Chapter XIII: Part 13

I have said, in a previous chapter, that the trouble in respect to the new form of journalism in some of the cities of the United States is, that the reader is left too much in doubt as to the truth of the daily chronicles. The Chicago reporter, who held up the “interviews” of other journals as more or less “bogus,” would himself have found it difficult in this respect to winnow the chaff from the wheat. At St. Louis a reporter professed to have taken an engagement as a “super” in the Irving Company. He wrote a description of “behind the scenes” in that capacity, but “gave himself away,” by making all the company, from the leading actor down to the call-boy, drop their h’s. The American reporter’s leading idea when burlesquing the English is to take every _h_ out of a Britisher’s conversation, and even to make the Queen herself drop the aspirate or misuse it; for instance, here is a summary of the royal speech on the opening of Parliament, which appeared in a Philadelphia journal: “We’re pretty well, I thank you, and we ‘opes to remain so, we does.” If in our stage and journalistic satire we make Jonathan “guess,” “calkalate,” and “lick all creation, you bet,” he “gets even” with “yahs, deah boy,” and “‘ow bar’ you,” and “‘pon my ‘onor, don’t cher know?” But, referring back to the many imaginary interviews and fictitious sketches of Irving and his life behind the scenes, here is an extract from an account of “Irving’s day,” which appeared in one of the light-headed dailies, that is, in some respects, truer than I dare say any of its readers believed it to be. The introduction of “the secretaries” is worthy of “Punch,” and in its earnestness funnier than some of the great humorist’s sketches of the Irving tour in America. Here are the leading points of the article:—

THE METHODICAL WAY IN WHICH IRVING PASSES HIS TIME.

Henry Irving is a man of simple, but regular, habits. He has gained the hearts of everybody in the Bellevue, from the proprietor to the bell-boy, by his courteous demeanor and his desire to give as little trouble as possible. He rises at nine o’clock, and drinks a cup of coffee with milk. Breakfast is served in his private sitting-room at ten o’clock, consisting of tea, boiled eggs, and some other simple dish. The eggs he cooks himself in a little spirit-lamp arrangement of his own. He eats the meal alone, and glances at his mail while at table. The budget of correspondence is usually large, and includes letters from all over the world. After breakfast one or two secretaries pay their respects to him, and receive his instructions in regard to the replies to the missives. The daily papers are then carefully read, and any visitors who call are received.

Between twelve and one he leaves the hotel, generally in a carriage, and always accompanied by a secretary. The theatre is the first destination. In everything concerning the stage arrangements, indeed, even the most minute details, Mr. Irving is consulted. A skye-terrier is also a persistent companion of the English actor, and follows wherever he goes.

Mr. Irving dines at 3.30. A course-dinner is served,—oysters, soup, fish, a cutlet, and a bird. Canvas-back duck has a preference among the feathery food. He dines by himself, does his own carving, and dismisses the servants as soon as the dishes are placed in front of him. From the dinner hour until he goes to the theatre he is denied to everybody. No matter whose card arrives for him there is no passport for the pasteboard through the portals of the actor’s apartments. The interval after dinner is passed in study and meditation. Mr. Irving is, above all, a student, and every gesture and motion he makes on the stage have been previously considered, and a reason found for the change of position or features.

After the theatre Mr. Irving throws off the restraint of the day, and sups at his ease with some of his friends. A secretary or two are included in the party. Supper lasts sometimes until two or three in the morning. Last Sunday, when Attorney-General Brewster was Mr. Irving’s guest, it was three A.M., before the party exchanged adieux.

Among the visitors who have called on Mr. Irving, Viscount Bury, James McHenry, and General Collis were among the favored ones who were admitted to audience. Scores of invitations for every kind of entertainment have overwhelmed him, keeping three or four of his secretaries busy with writing his expression of regrets.

