieces, if one may so style them, which the majority of your company has never heard before and will be little likely to wish to hear again.

After the instrumental solo, it will be suitable to have a vocal solo—say a soprano. Again, select a good artist and a good song, for it is at this point that your fiercest critics will be upon the lookout. Do your best to disappoint them of their prey by having none but the best singers; and only then at their very best!

With a mixed company humorous songs are usually appreciated, and one may be very well introduced at this point. The greatest care must be exercised in avoiding anything that the most squeamish person might think objectionable. The number of perfectly harmless and refined comic songs is great, but unfortunately the number of vulgar songs is greater. Accept nothing, therefore, that you have not heard yourself and know to be perfectly suitable.

A good piano solo may now be very serviceable, or even a piano and violin duet. A piece of Chopin or Schumann, a short piece of Godard, or the like, is sure to be appreciated. The most carping of[99] critics will be unable to find fault with the execution of Paderewski, Hoffman, or other great pianists, all of whose records are easily obtainable.

A popular item from one of the current operas or musical comedies will then be acceptable. If the works of Sullivan are too antiquated, records of the more recent pieces recently running at the theaters can easily be had. “Our Miss Gibbs,” “The Dollar Princess,” or the “Arcadians”—all will help to furnish you with some variety in the programme. Choose a favorite that will bring up pleasant recollections to all who have seen the original play.

A tenor and bass duet may follow the above admirably, something rather pathetic—a love song or the like. The task of making a choice amongst so many songs of this class would be invidious, and it is left to the taste and opportunities of the entertainer to select what seems best for the occasion.

It is now time for another piece of orchestral music, and a good waltz is suggested—“The Merry Widow,” or something of that kind, played by a good band, and of a rather catchy nature.

If you divide the entertainment into two parts, the familiar intermezzo of the “Cavalleria Rusticana” makes a very suitable overture for the second part. Obtain it on a good orchestra, and not as a piano or violin solo. Failing this any of Puccini’s overtures are good for such an occasion.

The second part of the programme should be constructed on very much the same principles as the first. A few classical pieces can be introduced—Wagner and Grieg, Schubert and Elgar, and similar contrasts.

Tenor, bass, soprano and contralto solos should be fitted in between the heavier items, whilst instrumental solos are generally highly appreciated amongst really musical audiences. Do not let the selections be too long, however.

Before closing the entertainment with “The Star Spangled Banner,” have a good orchestral waltz to put every one in good humor.

And now for a few hints as to the actual performance. Do not be too ready to give encores. Many people really dislike to hear a thing twice, and unless you see there is a very general desire amongst your audience for a repetition, pass on to the next item immediately.

Have the seats comfortably arranged, and see that every one is seated before beginning your programme. Copies of the programme should be handed to each person present, and the name and number[100] announced before starting the machine. Be careful that no hitch occurs in the arrangements.

Remember that the greatest of artists can be called to your assistance—Caruso, Melba, Patti, Albani, Tamagno (who though dead yet sings), Constantino, Tetrazzini, and numberless other great singers and musicians are at your beck and call, ready to sing to your friends or to exert their greatest talents on your behalf. Avail yourselves of them unsparingly, and you cannot miss success.

A Sunday programme is no more difficult to arrange. Magnificent records of the “Messiah,” “Elijah,” and many other great oratorios can be obtained, whilst numberless hymns and anthems are possible to the gramophone, sung by some of the finest choirs.

With these hints there should be no great difficulty in making a programme that will prove enjoyable to a mixed audience. They are, however, but hints; to give exact instructions would be impossible. The selection, even upon the lines sketched out in this chapter, must be individual and adapted to the more immediate requirements of your company, and in consequence no fixed rule for choice can be given.

[101]

A hundred and fifty years ago the fashionable society of London went mad over musical glasses. When the cloth had been removed and the company were seated at the polished table, discussing the dessert and enjoying the rare old port, it was considered a great attainment, after having partially filled the finger-bowls, to be able to extract music by casually rubbing a finger around their rims.

Strange as it may seem, even the great composer Gluck did not consider this musical trick beneath his genius, and used to pride himself upon the skill he had acquired in this kind of performance.

Mozart composed a song to be played in this manner, and many famous musicians devoted their energies to perfecting a branch of the science which they considered to be full of promise.

Even Benjamin Franklin turned his genius to the subject, and after many experiments succeeded in inventing an apparatus called a Harmonica, which he hoped would take its place amongst the recognized musical instruments of his day. From various causes, which shall be explained later, this invention was never attended with the success its author anticipated.

Considerable knack is required to obtain a clear note from a glass. A fine finger-bowl, preferably uncut, or a champagne glass, must be partly filled with water, and the performer should then damp his forefinger and also wet the rim of the glass. If the finger now be passed lightly but firmly round a portion of the rim, after a few touches a clear ringing sound will be produced. If at first this is difficult to obtain, pass the finger several times in one direction—e.g. from right to left, and then reverse from left to right. Having done this for a few seconds, the glass will, in all probability, begin to sound.

As has been said, quite a knack is requisite to perform this with any success, but the beginner should not be discouraged if failure attends the first few attempts, as, after a little practice, which seems[102] to produce nothing but a sad groaning noise, the glass will suddenly begin to ring. Having devoted a little patience to learning the exact touch, the performer will find that the slightest movement of his finger produces the desired note.

The note given out depends entirely upon the amount of liquid in the glass. The less water the lower will be the note; the more water the higher it will be. Therefore taking eight glasses, or fine finger-bowls, and filling each one to a different level with water, a complete octave can be obtained.

The amount of water to be placed in each depends entirely upon the size of the bowl and the texture of the glass, and must therefore be determined by the performer himself. A keen ear will soon enable him to get the glasses thoroughly in tune, and they can then be arranged before him in the order of the notes in the scale.

For those who desire to attain proficiency in this art, it would be well to color the water distinctively in each glass, in a manner similar to the following:

By this arrangement the performer can tell at a glance which glass he must touch to obtain the note required. This is more especially applicable to beginners, for, after some practice, the relative positions of the glasses become fixed in the mind, and he knows instinctively where to turn for whichever note is wanted.

Half-notes can be made by adjusting the amount of water, which can be colored accordingly; but for an ordinary entertainment the octave will be found quite sufficient, and at any rate to begin with, will require all the musician’s attention. When he can play quickly and correctly with his first eight glasses, he can introduce half-notes, but it is very unwise to start with too many vessels, for it will give both him and his audience far greater satisfaction to hear eight glasses played well than to hear a larger number played indifferently.

An important point to remember is to keep the finger and the rim[103] thoroughly wet. If this be borne in mind, the notes will come much more easily and clearly, whilst the disagreeable droning sound will entirely disappear. Care must also be taken to see that the glasses are steady on their bases, as, in the case of champagne glasses, especially, they are liable to tip up under the pressure of the finger.

With regard to the music suitable to musical glasses, it has already been mentioned that Gluck and Mozart composed songs for this class of performance, but the beginner is not recommended to attempt these until he is very skillful. As some time will elapse before he can play even the scale with ease, perfectly simple music should be all that he tries to learn at first. When such easy, although somewhat hackneyed, pieces as “The Blue Bells of Scotland” and “Annie Laurie” have been mastered, he can try more advanced works.

Many attempts have been made to discover some means of producing the sound other than by rubbing the finger over the rim of the glass. Violin bows and other similar contrivances have all proved ineffectual.

It would seem that the texture and surface of the human skin are alone suitable for this purpose, and nothing else has proved successful. This is the reason why musical glasses have not become more common, for the continual rubbing of the wet finger over the surface of the glass becomes after a time somewhat unpleasant. However, this hardly applies to the short period that an ordinary performer would devote to an entertainment. Yet such was the reason that caused the failure of Franklin’s instrument.

The following few bars of music, being the opening phrases of a[104] well-known song, will prove very suitable for glass music, especially when played at the dinner-table after the dessert has been discussed. To simplify the matter for those who are not familiar with the usual notation of music, the notes are given by name, thus enabling any one to pick them out with ease:

E, E, E, F, F, G, F, E, D, E, F, G, C, F, E, D, C.

[105]

There is something vital in the ordinary bell that dominates all of us. It is an important factor in our lives. The railway bell’s clamor reminds us that haste is needed to catch the departing train. The dinner bell tells that the meal is ready for our consumption. The church bell, the wedding chime, the fire bell, the tolling funeral bell, are all our faithful monitors and guardians, but the exquisite voice of the hand-bell is the sweet-lipped friend that wooes us in our hour of ease.

Hand-bell ringing is full of charm and interest, and it is astonishing of what changing harmonies these instruments are capable when manipulated by dexterous hands. Undertaken with perseverance and patience to overcome its rudimentary difficulties, this form of campanology may be achieved with great success.

The first thing to do is to go to a well-known firm to secure the necessary bells, which must be perfectly in tune. The beginner needs only a few, as for some time he must essay only the simplest tunes. The best hand-bells are somewhat expensive, but to buy cheap inferior instruments is false economy and most unsatisfactory, for sonorousness and sweetness of tone depend upon purity of metal and perfect balance.

Those known as the “four-in-hand” consist of four hand-bells attached by means of a leather handle to one base. This enables the player to manipulate eight bells at once. Of course, by making careful inquiries, or by advertising, good second-hand sets of bells can be bought quite cheaply.

It is advisable that the bells be tuned to old Philharmonic pitch, C—540, and they should be fitted with improved pegged clappers.

The first step undertaken by the novice at bell-ringing is to consider and study the construction of the bell. It is surmounted by a loop of leather, and the hinge of the clapper is so made that it can sound only when swayed towards the flat part of the handle. The part of the clapper that touches the bell is composed of felt and not of metal,[106] but this alone is too light a material for the springs, which, it has been discovered, resist it.

To overcome this difficulty it is necessary that the felt should be weighted. This achievement needs skill and experience, for the springs and weight naturally vary according to the size of the bell, and are in exact proportion, small springs being necessary for the small bells and large springs for the large ones.

Bell-ringing companies consist of five players, and these are generally composed of two ladies and three gentlemen; all should be physically strong and possessed of the sense of strict notation and music-reading ability. The ladies generally undertake the alto and tenor parts. The strongest player manages the bass bells, and the most reliable and cool-headed of the party the treble, which is divided into first and second, and is extremely important, needing no small amount of agility and nerve, especially in difficult and intricate passages.

There are many reasons why five players are advisable. Four could not manage the full harmonies of treble, alto, tenor, and bass, while more than five are apt to get in each other’s way, besides taking up too much space on a small platform in a drawing-room.

A long table, covered with some heavy material, such as thick baize or half-a-dozen pairs of good blankets, is essential. Blankets are the best. They should not be spread out or divided, but folded upon the surface, and then concealed by a cloth. This keeps the sound from vibrating through the wood of the table, as the bells are placed upon it, at the termination of each note.

The bells must be in easy reach of the ringer, and the company just formed will do well to chalk lines upon the cloth to divide their positions from that occupied by the neighbor’s bells.

Tenor and alto players should occupy the center of the table. Their work, compared with that of bass and treble, is light and subordinate, and this is why those parts may be undertaken by ladies. The second treble stands at the right end, next to the alto, and the first treble and bass occupy the head and bottom of the table, as shown in Fig. 1.

Immediately after the bell is used the player must be careful to replace it in its former position in the chalked space, or confusion and discord will be the result, as it is almost impossible to remember the[107] position of the bells unless this plan is strictly adhered to. To pick up the wrong bell will lead to disaster.

Fig. 1.

Many plans have been tried in which to place the bells so that each player may identify the different bells to be used. Perhaps the simplest and most usually adopted is to arrange them in rows upon the table. Supposing the number of bells required to be fifteen, place them in three lines of five. For the first row employ the letters of the alphabet; for the second, even rows of figures; for the last, single odd figures, thus:—

Fig. 2.

