Allister Hardiman is based in Melbourne, and has been in the design industry since 1983, working in portraiture, film & television, publishing, advertising, cartography and set design. In the 1990s he started reading about early theatrical life in Melbourne, and began researching on his own shortly after, focussing on the life of Robert Sparrow Smythe. His experience in the visual arts prompted the collecting of portraits and other photographs from the 1850–1900 period, many of whom are rare singers, actors, musicians, and platform speakers. He also writes short stories for kicks, giggles and whimsical colour.
During my father’s long career in various uniforms, he was, at one time, a Military Policeman, and as such was the investigating agent at various crime scenes committed on the Air Force Bases which constitued his juristiction. Given TV drama, the crime scene is almost a cultural phenomenon nowadays, but several things about his professional approach remain with me. A crime scene begins with an event which requires an investigation to see if an actual crime has been committed; observations are made, initial impressions are taken, and the gathering of evidence commences. Evidence is too often mistaken for proof. Whereas as proof supports an assertion, evidence is simply a gathered item or documented occurrence which MAY or MAY NOT bear upon the assertion. I type out all this dry kibble because many an historian is nervous about bagging everything at a crime scene without waiting for relevance. Bag it, tag it, and stuff it in the knapsack is my philosophy.
I have a crime scene.
My crime scene—where a crime MAY or MAY NOT have taken place is the portrait of Theodosia Stewart published in 1904 as part of that press duty that accompanies the death of a local and valued celebrity. The photo in question is of Mrs. Stewart herself, dressed with an indoor cap, knitted shawl, and the now overused but effective trope of a brooch. This suite of markers of matronly gravitas caused a reaction in my head: it was too much; it smacked of costumery; it was closer to ham than the shave setting on my local delicatessen’s meat slicer. I began to suspect that a crime had taken place.
I know from examining nineteenth century photos on eBay—everyday since eBay began—that this level of impression-creation was almost unseen in the nineteenth century photo section. Oh, I have seen the indoor cap do duty on a few married women’s heads, but portrait photographs that push the point with a footlight like glare are almost nonexistent. Maybe I was mistaking the gardener’s boots for a robber’s shoe print, but I thought the matter was worth investigating, nonetheless.
Does the suspect have a criminal record? I asked myself. Well, not that I knew of, but I do remember Nellie Stewart (in her biography) making such a fuss of her mother’s connection to the great Mary Ann Yates (née Graham), that I was rather confused as to why the exercise of such a valuable ‘brag’ was not accompanied by any image of her mother herself in the book when pains had been taken to include others. An examination of the crime scene was in order, so as my father had done many times: I first gathered, recorded and put into order the evidence.
First stop was the parentage of Theodosia Yates: there was nothing. Of her grandparents: nothing. Witness protection program? nothing. Criminal record? Nada. What curious gaps. I do not like curious gaps. So I constructed a family tree on Mrs. Yates which took some time as the crime scene was all over the place, but worth it. I had to start at the great Yates herself and construct the family—rather like assembling a crashed aircraft. It was rather fun, and the fruits of which, follow.
Mary Ann Yates was born around 1715, plus or minus a generous five to ten, and was the daughter of William Graham, the captain’s steward on the Ariel. Other sources have documented her career so I’ll not stomp around already consecrated ground. Mary Ann, hereafter called the Great Yates to differentiate her from the cast-of-thousands of Miss Yateses and Mrs Yateses that crowd the historical greenroom of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Great Yates was Richard Yates’ second wife. Having looked into the link of the Great Yates to Theodosia, I could find no biological connection, which explains the hide-and-seek language like ‘… the family of Mrs. Yates …’ or ‘… connected to the Mrs. Yates of Garrick’s time …’ which avoids committing to any claim of legal descendancy. That looks like another crime. Why the evasion? Very slippery.
Richard Yates and the Great Yates had no children (not that I know), so direct descendants are not available for love nor money. Now, outright alteration of truth, is a theatrical skill in itself, but seldom is the entire garment fabricated, except in emergencies, so there is usually truth somewhere. Richard Yates had two children at least from his first marriage, a George and an unnamed Miss Yates, but of them nothing much is heard after they stop performing. It is due to the unjust murder of Richard Yates that Theodosia’s mystery unravels —for our delight.
