I got interested the other day in readin’ the account of a case in which a man and woman found ‘emselves “very much married,” and all that sort of thing, and that brought to my mind the old case of Charles Young and Mrs. Duff, which was one of the most peculiar cases of “social” or “personal” and or “domestic” complications I ever read of–fully “up” to anythin’ of the kind at the present day.
Charles Young was a clever gentleman and pretty good actor of the old school, before “sticks” bounced up into “stars.” And he got in the course of time attracted towards a nice actress, a Mrs. Duff, who came from a regular theatrical family. This Mrs. Duff, when Young met her, had just lost her first husband, and was very much distracted with grief at his loss. Young tried to play the part of consoler, and played it well–so well that Mrs D. began to realize the fact that there were other nice men in the world besides “the dear departed,” and that one of the nicest of the nice men still left in this world was this Mr. Charles Young.
The ordinary results followed this state of things. Young’s pity for the weepin’ widow gradually merged into love for the charmin’ woman, and the widow’s gratitude to Young, the consoler, gradually warmed into what seemed to be love for Young. So at last the two resolved to become one flesh, accordin’ to the forms of religion and the law.
Young was a Protestant, so he got married to Mrs. D. by an Episcopalian clergyman, and naturally enough after this ceremony he considered himself a married man. But unexpectedly he found that the former Mrs. Duff, or as he regarded her, the present Mrs Y., did not consider herself a married woman as yet; that is, not quite or entirely or satisfactorily married. She was a Catholic, or had always had a leanin’ that way, so now she told Mr. Y. that she really could not conscientiously consider herself his wife, till she had been married to him again by a Catholic priest.
Young naturally thought that one marriage service was enough for one man, and one woman, at one time, and argued against this second ceremony. But the lady persisted in her wish to have ceremony number two performed, and, while Young and she were arguin’ the matter, she insisted upon holdin’ herself aloof from him, and stayin’ at a friend’s house till the matter at issue was decided. So of course, man-like, Young yielded, and a Catholic priest remarried the pair.
Young now thought of course his circus was at an end, but it wasn’t. After the second marriage, Mrs. D. or Mrs. Y. went back to her friend’s house again, on some pretext or other, for a few days. These few days spun out into a few weeks, and at last, instead of meetin’ his twice-married wife, he met his wife’s lawyer.
This gentleman, or this person, informed the astonished, the most perplexed Young, that he had been instructed by his principal to take steps for the denyin’ the validity, or at least the obligation of this double marriage, on the ground that the lady had not been of sound mind when she got married to Young.
The lady contended, so the lawyer informed the actor, that when she lost her first husband she had been bowed down, utterly prostrated with grief. That in this grief and prostration she had taken to the use of opium, which had still further tended to weaken her mental faculties; that while under the combined influences of grief and opium she had met Mr. Young, who, honorably enough doubtless, had taken advantage of her then infirm state caused by grief at the loss of a first husband, to offer her the love of a second husband, which she had weakly, almost involuntarily, accepted. But time and reflection had opened her eyes to the fact that she did not love Mr. Young, that she never could love him, or be happy with him, and so she had determined finally not to live with him, not to see him, if possible, again, and to obtain a legal separation from him.
I don’t think a really funnier or “odder” case was ever trumped up by woman’s Ingenuity. But the upshot of it was that the “legal separation”, the doubly-wedded woman–who was neither really widow or nor really wife–desired, was obtained, and at once Mrs. Duff and half Mrs. Y. never saw the genuine Mr Y. again.
This Mrs. D., or Y., looked a good deal like the first Mrs. John Brougham, who, after her divorce from John Brougham, married a Captain Robertson, and in course of time she tried her hand at managin’ theaters, just like John, and failed in ‘em all, just like John.
She was a friend, too, of one of the female veterans of the stage, a woman who lived in theatrical harness, Christine Ludlam, better known as Christine Zavistowski, who was at one time one of the most popular dancers in this country, and especially in New York. She used to dance at the old Amphion Theatre, a forgotten place altogether now. The Amphion was a little fair, near the old Broadway Theatre, and was a pretty popular place in its time. This Christine Ludlam or Zavistowski made a big hit in a “Cossack dance” that was the rage in New York many years ago. She danced along life for years, then took to “The French Spy.” She had two daughters, the Zavistowski Sisters, who made their first appearance for their mother’s benefit, on the stage, as infant dancers; and they were “genuine, original” infants; one sister was three years old, the other only four, yet both danced well.
Miss Ludlum or Zavistowski always stuck to one thing–dancin’ and pantomime–from the time she was born and grew up with it and lived on it, and kept others alive on it. But this was not the luck of a pretty dancin’ girl of the olden time, whose name was Eliza Moore.
Eliza Moore was a tall, slender woman, with a pretty graceful figure. Her strong point, though, was her eye, or her eyes. These were large, dark-blue, very commandin’ and majestic, and they had a trick of openin’ wide on a man or creature, before the man or a creature was prepared for the openin’, and producing quite an effect on the man or creature.
She danced pretty well. Still she never would have made her fortune by pirouettin’, and what was more she knew it. She was an ambitious woman, and she judged herself just as keenly and sensibly as anybody judged her, and she saw that she never would or could become famous as a dancer.