This plan should be learnt, and the position of the bells be as fixed and relative to each other as the notes of the keyboard of the pianoforte. At first the players stand with the left side turned slightly to the table, but frequently they will be obliged to change their positions, sometimes turning to the right and sometimes facing the table. The bell should never be placed with the flat side of its handle towards the manipulator, for in this position it cannot be struck, however much waved.

[108]

In holding the bell, the thumb must be pressed on the rivet, the fingers gripping the flat side of the handle. When lifting the bell, the handle should slope towards the body, thus forcing the weight of the clapper to swing to the side opposite to that upon which the strike sounds. The bell, being lifted in this position, is not struck, the hand changing its inclination from left to right. In so doing, the bell is turned to an opposite angle, the clapper falls, and the strike is achieved by a slight impetus of the arm or wrist.

The student should practice lifting and striking the bell with alternate hands, until it is as easy to manage it with the left hand as the right. When he has mastered this difficulty he may try the working of two bells—one in each hand, lifting one bell while the other is struck, taking care, however, always to place them in such a position that no turning or twisting of the handle is necessary before action, as this involves loss of time, and makes him liable to constant blunders when he takes part in a tune.

The length of the table varies according to the number of bells required and the style of music undertaken. Forty-four bells are sufficient for most simple melodies and exercises, and for them the space required is about 11 feet by 5 feet.

“Flourishing” the bells is impossible in quick music, and is only undertaken in slow passages, when the notes are to be sustained. In working the bells alternately, the dying vibration of one bell must never be allowed to mingle with the next, for this is even more discordant than when, in pianoforte playing, a pedal is kept down too long, and makes the vibration of one chord jar into the next.

To prevent this, the vibrating bell should be placed on the table immediately before the other is about to be struck, but not in such a manner as to rob the note of its proper value. In a staccato passage, on the contrary, the bells should be set quickly on the table as soon as they have sounded.

In practicing the ringing of alternate bells, make each vibration the value of a semibreve, then a minim, and lastly a crotchet, until perfect dexterity is achieved, thus:—

[109]

When the trebles are divided, the first treble plays the notes turned upwards, and the second treble the downward tailed—thus, in the scale of C:—

The notes should follow without any break as continuously and smoothly as though one player were ringing the scale.

Ringing two bells in each hand is difficult of accomplishment. In order to do this successfully, one bell is lifted and gripped in the right hand by the first and second fingers and struck downward. Then another bell is inserted between the thumb and first finger, the flat part of the handles at right angles. The first bell is again struck down, when it will be discovered that the second bell remains silent until it is slightly turned from left to right by a quick wrist movement, while in its turn the first bell gives no sound, simply because it needs a downward stroke, and the side stroke, which gives voice to the second bell, is in a contrary direction.

Extreme care and perseverance are necessary before these two bells can be properly manipulated, and a great number of exercises which the student can construct for himself should be practiced.

Chromatic notes present great difficulty, especially in more advanced music, and can only be mastered gradually. In simpler passages, when they occur, the student should place the chromatic bells in the back row in the order in which they are to be used. If his chromatics are arranged (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), and he has memorized their position beforehand, he will have no difficulty in finding them as they are required.

A company of bell-ringers should have a large répertoire of music of as much variety as possible. Many of the pieces which are most suitable are somewhat hackneyed, and yet are cordially welcomed when musically treated, and other works can always be arranged for playing.

Tone, expression, and phrasing are all-important. The rhythm of sounds must not alter with the changing of the bells. It must continue in a sweet flow of music, just as if one hand were manipulating every bell. The jerk, the overlong pause, or the lack of tone in one player’s work, has power to mar the whole performance.

[110]

In large orchestras constant playing together is necessary for proper union and harmonizing of sounds, and this is equally essential in bell-ringing. It must ever be remembered that “practice makes perfect,” and the blending of the bells needs unending patience and persistence.

For beginners such pieces as “The Minstrel Boy,” “She Wore a Wreath of Roses,” “Home, Sweet Home,” “The Last Rose of Summer,” and the National Anthem prove stepping-stones to enterprises of a more complicated nature, and should be carefully studied, for “vaulting ambition” is quite out of the question in the art of hand-bell ringing.

[111]

One of the most delightful sounds in the drawing-room is the music of the human voice, uplifted in song to a soft pianoforte accompaniment, if, of course, the voice be tuneful, easily produced, and sympathetic, and the breathing taken without effort.

The first steps to be considered in singing are (1) correct breathing, (2) voice production, (3) clear pronunciation. The tongue should be hollowed behind the teeth, not rolled up in a ball, thus closing the vocalist’s throat. The uvula, so called because of its supposed likeness to a grape, should be lifted to the roof of the soft palate, the mouth presenting a hollow open chamber, through which the notes issue in clear, bell-like tones (Fig. 1).

The beginner will find this a difficult matter, and effort and will are needed to keep the tongue down and the uvula up. The position of the former may be demonstrated by means of the handle of a teaspoon pressed against it. The tongue will prove rebellious until practice makes it perfectly easy and natural to subdue it in the necessary manner.

In breathing, inhale a long slow breath through the nose only, keeping the mouth closed. The air should originate in the upper part of the diaphragm, and be held until the ribs are slowly inflated, balloon fashion, when it should be exhaled through the open mouth, gently and without effort until the ribs contract. Never push the ribs to lengthen the expiration of breath.

A good plan to insure easy and quiet breathing is to count slowly to ten while the chest box is being inflated, and also when the air is being exhaled. In this manner the breath will be prevented from coming and going in spasmodic gasps and jerks. The number ten may be increased gradually to twenty or thirty, until the student is able to produce breath sufficient for the phrase vocalized. Regular[112] breathing exercises should be taken every day before singing, the hands being placed upon the ribs, in order to feel and insure their gradual rise and fall.

An anatomical study of the throat, windpipe, and lungs should be made (Fig. 2), and this will considerably help the student to understand the difficult mechanism of voice production.

Practice gradually adds new notes to the voice, but the young singer must be careful not to strain the vocal organs by endeavoring to sing high and low notes before they are naturally developed.

Concones and every variety of singing exercises should be practiced before a song is undertaken. Over-practice is harmful. Vocal organs should never be fatigued or unduly taxed, and half-an-hour’s practice is ample—indeed, more valuable than an hour at a stretch.

Singing directly after meals should be avoided, and the throat must not be coddled in furs or compressed by high collars.

In drawing-room singing, four or five-versed lyrics are not nearly so charming as the dainty modern songs of two or three verses, and these must never be undertaken until the student has reached a proper understanding of phrasing, breathing, and expression.

Many singers prefer to accompany themselves, but this has its disadvantages, as the voice is far better produced when the vocalist is standing. The position should be easy and natural, the head erect, but not lifted back, as this contracts and narrows the larynx.

While the singer should enter into the idea of the composer, she should have her own conception of the song, and endeavor to give it, as far as possible, her own individual expression, her voice being colored by the cultivation of her soul; otherwise the most perfect vocalization will fail to move the audience.

These elementary rules hold good for the male as well as the female singer, and cannot be too carefully considered.

A further important factor in the art of singing is the hygiene of the human body. The singer must cherish physical health. Plenty of outdoor exercise should be taken. Indulgence in drinking and over-eating is injurious. To practice when fatigued, or indisposed,[113] is to risk permanent harm to the voice; and to sing when suffering from a cold is extremely foolish. At such times, breathing exercises may be taken with advantage, as they clear the lungs and help towards recovery.

Lady singers are sometimes inclined to wear gowns which do not allow them sufficient room for breathing purposes, and they will often willfully sacrifice the well-being of their voices to be fashionably attired. In order to perform their functions properly, the lungs and ribs must have space and freedom from pressure. Too narrow bodices are almost as pernicious to the voice as tight lacing, for these seriously retard the breathing, and what in loose garments is natural and easy of accomplishment, becomes an obvious struggle, which fatigues the singer and renders her voice thin and poor in quality. This is often the reason why a vocalist is seen to lift her shoulders and pant audibly during her song, thus marring her conception, which may be, in every other particular, delightful and artistic.

Many singers with weak lungs find voice production extremely beneficial, for proper breathing and careful practice do more to strengthen a delicate chest than any bottled remedies.

The vocalist should never stoop (for this narrows and compresses the vocal organs), and in singing the first care should be to see that the shoulders are well thrown back, although not strained to an unnatural position.

In practicing, it is beneficial to keep the arms folded behind the back, placing the hands over the elbows, and taking care not to thrust the head forward. This will keep the chest expanded, and the body easily upright.

When performing, it is necessary to be equipped with a good accompanist—one who understands the art thoroughly, and refrains from banging out the notes as if the voice of the singer were merely the background to his own performance. The three qualities essential in an accompanist are sympathy, artistic sensibility, and discernment to understand the temperament and conception of the vocalist.

An inefficient accompanist has power to transform an artist’s highest and most conscientious endeavor into irritability and inability to render individual expression. Pianists frequently are highly recommended to singers because of their gift of sight reading. Now this is a very valuable and important accessory, but there are many excellent sight readers who have no idea of that delicate and tactful manipulation of accompaniment found in the true artist, and who,[114] even though they play correctly the most difficult music placed before them, sadly fail because of inadequate comprehension of the needs vital to the singer.

To hustle the singer is almost as heinous a fault as to lag behind. Some accompanists convey the fatiguing impression of a brake applied to a carriage wheel, and the artist feels as if she were pulling the pianist through the song, while others play as if they were racing to catch a train, and there is not a moment to lose. Both these defects are equally fatal. The pianist on these occasions should neither be independent nor dependent. She or he must realize that, although the pianoforte is subordinate, it is extremely important because of its power to influence the mind and conception of the singer, who should feel an electric tide of sympathy and support flowing from the pianoforte and carrying the voice on a wave of sound.

An accompanist should be chosen with care, rehearsed with frequently, and must possess individual qualities in common with the temperament of the singer. A sense of reliability and strength conveyed will do much to put the most nervous vocalist at ease, and give that tranquility and self-possession without which no singing is successful.

Rehearsing before a mirror is of great assistance, for it is only in studying the reflection of one’s features when singing that one is able to check nervous mannerisms and facial contortions. Pains must be taken to open the lips adequately wide, for the mouth is the mold; the voice, the molten gold; and, if the mold is twisted or narrowed, the gold will be warped and flawed in quality.

The simpler the manner of the singer the sweeter the song, for the affectation sometimes indulged in, the airs and grimaces commonly known as “side,” which some singers see fit to employ, are as unsightly as a mud-splashed window-pane. They are often also the insignia of the incompetent and the ignorant, for it is never the true artist who thus obtrudes herself on her hearers.

Of course, in some cases apparent affectation really originates in extreme nervousness and hyper self-consciousness. In such cases the singer must battle patiently with this embarrassing trait until it is overcome, for unless this is accomplished one’s singing can never be a joy and delight.

In order to be successful, a song must be delivered harmoniously; to voice sweet exquisite words accompanied by facial contortions is to make a pitiful caricature of your performance.

Take care, therefore, that your attitude, features, and expression combine to carry the emotion conveyed in your voice. Study unity and repose. Endeavor to forget your own identity for the time being, considering yourself only as the cage that holds the nightingale.

[115]

Although the singer should be perfect mistress of the songs forming her repertoire, she should always deliver them freshly and spontaneously.

There is an old saying, “Familiarity breeds contempt,” and, notwithstanding the fact that this is usually said of individuals, it may be applied very truly to the relationship that exists between singer and song.

It is very usual for an ambitious student to be consumed with conscientious determination. She makes up her mind to learn a difficult song, and she works assiduously at it day after day, week after week, until she knows every word and every note.