Mr. Yates has a brother who, for reasons of death or indisposition through absence, madness or spirits, left offspring without protection, and if some correspondent correctors of errors (writing to the papers of the day) are to be believed, this happened again. Richard Yates’ nephew in turn became absent through ‘reasons of death or indisposition’ to leave two children that came under the family aegis of Richard. Now, I do not know when this event occurred, nor where, nor, dare I say it, even if, for many a person of repute in past times had raised their own children under uncledom or auntitude who were born through illegitimate adventures. Thus, these two children, Thomas Yates and his sister, Miss Yates (another nameless one), were raised by family, and in some senses could well claim to call them parents.
The grand-niece (or great niece if you prefer the language of the day) married when she was of legal age to the Yate’s household coachman, Mr. Bowen, and was disinherited by Richard Yates. Thomas, her brother, went into the Royal Navy, and was a fine naval painter, a genre of art whose collectors—if they even manage to find him—lament the loss of so great a talent. Thomas had married an actress, Sarah. There is one single source on Ancestry.com that names her as Sarah Taylor, and there is a Thomas Yates marriage to a Sarah Taylor in London of 1788 that may have been used to squeeze into the blank box of a desperate historian’s endeavors, a missing fact. Dates calculated give Thomas’ birthdate as about 1750-1760, and given that Richard married the Great Yates in 1756, the Great Yates became the ‘mother’ in the family algebra.
The next crime scene, is actually a real crime scene: the Yates’ house in Pimlico where Miss Elisabeth Jones, the ‘housekeeper’ and one time aspiring actress smothered Richard Yates to death with a pillow in 1796, forged one of several testaments, and inherited the house upon the deception. With several very dodgy persons whom she hired for murderous purposes, and holding nosey claimants at bay: claimants like Lt. Thomas Yates R.N. who ended up being shot in the head as he tried to effect entry into what Richard told him would always be left to him. Miss Jones came out of the grizzly mess unscathed and unpunished, but slowly lost her gains after a long drawn out campaign of blackmail by those she had hired to assist her in the crime. She confessed upon her death bed, having been haunted by her acts and the unjust results that fell upon the family. Under the married name of Mrs. Yarwood she had tried to make a style of restitution to the descendants of Thomas and his sister, but failed in the attempt. The family, a combination of Naval and Stage people, had dispersed.
Thomas Yates, following his patrilineal pattern, became unable ‘by reasons of death, [but not in this case by indispositon]’ to provide for his family. His widow, Sarah had children by him before this death; some sources say five, others two, but it looks like only two survived to adulthood. Sarah Yates, as many widows did in those days, remarried, one supposes for financial provision if not the emotional provision that if found is happily welcomed. Her new husband, whom she married five years after Thomas was murdered, was Lt. Francis Hutchings Ansell of the 74th Regiment of Foot who avoided bullets, sabres and cannon balls and lived to an old age. He and Sarah had may children, family lore seems to exaggerate the number at eighteen, born at various places both in England and abroad. They both ended their days in Portobello, Scotland a place known for its Bathing tourism and Highlanders in military costume. She died in 1849, outliving her Lieutenant, who died in 1835 with an impressive career behind him.
But what of her children by Lt. Thomas Yates, Thomas and Mary Ann? So close to adulthood, they became the de facto step-children of Francis. Mary Ann married a sailing Scotsman, Captain William Walter Cargill and both left for New Zealand and it is that family that literally threw away—for landfill—the family silver (actual plate etc.) given to them by the haunted and murderous Mrs. Yarwood in a rejected penance. Thomas Yates, who seemed to have joined the Navy—family recollection has him as a gunner’s mate (though I must admit there being a little confusion on this point). It must have been while Thomas was staying with his mother and step-father in the North of England that he met and married in Garstang, Lancashire in 1802 (this has yet to be verified) Miss Mary Ann Croshaw, who became Mrs. Yates, and yes, she too was an actress. I lost track of them until their death in a suburb of Portsea, named Nursling, where they died in the 1850s as the census declares, paupers. Of interest to we image hunters is the portrait of Mrs. Yates as Lady Macbeth, a lithograph of which her grandson James Alfred Yates kept on his wall and forever knew it as his grandmother, Mary Ann Croshaw.
And this brings us to Theodosia. Thomas Yates Jnr. R.N. and wife Mary Ann Croshaw were the parents of three children: James Yates of the royal Navy (1818–1899) Theodosia Yates, actress (1815–1904) and another daughter, also an actress but about which I know next to little. James was born in Dublin, and became a Gunner in the Royal Navy, seeing service on various ships, seeing various places and seeing, one Amelia White (1821–1893) whom he married and with whom he settled down in the town in which he grew up, Portsmouth.
