One of the funniest people ever connected with theatres in this or any other country was Andrew Jackson Allen, or “Dummy Allen,” as he was generally called. Though he was a New Yorker born and bred, and always had the good sense to prefer New York to any other place to live in, still in the course of his wanderin’ life he lived in a good many places. He was of Welsh descent and had an impediment in his speech, two things which made his dialect rather peculiar. He was a little deaf, too, owin’ to a severe cold caught on a sea voyage, but he made his deafness very convenient. He could hear when he wanted to and couldn’t hear when he didn’t want to. As he was all the time borrowin’ money and forgettin’ to return it, this deafness was in constant demand. In fact, borrowin’ sums from fifty cents to ten dollars, and praisin’ Edwin Forrest, of whom he was a great admirer, formed the major portion of the occupation of his spare time. Often he would mix his two occupations together, as in this particular instance.
He borrowed ten dollars of Dick Martin, an old New York sport who had a weakness for theatrical people. One day Dick met Allen and asked him if he couldn’t let him have back his tenner, or a V at any rate.
“Oh yes,” replied Allen, “de poy” (meanin’ the boy, by which term he always alluded to Forest,) “blayed berry well last night, as you say, considerin’ he was so padly subborted.”
“But,” interrupted Dick, “I didn’t say anythin’ about Forrest last night, but I did say I wanted some of my money back this mornin’.”
“Yes, yes,” continued Allen, “as you say, the poy will do petter de next time as his cast is much petter.”
Dick saw Allen’s “lay” and that “Dummy’s” deafness would be too much for him, so he quietly said, in a much lower tone than he had previously employed, “Well, Allen, let’s step over to the Hone House and take a drink.”
“Strange, ain’t it,” said Allen with a wink, takin’ Dick’s arm and crossin’ over with him to the Hone House at once, “how much blainer I can hear when a man speaks softly to me than I can when he pellows?”
Allen was a capital costumer–one of the best. He knew every branch of this business, and was in great demand. Mr. Forrest thought that nobody knew anythin’ about stage costuming but Allen, and when he went to Europe he paid Allen a big salary and expenses to go with him.
Next to Forrest, Allen admired General Jackson. He always used to tell his friends that if it had not been for his “talkin’ up” the General he never would have been President. Gratitude may have had something to do with Allen’s exertions in the cause of Jackson, for the General loaned Allen twenty dollars once at a race-course down South, and never mentioned “the little circumstance” again. It was not so much the lendin’ him the money that made Allen feel grateful, but it was the fact that “de General never said a word about de matter atterwarts.”
Allen was a great hand at “gaggin’,” and generally managed to get a big house at his benefits, for he was not only a good costumer, but a tolerable actor in small parts. His favorite dodge for a benefit was “a balloon ascension.” Once when he was engaged at the old Pearl Street Theatre, in Albany, he advertised for the occasion of his benefit a grand balloon ascension from the stage to the dome of the theatre. The eminent aeronauts, Mons. Gageremo and Mlle. Pussiremo, were to go up with the balloon, and it when it reached the dome, they were to throw prizes out of the balloon on the audience beneath.
Of course the novelty of these announcements attracted an immense audienc–the greatest actor or actress livin’ couldn’t have been honored or delighted with a bigger house. The early part of the programme consisted of a “grand harlequin pantomime,” in which “Dummy” acted “clown.” After the pantomime “the balloon ascension” took place. Such a balloon!–a toy balloon, pulled up by a big string; and such “aeronauts!”–a tom cat and a pussy cat, one dressed in tights, the other in bonnet and short skirts, and both strapped to the balloon. The balloon, with the two cats mewin’ and squalin’, was pulled per programme from the stage to the dome, and when the balloon got up to the top, another string attached to it was pulled violently. The balloon burst, the tom cats tumbled on the heads of the audience, and with the two tom cats fell a shower of “prizes,” consisting of penny whistles, tin toys and the like. Meanwhile Allen, by special arrangement with the treasurer, had got his money and gone home.
Besides costumin’ and actin’, Allen had a turn for makin’ “silver leather,” and sometimes durin’ his travelin’ show life, when, as he would say, “de theatre pizness would go pack on him,” he would make up the deficit in his “bocket” by makin’ silver leather and sellin’ it.
