Thirty years ago Great Charlotte-street, at the Ranelagh-street end, was a narrow, poorly-built thoroughfare. On the left hand side, looking south, between Elliot-street and the present coach-builders’ establishment, there was a timber-yard, in which stood a small wooden theatre, known as “Holloway’s Sans Pareil,” and truly it was Sans Pareil, for surely there was nothing like it, either in this town or anywhere else. Both inside and outside it was dirty and dingy. There were only a pit and gallery, the latter taking the place of boxes in other theatres; and, yet the scenery was excellent, the actors, many of them, very clever, and the getting up of the pieces as good as could be in so small a place. The pantomimes at Christmas were capital. The charges of admission were: to the pit 3d., and to the gallery, 6d. The audiences, whether men or women, boys or girls, were the roughest of the rough. The quantity of copper coin taken at the doors was prodigious; and I am told that it occupied two persons several hours, daily, to put the money up into the usual five-shilling packages. Mr. Holloway used to stand at one door and his wife at the other, to receive the admission money. When the audience was assembled, the former would go into the pit and there pack the people, so that no space should be lost. He would stuff a boy into one, or a little girl into another seat, and leave them to settle down into their proper places; giving one a buffet and another a knock on the head, just to encourage the others to keep order and be obedient to his will and wish. There was no space lost in the pit of Holloway’s theatre, whatever there might be anywhere else. A thriving business was carried on in this little bit of a theatre, and if the highest class of performances was not produced, nothing at any time offensive to order and morality was permitted.

I remember a good joke in which a gentlemen whom I knew, connected with one of our newspapers, and a leading actress at the Theatre Royal, were concerned, in connection with a visit to the Sans Pareil. The lady was very desirous to see a piece which was got up with great eclat at the Sans Pareil, and which was attracting crowds of people to see it. I think it was entitled “Maria Martin; or, the Murder at the Red Barn.” Having expressed her wish to my friend, he at once offered to escort her any evening on which she was disengaged. Fixing, therefore a night when her services in Williamson-square were not required, my friend and the fair comedienne betook themselves to Great Charlotte-street and presented themselves at the gallery door where the gentleman tendered the price of their admission. Now the lady had a thick veil on that she might, as she hoped, conceal her well-known features. But it seems that Mr. Holloway had at once recognised his fair visitor. On the money being tendered to Mrs. Holloway at the gallery door, Mr. H. called out from his door, “Pass ’em in—all right, missus.” Now my friend was well aware that Mr. Holloway knew him, and therefore supposed that as a press man he would not allow him to pay—not supposing for a minute that the muffled up figure of his companion had been recognised.

So in they went and managed to climb up the half ladder, half stair, that led to the “aristocratic” region of the auditory part of the theatre. These stairs were frightfully dirty and steep. A broom had not been near them for months, and the lady, picking up her ample skirts, endeavoured to avoid all contact with both stairs and walls. On emerging from the top landing into the theatre, they found the place in a state of semi-darkness. They could just make out a few rows of benches, and clustering in the middle front were about thirty people. The noise was horrible, and seemed more so through the prevailing darkness. Shoutings, bawlings, whistlings, and screamings were in full swing, and the lady paused for a moment, whispering to her companion, “Oh, let’s go back—I can’t stand this at any price.”

My friend, however, urged his companion to remain, and at length they managed to scramble forward, and secure a front seat at one side. The clamour was now added to by the entrance of the band, who mingled the sounds of tuning instruments with the other discords prevalent. Just at this juncture in came Mr. Holloway, who commenced the packing process, much to the amusement of our lady friend, who now began, in spite of the heat, the offensive smells, and the row, to become curious, and determined to see all that was to be seen. Presently the lights were fully turned on, and the orchestra struck up a lively medley tune, suitable to the taste of the audience. The orchestra, though small, was a good one, and some very clever performers were amongst its members. The play at length commenced, and appeared to create great interest and command attention. The lady admitted that the characters were well represented, and the drama very creditably got up. At length came a very sensational portion of the play. That part where Maria Martin is enticed into the Red Barn by Corder. In this exciting scene, Maria, as if having a presentiment of her fate, stands still and refuses to move. She appears in a state of stupor and Corder endeavours to urge her to accompany him. Now there were seated in the middle of the pit two sweeps, who appeared deeply interested in the performance, and finding that Corder could not induce Maria to go forward, one of them, amidst the silence that the cunning of the scene had commanded, screamed out—“Why don’t you give her some snuff, and make her sneeze!” The silence thus broken was broken indeed, and the house roared with laughter. Our two friends were not backward in partaking of the merriment. The lady went almost into hysterics, so violent were her paroxysms of mirth. In the midst of the clamour, Holloway, hearing these loud bursts of laughter at a time when there should be complete silence, rushed on to the stage, fancying something had gone wrong. Darting to the footlights, as well as his little fat figure would let him, he roared out, “What’s all this here row about?” and glancing round to see on whom he could heap his vengeance, he caught sight of our two friends, and looking up indignantly at them, he continued—“I von’t have no row in my the-a-ter. If you vants to kick up a row you’d better go the The-a-ter R’yal.” The audience seeing Mr. Holloway addressing the gallery, all eyes were now turned up to where our friends were seated, and the lady, (who had thrown up her veil in consequence of the intense heat) being recognised, was saluted by some one shouting out “Three cheers for Mrs. ---,” whereupon the audience began hurrahing, in the midst of which our two adventurers made off as quickly as they could. They declared that neither of them could tell how they did so, being conscious of nothing until they found themselves breathing the fresh air in Lime-street.