James and Amelia had several children, among whom was a son, James Alfred who was the grandfather of Dame Frances Amelia Yates (1899–1981), the Renaissance academic with a passion for Esoteric history upon which she wrote much. It is chiefly through the domestic documentation by Dame Frances and her sisters that we are able to examine the connective tissue of Theodosia Yates’s life. Theodosia was remembered by Dame France’s father who happily mentioned the family connection to Nellie Stewart, and of his great Aunt, Theodosia.
I wondered too about the name Theodosia, and by cross referencing to geographical frequency of use with the frequency of her family surnames, it seems that both Croshaw and Theodosia have their usage epicentre in Lancashire, where Yates married Croshaw. I am sure that Theodosia was a family name though I cannot find that connection—as yet. One Theodosia White died in Lambeth (where Theodosia had lived in 1838) aged 75 in 1835. Was she a benefactor of Theodosia through Amelia White, her sister-in-law?
Theodosia’s voyage into adulthood starts with her work at Covent Garden and her first marriage to book binder, Alexander Macintosh at Saint Annes, London on the 11th of September 1838. One daughter, Maria Macintosh (b. 1839) was born of that union at Pleasant Place, Lambeth. Not pleasant enough, I fear, for Theodosia fled the bookbinding life into which she had been stitched, sailing for Australia when Mrs. Clark dangled the operatic carrot in front of her. Did Alexander accompany her? Why adopt the name Stirling?
So there is the crime scene. Was there one at all? One could prosecute the case but the Judge would dismiss it. Was Theodosia keeping a low profile after abandoning Alexander Macintosh? Was she trying to keep away the repenting annoyance of Mrs. Yarwood and her thugs? Why the ‘Tweety Bird and Granny’ look in 1904? Was she looking to put behind her the penury of Navy and Stage? Did she feel unaccomplished? Who knows how these things swap the psychological wires within us? Theodosia was indeed a descendent in real terms though not by blood to the Great Yates, and she left a great tale in her wake that Nellie Stewart should have written about in her biography, or commissioned a play? Dreams perhaps, but stories definitely; Australia lacks the fondness for national myths, the kind of myths, that if this were America, would have been—by now—made into a film, the inevitable remake, a play perhaps, a book, scholarships, tacky TV shows, or perhaps even rides in a theme park.
I admire the adventurous, and particularly those who fight Kismet in the ring, rise from the canvas before the count expires, and thumps Kismet some more. Theodosia should have been celebrated with a photograph that had some of that natural majesty that shines on the face of the long lived survivor. Instead, we were left with a cartoon Granny, fit for Alf Vincent’s humorous linework in the Sydney Bulletin, and perhaps THAT is the crime that disturbed me the most. Perhaps.
BOOK REVIEW: Victorian Vocalists, Routledge, New York, 2020 (paperback)
Memory does not fade, it sinks slowly to the bottom of the cultural seabed where the more leisurely historian may pick up a forgotten item or two for later display, but a good historian works his oars upon the surface of the water, rowing all those he can from ship to shore so that their reputation, influence and admiration may continue.
Kurt Gänzl is such a master-oarsman. His Victorian Vocalists—now in its paperback incarnation—is another desirable work: a compilation of 100 singers, many of whom have not been celebrated in solid sources, or who have been hurriedly celebrated with that unjust brevity that editors—with one eye on page real estate—must reduce to a few lines.
At first glance Victorian Vocalists looks comprehensive in its choice of subjects but Kurt himself will tell you that for every one that was included, many were packed, readied and perfumed, but no stately barge came to collect them. The entries themselves though, are as comprehensive as Gänzl could make them (juicy stories held back for reasons of space and gravity, of course) and in what appears to be a Gänzl hallmark, many accurate items appear here that do not appear anywhere else. As I said, he is a master oarsman.