When Irving was at Philadelphia he had a young English friend visiting him. The waiter (who was evidently in the confidence of the local reporter, or might have been the reporter himself masquerading as a waiter) pressed him in as a secretary. Abbey’s manager, Mr. Palser, Mr. Stoker, Mr. Loveday, and another friend, a resident of Philadelphia, were all promoted to the secretarial office. There is a sublime touch of unconscious satire in this staff of secretaries, engaged upon the work of answering Irving’s letters, which will be particularly appreciated in London, where that one special sin of his—neglecting to answer letters—is even commented upon in learned reviews. The after-dinner “study and meditations” is “Jeames’s” view of the siesta, which is a needful incident of every actor’s day. The data of the sketch being fairly correct, the _bona fides_ of it, from the reporter’s point of view, make it interesting as well as characteristic of the “personal” character of some of the clever news journals of the day.

IX.

ONE day, during “this interval after dinner,” which is “passed in study and meditation,” Irving said, “Have you followed out all the story of the Bisbee murderers?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is one of those strange cases of lawlessness, that I have taken out of the newspapers for my scrap-book. Charles Reade[61] would have been interested in it. Have you ever seen his scrap-books?”

“No,” said Irving; “are they very remarkable?”

“Yes, and in my slovenly attempts to save newspaper cuttings I often think of him. I once spent a whole day with him, looking over his journalistic extracts, and he was lamenting all the time the trouble involved in their arrangement and indexing. He subscribed to many odd out-of-the-way newspapers for his collections. If he had ever visited America he would have been tempted to make a very formidable addition to his list.

“Do you know the beginning of the Bisbee business? I have only seen the account of the hunting down of one of the murderers, which has interested me tremendously. Have you seen any accounts of the capture?”

“No.”

“Well, then, curiously enough I have received a San Francisco ‘Chronicle,’ with the entire story of it, and I believe it is worth putting into the book. Can you tell me the nature of this crime?”

“Yes. One day several strangers arrived suddenly in the little town of Bisbee, on the outskirts of Western civilization. They went into the principal store, shot down the owner of it, fired at anybody they saw on the street, killed a woman who was passing the store, and, having generally, as it were, bombarded the little town, left as mysteriously as they came. That is briefly the story, as it was repeated to me a week ago by Dr. Gilman, of Chicago, who has recently returned from the scene of the tragedy, and other mining camps and towns, about which he entertained me with a dozen almost equally startling stories.”

“Well,” said Irving, “the hunt after these Bisbee ruffians is about as dramatic an episode of police work as I ever came across. A reward being offered for the chief of the gang who raided Bisbee, it was soon discovered that ‘Big Dan,’ a notorious ruffian, was the criminal. The entire business was after his most approved method, and it was finally proved, beyond doubt, that this was the latest of ‘Big Dan Dowd’s’ crimes. On the 6th of January, Deputy Sheriff Daniels brought him in custody into Tombstone, and this is the story of the capture:—

“‘On December 23, Daniels learned in Bisbee, from some Mexicans just in from Sonora, that two men, answering the description of ‘Big Dan’ and Billy Delaney, were in Bavispe, Sonora. This place will be remembered as the point from which Crook started on his trip into the defiles of the Sierra Madre, and lies on the western slope of that range. Satisfying himself that the information furnished by the Mexicans was correct, Daniels communicated with the sheriff’s office, and, after making all necessary arrangements, started, on the morning of December 26, for that place. Accompanying the officer was a Mexican named Lucero, on whom Daniels knew he could rely as a guide and a fighter. On the morning of the 30th, after a ride of about two hundred miles, Daniels and his two companions (he having picked up another Mexican at Frontera) reached Bavispe. Here it was learned that Delaney and Dowd had separated five days previously, Dowd remaining in Bavispe, which point he had left that morning, about an hour prior to the arrival of Daniels and his posse. Additional inquiries elicited the information that Dowd had struck across the Sierra Madre for Janos, in the State of Chihuahua, distant about seventy-five miles. After taking a short rest, and perfecting plans for the capture of Delaney, the officer started in pursuit of the other bandit.