Once Dummy was very hard up in a little town in the valley of Virginia. Actin’ didn’t pay in that section, and his stock of “silver leather” was exhausted, like his “burse,” and Andrew Jackson Allen was at his wit’s end. But one night, after goin’ to bed supperless, for the same reason that Jack did in his nursery rhyme, a bright idea struck “Dummy.” He would try his “balloon ascension” racket, “assisted by Mons. Gageremo, and Mademoiselle Pussirimo.” Bright and early the next mornin’ he went to the landlord of the only tavern in the place, to whom he owed “a little pill” for “poard and washin’,” and told him that by advancin’ a little cash for fixin’ up an old balloon, which he always carried with him among his theatrical traps, he might make some money for himself, besides payin’ up his score at the tavern in full. The landlord of the Inn was sick in bed, but not so sick but that he could see it was in his interest to help “Dummy” out of his scrape. So with his pecuniary aid, “Dummy” managed to fix his balloon into shape, and to astonish the printer by givin’ him a cash order for big posters announcin’ “the greatest wonder of the age,” “the flyin’ ship,” “the air whale,” etc., etc. What a rush there was when the time arrived for the ascension of the balloon. People came on horseback, in wagons, or on foot for twenty miles, to see it. “Dummy” acted first as treasurer and stuffed his pockets full of country coin. Then, heavy in pocket but light in spirit, he went to fix his balloon for “goin’ up,” his idea bein’ to go up with the balloon and the money and not to come down with either till he got into the next county or some other county. But when he got to the balloon to his utter horror he saw several rents in it; it was n. g.; that balloon would never ascend. But no matter “Dummy” was equally determined that none of the money should ever be refunded. So he mounted a cider barrel, near the balloon, and made a speech to the crowd, informin’ them that certain chemicals he needed for the balloon had become exhausted, and that would be absolutely necessary for him to ride for ‘em to the next village, where he could doubtless get all that was wanted for his “gas.” He appealed to the people as “Virginians, chivalrous Virginians, noble descendants of the noble Pocahontas, to wait one hour for his return.” Then he borrowed the landlord’s horse and rode off. After two hours those left in the crowd determined he was a fraud and they never saw “Dummy” again. His ride beat any ride on record.
But it is only fair to say that, as soon as he could with safety to himself, “Dummy” dismounted, and takin’ more regular ways of conveyance, left the landlord’s horse where the landlord afterwards recovered it. “Dummy” also sent him in full the amount of his board bill. He was a humbug when he had to be, but he wasn’t a regular cheat after all.
As for the noble descendants of the noble Pocahontas, they took their revenge out on the balloon which “Dummy” left behind him. They made a bonfire and destroyed the balloon, or what remained of it, that night. “Dummy” always insisted that he saw the burnin’ of the balloon though he must have been twenty miles away by that time. Anyhow, accordin’ to “Dummy’s” account, “it was the dabdest fidest sight he ever seed. The hubbuged and disappoidted fellows burdt the bost bagnificedt ballood ever codstucted. The fire shootig up to the horizod was sublibe.”
In the latter part of his eventful career Allen settled down to keepin’ what would be called nowadays “a theatrical chop house.” He called it “The Divan,” probably because there was not such a thing as a divan in it. He was one of his own best customers, especially in the eatin’ line. Allen was one of those lucky and peculiar chaps who have an appetite for solids as well as fluids, each counteractin’ the evil effects of the other. He invented two dishes which he had a great run in their day. He called one “calapash” and the other “calapee.” He claimed that they were entirely different dishes, but a committee of “old rounders” bein’ appointed one night to examine ‘em, reported as follows:
“We, the undersigned, appointed by ourselves a committee to examine into the composition of the two dishes, calapash and calapee, of which Andrew Jackson Allen, otherwise known as ‘Dummy,’ claims to be the soul inventor, do hereby state solemnly that they said calapash is made of ancient–very ancient and venerable–cheese, codfish of an uncertain age, onions, mustard, rum and wine–more rum than wine and more cheese than either. We also state that the said calapee is composed of precisely the same ingredients as the calapash, with the addition of a little sour cabbage. – Signed: Charles Durang; Henry Hait, and others.”
Like Browne in later years, Allen kept in “The Divan” a number of theatrical portraits. Some of these were genuine, but some it is supposed were bogus. But if anybody who happened to know personally, or had seen professionally, any of the originals of these doubtful or bogus portraits, chanced to pass any uncomplimentary remarks on the “likenesses,” “Dummy” would insist on their correctness, and explain any discrepancies in appearance by the most ingenious excuses. Behind the bar on the great attraction of the Divan, bein’ “the identical dress worn by George Frederick Cooke, the immortal tragedian, in his unrivaled character of Richard III.” “Dummy” was ready at any hour of the day or night to perish in the defense of the genuineness of this relic. Still the boys always shrewdly suspected that it was really only one of “Dummy’s” gags, as some of the “silver leather” was to be seen sewed to the dress of “the immortal tragedian.”