Yet what on earth else to do she knew not. She thought, and thought ,and thought, and nothin’ practical suggested itself for all her thinkin’. So she kept on dancin’, under protest, and in very short petticoats.
One time there was a travelin’ show that exhibited where she was performin’, and she attended one of the afternoon exhibitions, and was very much pleased, especially, at the menagerie part of the show.
In this menagerie there was, of course, a lion. The lion in this case was particularly large and fierce, and very splendid lookin’, with a most tremendous mane. He was one of the “performin’ animals,” and a so-called lion tamer went into his cage every performance. But the man seemed afraid of the beast, got through his exercises in the lion’s cage very quick, and was evidently glad when his part of the work was over.
Eliza Moore noticed all this, and wondered at it, for she didn’t feel afraid of the lion one bit; on the contrary, she felt greatly attracted by him. She had always been fond of all sorts of animals, preferrin’ their society to that of the men, in which perhaps she showed a level head.
But this particular lion, who was called “Nero,” with his magnificent mane and general appearance, took her fancy wonderfully, and she was all the time comin’ round to his cage and lookin’ at him with her big, blue eyes, which got almost tender, lookin’ at him. In fact, strange as it may sound, the girl fell in love with the lion–was fascinated with him, and showed her attraction by all the time hangin’ around his cage and lookin’ at him, and after a while in playin’ with him.
So the lion got to notice the woman after a while, just as a woman got to notice the lion. “Nero” seemed for his part to be fascinated by the large dark-blue eyes of Eliza Moore, and seemed to know when she paid him a visit and was lookin’ at him.
The two, the lion and the lady, would look at each other by the half hour, Nero in his cage, with his big head stretched out on the floor, or held majestically up as he stalked to and fro–the lady, near the bars, talkin’ to the big beast with her big black-blue eyes.
People got to notice this, especially the show people and the lion-tamer. The joke got round that the “lion was in love” and this singular case of flirtation got to be quite a sensation. At last somebody suggested in fun to Eliza Moore, “Why don’t you take that fellow’s place who goes into the lion’s den every night? He looks as if he would be glad to throw up the job, for he seems as much afraid of that monstrous lion as you are fond of him.”
These chance words gave Eliza Moore just what she had been wantin’ for over a year–an idea, a suggestion what to do with herself, instead of dancin’.
She put the idea into practical shape, offered herself to the lion-tamer as his assistant, was at once accepted, learned all the points of the business, and pretty soon took the beast tamer’s place in the lion’s den.
She got a splendid dress for the biz–a showy tunic, fittin’ her closely and splendidly, and looked stunnin’ and superb–just as well in her way as the lion and his. She called herself “Cybelle, the Lion Queen,” and Cybelle and Nero made a magnificent pair.
The first time she ever went into Nero’s den one would have thought he was her dog, or her lover. The monstrous beast seemed to be wild with joy, while she was as free with him as if he had only been her pet Newfoundland.
No woman ever performed such feats before in the lion’s den as this Cybelle, and she made a big thing for her show, and for herself. She made a name at last, and for six years, till old Nero died, the warmest affection existed between them.
When old Nero was dyin’, Cybelle nursed him, and tended to him just as carefully as she would any pet or a member of her own family, and poor old Nero kept his dyin’ eyes fastened on her face all the time. It was the last thing he saw in this world, and when he had given his last gasp Cybelle nearly fainted from grief.
She would have given the grand old beast a regular Christian funeral (and really he would have been as deserving of it, and as likely to be benefited by it, as a good percentage of men and women), but of course it couldn’t be done.
But old Nero had what a good many women and men don’t have, one sincere mourner who never forgot him. For although Cybelle, the Lion Queen, kept on performin’ with animals, of course she never had such luck with or such love for any of ‘em as old Nero.
Speakin’ of menageries and travelin’ shows reminds me of Yankee Robinson, who used to be a somewhat famous showman.
Yankee Robinson tried lots of things in his time, among others shoemakin’ and canvas makin’; both these trades afterward served him well. He made his own shoes in which he “walked home” after a bad season, and then he made his own tents in which he gave his early shows. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for other show people to learn tent makin’ and shoemakin’, too. Robinson taught dancin’ for a while also.
His first spec, oddly enough, was in the “pious line.” He got up a one horse wagon, and put three big “religious” pictures in it–one of ‘em the “Raisin’ of Lazarus;” another a “Baptism by John the Baptist,” and he went round the country exhibitin’ these pictures at a quarter a head, ten cents for children. He got a clergyman to write a tract about these pictures, and he got any quantity of Sunday school teachers to endorse ‘em. But the clergymen got a lot of free passes for himself and friends, and the Sunday School teachers got a lot of free passes for ‘emselves and friends, and very often it would come to pass that his whole receipts would be passes. This brought things to a pretty pass, and at last he was obliged to raise the wind by selling the “Raisin’ of Lazarus,” and the “Baptism” picture got so baptized one day by getting wet in a storm that it was n. g., and he wasn’t even able to sell it. But after all sorts of ups and downs Yankee Robinson struck oil at last.