By-and-by she performs it proudly to a select circle of friends, and she is surprised and discouraged to find that all her keen enthusiasm for the song has gone. It does not seem to suit her voice; the words have lost meaning. The emotion she at first poured into it has disappeared, and she is thoroughly disheartened, and is quite unable to find reason or remedy for her indifference.

An experienced artist would be able to show that student in a moment wherein her failure lay.

She had allowed herself to become too familiar, and familiarity had bred contempt. The song doubtless needed practice, but not incessant grinding and toiling. One cannot hammer the arts into one’s head as if they were nails being driven into wood. The subtle essence, the ephemeral spirit of the song will still evade the singer. To catch that, and to reveal it to others, the work must be as pure as the widespread petals of a flower.

So, when listlessness replaces your high enthusiasm for a song with which you have become too familiar, do not be disheartened, but put it away, and determine not to touch it or hear it sung until your first eagerness to master it is reborn. Then, and then only, take it out and sing it, and you will be astonished at the result; for having mastered the technicalities you are able to pour your heart into your words, and the result amazes you and delights your hearers, who think you have never sung anything better or more suitable to the pitch and timbre of your voice.

[116]

It is frequently and quite erroneously supposed by the uninitiated that, given a good memory and a pleasing voice, the young would-be elocutionist may become highly successful in the art of reciting. It is only the painstaking, experienced artist who realizes that these attributes are but as the husk to the nut, the calyx to the bud.

Cased in its shell is the kernel, and folded in its green sheath are the petals of the flower. So, likewise, the voice and power of memorizing must be but the covering of numerous other qualities, attained only by perseverance, judicious practice, and that artistic sense of fitness without which all attempts to excel are in vain.

It is impossible to play a symphony on the pianoforte before grinding away at the rudiments of music, and no one may build a house without mastering the elements of architecture. Yet the difficult art of reciting is often approached by a novice, who, having pounded some poem or prose into his or her memory (reciting is usually a feminine qualification) plunges into it with all the self-satisfaction of ignorance, and pains or fatigues her listeners by her flagrant and unsympathetic rendering of a masterpiece, which, in experienced hands, would be an exquisite piece of work, something to be remembered and dwelt upon with considerable pleasure.

[117]

The speaking voice, properly treated, is an instrument of exquisite music, capable of as many shades of feeling and power as the pipe organ. Before all else the voice must possess sympathy, sweetness, power of expression, and naturalness; and, unless these qualities are governed by a high sensibility, keen intuition, and common sense, they are futile.

The wing of the voice is the breath. Unless this is elastic, easily and naturally produced, the voice is like a crippled bird, or similar to a musical instrument with broken strings. Thus the cultivation of voice and breath is the most powerful adjunct to good reciting, and this only comes by constant practice.

In practicing, the reciter should stand in an easy attitude (Fig. 1)—erect, but not stiffly upright, and with muscles neither tense nor unduly lax, as in Fig. 1a. “There are no straight lines in Nature.” This is an invaluable motto for the student. The best method of gaining a clear and flexible voice is to read aloud some paragraph or verse softly at first, studying the meaning and sound of every word spoken, and endeavoring to express its phonetic quality, not only with the lip, but with the eyes. A mirror is an excellent help (Fig. 2). It will show the beginner the difference between facial expression and facial contortion (Fig. 2a).

The paragraph may be repeated in a gradual crescendo until the full power of the voice is used, always taking care to avoid harsh and stridulous tones, and not strain or fatigue the throat. When the student has accomplished this to her satisfaction, she should allow her voice to die gradually away, until it is almost a whisper, but her tone must always be clear and round in quality. This method[118] will bring many different shades of inflection and feeling into the voice, and she will be astonished at the notes she will add to her speaking register.

A good exercise is to make out a list of abstract words, and, concentrating attention upon them, endeavor to convey their full meaning with the aid of the mirror. Such sentences as: “I love you dearly,” “My hate is too deep for words,” “My scorn is intense,” “My tender concern,” “My pity,” “My contempt,” “My indifference,” “My desire,” “My despair,” and other impromptu phrases may be spoken in different tones, united, with eye and features, to express the qualities voiced.

The student need not despair because she has a bad or untrained memory. The power of memorizing verse or prose only requires diligence and concentration to become facile and natural. Exaggeration, affectation, melodrama, and meaningless gesture should be avoided, for there is nothing so appealing as simplicity.

Before reading a poem aloud, the reciter should master the meaning of the story it sets forward. She must remember that she is about to paint a picture in words. To do this effectively, she must avoid daubing in lurid colors. She will find it helpful to regard her mind as her palette, her voice as her brush, and her color tones as sympathy, tranquillity, gentleness, optimism, faithfulness, and clearness of expression. She should take as much pains when practicing as when performing before others, endeavoring to criticise her mode of speech and expression just as though she were listening to some one else’s recital.

The following simple rules will prove of great assistance:—

Here is an example from “David Copperfield”:

“Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew! With a window near it, out of which our house can be seen, and is seen many times during the morning’s service by Peggotty, who likes to[119] make herself as sure as she can that it’s not being robbed, or is not in flames. But, though Peggotty’s eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does, and frowns to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the clergyman.”

In this passage the reciter is for the time being a little boy endeavoring to sit quietly in church and fix his eyes on the clergyman. She must be simplicity itself in order to depict the David and his surroundings, lending a sympathetic eye that probes the brain and heart of the child squeezed between his mother and nurse, and she must see every detail as he describes it.

In order to do this successfully, intuition is essential. It will inspire the voice to a like comprehension, with the result that her listeners will be able to see that little weary figure quite plainly. Thus, in everything undertaken, the student must learn to merge her personality into that of the man, woman, or child of whom she is speaking, so that the words spoken seem indeed to fall from the lips of the characters portrayed.

Appropriate gesture presents difficulties, and, although occasionally a powerful aid, it is more often a stumbling-block to the inexperienced reciter. Many otherwise excellent recitals have been marred by superfluous demonstrations, which remind one forcibly of the action songs and recitations performed in a kindergarten, whilst not a few reciters hedge themselves in with boundaries. They will mention the sea, and point to a horizon, indicate distant hills, wood and lake, frequently forgetting their respective situations. I have seen upon more than one occasion a reciter engaged in a ludicrous juggling of her scenery, pushing the sea aside to make room for the hills, and merging her forests in the lake. This forgetfulness, usually engendered by extreme nervousness, renders an artist ridiculous. How much better, then, to refrain from gesticulation, unless she has mastered its intricacies.

In drawing-room reciting the voice must expand according to the acoustic properties of the apartment. A good way of making the voice carry is to imagine it an india-rubber ball, which is being thrown against the opposite wall. This thought will gradually insure its elastic properties.

When reciting, the eyes should be kept from roving among the audience, nor should they be fixed in a strained, glassy stare on the ceiling, for they are too useful to the performer, and will be needed to express different shades of thought.

If the reciter is nervous, she should endeavor not to show it[120] by twisting her fingers or moving her feet. The best cure for this harassing affliction is to glance quietly at the audience before beginning to recite. Taken individually, they will be found far from alarming. After this, a determined endeavor should be made to concentrate the mind on the artistic rendering of the recital.

To many elocutionists, costumes are a help, enabling them to grip more powerfully the character portrayed. In this case a certain amount of gesture is advisable, but there are no hard and fast rules. Actions must be governed by discretion and common sense.

The hand may properly be called a second tongue. As such it should be treated, and, to continue the simile, should not be allowed to stammer behind or chatter meaninglessly before the reciter.

The hands and arms are capable of a vast amount of expression when properly used.

Gesture may be divided into three classes:—

1. The epic radius, or mental zone, is the movement above the head and horizontal with the shoulder (Fig. 3). These are sweeping and graceful, not jerky movements, indicating such sentiments as honor, conscience, awe, veneration, &c., and may be used with advantage in such lines as—

[121]

In Shakespearean recitals and other blank verse, this epic zone may be used, as, for instance, in such pieces as the choruses of Henry V.

2. The rhetorical radius, or moral zone, includes the movements of the arm from breast to shoulder and from the region of the heart (Fig. 4), and may be used to appeal, implore, beseech, express love, hate, fear, contempt, &c., as in Queen Katherine’s speech in Shakespeare’s “King Henry VIII.,” Act ii. Scene 4:—

3. The colloquial radius, or vital zone, from below the waist (Fig. 5), is used to express ordinary sentiments that do not emanate in the heart or higher intellect, and may be used to give point to a simple, everyday occurrence, or narration, as in—

During the long winter evenings, when amusements and entertainments are cordially welcomed in home circles and at friends’ firesides,[122] the youth or maiden who is unable to play or sing, may, with a little care and practice, provide a delightful item in the programme, which will add considerably to the evening’s enjoyment.

An hour’s regular practice a day will work wonders with the voice of these aspirants, and there are many simple and exquisite poems that are easily committed to memory, for the student is far more likely to succeed and give pleasure to others in memorizing at first only the simplest and shortest poems, remembering always Shakespeare’s invaluable counsel to players:—

“Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but, if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand—thus; but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness ... Be not too tame, neither, but let your discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of Nature.”

[123]

There is no form of drawing-room entertainment which, when well done, is more interesting than whistling, with pianoforte accompaniment.

Below are embodied the views and methods of Mr. Charles Capper, the famous English siffleur, regarding this unique and attractive means of entertainment.

The great part of humanity knows nothing of that ability of piping and whistling so natural and melodious in the blackbird and thrush. Most of us have at some time or other put by a little of our bread-and-butter earnings in order to take a few lessons in learning to sing or to play the pianoforte or some stringed instrument. But there are comparatively few who turn to whistling as a means of livelihood or as an accomplishment. It is fortunate that this is the case, for, unless one possesses considerable natural talent, it is mere waste of money, time, and endeavor.

Whistling cannot be hammered into being. It is only where real ability is possessed that the student may set himself to work and overcome its many difficulties, and hope to achieve his best.

Another gift equally essential is that of a good natural ear—an ear that instantly distinguishes and corrects the note which is a shade flatter or sharper than it should be.

It is a fact worthy of note that, while an unusually high roof to the mouth is a disadvantage to the singer, it is—so some medical specialists assert—a great gain to the whistler, and perhaps this is the reason why it is so rare to meet skilled exponents of the art.

However, it is common enough to hear in almost every grade of life the whistling that has never been cultivated. For example, in the early morning, a few shrill tuneless notes float up to one’s bedchamber from the area steps, as a dairyman hands in the allowance of milk; but this annoys rather than delights, although it speaks eloquently of the human soul of the whistler.

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When the boy whistles, his mother knows he is well—in a good temper, and contented with the whole universe. The merchant, stepping into his office, may trill a few bars of “Tommy, make room for your uncle,” and the sound conveys volumes to the sharp-eared clerks, who foresee a day of unusual calm and peace; because a man suffering from spleen, liver, gout, or toothache never so far forgets his agony as to whistle.

Whistling invariably shows a light heart, and perhaps the reason why the birds indulge in this pastime so freely is because they know nothing of the burdens that beset mankind.

The most important qualities to be observed in whistling are production and control of breathing, modulation, purity and roundness of tone.

The method of breathing in whistling is exactly similar to that used in vocalization, and can be taught by any good teacher of singing. Scales and exercises should be daily practiced with infinite care,—to keep the notes clear and of even pitch.

Slurring or stumbling in a quick passage can be easily perceived—perhaps more so in the whistler than in the singer. Scales and runs should be undertaken, slowly at first, gradually increasing speed and tone until perfect flexibility is attained.

Many a whistler capable of faultless execution fails to charm, through monotony of tone. This is a fault as common as it is serious. Whistling, with practice and thought, can be modulated in a far greater degree than either the flute or the piccolo, and with much greater effect.

