‘"About fourteen years ago."
‘The speaker was Bransby Williams, and he was answering a question I had put to him as to when he made his first appearance as an entertainer.
‘"Tell me about it," I said.
‘"I will," replied the actor, "but I think I would rather go home first and write it for you." ‘"So much the better," I murmured.
‘We were seated in a brougham which was just then flying through the streets from one Hall to another. The artiste was late, and peeped at is watch at the rate of about two or three peeps per minute, but, at length, after an aggravating stop caused by a block in the traffic near Piccadilly Circus, we reached our destination. Before the carriage had properly stopped Mr. Williams had disappeared, and by the time I had found the stage door he had been on the stage, found out "where he was," so to speak, and had commenced to make-up. And while he was thus engaged, I jotted down the few things had had just told me. Bransby Williams, whom you all know, of course, as the man who impersonates characters from Dickens in the music-halls, and who, by the way, is half Jewish and half Irish, is thirty-one years of age, and has been on the stage ever since he was twenty. It is five years ago since he gained fame and fortune with imitations of popular actors, a fact which induced him to take up the "Dickens" series. These were such an unexpected success that Shakespearean characters were added to his repertoire, which was still further enriched, last winter, by a series of characters - notably Fletcher, Uncle Tom, and the irrepressible Topsy - from Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
‘I have frequently seen Mr. Williams’ performance, and can speak with a good deal of knowledge about my subject.
‘His "make-ups" are remarkably clever. As he stands on the stage before you, dressed up in the likeness of "Shylock," or "Barbaby Rudge," or "Uncle Tom," or any one of the many popular characters whom he impersonates, it is hard to realise that you are looking and listening to the same handsome, boyish-looking man who but a few moments ago walked down to the footlights in evening dress, and told you the character he was about to represent.
‘Let me see, now, I left him making-up. Well, he is still at it, but he has been on the stage twice, and is now dressing up, and being dressed, for his third character.
‘Had you been privileged as I was, on this evening in question, to stand in the wings, where "make-up" box, mirror, costumes and wigs were arranged on a table and chairs, you might have seen the tottering old grandfather of The Old Curiosity Shop, just after making his broken-hearted speech on the death of little Nell, leap forward like a war-horse as the curtain falls, and while aged hair and worn-out garments are falling around him in different directions, you would perceive that Bransby Williams was apparently being torn to pieces. Simultaneously, two or three able-bodied dressers spring to the attack, rip of his vestments, and seemingly endeavour to flay the old man alive. A pair of trousers fly to his feet, and with an exultant leap upwards, clothe his legs; the rub of a towel smoothes out many wrinkles; face, neck and hands change from their natural colour to black; a frenzied pull envelops him in a tunic; a woolly wig is fixed with a slap, white eyebrows and beard are set in their places, the face assumes a different expression; one peep in the glass; and as the orchestra strikes up a "down South" melody, enter - Uncle Tom.
‘Here follows some more realistic acting, ending with the prolonged death of that famous old negro, and a sensational fall backwards over a table.
‘Back he rushes to the wings; there are more things to take off and more to put on, and in less than sixty seconds the actor is again on the stage, looking and acting to the life some other popular character.
‘"Work! Yes, I should think it is work," said "B.W.," as the perspiration rolled down his forehead.
‘Those who sit in front of the curtain howl, and clap, and cannot get enough of this wonderfully versatile actor, and yet, could they but appreciate the difficulties of his gigantic task, I doubt if they would be so eager to bring him on for an extra character.
‘"And you see," continued Mr. Williams, when he had better recovered his breath, "I don’t get unlimited time in which to do the work. My turn may be a fourteen minutes’ one, or it may be longer, but, whatever its length, it is ‘sandwiched’ between two other turns - a clog dance, a comic singer, or what not. I mention these things to show you that I really haven’t time to get into the spirit of my work."
‘"It seems to be pretty thoroughly appreciated, at any rate," I replied.
‘"If applause is anything to go by; and that reminds me: when I was performing at Portsmouth once, a place where you would think Dickens would be universally known, I finished my show by impersonating the great novelist himself sitting in his armchair. The curtain had no sooner risen on this picture than a voice from the audience shouted ‘Bravo, Salisbury.’ A little bit galling, wasn’t it?"
‘I agreed that it was, and soon afterwards, as I was saying au revoir to Mr. Williams, I asked him not to forget to send me the promised account of his first appearance.
‘"Oh, by the bye," he replied, "you will find the very thing you are asking for in this year’s Era Annual. Why not copy that?"
‘When I reached home I turned up my copy of the book in question, and found the little article referred to, and, acting upon his suggestion, here it is. Says Mr. Williams:-

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