The majority of show people have curious adventures, and all sorts of vicissitudes. But I guess none of them have ever beat in this line Harry Mestayer. Harry called himself at one time when he was in a sentimental mood “misfortune’s child,” and really he had every right to bear the title. For a long time he had awful bad luck. Everythin’ went wrong with him; he was always goin’ downhill, which is a bad way to go in real life, though it’s the very best way to go on the country road.
Bein’ played out and broken down in New Orleans he shipped to the old country. There he didn’t have very bright prospects, and he took to playin’ the fiddle at country fairs. He had several strings in his fiddle “to his bow,” but altogether they didn’t give him “rope enough” to earn a livin’. So he enlisted in the British army.
At that time there wasn’t the same good feelin’ as now between the two countries, and a man who was considered a Yankee or an American had a poor show of it among the lower class of English. So Harry said he was British born, and enlisted. But one day one of his fellow soldiers said that somethin’ against the United States, and Harry, forgettin’ all about his assumed character as a Briton born, spoke up like the man he was for the “stars and stripes.” This made the other soldier, and his companions, mad and then they made Harry madder, and before the affair got through Harry got licked by the other soldier and his companions, and betrayed the secret that he was an American by birth. From that time he had to suffer a double dose of trouble. He was ill-treated by everybody, sneered at, cursed at, kicked, cuffed and despised. He tried to desert, but didn’t succeed, and came very near to gettin’ shot.
At last the regiment his company belonged to was ordered to Africa, to the Cape of Good Hope, and poor Harry after sufferin’ all sorts of agonies from seasickness, found himself at the mercy of a captain who hated him mortally.
A girl the captain fancied had, I believe, taken a fancy to Harry instead. Harry didn’t care for the girl and couldn’t help her fancyin’ him. He was the victim of misplaced affection, but the captain felt toward him as a man generally feels towards a successful rival, and took his revenge out of him in the unpleasant way a superior takes such things out of his inferior. He made Harry’s life in camp a hell, and on one occasion, takin’ advantage of poor Harry’s mistake about some little matter of discipline, ordered him to be publicly flogged the next day.
Harry made up his mind that he would die before he would suffer the indignity of a whipping’, and secreted some poison on his person ready to swallow it just before the “cat” should descend upon his back. As for the captain, he went to his quarters and had an extra spree that night, gloatin’ over the lickin’ his rival was about to suffer.
The next mornin’ came and it was a fine morning. It does seem as if mornin’s on which terrible things are to happen are always fine mornin’s, of course, just to make the contrast more terrible.
The soldiers were all called out to witness the floggin’, the captain at their head, and Harry was brought out, more dead than alive, to be flogged. He was then about bein’ stripped for the floggin’, and was just about raising the poison to his lips when a messenger rushed to the scene, a messenger from the Governor-General postponin’ the floggin’.
Months before this Harry had sent word privately to the American authorities that he was a native born citizen of the United States, and desired to get out of the British army. Nothing had seemed to come of this, but some of Harry’s friends had interested themselves in the matter, and that very day the British Governor-General had received a communication about the matter from the home government, which had caused him to postpone the floggin’.
How mad the captain was, and how glad Harry was. The captain protested against Harry’s release with all his might. But Harry’s time had come at last. He was then set free, and then he gave the captain “a piece of his mind.”
“God will curse you,” said Harry in his “farewell address” to his persecutor, “for the way you have tried to murder me.”
The captain laughed at him, but Harry’s word came true. The captain had bad luck from the day Harry left for America, and one afternoon a powerful explosion took place, and the captain’s head was blown right clean from his body, while Harry did pretty well in America.
[Editor’s notes: The column above mixes some very famous performers with some fairly obscure ones. May Ann Dyke Duff was a very popular and acclaimed dramatic British actress. While the above column does get the facts correct about her broken marriage to Charles Young, it does omit one important factor. Mrs. Duff, after the death of her husband, bore the expense of raising their children. Young suggested to her that if they married, he would provide for the family; but it turned out that he had no savings.
Christine Zavistowski later performed with her two daughters, and the trio was sometimes billed as the “Zavistowski Sisters.”
Eliza Moore, though known early as a dancer, was never highly billed. She was only known to have performed as Cybelle, the Lion Queen, from late 1847 to mid-1848. After that, her fate is unknown; perhaps she continued under a different name. Other performers adopted the title “Lion Queen.” The lion-tamer Cybelle assisted was hardly lacking in experience. He was Herr Jacob Driesbach, one of the most famous wild animal trainers of the 19th century. Driesbach, like all big cat trainers, relied on punishment to control the animals. If Cybelle relied on gentleness alone, she may have misjudged the wild cats.
Yankee Robinson was a famous traveling show manager; after an up-and-down career, he combined efforts with the Ringling Brothers, but passed away shortly after that merger.
Harry Mestayer was a minor star of minstrel shows, active in the 1840s, though he likely belonged to a large family of New Orleans-based performers. In the early 20th century, another offshoot of the Mestayer family–in fact, another Harry Mestayer–made a name as a motion picture and stage actor.]