The Gänzl accuracy of included matter, and well-ordered entries leads to another Gänzl hallmark: the impression of a finer class of gossip. Part of the charm of his writing is the affection that he has for those who were born blessed or cursed; strived in vain or to profit; failed completely or succeeded unexpectedly; fell from grace or soared to heights; married into the aristocracy or married the confectioner; divorced in public or lived defiantly in sin; retired with majesty or died in poverty; lived after in books or lay buried unknown. There is an injustice to being forgotten if one has dared to strive in life, and here in Victorian Vocalists, there is some redress. Gänzl has a happy knack of knowing how to bring an engaging lilt to the cold language of dates and places, and so softens the ’necessaries‘ (births, deaths, marriages, concert highlights, and so forth) with just the right amount of seasoning and style. Gänzl was in the course of his career a singer with a fine basso voice, and so, I suppose, the instinct of the performing voice to hit not only the notes in pitch and length, but also to sell the song’s story by sentiment and subtlety has its twin in his voice upon the page. Would I be abusing metaphor to say that his writing entertains?
Another important feature is his choice of abstracts from various sources when he wishes to echo a printed sentiment or observation; many authors choose quotes or abstracted matter with little care, but Gänzl chooses his material as an manager might choose the vocal cast for a stage work—with great care—and this lends an ease of prose colour to the blocks of text; he is easy to read, and doesn’t make you regret the effort.
It is fruitless to name and number the persons Gänzl has rowed to shore with their slippers still dry, but among those upper hundred that he and Routledge have presented, one will find people like the slightly batty and wistful Ilma di Murska; the booming Agostino Susini who met his end by carriage accident; that sweet workhorse of the concert platform, Annie Tonnellier; and Priscilla Horton, who was blessed by the Muses with the twin gifts of singing and acting. Some of my personal favourites are the Vitellis, Giovanni and Annie, whose influence in Australia’s wild early days was long but at the time, barely noticed; the polarising Pasquale Brignoli who found fame in America; and the still neglected Caradori Allan of whom Gänzl says ’…was one of the greatest of all Victorian vocalists’.
As to the production of the book itself, I find it thrice valued: a thorough reference work and desirable addition to any historian’s shelf; a charming conversational exemplar of style from whose selection one may reacquaint oneself with any significant life and its highlights; and a good looking production by Routledge with a bold red cover similar to Gänzl’s two-volume master work on Emily Soldene (this last observation is appealing to me as a designer by career, as the bold red of the cover with its sans-serifed face sitting in happy contrast to the loose and vibrant style of the illustration of Maria Palmieri, speaks to the content’s style, where the facts are bold and without trim, but the illustrative nature of his writing is easy, subdued and genial. The designers are to commended for that level of book design). One element of the book’s design is to be lamented—not for itself, but in the book trade generally, where fashion and budget relegate portraits to small inclusions on the type-set page, drowning the photograph’s range of tones like a poor Ophelia in the river weeds (the type-friendly stock required to display the printed letter always plays havoc with the sharpness of printed images). I do miss the ‘gallery’ style of many years ago when portraits were given separate varnished paper to highlight the range of tones and it made for stronger photographs—they were also happily, larger. Perhaps one day we might see a Gänzl gallery in large format, and on good printing stock. I feel sure that the entrants in Gänzl’s work would be none too pleased and ruby faced at the dull tonal range given to their likenesses.
It almost goes without saying that it is a ’must have‘ for anyone interested in Victoriana in general, and in opera specifically, for the glittering world of the stage, and in particular opera, was an intersection between classes and a kind of unspoken estate that has not yet had a decent appreciation outside the musical world.
Kurt Gänzl is still out there, in blog and on keyboard, rowing away for the glory of the forgotten, and the benefit of us all.
I’ve been a little concerned about the sheet music portrait that is starting to not only do-the-rounds, as it were, but multiplying itself on the internet without any accompanying commentary about the issues concerning it attribution. I say that I am confused because there are many issues, in my mind, that need to be looked at before baptising the charming lithographic sketch, hither and yon, as William Mower Akhurst. This article then, is simply just a setting down of the elements for consideration so that they no longer gnaw at the bones of my brain.
William Mower Akhurst died in 1878, leaving a large family, a large reputation, and a large credit which we, his creditors, have not yet paid to him. I won’t even begin a biography of him as most who read this will already know of his importance of his contribution and the usual details of his life. We only have, as far as I know, one physical description of him that comes from some recollection of the printing industry written in a trade paper, I think it was. I found the meagre description by consulting the State Library of Victoria’s Biographical Index card catalogue which had been transferred to microfiche. The description, from memory, was that he had been very tall, and had red hair. Nothing else was mentioned, and I don’t have the direct citation in body or location, but it can be easily found and fetched from the “stacks”.