“The route of travel led through the defiles of the Sierra Madre, by rocks and precipitous trails, and it was not until the morning of January 1 that Daniels reached Janos, where he learned, as at Bavispe, that the bird had flown, having left Janos a few hours ahead of him for Coralitos, distant about twenty-seven miles. Procuring fresh horses, the posse started at once for Coralitos, which place was reached about eight o’clock that evening. The town is in the centre of a mining country, and is composed principally of Mexicans, there being but half-a-dozen Americans in the place. The whole neighborhood, as described by Daniels, seems to belong to the Coralitos Mining Company, of which Ad Menzenberger is superintendent. Daniels went at once to him, and communicating the object of his visit, learned that ‘Big Dan’ had arrived a short time previously, and was then in what was known as the house of the Americans. The superintendent, having learned the character of Dowd, was only too willing to assist in his capture, and, under the cover of darkness, he and Daniels proceeded to the house. Prior to reaching it, it was agreed that the superintendent should enter in advance of Daniels, in order to prevent any interference by the Americans who were in his employ, in the capture of Dowd.

“‘As agreed the superintendent entered the room first, with Daniels at his heels. Dowd was sitting on a table facing the fire, and the rest of the party were scattered about the room. On the table was standing, also, a bottle of whiskey, which had not been uncorked. Everything indicated that Dowd had no idea of the presence of an officer, and was preparing for a jolly night with his companions. He did not even look around when the men entered the room, and his first knowledge that he was in the clutches of the law was when Menzenberger, who had reached his side, caught hold of his arms, and throwing them above his head, said, ‘Throw up your hands.’ Daniels, at the same time, with a cocked pistol in each hand, made the demand to surrender. A word from the superintendent to the Americans present showed Dowd, who was unarmed at the time, that he was powerless to escape, and he quietly submitted to being manacled. Daniels remained until the following morning, when he was furnished with an ambulance and escort by the superintendent, and driven to San José station, on the line of the Mexican Central Railroad, one hundred and ten miles distant, and about ninety miles south of El Paso del Norte. Here he telegraphed to Sheriff Ward of the capture, and, putting his prisoner on board the train, started for home. Upon nearing Paso del Norte, he feared that Dowd might raise a question of extradition, and put him to much trouble; so he made arrangements with the railroad officials, and, together with his prisoner, was locked in the express car until reaching the American line.’”

Irving recited most of the “Chronicle’s “narrative. The close, terse particulars of its details leave sufficient color of surroundings to the imagination of the reader.

X.

“TOMBSTONE,” he said presently, “is a curious name for a town.”

“Some friends of mine,” I said, “have business interests there. It got its name in this way: a party of young pioneers decided to go there on a prospecting expedition. They were ridiculed, and told by another party, who had refused to join them, that all they would find would be a tomb. The adventurers, however, discovered mineral treasures, of enormous extent, started a town, and, as a derisive answer to their prophetic friend, called it Tombstone. This is the story of only a few years. Tombstone is now a prosperous community, and has a daily paper. What do you think its title is?”

“I cannot guess.”

“Eugene Field, a journalist whose name is well-known throughout the West, gave me a copy of it only yesterday.”

I went to my room and brought down a well-printed four-page paper, entitled “The Tombstone Epitaph.”

“And not a funny paper at all,” said Irving, examining it; “a regular business-like paper, newsy and prosaic, except for the short literary story and the poem that begin its pages.”

“Mr. Field gave me some remarkable newspaper trophies of these mining towns, that may be said to grow up outside the pale of civilization, to be eventually incorporated into the world of law and order. Here, for instance, is a placard issued by ‘The Bazoo,’ a newspaper published at the little town of Sedalia:—

BAZOO NEWS TRAIN!
—to—
NEVADA, MO.,

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1883.

_BILL FOX’S PUBLIC EXECUTION_
For the murder of Tom Howard, at Nevada, Mo., May 20,1883.

The “Sedalia Bazoo” has chartered a special train, which will run to Nevada from Joplin on that day. Leaving Jopling at 8.10 o’clock A.M., and returning in thirty minutes after the death-scene at the gallows.

Rate of Fare for
TIME-TABLE. Round Trip.