Another curious theatrical character of the olden time, well known in and around New York, was a lady by the name of Jones–Mrs. George Jones.
Mrs. George Jones was a really clever actress–a Fanny Herring style of performer. She was on the whole good-lookin’, but not of the “pretty” sort–no confectionery about her. She didn’t “taffy” worth a cent. She was nearly six feet high, and quite large–what the papers would call “a majestic woman.” As I have just said, she was a good actress; but it wasn’t her actin’ that made her famous; it was her knowledge how to use a rawhide, and usin’ it. She got the name of “the man flogger,” and she deserved it, for she is said to have cowhided more critics and managers than any five other women in or out of the “profession.”
Men that deal in wild beasts have told me that a lion ain’t such a very bad sort of a beast till he once tastes blood. But after the first taste he keeps on wantin’ more blood all his life, and when once he has tasted the flesh and blood of a man he cares nothin’ more for a deer and such small game, but is a regular “man eater” the rest of his life. Well, it seemed to be a little that way with this Mrs. Jones. They say that at first she was a pretty quiet sort of a woman, but havin’ been insulted once by a manager she went for that manager with a cowhide, and from that time seemed to take particular delight in cowhidin’ managers and critics.
With the actress and actresses of a company she was pleasant enough–would give a joke or take one all right. But from a manager or from a newspaper man she wouldn’t take a bit of nonsense or a word of abuse. They used to say of her that in order to have things “handy” she usually carried a good-sized rawhide under her cloak.
Once in Cincinnati she was playin’ a star engagement, and did pretty well in the way of drawin’ audiences. She was her own agent, and wasn’t quite as smart as an agent nowadays would have been, for she didn’t have a settlement with the manager till the end of the week. But on Saturday she made tracks for the box-office–but the manager had made tracks before her. He was one of the “snide” kind, and had absquatulated, as they say out West, and had sunk all the available funds of the concern in his breeches pocket. Mrs. Jones was very mad, and flourished her rawhide in a very suggestive manner.
Just then the treasurer happened to look toward the stage, and there was George Stone, the low comedian of the theatre, loafin’ about. Now George looked a good deal like the missin’ manager, whom Mrs. Jones herself had only seen once or twice. So, wantin’ to have some fun at George’s expense, the treasurer suddenly exclaimed, pointin’ to Stone” “By heavens! there he is.” “Who?” asked Mrs. J., givin’ her rawhide another nervous twitch. “Why, the manager. He must have forgotten somethin’ and come back for it; but he’ll be off in a moment again.” “Will he?” said Mrs. Jones; and with that she gave a series of springs like a mad panther, and was on the stage in a twinklin’, her hand raised and her rawhide in her hand. George Stone saw her comin’, and wondered what the deuce it all meant. But he didn’t stay for any explanation–just then. He was standin’ by an open “drop” on the stage. He took in the distance well, and just as Mrs. J. reached at him, and made a dive for him, George made a first-class “dive” through the trap, followed by an A No. 1 quick exit through the rear of the theatre. Mrs. Jones was hardly the sort of woman to go through a trap, so she darted for the stage door, and chased George up the street. But with his start George made good his escape, though he never went near the theatre again till Mrs. Jones was ten miles on her way to Cleveland.
When in Philadelphia playin’ an engagement, one of the newspaper critics didn’t like her in a certain piece, and said he didn’t, pretty strong. But after he had written his article against her he heard about her rawhide and her hobby for man-floggin’. So, bein’ a little chap and a timid one, he rushed down to the office, with another piece praisin’ her sky-high, and ordered the “puff” to go in and the attack to come out. The puff went in all right, but somehow or other the attack, which had been already set up and in the “forms,” went in too, and next mornin’ the town laughed to see the same woman praised and attacked in the same paper. Mrs. Jones herself laughed when she understood it all, but the poor little critic didn’t laugh, for he was discharged.
[Editor’s notes: Though the above column slightly ridicules A. J. Allen, he was an important figure in the history of American theater; so much so that stage historian Winona Fletcher wrote a 500-page biography, Andrew Jackson Allen, “Internal and External Costumer” to the Early Nineteenth Century American Theatre (1968).
Mrs. George Jones was Melinda Topping Jones. She separated from her husband, George Jones, who was known as Count Joannes, the eccentric actor, orator, and author. By comparison to her ex, Melinda was normal and even-tempered.]