Of interest here is the cover of the sheet music of his popular song “Beautiful Swells” whose cover states: ‘… the celebrated duet sung by Miss Docy Stewart and Miss Marion Dunn in Mr. W.M. Akhurst's burlesque extravaganza King Arthur, performed at the Theatre Royal, Melbourne.’ The full title of the burlesque was King Arthur, or, Launcelot the Loose and it first saw limelight on the 31st of October 1868, the sheet music being printed not long after by Charles Troedel. It was sold for the first time in early December, with a free sample sent to the Herald who mentioned:
‘We have received from the publisher, Mr. C. Troedel, of Swanston Street, a copy of the now celebrated duet. ‘Beautiful Swells’ as sung in Mr. Akhurst's burlesque, at the Theatre Royal, by Miss Marion Dunn and Miss Docy Stewart, whose carte-de-visite portraits appear on tbe Front page. The music as arranged is easy, and very pretty. From the popularity of the piece, the copies will no doubt command a large sale.’ (The Herald, 2 December 1868, p. 2)
‘Mr. Akhurst's burlesque was repeated last evening to an excellent house at the Theatre Royal, and it went very smoothly throughout. Mr. Harwood's local song on a Victorian political celebrity was encored three times, and he added an additional verse, giving a tip for the Cup. A repetition of Mr. Stewart's “Cantering Cad of Collins-street” was also insisted on, and the pretty duet, “Beautiful Swells” sung by Miss Marion Dunn and Miss Docy Stewart, which was similarly favoured, is rapidly becoming as popular as the famous “Pal o' Mine” duet.’ (The Argus, 5 November 1868, p. 5)
‘King Arthur, at the Royal, is proving as complete a success as “The Siege of Troy.” The boys encore the Jones song four times—perdition catch their insatiable souls for doing it—and the duet of “Beautiful Swells” seems equally in favour.’ (Jaques, The Australasian, 14 November 1868 p. 18)
It was a hit. And within the frame of the burlesque Marion Dunn was King Arthur, and Docy Stewart, Lancelot, and one can be easily imagine Arthur and Launcelot acting like a couple of stylish mashers about town. Incidentally, the word ‘swell’ to describe a wealthy, elegant person first appeared in 1724 arising out of the metaphorical observation of the puffing out of a gentleman’s lace covered chest bearing comparison the swelling of the sea, and came to mean a fashionable person about town. By 1810 ‘swell’ meant a stylish person, and was well into use by 1868, even having crossed the Atlantic where it survives today in American slang as a synonym for satisfaction. Swell, baby, swell.
The cover has a faded albumen photograph of Miss Marion Dunn and Miss Docy Stewart posed in a classic late 1860s day dress, both posing their fingers in their dimples. The photograph is pasted onto the cover—an expensive endeavour that speaks to the popularity of the song and the anticipated sales of the sheet music—and, in two rustic cartouches drawn by Charles Stewart, a portrait of two gentlemen—or perhaps the same man—one, in a three-quarter view with centre part in his hair and two large forks of sideburns known as Dundreary’s (they used to be called Piccadilly Weepers before Dundreary came along, and for those who liked to avoid the whimsical vernacular, ‘French Fork’ was the description); and the second, a profile version with a top hat, cigar and delicate plume of smoke. Both wear a monocle.
The lyrics of the song itself are short and simple, but once you read them they seem to have a great bearing on the attitude of the gentlemen on the cover.
Like you, I’ve witnessed better days
But now, by fate, I’m beat
Once I was the crême de la crême
The’elistest of the elite
An individual of rank
I dressed extremely well and
With a balance in the bank
I was a topping swell.
Beautiful Swells with glasses in eyes
Never evincing the slightest surprise
Languidly glancing at the belles
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Swells.
My birth is noble and unstained
My crest as is mine own.
Let this attest as Thaddeus
Exclaims in dullest tone
When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell
Is language whose excess imparts
That I once a swell.
Beautiful Swells with glasses in eyes
Never evincing the slightest surprise
Languidly glancing at the belles
Beautiful, beautiful beautiful Swells.