Leave Joplin, 8.10 A.M. $2.00
” Webb City, 8.25 ” 1.75
” Edwin, 8.43 ” 1.50
” Carthage, 8.53 ” 1.45
” Carey, 9.05 ” 1.25
” Jasper, 9.15 ” 1.10
” Carleton, 9.27 ” .95
” Lamar, 9.40 ” .75
” Irwin, 9.57 ” .60
” Sheldon, 10.07 ” .50
” Milo, 10.20 ” .25
Arrive Nevada, 10.35

[finger]Tickets for Sale at the Depot.[finger]

Returning, the train will leave Nevada thirty minutes after the execution, giving plenty of time for all to get to the train. Tickets sold for this train will not be good on any other but the “Bazoo” News Train, this day only.

_THE BAZOO!_
Is a Daily and Weekly newspaper published at
SEDALIA, MO.,
For the People now on Earth.

TERMS.

Daily, per Annum $10.00
Sunday, ” 2.50
Weekly, ” 1.00

[finger]Subscriptions will be received on the Train by a Solicitor.[finger]

The “Sedalia Morning Bazoo” of Dec. 29 will contain a picture of FOX, who is to be executed, with a full history of his crime, his trial, and the last words of the dying man on the gallows.

Secure a copy of the news agent on the train, or of your news-dealer, for FIVE CENTS.

“And here is the free pass (printed on a mourning card) which accompanied the announcement that was sent to Mr. Field in his journalistic capacity:—

THE BAZOO NEWS TRAIN,
Good for Special On the occasion of the
News Train only. PUBLIC EXECUTION OF BILL FOX.
Pass Miss Eugenia Field,
Acc’t of Boss Bog,

TO NEVADA AND RETURN,
Dec. 28, 1883.
J. WEST GOODWIN.

“Bill Fox, I understood, was a noted criminal, and everybody was glad to have him hanged out of the way.”

XI.

“IT is a lesson in the evolution of towns, these incidents of the pushing out of the frontiers of a great country,” said Irving. “I dare say Denver began its career as a mining-camp.”

“It did; and only a few years ago.”

“And now they tell me it is a beautiful and well-ordered city, with the finest opera-house in all America.”

“That is so; and one day you ought to play there.”

“I hope I may; I would like it very much. By the way, your bill about ‘The Bazoo’ excursion reminds me of two curious placards which the manager of Haverly’s gave me. They tell the story of the fate of a new play that was once produced at his theatre. It was called ‘Hix’s Fix,’ and was a terrible failure. The theatre had been engaged for a short season for ‘Hix’s Fix,’ and the proprietors of it were at their wits’ ends to know what to do. They were not prepared to play any other piece; so they hit upon the expedient of ‘pushing the failure.’ They printed half a million handbills, and circulated them diligently. This is one of them; it reads as follows:—

HAVERLY’S THEATRE.

In obedience to the Unanimous Opinion of the Daily Press

MESTAYER & BARTON

Seriously think of Changing the name of their Play,

HIX’S FIX, to ROT.

In sober truth, this is about the right thing

[hand symbol] BUT [hand symbol]

It is the funniest rot you have ever seen, and stands preeminent
and alone the

WORST PLAY OF THE AGE.

OPINIONS OP THE PRESS:

Hix’s Fix is bad enough, but think of the poor audience.—_News._

All that is not idiotic is vile.—_Tribune._

The piece is sheer nonsense, to speak mildly.—_Times._

The most painful dramatic infliction we have suffered this
season.—_Evening News._

EVERYBODY’S JUDGMENT WANTED.

TURN OUT AND JOIN THE MOURNERS.

Every Night this Week and Wednesday and Saturday
Matinées.

“Under the influence of this extraordinary announcement, the business improved, stimulated by which cheering result the managers issued a new proclamation, to this effect:—

HAVERLY’S THEATRE.

Every Night this Week and usual Matinées.

HIX’S FIX

Is unquestionably the worst Play ever produced.

It is so much worse that no one should miss it!

THIS IS CONFIDENTIAL (?)

To illustrate how good people will sometimes go wrong, read
the list of talent engaged in playing this vile trash.

WILLIAM A. MESTAYER,
The heaviest of heavy Tragedians.

ROB’T E. GRAHAM,
Unequalled in Character Impersonations.