It is not enough to whistle a song correctly. The student should first study and memorize the words, so that he may express the tender pathos expressed in the song.

The whistler should pay as much attention to artistic rendition as the vocalist—if possible, even more—because he cannot voice the words with which to appeal to the hearts of his hearers. He is obliged to convey the sorrow, or humor, as the case may be, without the utterances we recognize as the insignia of distress, joy, or love; and his heart must be behind his notes, and enter into them, to win the spirits of the audience to comprehension and sympathy.

[125]

Whistling may be divided into two classes:—

(1) The florid.—necessary in such solos as Arditi’s “Il Bacio,” which seems at first to the beginner to teem with insurmountable difficulties, but which a little earnest practice will soon overcome.

(2) The sentimental.—In this category are Bishop’s early English songs, such as “Bid me discourse,” “Tell me, my heart,” “Should he upbraid,” “Lo, hear the gentle lark,” “Love has eyes,” Clay’s “I’ll sing thee songs of Araby,” &c. All these songs make excellent whistling solos, and are delightful when rendered with artistic sympathy and meaning.

All songs must be memorized. The whistler cannot give necessary control to his breathing and production if he holds the music in his hand. In practicing, it should be placed on a music-stand, and, in performing, must be note perfect. His whistling must be so faultless in its conception that the audience must almost hear the words coming from his lips.

Most of the solos forming the whistler’s repertoire are well known and popular, and the verses of such songs as “My mother bids me bind my hair” are familiar wherever the English language is spoken, so that all audiences are capable of interpreting the meaning of the sweet lilting notes. When we listen to “The Lost Chord,” played on the organ, we seem to hear the throbbing rhythm of the words just as if some spirit were singing them, and so it should be in the whistling of Spohr’s “Rose softly blooming,” and many another song which will doubtless occur to the student.

Care should be taken not to whistle in too high a key, as this spoils the quality of the tone, rendering it thin and shrill. The middle register contains better notes than the higher.

The piccolo is pitched one octave higher than the flute, whilst the whistler’s notes are said to be two octaves above the flute. Although the notes whistled are apparently very high, when judged by the ear, or compared with the pianoforte accompaniment, they are not so, in reality.

It is rare to find the extremely high or the extremely low whistler. Except in a very few cases, all whistle in about the same pitch. The most usual key is F or G.

In spite of the old dogmatic assertion about the “whistling woman and the crowing hen,” there are more young lady performers in this profession than young men, and very charming whistlers some of them are.

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It is a remarkable fact that not infrequently an individual, whose tonation is faultless in singing, cannot whistle such a simple melody as the national anthem without coming to grief.

Here are two useful points always observed by Mr. Capper.

The first is never to laugh when performing. The veriest novice knows that his risibilities must be well under control before he can whistle a single note, so that it is essential for him—no matter what funny incident is noticed and appeals to him—to hold tight to his gravity.

The second is that lip-salves should be strictly avoided, as they render the lips susceptible to cracks and cold; besides, they make a film which sticks and prevents clear whistling.

[127]

It has been asserted that the noun “bunkum” is first cousin to the verb “to bunk.” If so, the dealer in bunkumisms disdains the connection until matters grow too hot for him at the end of a performance, when, as a last resource, he hugs his relative gladly. Cupboard affection this, and in order to shelter himself from the righteous wrath of the audience, achieves a flying bunk from the platform.

The word “bunkum” is interesting. It is defined in the dictionary as “speech spoken merely to please one’s supporters or constituents and secure their votes—mere talk.” It originates from “Buncombe, a district in North Carolina, with a constituency, to please whom a member of theirs once boasted he made a speech in Congress.”

Bunkum covers a wider field than science, woman’s suffrage, or politics. It is an autocrat that stands aloof, and demands the gentle hearts of greenhorn and sage alike for its sacrificial fires. It endeavors to prove that the age of miracles has not been choked out of existence beneath the widespread fingers of civilization, or how could an orange be transformed before our eyes into a cauliflower, an egg into a peeled potato ?

The bunkum entertainer molds the brains of the most iron-headed cynic into putty, and transforms the scoffing jeers of the know-all schoolboy into humble admiration. He is a quack sorcerer, and, even while we designate him as such, we are obliged to own that his art is steeped in deepest mystery.

The bunkum entertainer is a parasite, a cartoonist, and mimic, a smooth-tongued, unscrupulous rascal, who deserves—the conscientious entertainer (who never tries bunkum because he is too stupid and wool-headed) so has it—to be banished to a desert island and served to cannibals as minced donkey flesh “à la bunkum.” He is the sort of man who borrows five pound notes, gold watches, and diamond rings from his audience, and forgets to return them. He cheats, deludes, patters, lies by the yard, swallows enough solid materials to furnish a warehouse, and give an ostrich indigestion.

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He is tough and brazen, and cheaply cynical at the expense of the authentic conjurer, juggler, phrenologist, ventriloquist, seer, and spiritualist. He is the cuckoo of society. He concocts a potpourri of brains and wit, and offers it as his own; and yet, in spite of it all, how fascinating and overwhelming is his personality. He is the fool of the world—the jester who prances about in cap and bells, who causes our sides to ache in our futile effort to keep our risibilities decorously pitched. Never did a folly play pitch and toss with the pedantic phrases of solemn courtiers, kings and prelates, as ably and irreverently as this monster incarnate with the five senses of mankind.

He is wrapped in mystery. We regard him with awe and wonder: the curtains, the table, the walls, the footlights are his faithful agents. We gaze at the rabbit popping up from his hat, the watch flicked through a pistol barrel to the wall, the inane jack of diamonds darting from his mouth to the back of his coat, in trembling amazement of his cunning. We whisper to our beating hearts, “Can such things be?” At that instant he throws aside the cloak of secrecy, and shows us his glaring infidelity. He has not, as we supposed, ruptured and mastered every law of gravitation and nature. He has simply been dealing in the art of “bunkum,” and, when he reveals his methods to us, as he never fails to do in a continuous prattle of artless confidence, we see—or we think we see—that it is all child’s play and foolish absurdity.

The rabbit has not been suddenly created, full-grown, in the crown of his immaculate silk hat. It owes its mild behavior to constant discipline, its sleek coat to cabbage leaves. Like Topsy—like all other bipeds, quadrupeds and aquatic creatures—it has simply “growed.” Its cage is behind the stage, to which it will presently be spirited away, to rest in peace after its labors.

When we discover this we become very wide-awake, very “cute.” We will see through the next trick or perish in the attempt. Alas! alas! for our righteous determination; once again we are deluded and snared. The table performs a giddy reel, the watch of the confiding benign bald-headed gentleman in the corner is shattered before our eyes, and with a thrill of horror we strain our necks to gaze in his direction in order to witness the anticipated apoplectic seizure.

The gentleman, however, remains stolidly non-committal. My young schoolboy eyes observe a whitening of the gills, a compression of the lower jaw that bodes ill for the entertainer if he does not make good the loss; and a few minutes after he is bidden of the smiling performer to look in his pocket, and, lo and behold! the monogrammed watch, which we are ready to swear we saw him pass to the platform, dangles safely from the end of the chain spanning his stomach. The[129] shattered timepiece, we are told glibly, was only a base imitation in tin and glass.

But how, where, in what manner? queries my boyish soul, steeped in perplexity; and, by-and-by, the monster answers all these questions as if he read that inner inquisitive voice so satisfactorily that I go home and try the trick before an admiring circle of friends, borrowing my maiden aunt’s watch for the purpose, she being quite unaware that I have its threepenny duplicate in my pocket.

I am sure of success. I imitate the performer’s patronizing complacency perfectly. I smile and sneer politely with all his evil suavity, and then I fire my pistol, shatter the glass of the threepenny, and my aunt rises from her chair with a piercing shriek.

“Tom, you little wretch, what have you done?”

With an airy smile I bid her be calm, and from the rear part of my person produce with a deft movement her precious belonging.

“Your watch, madam,” I say, with all the superior pleasantry of the “bunkum” performer.

Then the smile freezes on my face, the timepiece feels strangely light in my clammy hand. I gaze at it in horror. My eyeballs distend, my heart swings backwards and forwards between my ribs. I have bungled! The good watch is shattered beyond hope of redemption. The disc of paper and glass cowers up at me, its hands stretched confusedly across its impudent face.

Disgrace and ignominy descend swiftly upon me. My maiden aunt prepares to leave the house, declaring she will never enter it again. My parents, who expect great things at her demise, beseech her forgiveness in vain. I am banished from the firelit circle to my own room, up to which a step presently approaches, striding away from the disorder and hysterics downstairs. My father enters with a long slender implement behind his back—an implement which, from former experience, I know portends woe terrific.

I draw the curtain—I am chastised and broken in body and spirit. For a whole week I keep severely aloof from the awful bunkum tyrant, and then, alas! I am drawn again to the hall, where he is performing as remorselessly as the silly fly is drawn to enmesh himself in the spider’s web.

The next time I played a trick on my family I took good care it should be of a kind that would do no one—not even the most hypersensitive individual—any harm. Needless to say, my aunt was not of the circle.

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I told them briefly and airily that I was now about to exhibit my wonderful skill in thought-reading. Perhaps I should add that my sister Jane, who adores me, was chosen as my confederate. Bidding them fix on a number, which I would at once discover by the simple means of placing my fingers on their temples, I withdrew with a bland smile into the passage.

When I returned they giggled a little, and one twelve-year-old cynic of the opposite sex piped out scornfully—

“You’ll never guess it, Tom. You can’t possibly—so there.”

This maiden, often a thorn in my flesh, I silenced with a severe frown.

“If you please, I must request the audience to be perfectly silent, to concentrate their minds—those of you who possess them——” I paused to scowl at my pink-and-white torment—“concentrate them absolutely on the chosen number. I am not going to guess it. I am going to discover it by means of thought transference, and, as the strain is very great, I must ask you to be perfectly silent.”

“It’s like having our photo taken,” whispered the torment, but some one bumped her ribs, and she was reluctantly silent.

Solemnly, slowly, I moved round the circle. With drawn brows and narrowed eyes I placed my fingers lightly on the temples of my father, mother, uncle, and friends in succession, and then I reached Jane. She set her teeth just as I had shown her, and I felt the muscles at her temples work steadily. Having counted ten vibrations, I went on stolidly to the other heads until the circle was completed. Then, standing before them, I wiped the imaginary sweat of fatigue from my brow. The torment looked radiant.

“You don’t know it? There—I said so, Tom, you goose.”

“Madam,” I returned with a bow, “the digit fixed upon was ten!”

Tableau vivant! The complete confusion of the torment, the most guileless “bravo” from Jane, and my uncle’s audible whisper to my proud parents.

“The boy’s a positive genius!”

“And he looks quite white and tired,” quoth mamma.

Result—the promise of a ripping new bicycle from grandpa as a reward for my merit.

I owed a lot to Jane, who remained my faithful unsuspected confederate in many other tricks, which gained me a reputation of being something of an extraordinary phenomenon and possessed of embryo[131] genius. It was delightful to enjoy the giddy pinnacle of fame to which my female relations raised me.

Another trick that caused much sensation was the following, and, for any youth who wishes to follow in the footsteps of the great (which I think some old poet chap—who had never studied the art of bunkum—remarked are written “on the sands of Time,”) I will state clearly the manner in which it was done.

Place three corks on the table, and tell your wondering home circle that, while you withdraw, they may touch one of them, and you will tell them which cork they touched. Your confederate must classify them as top, middle, and bottom.

When you return, do not look at her fixedly, but just once through the tail of your eye. If you observe her brush her hair carelessly from her forehead, you may safely conclude that the top cork is the one that has been touched. If she picks an imaginary speck from her nose or blows it, it is the middle cork. If she scratches her chin pensively, it is the bottom cork. She must take care not to prolong the process, and you must see at once (without appearing to do so) the hint conveyed.