So what are the options regarding the lithographed figure(s) on the cover by Charles Turner? There are, I think, three principal choices:
The first alternative is that it is a portrait of the composer itself, which is to be expected in line with common practice. Usually, sheet music of this period features either the performer, the composer(s) or a stock/generic character. The argument for rests upon Akhurst’s celebrity, his long standing association with the literary and theatrical worlds of Melbourne, and his personal manner. Walter Akhurst, William’s son, was fourteen at this time and ended up working with, and later going into partnership with both Charles Turner, and Troedel. The argument against this being a portrait of W.M. Akhurst rests upon the generic manner of the portraits, and what is, for me, a very theatrical portrayal of the “character”. A portrait of “the author” is not usually disguised in this manner, and tries to represent a composer with a singular, accurate depiction, and not a thin cartoonish portrait. This theatrical regard of the image may be quite normal if Akhurst was a larger than life figure—he may very well have been. Its theatricality though is not a excluding quality, but one needs to be aware of it.
The second alternative is that it is a portrait of the character ‘Lord Dundreary’ from Tom Taylor’s 1858 play Our American Cousin. Edward Askew Sothern was the original Dundreary and further widened the reach of his fame in the role of the charming, idiotic aristocrat by a portrayal which was so successful that it produced cartes-de-visite by the thousands; even today you can always find one on eBay. Lord Dundreary became part of 1860s iconography by its components: the large centre-parted hair, the humourously wide sidebeards, and the monocle, all became the iconographic stock of every cartoonist that wished to illustrated a generic ‘swell’ or monied society fool. The argument for rests upon the faithful artistic quotation of the icons parts in Turner’s drawing: centre part, flowing whiskers, monocle. If this was the intent, it was a shameless grab for sales by linking to an already famous image, or it may have been a clumsy lithographic whimsy. The argument against is obvious: there is no good commercial reason to put a character wholly unconnected with play or its author, on the cover. Anent Dundreary, one must note with interest that on the 11th of December 1868 at the Theatre Royal, Mr Richard Stewart was given a benefit, with a medley bill that began with Craven’s Meg’s Diversion and Handy Andy after which Mr Stewart performed as Lord Dundreary in the famous letter scene (funny because of it phonetic mis-placement—‘I have aweady wead the wetter’ etc.), and it was advertised as ‘his own creation’ meaning his delineation of it; and Docy Stewart and Marian Dunn performed ‘Beautiful Swells’. (The ad of 10 December 1868 also mention a young ten year old John Kruse, for the violin historians). The Dundreary idea is too close for comfort, but which came first? the chicken or the egg.
The third alternative is that it is a portrait of the two characters and that the illustration embodies the attitude of the ‘swells’ enacted by the Misses Dunn and Stewart. The argument for rests upon the accurate depiction of a swell, and the attitude of the drawings; however plain the skill is behind them, the humourous intent is there, and is a reflection of the burlesque’s lyrics. The argument against rests upon the lack of costume as the gentlemen are in plain evening clothes. No mention is made of the costume in the papers, but it is hard to imagine that the illustrator would use evening dress when a more jolly image could be had with the burlesque costumery that would have been present. The portrait on the left too, lacks animation, is posed and gives a gravitas that one would expect from a portrait of the author.
We know that the girls dressed en traverstie, as a later advertisement for special appearance in another concert programme was at pains to state that the two ladies would appear in feminine attire for the song. When they performed as Arthur and Lancelot, did they wear evening dress? Possibly. Burlesque has very wide margins for breaking rules: in fact, it depends on it.
So where does that leave us? It leaves us with a game of odds. The likelihood is, that it is Akhurst, though the accurate visual quotation of a ‘swell’ is unsettling. Artistic analysis to follow.
The portraits by Charles Turner of the perhaps William Mower Akhurst. On the left, note the theatrical ‘look’ with monocle but the serious, posed nature of it; the right has the same dichotomy, but still feels like a portrait rather than the visual report of a fictional character.
A carte-de-visite photo from eBay, France taken in Melbourne during the 1870s by Timothy Noble of Bourke Street, a photographer of many theatrical personalities. I place it here as proof that the ‘swell’ iconography was based upon real persons, albeit it a small number. Probably ten-percent of male cartes-de-visite show this degree of dramatic divisions of a beard, known as a French Fork. This photo was found in Montesquieu-des-Albères, a long way from Melbourne. I purchased it 5th October 2019.
A sample from London Punch, 10 May 1862 p.186, of the oft repeated Dundreary iconography, and right, from Melbourne Punch of 7 Jan 1869.
Three images: (a) E.H. Sothern as Dundreary, the icon that launched a thousand cartoonists’ pens, (b) a gentleman dressing up as Dundreary for a lark, and (c) a man whose personal toilette just happened to reflect the convention quoted by whomever decided how Dundreary was to be represented in the play. Both are blank-backed.