HARRY BLOODGOOD, FRED. TURNER, CHAS. A. STEDMAN,
H. A. CRIPPS.
MISS KATE FOLEY,
As bright as a sunbeam,
SOPHIE HUMMELL, HELEN LOWEL, LISLE RIDDELL, with
JAMES BARTON, as Manager.

Here you have the novelty of a very Good Company in an
unpardonably Bad Play.

AND THEY KNOW IT!

You must admire their Candor, if you will condemn the Play.

“Many curious people were drawn to the theatre in this way; but the attraction of failure only lasted a few nights. The invitation to turn out and join the mourners strikes one as funny. ‘It helped them to pay expenses,’ said the manager; ‘but it is the most novel effort to “turn diseases to commodities,” as Falstaff says, that ever came under my notice.’”

XII.

“AND now,” continued Irving, “to go back to your opening, where we rather discount Raymond’s stories of the wild life of Texas. Have you seen the ‘Herald’s’ latest sensation?”

“No.”

“Not the Texan tragedy?”

“No.”

“Here it is, then; listen to the heads of it: ‘Two Crime-stained Ruffians die with their Boots on—Pistol Shots in a Theatre—Killed in Self-defence by Men whose Lives they sought—The Heroes of many Murders!’”

He handed me the paper, saying, “Read that! And yet we chaffed poor Raymond!”

I read a “special telegram” to the “Herald” (and verified the report at a later day by the records of other journals, local, and of the “Empire city”), reporting that on the 11th of March, between ten and twelve at night, San Antonio, Texas, was “thrown into a state of wild excitement, by the report that Ben Thompson and King Fisher had been shot and killed at the Vaudeville Theatre. An immense crowd thronged around the doors of the theatre, but were denied admission by the officers who had taken possession of the building.

“It seems that Ben Thompson, who is noted throughout Texas as one of the most reckless and desperate characters in the State, and King Fisher, who also had the reputation of a desperado, arrived at San Antonio together, from Austin, by the International train. After enjoying the performance at Turner Hall for a time, they left before the curtain fell, and went to the Vaudeville Theatre, in company with another person. As soon as it became known that Thompson was in the city the police were on the alert, expecting trouble. Fisher and Thompson entered the Vaudeville, and, after taking a drink at the bar, went upstairs and took seats. They engaged in a brief conversation with Simms, one of the proprietors, and the whole party took drinks and cigars together. Thompson and Fisher then rose, and, in company with Simms and Coy, a special policeman at the theatre, started downstairs.

“The party was joined by Joe Foster, another of the Vaudeville proprietors, and an excited and heated conversation followed, during which Thompson called Foster a liar, a thief, and other vile names. Firing then commenced, and some ten or twelve shots were heard in rapid succession. Police Captain Shardein and another officer rushed upstairs, to find Ben Thompson and King Fisher weltering in their blood in the corner of a room near the door leading downstairs. Joe Foster was badly wounded in the leg, and Officer Coy slightly grazed on the shin.

“A scene of the wildest confusion ensued as soon as the shooting commenced. All who were in the theatre knew of the presence of Thompson and Fisher, and were well acquainted with their desperate character. When the first shot was fired the whole crowd seemed to be panic-stricken. The dress circle was quickly cleared, the occupants jumping into the parquet below and through the side-windows into the street. No one seems to know who fired the first shot, or how many were engaged in the shooting. Before the theatre was fairly cleared of its occupants fifteen hundred persons on the outside were clamoring at the closed doors for admittance, which was resolutely denied by the police, who had taken possession of the building. Subsequently the dead bodies of Thompson and Fisher were removed to the City Jail, where they were washed and laid out.

“Bill Thompson, the brother of Ben, was at the White Elephant at the time of the shooting, waiting for Ben to return from Turner Hall. He rushed out as soon as he saw that there was some trouble; but, as he was unarmed, he was stopped at the entrance to the Vaudeville by Captain Shardien, and kept outside the building.

“An immense crowd followed the remains of the two desperadoes when they were carried to the jail, and this morning the plaza around the building was thronged.

“From the statements of those connected with the theatre the killing was unavoidable, as it seemed to be understood when Thompson entered the house that his purpose was to raise a disturbance; but whether King Fisher shared in this design is not known.

