Saturday Evening Gazette/June 7, 1856/Theatrical Anecdotes
Theatrical Anecdotes.
Written for the Evening Gazette.
Murdoch, Pelby, J. R. Scott, Walter M. Leman, etc.—Taft, “in the days when we went gypsying” at Chelsea, advertized that he had killed a Bear, and would furnish to customers Bear steaks. The above named personages, all attached to the National Theatre at that time, resolved to test the said bear-meat; a dozen actors went to Chelsea; had their bare provender of bear; the time slid on,—twelve o’clock arrived, the last bell rang—misty morning—a passage was secured, and the party ferried across to Boston,—held a consultation in Haymarket Square:—
“Where shall we go? What shall we do?”
“ ’Tis a rough night,—or morning; what shall we do?”
“Do? Why get up a sensible disturbance,” said John Scott. “Let’s call upon our melo-dramatic director, old Cartlitch.”
The suggestion was carried, nem con: Cartlitch was an inveterate snuff taker, and the famous twelve roused him from his slumbers, at one o’clock; the sleepy old gent, obedient to an unseasonable call came down stairs in “what-dy’e-call-it tail,” and found to his horror the party in his parlor.
“What’s wanting?”
Silence pervaded in that solemn assemblage, until the atmosphere trembled with the re-echo of Scott’s voice.
“We want a pinch of snuff!”
The bewildered, and half asleep dramatic director, after saying divers things such as—etc., etc., etc.,—mounted the stairs, and shortly afterwards apppeared with his snuff box. The institution was respectfully presented to each gentleman present. They partook in silence, and left the house like deaf mutes.
Change Scene.—“Can’t port yet;—where shall we go next?”
“Let’s go down to Jim Murdoch’s and have a time with him!”
And to Murdoch’s they went and made a very informal call upon the Stage Manager.
Bell rung—a female appears on balcony. “What’s wanted?” (from female).
“Mr. Murdoch is wanted.”
Window is closed, the female’s voice is heard within.
“James, you’re wanted!”
The stage manager rushes for the door, expectant of dire mishap, when—“good heavings!” the mercenery twelve confront him! No get off, the twelve went in the house and went into all the cold bites, then on hand.
After a jolly good time, Murdock saith:—“Boys, if you will play a like trick upon the old man,” (meaning manager Pelby) “I’ll stand a basket of champagne.”
No sooner proposed than resolved upon.
(Pelby’s house.)
Time, 4 o’clock a. m.
Conspirators concealed.
“Mr. Pelby in?”
“Yes of course, he is.” [Voice from window.]
“Mr. Murdoch, wishes to see him immediately; rush of blood to the head.”
[Window is closed, a cry is made, the proprietor is roused from his slumbers, and, calling his body guard “Pat” he is speedily equipped and with ‘Pat’ as lanthorn bearer, he seeks the localities of Lowell street. He is followed by the conspirators.
Mark! Horror!!
The bell of the stage manager’s domicile was rung by the versitile right hand of the “King of the National;” the stage manager had just composed himself into a quiet second sleep.
The bell sounded.
“Ah ha!”—says Murdoch hopping out of bed,—“those chaps come back again? I’ll fix ’em.”
Seizing a pail which contained a miscellaneous quantity of arrangements he crept to his balcony and with the expression, “you mustn’t try it on twice, Boys,” he Niagara’d the contents of the pail upon the head of poor Pelby!
Several laughs were heard from the opposite side of the street,—a patting of twenty-four feet could be distinguished, and several “blessings” were invoked by the distinguished receiver of the shower bath, upon the soul of the generous donor.
“Blood, Iago, Blood.”—Manager R, of the Eastern Circuit, long time ago, was very fond of personating the character of Rhoderic Dhu in Scott’s Lady of the Lake. R was death on producing all possible terrible effects; especially was he profuse in his use of blood, property blood, whenever he could get a chance.
At the first rehearsal of the Drama in P, the property man was strictly enjoined to bore a hole in the right hand side of the stage, and be underneath at night with a cup of blood, in order that he might ‘squirt’ a quantity up, at the given signal. R’s object was this: at the termination of the combat between Roderick and Fitzjames, Mr. Fitz is supposed to give Roderick ‘fits’ by rapping him on the sconce, by means of which R. falls upon his face, and then shows it to the audience deluged with blood. Now there happened to be a corresponding hole on the opposite side of the stage—and although the property man, at night, was ready at his post, Roderick, bewildered perhaps by exertions in the fight, fell over this wrong hole; the sound of the fall was the signal—and up from ’tother side arose a tremendous cascade of the crimson liquid.
“Hang your stupidity”, (with a low growl,) voice from beneath the stage—
“I’ve did it on ’tother side and used all the blood.”
Roderick arose—staggered across the stage—rubbed his face in the scarlet puddle, showed his phiz to the auditors, and died as became Alpine’s chief.