By-and-by, delighted with my many successes, I studied and exhibited the difficult art of ventriloquism. Jane and I, after long saving of pocket-money and hoarding of occasional tips—bestowed by kindly relatives, susceptible to hints—succeeded in purchasing a dilapidated doll from a second-hand dealer, and, mastering the anatomy of its joints, produced it, seated in the place of honor in front of a curtained receptacle in which Hyde, our servant, was cramped with a mouth organ, glass of water, straw and other apparatus, carefully schooled beforehand as to cues and the order of utensils to be used. Or in place of a lay figure, another boy seated in the chair, and appropriately dressed, can act as dummy (Fig. 1).

The bunkum ventriloquist must insert his hand in the hole at the back of the dummy, so that he can move his head and limbs as desired. He must also convey the appearance of throwing his voice outward from his chest, boots or stomach, without opening his lips except when addressing the dummy.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said I very grandly, “I am about to exhibit to you some marvelous feats to illustrate faithfully the psychological force which mind exerts over matter. This gentleman has spent thousands of years in an African tomb. He was buried on his face, and that accounts for his battered nose, while it typifies the greatness of the position he occupied in 15 B.C., when it was the[132] custom to put corpses of royal blood with their features compressed against the bottom of their coffins. You would much prefer to hear his story from his own lips, and this he will now relate at my persuasion:—

“Androde!”

Hyde (in a far away husky voice): “Noble lord.”

“The audience here wish to know something of your experiences previous to your long confinement in the willy waily tomb on the Timbuctoo plains.”

(Hyde bubbles the water through the straw.)

“He’s overcome with emotion. These are tears trickling through the floodgates.” (Produce handkerchief and wipe them away.)

“There, there, old chappie, don’t cry.”

Hyde (huskily): “When I think of the sand and the worms, I can’t help it.”

“Don’t think about them. Tell us about the Palace Mahomé in which you lived.”

Hyde: “It was very beautiful—flowers, fountains, fruit, and baccy as much as I could consoom.”

Hyde’s pronunciation is somewhat faulty, but I excuse this by saying that poor Androde has not sufficient air in his sand-choked lungs to pronounce clearly.

“And there were birds, were there not?”

Hyde (sadly): “The air was thick with them, noble lord.”

“Can you recall the note of the Timbuctoo owl?”

(Figure lost in pondering. Head bent, hand raised to temple in Shakespearean attitude; lifts his face, mouth opened in a wide grin.)

Hyde: “It all comes back.”

“Give us a specimen of the owl.”

[133]

(Pause. Dummy thinks hard, and Hyde blows mouthpiece. I then call upon him to imitate the Timbuctoo lion, and Hyde growls through a glass chimney, swayed backwards and forwards, and renders excellent imitation.)

I need not narrate our further conversation. The young bunkum entertainer can concoct something probably far more idiotic himself. He may dish up puns, tell funny tales, ask riddles, &c., and, so long as his patter is bright, amusing, and illustrated by as many funny jerks and head-turnings of his dummy as he can squeeze into the entertainment, he will keep a house party amused for a considerable time.

My figure is not always posed as an unearthed royal mummy from the plains of Timbuctoo. Sometimes I dress him as a coster-boy, chimney-sweep, or gentleman in evening dress. Not infrequently he appears as a clown in tight linen skull-cap and red stockings; and a quick change into my mother’s old dress, renovated by Jane, transforms him from an awkward-limbed hoyden to a demure old lady.

This dressing need not cost the performer anything. He has only to unearth a linen bag, containing remnants and articles of outgrown clothing, to work the miracle. A dummy should have as many different costumes as Queen Elizabeth. They will all come in handy, and add novelty to the entertainment.

If the cost of procuring a dummy is beyond the performer’s purse—as it was beyond mine for quite a considerable time—he may engage a confederate to walk, behave, and talk automatically, conceal his face in mask and wig, and render a clever and ludicrous performance. This, however, needs considerable rehearsing and care.

An item that makes for novelty and change in an evening’s performance is the following:—

Secure three young girls—I don’t mean kidnap them, but use your masculine powers of persuasion. (I find the majority of women folk need little when it’s a matter of dressing up and showing off to hilarious friends.) This is a digression.

Each damsel must have an old woman’s mask, the uglier the better, secured at the back of her head by means of elastics, which are easily hidden by her hair. She must wear a long skirt that conceals her feet, the back part of it covered by a small apron.

Her hands, in mittens, should be clasped behind her over a stick. To hide the edge of the mask, some fluffy headgear is essential, such[134] as a lace fascinator with a rose or two fixed at the side, which is folded crosswise over the back of her shoulders and frames the mask.

Place the three behind a curtain. When all is ready—and the performers should take care to stand perfectly still, for fear of disclosing the masked profiles at the back of their heads—the curtain is drawn, and they sing to a pianoforte accompaniment a verse of “We are three young maids of Lee.”

The onlookers will probably designate this “pretty, but rather tame.” This is where the fun comes in, for no one is prepared for the grand finale. At the end of the verse the maidens step backwards in a row and retire behind the curtain, or turn round with their masks to the audience, their heads thrown well over the hands holding the sticks (Fig. 2). When they are ready the curtain is again drawn, and,[135] amid shrieks of merriment, the last verse is sung by voices as cracked, discordant, and out of tune as possible—“We are three old maids of Lee.” The hands and heads should quiver with old age, the figures be bowed over the sticks. The result is ludicrous to a degree, and never fails to delight the unprepared audience.

I once saw an old dowager duchess, severe in full consciousness of war-paint and feathers, nearly burst the diamond snap of her necklace with laughing at the absurdity of the spectacle presented. Its great advantage is that it is cheap and easy, and can be performed without any rehearsing, by inviting three girls from the audience and spending a few minutes in instructions behind the scenes.

If you do not know them well enough to presume so far upon their good-nature, call up three chums of your own sex, array them in feminine apparel, and the result is even more ludicrous, if more expensive, for in this case you will require wigs to hide their cropped heads for the first verse, and dressing them will need more time.

I have frequently amused my long-suffering friends and relatives by Bunkum Lectures. For example, one on Toe and Cornology, quite an original science, gives scope for the most idiotic remarks on the characteristic traits portrayed by toes.

For my lecture I have an easel, covered with a block of thin paper perforated at the top, so that the sheets are easily torn off. On these I rapidly sketch in turn different types of toes in chalk.

If the entertainer is unable to draw, he can probably persuade an artist friend to sketch the members required beforehand. In this case the sheets need not be perforated, but simply thrown over the top of the easel as he exhibits the different drawings. An easel is soon constructed, and can be made at home out of soap boxes by the amateur carpenter; or the block of paper may be placed on a music-stand.

I begin my lecture by a short treatise on toes. I show diagrams of (1) the President’s toe, (2) the prelate’s toe, (3) the courtier’s toe, (4) the tyrant’s toe, (5) the toady’s toe, (6) the artisan’s toe, (7) the neurotic toe, (8) the spiteful toe, (9) the cringing toe, (10) the poetic toe, (11) the melancholy toe, (12) the absurd toe, (13) the philanthropic toe, (14) the corn-riddled toe. Here I try to be witty, and remark that some people of an original turn of mind wear their corns on their noses instead of inside their boots.

“The corn is precious—we all need corn; we make a great to-do when our corn is oppressed by taxes, for we cherish it. There is nothing—not even his wife or twin babes—so dear to the heart and[136] necessary to the well-being of man as corn. Corn means bread. Bread is the staff of life. The man with corn (a corn) is grateful for the prop of the staff, so that to have a corn sprouting on your big toe should be no hardship.

“It is a convenience. It is tinned for consumption in your boot, out of reach of Tariff Reformers and Free Traders. It is your own private property. Sometimes it is trodden on maliciously, but it does not vanish on that account. There is something obstinate and bull-necked about the corn—the more it is trodden on the more it asserts itself. It is a hot-house plant. It needs a cover of wool, a roof of boot leather. Under these conditions it thrives like the baby fed on Mellin’s food.

“I can’t understand the fuss the unemployed make. Why should they, when they have such a treasure hidden in their boots? So long as a citizen possesses this luxury he is an independent man. What does he want with foreign corn? Ah, my friends, we have not yet reached the full realization of the tremendous privileges we inherit. The corn may not yet be ripe for cutting, but every day, every hour, sees it nearer that perfection which rejoices the heart of humanity.

“See how beneficent nature has become during the last centuries. The bootless, prehistoric savage had to plant and reap his corn in the barren fields, while we are provided gratis with an abundant supply that is likely to last some of us a lifetime.

“There are, of course, some individuals who have barren, cornless toes, although I am glad to say they are in a very small minority. I have taken pains to secure a correct census of the corn-sprouts that have appeared during the last year, and I find on an average that only 5 per cent. are ignorant of this blessing.

“The uses of a corn crop are too numerous to mention. Its chief function is its use as a barometer. The man setting out with his wife and children to spend a day at the seaside should, before starting on the excursion, consult his booted friend. If it admonishes him severely he should not ignore its voice. Woe betide him if he does! It is less disastrous for him to drown his conscience than shut his heart against the promptings of his corn.

“Should he do so, and act upon his determination to spend a long day on the sands, anticipating a pleasurable bask in the sunshine, dire catastrophe will befall him. Rain descends in bucketfuls upon him, his patient wife, and wailing progeny. They return to town drenched to the skin, and are all laid up with chills, which means a week’s absence from the office—perhaps dismissal by his employer, if he is a clerk, and a long doctor’s bill at the end of the month; and who is to blame?[137] Had the man obeyed the mandates of the faithful vegetable protuberance on his big toe all would have been well.

“The only individual I am inclined to respect and admire is the man who cultivates and is led by his corn in all the important affairs of life. To be without the ripening corn is to miss the greater part of the meaning and poignancy of existence. The possession of this treasure causes a man to thread his way gingerly and tactfully through the city streets. He never blunders or bungles; he is a sensitive, considerate person, who unconsciously avoids treading upon or coveting the abundant crops of others. His corn’s influence is more beneficial than freemasonry or foreign missions.

“To gain the sympathies and interest of a fellow-being when you are in trouble and want his financial aid, don’t plunge into your story at once, but approach him gently with the kindly query, ‘Have you a corn?’ If he replies in the affirmative, you may safely intrust him with your difficulties. If, on the contrary, he negatives your question, recognize at once that he is a man of dormant sympathies, and don’t waste further time upon him. It will be useless. He is a cornless individual, therefore heartless.”

I wind up my discourse with some such remark as this—

“Ladies and gentlemen, turn away from the pernicious tyrants who seek to rob you of your birthright in advertising corn salves and plasters. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing. They are jealous and embittered by the barrenness of their toe pastures which, do what they will, yield no corn.”

After this, in order to secure the forgiveness of my hearers for my opinions and oratory, both pure bunkum, I bring a trick to their notice, which I work with Hyde, and of which I am rather proud, because it is quite original and works awfully well, in spite of the fact that it’s as simple as the alphabet. For those who would like to try it, here it is:—

Hyde, hidden behind me, is armed with a paper bag inflated with air. Beforehand I place a used bullet on the floor at the spot at which I intend aiming my pistol.

I employ some patter to remove the growing alarm of my family, and the anxiety expressed for themselves, the furniture, and lastly—my own person.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say with self-complacency extreme, “I am about to perform a feat with my hands”—(joke—pause—a flutter of laughter). “Thank you,” I say with a polite bow—“the like of[138] which has never been seen—since the making of the world. I will load and fire this revolver, and the bullet will not only make no mark, but there will not even be a flash or smoke. You will hear the sound of the explosion, and I will show you the bullet discharged.