When Stephen Price, the American manager, was in Liverpool beating up recruits, in, I think, 1831, Templeton, the tenor singer, was playing at the Theatre Royal. At that time Madame Malibran had made Templeton famous, by selecting him to enact the part of Elvino to her Amina, and thus a very second-rate singer suddenly jumped into the first place in public opinion, by his association with the gifted woman who enchanted all her hearers. Templeton waited on Price relative to an engagement in America, when the following conversation took place:—“I should like to go to America, Mr. Price, if you and I could agree about terms.” “Very good, Mr. Templeton. What would you expect, Mr. Templeton?” “Well, I should just expect my passage out and home, and thirty ‘punds’ a week, Mr. Price, to begin with.” “Very good, Mr. Templeton.” “And all my travelling expenses, from toun to toun.” “Very good, Mr. Templeton. Anything else, Mr. Templeton?” “My board and lodging in every toun, Mr. Price.” “Very good, Mr. Templeton. Any thing else, Mr. Templeton?” “And a clear benefit in every toun, also, Mr. Price.” “Very good. Anything else, Mr. Templeton?” “Well—no—I—ah—no!—nothing occurs to me just now, Mr. Price.” “Well, then,” said Mr. Price, “I’ll see you d---d first, Mr. Templeton.”

There was a very good story current in Liverpool, some twenty-five years ago, about Mr. W. J. Hammond, a then great favourite, both as actor and manager, and an acquaintance of mine. About that time a very flashy gentleman went into the Adelphi Hotel, and after making minute inquiry as to the bill of fare, and what he could have for dinner, at length ordered “a mutton chop to be ready for him at five o’clock.” Five o’clock came, and also the traveller, who sat down in the coffee room to his banquet. He helped himself to the water at his own table and then emptied the bottles at the next, and at length called on the waiter for a further supply. When the mutton chop was duly finished, the waiter inquired what wine his “lordship” would take. “Oh!—ah!—wine! I’ll take—another bottle of—‘water.’” “Pray, sir,” said the waiter (leaning the tips of his thumbs upon the table) with a most insinuating manner—“Pray, sir, would you like the Bootle or the Harrington water?” Hammond heard this, and agreed, with the friend referred to, to enter the Hotel, one at each door, and severally call out, one for a glass of “Harrington,” and the other for a glass of “Bootle” water. “Waiter, some Bootle water!” came from a voice at the Copperas-hill door. “Waiter, some Harrington water!” was the order proceeding from the traveller entering by the front door. These strange orders, breaking upon the stillness that pervades this well-conducted hotel, seemed to excite great surprise in one or two aristocratic guests, who were standing in the lobby, when just at the moment Mr. Radley came out of one of the rooms and recognised the jokers. Taking them into his sanctum, he provided them with something stronger than the stream from the good old red sandstone. After a short time Mr. R. was called out, and the two guests began to get impatient at his non-return. Hammond declared that he must go—so did his friend; but they both thought it would seem unmannerly to leave the hotel without seeing their entertainer. Which should remain? However, Hammond soon cut the matter short by bolting out of the room and locking the door. His friend sat patiently enough for some little time, fully expecting Mr. Radley’s return, but, while waiting, fell asleep. When he awoke he found himself in darkness, wondering where he could possibly be. After groping about some time, he discovered that the door was locked. The trick Hammond had played him then flashed across his mind. Hunting about, he at length found the bell which soon brought some one to the door, and on its being opened a rather severe questioning took place, as to how the visitor got there and what was his object. Mr. Radley having in the meantime gone home, he could not be referred to. It was only after sending for some person who knew the gentleman that he was released, and certainly not without some suspicions attaching to his visit and his peculiar position.

I recollect a good anecdote of a favourite actor in Liverpool some twenty years ago, when he was engaged at the Theatre Royal as one of the stock company. Mr. S--- was a constant church-goer, as many actors and actresses are, although those who do not know them fancy they cannot be either good or religious—a great mistake. Mr. S--- was accommodated by a friend, who had a very handsomely fitted up pew in St. A---’s Church, with the use of it, and Mr. S--- occupied it so long that he quite considered it to be his own; and it was a standing joke amongst his intimates that on all occasions “my pew” was referred to. Being out one night rather late, with some “jolly companions,” he and they found, on comparing timepieces, that if they were not quick in getting home unpleasant consequences would ensue amongst their domestic relations. Said one, “I must be off.” Said another, “If I don’t make haste shall be locked out.” “My boy,” said S---, “never mind being locked out, I’ll go and get the key of St. A---’s church, and you shall sleep in my pew!”