“So that you may see that there is no bunkum in this marvelous achievement, I will hand you the bullet before I place it in the barrel and immediately after I have fired it.” (Here I pass round unused bullet. I then place it in full view of the audience in the barrel.)

I retire to the curtain immediately in front of Hyde, and take aim above the spot where the spent bullet lies. Count aloud “One, two, three!” At three I pretend to pull the trigger, and Hyde brings his hand forcibly on the paper bag, which causes my audience to bounce in their chairs.

Then I cross the platform, stoop, pick up the used bullet, hand it round for inspection, and retire modestly, overcome with glory.

Occasionally I work a ghost in the following way. After some patter, in which I inform the onlookers that I am about to conjure up the shade of some famous character, I extinguish the lights, and withdrawing to a corner of the room, enfold myself in a long black mackintosh or coat that shrouds my head and figure completely.

I strike a match behind the curtain, and, when I have a good spark that will last a few seconds, blow out the flame, and hold the end of the match between my teeth, so that my mouth is lit up (Fig. 3). My lips are drawn in a fiendish grin, and I strike an attitude, accompanied by inhuman moans and drum-beating from Hyde.

When the spark dies, I hide the black garment behind the curtain, and assume the position I occupied before the appearance of the ghost.

[139]

Hyde switches on the light, and my shivering onlookers have no key to the riddle.

The apparatus employed by the bunkum entertainer and the cost it entails depend largely upon his own ingenuity. Most of the articles I employ are of my own manufacture. My wigs do not hail from a wig-maker’s, but from the lumber room at the top of our house, where Jane and I shred disused rope, fix it by means of gum or stitches on to pieces of stiff book-muslin, shaped so as to fit the head. If other colors, such as black and red, are required, we resort to aniline dyes, and the result is much satisfaction to ourselves.

[140]

There is one form of entertainment which perhaps makes a stronger appeal to the average boy and young man than almost any other. It would not, in a sense, be wrong to say that ventriloquism is, and has been for a great number of years, the most envied of all accomplishments incidental to the art of the amateur and semi-professional entertainer.

True, ventriloquism for many centuries was regarded as an adjunct to wizardry, and the exponents of black magic, but the great success achieved by the writer of “Valentine Vox,” the central character in which was endowed with the most wonderful and extraordinary powers of voice throwing, brought the subject of ventriloquism at once under general notice, and ever since it has steadily won its way into universal favor, with the result that, at the present time, it easily eclipses in popularity most other forms of amusement.

Despite this, however, the misconceptions existing regarding this branch of vocal phonetics are extraordinarily numerous and widespread, due, perhaps, in a measure to the fact that the amount of valuable written instruction on ventriloquism is so small, while the number of people who have swallowed the fascinating and improbable adventures dealt with in the book just referred to are correspondingly large.

To a very considerable extent, then, it is the object of this chapter primarily to dispose of the many existing fallacies concerning ventriloquism, because by so doing alone is it possible to commence a study of the subject with the hope of attaining proficiency and success.

The first idea which the would-be ventriloquist has to dismiss from his mind is that, by following out a stated course of exercises, he will be able to “throw” his voice or, in other words, to upset the equanimity of peaceable old gentlemen snoring quietly in the furthest corner of the railway carriage—or ruffle the temper of some aged lady by producing facetious remarks concerning her appearance—from a long distance away; not that those who approach this subject have any particular[141] desire to be a disturbing influence to other people, but it is safe to say that more take up ventriloquism with the idea of practical joking than for any other purpose.

In point of truth, the real art of Valentine Vox does not lend itself very easily to the production of such illusions; even when the performer is capable of producing ventriloquial sound, he will discover that the “distant” effect depends almost entirely upon his situation at the moment of utterance, and whether or not those around him are prepared to give the credence he desires to his efforts. In other words, a ventriloquist cannot throw his voice wheresoever he will as if it were sound bottled up only to come out and be heard when it is some distance away; the best he can hope for is to make that sound so deceptive to the ears of his audience that, to them, it seems to come from some one other than the actual speaker.

It cannot, however, be denied that the stock-in-trade of the clever ventriloquist is so unusual and superior to that of his fellow-worker in any other branch of entertainment, that he is capable of producing the most humorous and arresting situations. Moreover, it is a power which once gained can never be lost, and although a ventriloquist may, from various causes, give up the pursuit of his favorite subject for a period of many years, yet he can pick it up again at the point where he left it and find himself still possessed of the same wonderful and extraordinary skill.

Unhappily there are other very prevalent misconceptions to be removed before instruction can be either given or undertaken. The marvelous and almost incomprehensible powers attributed by the late Mr. Henry Cockton to his popular character, doubtless gave rise to the idea that ventriloquism was a gift natural only to those possessing unusual formation of the throat and vocal organs. Modern research and investigation, however, have proved that every one is a born ventriloquist, that the power to make sounds appear to emanate at a point remote from the speaker is universal—and that all those who study the subject from a proper and sensible standpoint can easily acquire the art.

Then, again, it has long been supposed by the uninitiated that ventriloquial practice is injurious to the throat, and capable of harming the lungs. Exactly the opposite is the case; the exercises necessitated by the proper study of the art are such as will serve not only to train the vocal organs, but also to induce proper breathing—a practice neglected by many—and to strengthen and invigorate the lungs.

From many years’ personal experience the author can testify to[142] the truth of this fact; he has known a number of young men who, possessing lung and throat troubles, and acting on the foregoing advice, have followed out a practical course of ventriloquial training, and have obtained much material benefit thereby.

Of course it cannot be denied that some possess a natural aptitude for the correct expression of ventriloquial sound, and it is they who make the cleverest exponents. Therefore, from the start it should be assumed that a ventriloquist has only to cultivate the vocal qualifications with which he has been endowed in order to shine as a popular entertainer.

Careful and systematic attention to the instructions subjoined will not only strengthen the throat and respiratory organs, but will also endow any one young man, or young woman, with the power of giving a highly amusing entertainment. Probably many who give this chapter attention will do so with the idea of taking up the subject for the purpose of making a living, and in that respect it may truthfully be said that ventriloquism is one of the most paying forms of entertainment. While the number of conjurors, comic singers, &c., is legion, those capable of giving a really good ventriloquial entertainment are comparatively few, with the result that a clever ventriloquist is always certain of obtaining engagements at fees which he, himself, can fix and command. The popularity of the subject is so widespread that the chances of exhibiting it are increasing every year.

Just as the successful illusionist is called upon to devote many many hours of his time to the speedy and finished manipulation of cards, coins, and billiard balls, so the young ventriloquist has an equally uninteresting course to traverse. It is, however, possible for the initial stages of the work to be accomplished in less time than is the case with conjuring, and while the work has to be done all the same, dry and tiresome though it may be, after it is once accomplished the performer can put it behind him for ever.

The primary difficulty to be overcome is incorrect breathing. Possibly nine out of ten, when they come to read this chapter, will discover that their method of breathing is faulty. Most people, from lack of proper instruction and through carelessness, breathe through the mouth—and this fault must be remedied at once.

For ventriloquism, as with singing, breathing must take place through the nostrils. The necessity for this—apart from hygienic reasons—is that because the ventriloquist, particularly when he is performing with a “lay” figure, is called upon to conduct a dual[143] conversation, and the supposed interchange of remarks between him and the automaton is so rapid that mouth breathing would interfere with the continuous flow of words. Only by taking in deep inhalations through the nostrils and filling the lungs to their utmost capacity is it possible to carry on one part of the conversation with moving lips, and the other with the face immutably set.

These should be undertaken regularly every day, preferably early in the morning and in the open air. Stand erect, shoulders drawn well back, arms hanging loosely at the sides, and then, closing the mouth tightly, draw in a deep breath, retaining it for some seconds in the lungs. Not infrequently it happens, that the ventriloquist when performing is called upon to keep a conversation going for quite a minute and a half without the opportunity of recharging the lung cells with a fresh supply of oxygen; from this it will easily be understood how important deep and sustained breathing is.

At first difficulty will be experienced in holding the breath for more than five or six seconds; by the end of a week, after ten minutes’ practice every morning, the chest will be so expanded and strengthened that “half minute breaths” may be taken with ease. Continue the practice of this exercise until only one inhalation and exhalation takes place every forty or fifty seconds. Somewhat dry, indeed, sounds this part of the ventriloquial study; nevertheless it is of the utmost importance, and will well repay the time, trouble, and perseverance devoted to it.

As a number of minor acquirements must be gained before ventriloquial effects can be produced, the breathing exercises may be alternated with the most necessary adjunct of learning to speak without moving the lips.

It has previously been said that ventriloquism largely partakes of the nature of an illusion, and this effect is produced by the performer uttering sounds without giving visible indications of the fact. Consequently, when the audience have before them two figures, a live and a dummy one, and the mouth of the “dummy” opens and shuts to correspond with the words used, whilst the face of the ventriloquist remains mask-like and passive—the illusion that it is the “automaton,” and not the man who is speaking, is complete.

So important indeed is the ability to do this properly, that speaking without facial movement ranks of equal importance with the placing[144] of the vocal chords in such a position that “distant” effect is given to sound. In fact, one might almost say that a most amusing entertainment can be given without this latter power at all.

Many ventriloquists or polyphonists, as they more correctly designate themselves, rely solely for their entertainment on a “knee” figure and speech without facial expression.

Those who do not aspire to become really first-class and proficient ventriloquists may conclude their instruction at this point, and rest quite assured that they have learned sufficient, at any rate, to give a creditable drawing-room performance.

Naturally the beginner would like to have some idea of the time it would take to gain a practical working knowledge of ventriloquism. Well, the student who would take the trouble and devote sufficient time to the initial and most difficult stages of the work would be in a position to give a very creditable performance long before his painstaking brother who, as fast as he seems to be getting on, will find he has to go back again and again over the early ground.

However, after devoting say a week to the elementary stages, a “knee” figure might be purchased, and within a very few days a private entertainment might safely be entered upon. As, however, the course herewith outlined will take in several different kinds of “voices” for automata, together with the various modifications of the “distant” voice, the student should not expect to gain proficiency under a month. Of course, to give a really finished entertainment consisting of an exhibition of the “near” and “distant” voices, together with instrumental and vocal mimicry equal in skill to the average product of the professional entertainer, many months’ practice are required.

A study of the alphabet reveals that difficulties lie in the path of pronouncing certain letters—a, e, i, o, u, c, d, g, h, j, k, l, n, q, r, s, t, x, and z—issue from the mouth quite easily; but b, f, m, p, v, w, y all make a demand upon the muscles of the lips and cheeks. Unfortunately these letters often recur in ordinary speech, and as it is almost impossible to speak them distinctly without facial movement, appropriate vocal substitutes have to be made.

On the border line is “b,” which is generally pronounced by bringing the upper row of teeth down to the under lip and forcing the breath out between the lip and teeth; by giving greater force to the exhalation, and, opening the mouth, it will be found that almost identically the same sound can be gained, and it is this one which has to be used for all words commencing with “v” and “b.” Thus the word[145] “brother” is really pronounced ventriloquially as “vruther”; in the hurry of conversation the substitution passes notice, and the audience hear only the correct word.

For “f” an accentuated aspirate makes a very passable substitution—i.e. “fool” becomes “hool,” “feel” becomes “heel,” and so on.

“m” will be found rather more difficult, but if the lips are formed into an orifice, and the breath drawn sharply in, the sound of the “m” can be made inside the mouth instead of by the lips.

As it is almost an impossibility to sound the initial “p” unless the lips come together, words commencing with it should be studiously avoided. Another plan is to drop the first letter altogether; but the former is the better.

“w” is amenable to a little tongue-twisting, and is accomplished by moving the tongue twice in quick succession to the roof of the mouth making the sound at the back of the throat. This is as regards the letter itself, but words commencing with “w” are quite easy. Practice on “which,” “when,” “what.”

“y,” however, is a fairly certain test, and if you can comfortably manage this without betraying the fact to the looking-glass (before which you should carry out your practice) then you have mastered a great difficulty. A quick exhalation should take place while words commencing with it are being uttered.

Ventriloquism may be divided into two classes—the first and more easy of acquirement known as “near,” i.e. including all those vocal illusions produced with the aid of automata; and “distant,” which takes in the various illusions achieved by what is known as “throwing the voice.”

The most finished exponent of both these branches, of this or any other age, was the great Lieutenant Walter Cole, and he introduced into his entertainment such an exquisite blending of the two styles that his example might well be imitated by other followers of the art.

When carrying on an animated conversation with the “lay” figures placed at near quarters the proceedings would suddenly be interrupted by the low sound of voices coming from afar, and this would gradually increase in volume as the speakers were supposed to draw near, until at last they would be heard outside the very room in which the entertainment was taking place.

This is alluded to now, as showing the latitude which ventriloquism allows its exponents.

Of the two branches, “near” ventriloquism is much the simpler[146] to acquire, although some might hold that, in order to justify the title, “distant” sounds should first be mastered.

For the purpose of adding interest to the work, students are recommended to give precedence to the “near” effects. Briefly, the “near” voices come from the mouth, the “distant” from the throat.

For the former five modified voices are generally used. These are: “The old man,” “the old woman,” “the little boy,” “the little girl,” and “the darky” or “the longshoreman.”

The first is a foundation for the last two. It has been spoken of as the “grunt,” because, being the vocal production of an aged and uneducated man, in its initial stages it much resembles the familiar grunting of a pig.

And here it should be noted that the speech of ventriloquial figures is always harsh and toneless because the efforts to produce the sound in the mouth without moving the lips rob them of that music and modulation invariably associated with the speech of educated persons.

Do not attempt to speak ventriloquially, as you would naturally but slur the endings of your words. Grunt and drag them out slowly, just as do many countrymen and those unacquainted with the rules of proper speech.

To give the sound the necessary depth and loudness, keep the lips slightly apart, the tongue lying loosely in the mouth; then make the grunt, using some vowel sound like “ah!” fairly far back.

To a certain extent the vocal chords will have to be contracted and the chin drawn slightly down into the chest.

At first only a spasmodic jerkiness of the breath will come, but after a little practice “ah!” can be said quite easily, and then other and longer words follow as a matter of course.

Known as the “theek” or “rush” voice, it partakes of the nature of the squeaky, shrill sound produced by a reed instrument. Most people are gifted with the power of singing “falsetto,” and the “theek” voice simply consists of falsetto tones somewhat exaggerated. Either the words “queek” or “theek” may be used for the preliminary practice, the latter perhaps being preferable.

As it is not intended in these chapters to enter into a practical discourse on the anatomy of the throat and vocal chords, technical terms relating to such will be avoided as far as possible. However, the larynx must now be mentioned—this is the part of the throat often spoken of as Adam’s apple, and is the convex portion of the first cartilage of the larynx. It is, then, this part of the larynx that has to[147] be compressed by muscular contraction in order to give the “theek” voice its proper quality; by a slight pressure with the hand on the “apple” you will realize the position which this part of the throat should occupy when muscular contraction takes place.

Now, taking in a deep breath and contracting the larynx, it will naturally curl up the tongue, until the tip presses tightly against the roof of the mouth. Open the lips fairly wide and say the word “theek” in a high-pitched falsetto tone, sustaining the vowel sound as long as you can.

Your first efforts will probably end in dismal failure, but after a few attempts the full sound settles down to the long drawn-out sound of full roundness and tone.

Now you have acquired the “theek” voice, which is also the basis of the voices used with the figures of little boys and little girls.

Very possibly your practice in the elementary stages of ventriloquism will result in a slight soreness of the throat. To alleviate this, and, at the same time, to strengthen the vocal chords, gargle with a weak solution of salt and water, or better still, get a druggist to make up a gargle for you.

Curiously enough, the mere effort of gargling is in itself a valuable aid to the production of ventriloquism, inasmuch as the subject is forced to emit sounds while the water is in the throat, and these will be found to possess quite a “distant” effect.

Having mastered the “grunt” and “theek” voices, use words consisting of vowels, changing the words into sentences as progress is made.

At this point the young ventriloquist is sufficiently well equipped to undertake a public exhibition of his powers, and this being so, it is perhaps better to make mention of ventriloquial figures before the remaining “near” voices are dealt with.

As a matter of fact, the practice of ventriloquism in its earlier stages is not the most interesting of occupations, and not until the beginner awakens to the full realization of his powers—as he does only when he is working with automata—is the real fascination of the art felt.

Perhaps it is hardly right to assume that every one has seen a ventriloquial figure; certainly many will be unacquainted with its peculiarities and modes of working.

The dummy is usually a humorous representation of some grotesque character—an old man, with strongly accentuated peculiarities, such as a red nose, wrinkled skin, and big jaws; an old woman, with[148] thin, pointed nose, sharp eyes, and scanty locks; a little boy grinning saucily, and having the appearance of possessing the wisdom of all the ages; the little “miss,” of perky manner; the good-natured, rollicking black man; and the longshoreman, square jowled and cheeky.

The one essential about the ventriloquial figure is that it shall have a moving mouth. In reality the chin is cut away from the face, and the movable portion working on a pivot or string, gives the same effect as when a person is speaking.

There are many different forms of ventriloquial figures, some of which are shown on this page (Figs. 1 and 2), but for the amateur the kind which possesses only a moving mouth is quite suitable.

By means of a little ingenuity and the expenditure of a few cents a movable tuft of hair may be added to the wig, but as the working of this is liable at first somewhat to hamper the manipulation of the automaton, it should perhaps be left until proficiency is more assured.[149] The hole in the back of the head or body permits of the hand of the performer pressing either upon a plate or upon a circle of wire, which in turn moves down the movable mouth, closing automatically by means of a spring. Figs. 3, 4 and 5 respectively show the construction of ventriloquial figure heads and another principle of ventriloquial figure manipulation.

The number of mouth movements made by the figure should, of course, coincide as nearly as possible with the number made by the mouth in ordinary speech; thus a natural effect will be gained.

Placing a “dummy” on each knee, the ventriloquist opens up an amusing conversation. The aim of the figures is to destroy the effect of the performer’s remarks by the interpolation of absurd interruptions. The whole matter resolves itself into a witty dialogue between three or four people, of whom the entertainer is the central character. Such a dialogue should be brisk and sparkling with humor, all vulgarity being carefully eliminated. It is as well to write the dialogue out and learn it by heart.

Always adhere to a prearranged order of ventriloquial figures. If you commence your entertaining career with the old man on the right knee and the old woman on the left, keep to that arrangement all along. A change will inevitably result in putting the wrong voice into the wrong mouth, and the result will be disastrous.

Bear in mind that all the while the endeavors of the figures are to make you appear ridiculous in the eyes of the audience, and they should turn all your sensible remarks into nonsensical ones, so that the laugh is always against yourself. Of course the audience will join in the laugh against you, and it is the taking of this in the proper spirit that will signalize your success as a ventriloquist.

When putting words into the mouth of an automaton, its face should be turned towards you; inversely, whilst you yourself are talking the automaton should be engaged in looking curiously about[150] him at the audience, as if taking not the slightest interest in your remarks. Suddenly, however, he will snatch the opportunity of scoring off you, to the great enjoyment of his partner, the old woman.

Immediately you have finished speaking in your natural voice, keep your lips absolutely fixed during the time the figure is supposed to be talking.

It is not proposed here to give specimens of ventriloquial dialogue, because the humor of these depends so much upon the natural ability of the performer in presenting the joke or funny story.

Undoubtedly the best plan is to form a cutting-book out of the tit-bits extracted from the humorous periodicals of the day, and to paste them in. In this way a voluminous collection of anecdotes, tales, and riddles will be made, and by a judicious combination and selection of these, enough material can be speedily gained to last months without fear of repetition.

The most entertaining form of presenting riddles is for the “old man” or “little boy,” whichever is being used, to propound them, and the entertainer to give some practical answer to them. The real point of the joke should be brought out by the “lay” figure, to the accompaniment of considerable mirth.

Home-made automata are not recommended, because the cost of purchasing really serviceable “dummies” is so small as not to make it worth while spending a deal of time and trouble, to say nothing of money, on their construction. Moreover, the great point about the “lay figure” is that it should possess a funny face, and such expressions are rather difficult for an amateur to obtain.

[151]

Many entertainment emporiums deal largely in ventriloquian outfits, and reliable “dolls” ought to be procured fully dressed for about $5 each.

When a child speaks he almost invariably does so in a high-pitched tone, more or less directing the sound through his nose. This being so, the “theek” voice is the one most suitable for him. The similarity between it and the speech used for the “old woman” may be avoided by speaking in a somewhat lower tone, and in a simpler and more disjointed fashion.

Suppose, for instance, that you ask the little boy a question? Get him to repeat that question after you, and give the answer in short, jerky, broken sentences.

For the “little girl” use a slightly higher tone, without directing the sound through the nose. In her case also the mode of expression must be childish, but with slightly more refinement.

The voice for the “longshoreman” and the “darky” are both of the “grunt” order. For the former, the “old man” voice is used, with the addition of the peculiar “tough” twang; whilst for the latter, employ speech of a much lower and more resonant tone.

Place the chords as when using the “grunt” voice, breathing rather heavily, and force the sound as far back in the throat as possible, at the same time contracting the muscles of the stomach while the breath is being expelled.

The word “yah! yah!” is a very good one upon which to practice, and the vowel sound should be sustained to some length.

By this time the young ventriloquist should have attained sufficient proficiency in the art of manipulating “knee” figures to feel confident of venturing on the far more difficult and relatively more important “distant” voices.

The real test of ventriloquial power is when the performer is capable of making sounds appear to come from a distance, i.e. so modify his utterances that they appear to the audience to proceed from some point remote both from the entertainer and from themselves.

The basis of real ventriloquism, as apart from polyphony, i.e. “near” effects, is known as the “bee drone,” because the first sound of which the vocal chords are capable when placed in the required position much resembles the droning of a bee in full flight.

The “bee drone” should be practiced in loosely fitting clothing,[152] so that neither the muscles of the throat nor of the chest are unduly hampered.

From a natural, upright position, inhale in a short, jerky manner, making what is best described as a retching noise at the back of the throat. Unpleasant as the practice of this undoubtedly is for the first few minutes, after a short while the noise emitted will settle down to a softly sustained hum. The tongue should lie flat, so that the sound waves produced partly in the larynx and partly in the back of the throat are forced upwards by the action of the abdominal muscles and directed towards the roof of the mouth, the latter acting somewhat as a sounding board—modifying the sound and conveying to the ears of a listener some distance away a “distant” effect.

The continuous practice of the word “ah,” with the vocal chords in the position just described, will speedily produce the necessary droning quality.

It remains now only by a contraction of the throat to regulate the quality of the tone and the distance from which you wish it to appear to come.

From this point progress will be found rapid and satisfactory. The various modifications of the bee drone produce respectively,

The “roof” voice is extremely useful for illusions of all kinds, and perhaps is the easiest of the three to acquire. Its purpose is to make sound appear to come from any point above the audience, and the entertainer practices it at first by standing erect, taking in a deep breath, and then drawing backwards and downwards the lower jaw, holding it by muscular contraction in that position. With the lips about an inch apart say your words, whatever they may be, just as you would the “ah!” of the bee drone, concentrating your mind on the effort of directing the sound waves towards the roof of the mouth. In this case, however, exhalation should take place very slowly, while the speech is uttered with unusual clearness.

The effect of the illusion, however, is destroyed if whilst using the “roof” voice you look either straight before you or down to the ground.

The ventriloquist must bear in mind that it is important to deceive the audience, just as a conjurer does, but the former has this advantage over his magic brother, that the deception is both optical and oral.

Let him, therefore, when “throwing his voice” to the roof, glance[153] sharply upwards as soon as the words are uttered, and turn his head in a listening attitude; his example will be followed immediately by the audience, who naturally fall into the trap prepared for them, and, for the time being, are quite satisfied that the sounds do really come from the roof.

This is an advantage on which the ventriloquist can trade to an enormous extent, because the ear is so easily deceived. How difficult it is, when listening from within a closed room to a street organ playing outside, to tell whether the music comes from up or down the road. So with ventriloquism—the performer has but to modify the position of the vocal chords as indicated, and to fix his eyes upon the roof, when lo and behold! everybody is perfectly satisfied that the speech does come from above.

Of the three “distant” voices, the “level” is, perhaps, the most useful and the most generally successful, because the mere fact of the entertainer being on the same plane as the door and the windows, from behind which people are supposed to converse with him, provides him with opportunities for using the facial muscles and for distorting sounds, and so heightening the illusion.

For instance, whereas he must turn full or three-quarter face when using the “roof” voice, he can carry on a dialogue on the “level,” sideways to the audience; or in the case where the stage possesses a door at the rear, he may often be permitted for a moment to turn his back.

Practice as before in the “bee drone” voice, without endeavoring to any great extent to shut off the sound in the throat. This may be done by curling up the tongue so that its tip presses against the back of the upper teeth.

If you are practicing by the side of the door, as you open it towards you the ventriloquially uttered sounds must be raised in tone and made more distinct by lifting the shutter from the throat, or, in other words, by allowing the tongue to resume its normal position, and the sounds to issue forth on the principle of the “bee drone.”

This voice is extremely useful for such illusions as “the man in the cellar attending to the gas meter,” &c. It calls particularly for a display of histrionic powers, and the mere fact of bending down, as the sounds appear to come from below, helps to give it the necessary subdued and “distant” effect. Whilst speaking very slowly in the “bee drone”[154] thrust the chin forward, contracting the larynx as much as you possibly can; roll back the tongue to stifle the sound in the throat, and the illusion will be complete. Immediately you change from the “floor” to the natural voice, resume the standing position and speak with unusual distinctness. The contrast cannot fail to escape the notice of the audience, who will be quite convinced that you have indeed carried on a conversation with some one below.

Although imitations can hardly be classed under the heading of pure ventriloquism, yet they may be pressed into the service of the entertainer to promote variety in his performance. They serve, too, another very useful purpose, inasmuch as they provide a relief from what must inevitably prove a strain on the vocal chords. As has already been said, ventriloquism necessitates the placing of the vocal chords in a somewhat unnatural position, and the result is that the exponent, particularly in the early stages of the work, is apt speedily to become tired.

As a break between an exhibition of “near” ventriloquism—that is, with the automata—and an exposition of distant effects, one or two vocal or instrumental imitations will prove welcome both to the entertainer and the entertained.

A witty person once remarked that the secret of success lies not so much in what you can do, as in what you can induce other people to think you can do. In other words, a little knowledge in the hands of a ready-witted and competent ventriloquist can be turned to great advantage and become a valuable asset in his undertakings. For successful imitations, self-confidence is perhaps of even greater importance than the possession of real ventriloquial powers. Self-confidence is a trump card that the ventriloquist should always hold in his hand, because it will take all the tricks. Success is impossible without it, and easy with it!

Perhaps there are few branches of entertaining in which self-assurance is so necessary as in ventriloquial mimicry. The border-line between a successful imitation and a ludicrous failure is oft-times so narrow, that a sensitive soul would soon be disheartened.

The only difference between the efforts of the ordinary and the ventriloquial mimic is that the latter, when giving expression to sounds vocally produced, should place the chords in the same position as for the “bee drone” and the “distant” voice.

A very good study is that of a hen as she cackles immediately before laying an egg, and again after having done so. You will notice[155] that the first sounds are mostly of a guttural nature, and they should come from well back in the throat, starting moderately high and descending four or five notes. Of course the lips will have to be kept slightly opened, and for the final jubilant crow considerably extended. To avoid the necessary facial movement, it is as well when uttering the “crow” to turn sideways to the audience. Again, while the first note of the cackling should be loud, the successive notes grow quieter.

An imitation of a dog fight will form a spirited item in your programme. By your actions you may suggest, for instance, a small cur yapping vigorously until a larger and more ferocious animal endeavors to quiet him.

To produce the higher notes of the dog-bark, the falsetto or “thick” voice must be used, while the deeper guttural tones already explained for use with the “darky” serve for the larger dog.

It is a little difficult to intersperse the two sets of sounds without expressing facial contortion, but you may obtain for yourself a certain amount of license by pretending that the dog fight is taking place beneath a covered table, behind which you may stoop in your supposed endeavors to stop the tumult.

It is but natural to turn from dogs to cats. Whereas you have just given an imitation, perhaps, of a fierce duel, your next effort should endeavor to portray a feline courtship. This should be made as funny as possible. The lady’s “marr-rr-ows” and “mia-a-a-ows” are easily copied after you have been kept awake a night or two listening to the genuine article, whilst the deeper tones of Mr. Tom are included in the repertory of every well-educated schoolboy.

The mouth should be kept fairly wide open and a kind of sideways motion given to it, whilst the cry should be drawled until the lips form for the final “ow.” The spittings and growlings necessitate the bringing together of the lips and teeth, a freedom which your audience on this occasion must permit you. The doleful moans with which our feline friends endeavor to solace one another can be produced by making the mouth very hollow, the lips into the form of a large O, slowly contracted to a very small one.

For the die-away, distant effect, moaning more or less in the throat must be resorted to. The finale can consist of a number of fierce spittings and growlings, suddenly interrupted by an unmistakably human voice (your own) “shoo-ing” the night visitants away.

A variation can be made by giving an imitation of pouring out a glass of wine. To produce the illusion of drawing the cork from the[156] bottle, turn slightly round, thrust the forefinger into the mouth against the cheek, close the lips around the finger, slowly bring the end of the finger round inside the cheek, and force it smartly out through the lips. The result will be a loud pop. By moving the tongue from the back of the mouth quickly backwards and forwards, making it strike against the inside of the gums, the “glug, glug” of the wine being poured out will be plainly heard.

Under the cover of a screen, the roaring of a lion is simple of accomplishment. Use an ordinary lamp chimney, and give vent to a series of deep-throated roars from this. The effect will both be natural and startling. With the same instrument the deep lowing of a cow can be perfectly imitated, the lips producing the familiar “moo,” the sound being gradually drawled through the glass chimney.

To copy a saw at work is quite easy. Get a ruler, or some similar article, to represent the saw, and draw it backwards and forwards as though cutting a piece of wood. The sound is best made by clenching the teeth, placing the tongue a little forward between the upper and lower teeth, quickly inhaling and exhaling the air. The resultant noise will be an exact imitation of the saw cutting its way through the wood.

Quite an effective item is the ascent of a rocket. By blowing hard through pursed lips, and striking the mouth rapidly with sharp little blows with closed fingers, the curious sound of an ascending rocket may be reproduced with perfect fidelity. This slowly fades away, there is a moment’s pause, and then the final pop as the stars burst. Naturally such an imitation should be performed in the shelter of the screen. As a last example, an imitation of the itinerant knife-grinder may be attempted. Keep the lips and the teeth closed to produce the rasping up and down of the steel upon the grindstone, the while working an imaginary treadle with the right foot.

By this time the young ventriloquist should have at his command both “near” and “distant” voices and imitations. It only remains to say a few words regarding the manner of giving an entertainment.

Although smart dialogue is very entertaining, it is apt, after a little while, to pall; and to obviate this it will be found well to introduce an occasional song or comic recitation. In both cases these may take the form of parodies, but in the former a serious song really well sung by the ventriloquial figure will evoke both admiration and applause.

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Those not possessed of particularly good vocal qualifications may feel that the singing of a song successfully is beyond their capabilities. They should, however, bear in mind that nothing like “finish” or cleverness in execution is expected from a wooden figure. One or two verses and the chorus are quite enough to venture upon, as singing ventriloquially is extremely tiring.

The best time to introduce a song is when dialogue between yourself and the automata has been in progress for seven or eight minutes. Either the little boy or the old man or the old woman can essay to try his or her skill as a vocalist, or the affair may be competitive. Much amusement may be caused by the little boy extolling his own skill as a vocalist, and the darky challenging him. To settle the matter, let one sing the first verse of a song and the other the second, the little boy making a terrible hash of his part of the performance. If his mistakes are greeted with groans of derision from the old man, or cries of horror from the old woman, the audience will be immensely pleased.

While the song is in progress, the ventriloquist should look about him unconcernedly, feigning total disinterestedness in the affair. Towards the end of the song he may glance sharply once or twice at the singer and applaud him for his effort, which applause it is to be hoped the audience will generously supplement.

It is not intended that these few observations on the art of ventriloquism should be taken as covering all the ground over which this fascinating subject spreads. Enough has been said, however, to show any one who is sufficiently interested how to give a really pleasing drawing-room performance which shall earn for him the reputation of being quite a creditable exponent of the wondrous and mystifying art of Valentine Vox.

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It is said that at some period of his life every boy becomes stage-struck, and it may be averred with equal truth that sooner or later every boy is seized with a desire to become a conjurer.

Considering the fascination to old and young alike of a conjuring entertainment, this is not to be wondered at. But when the would-be conjurer begins to realize the years and years of practice necessary before he can accomplish his desire, he soon despairs; and instead of proudly mounting the platform as an entertainer, he finally satisfies himself by humbly occupying a chair as one of the entertained.

It is the purpose of this chapter, however, to set forth a complete conjuring entertainment in such a manner that anybody can easily learn and perform it, in precisely the same manner as they would memorize and deliver a recitation.

Before proceeding with the tricks themselves, it will perhaps be advisable, for the sake of the uninitiated, briefly to describe how to fit up a handy conjuring table.

Procure a small wooden box about six inches deep and one foot in length and width, and stand it in the center of a small gypsy-table. Then artistically drape one or two flags, or a brightly-colored cloth over it (Fig. 1).

It will be noticed that a portion of the table at the back of the box is left vacant. This, in the dialect of the profession, is known as the servante. It is used for secretly disposing of objects during the performance.

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The magic wand simply consists of a decorated circular stick about ten inches long.

Each trick will be dealt with in three separate parts. The first will describe the illusion from the point of view of the audience; the second will explain the apparatus required; and the third the “patter” accompanying each trick.

Presentation.—As seen by the audience, the first trick is as follows:

Two ping-pong balls are lying upon the table, and the conjurer requests a member of the audience to choose one. This having been done, the performer picks up the selected ball and commences gently rubbing it in the palms of his hands, when to the amazement of the audience, the ball is seen to change into a couple of handkerchiefs!

The conjurer places one of these upon the table, and proceeds to wrap up the other in a piece of pink paper. Blowing out a candle which has been standing in a candlestick upon the table, the performer wraps that also into a similar parcel, using white paper instead of pink.

He next places the two parcels at opposite ends of the table, in full view of the audience. After making one or two passes with the magic wand, the conjurer picks up the parcel containing the candle. He then tears it open, when it is found to contain the handkerchief. Upon the remaining parcel being examined the candle is discovered within it.

Apparatus required.—(1) Two ping-pong balls. A large hole must be bored in one by means of a penknife.