“A coroner’s jury was summoned at once. They viewed the bodies, and the inquest was held the next morning. After hearing the testimony of eye-witnesses and others a verdict was returned to the effect that Ben Thompson and J. King Fisher came to their deaths by means of pistol-bullets fired from weapons in the hands of W. Simms, Joseph C. Foster, and Jacob Coy; and, further, that the killing was justifiable, being done in self-defence. Coy, the special policeman on duty at the theatre, testified that Thompson drew his weapon first; but it was seized by witness, who held it in his grasp during the affray. Thompson, however, fired four shots, one of which took effect in Foster’s leg.

“Foster’s leg has been amputated, and there are no hopes of his recovery.”

The newspaper man gives “Thompson’s antecedents” and “Fisher’s record,” as follows:—

Ben Thompson was born in Knottingley, a town in Yorkshire, England, in 1844. His father was a sea-captain. Ben leaves a wife and two children in Austin,—a bright boy of fourteen years and a girl of eleven. He has a brother here, who took charge of his body, and carried it to Austin to-day. Thompson’s record is a bloody one. He is said to have slain probably twenty men. His last victim was Jack Harris, proprietor of the Vaudeville, whom he shot in June, 1882, in the same house in which he himself was slain last night. His death is little regretted here.

King Fisher was a young man of some twenty-eight years, and his record was, if possible, more bloody than Thompson’s. For years he was feared as a frontier desperado, and killed Mexicans almost for pastime. Of late he had reformed a little, and when killed was deputy sheriff of Walde county. Both men were strikingly handsome, and noted as quick dead-shots with six-shooters, or Winchesters. Fisher’s remains were shipped home to-night.

The reporter adds: “The city is now quiet, though the death of two such notorious desperadoes is still a topic of conversation.”

“Thompson was an Englishman, you see,” remarked Irving, “which verifies to some extent what I have often been told, that England has to answer for a full share of the ruffianly element of the States. The mining regions of California at one time were crowded with English adventurers. What a vast country it is that encircles in its territories every climate,—tropical heat and arctic cold! To-day, while we are ice-bound, a journey of two or three days would take us to Florida and orange-groves, and a day’s travel from the heart of a highly civilized city, of refined cultivation and well-ordered society, would carry us into a region where men live in primitive state, so far as the law is concerned, and yet are the pioneers of a great empire. What a story, the history of America, when somebody tells it from its picturesque and romantic side!”

XXII.

“THE LONGEST JOURNEY COMES TO AN END.”

“Our Closing Month in New York”—Lent—At Rehearsal—Finishing Touches—Behind the Scenes at the Lyceum and the Star—The Story of the Production of “Much Ado” in New York—Scenery and Properties on the Tour—Tone—Surprises for Agents in Advance—Interesting Technicalities—An Incident of the Mounting of “Much Ado”—The Tomb Scene—A Great Achievement—The End.

I.

“IT is almost like getting home again,” said Irving, “to find one’s self in New York once more. The first place one stops at in a new country always impresses the imagination and lives in the memory. I should say that is so with pioneers; and more particularly when your first resting-place has been pleasant. Let us get Monday night well over, and we may look for something like a little leisure during our closing month in New York. We shall produce “Much Ado” as completely as it is possible for us to do it, outside of our own theatre. If no hitch occurs I think we will run it for two, Palser even proposes three, weeks. If we have been complimented upon our scenic and stage-managerial work on the other pieces, what may we expect for ‘Much Ado’? Lent is severely kept in New York, I am told; Holy Week being among the churches, if not a fast in regard to food, a fast from amusements. We must therefore be content, I suppose, to let ‘Much Ado’ grow, in time for the restoration of social pleasures at Easter.”[62]

On Monday, at a quarter to eleven, Irving was at his post, on the stage of the Star Theatre, for a complete rehearsal. Scenery, properties, lighting, grouping of supernumeraries, the entire business of the piece, was gone through. Not a detail was overlooked, not a set but was viewed as completely from the stalls as from the stage.

“Pardon me,” says Irving to Claudio; “if you get your hand above your head in that position, you will never get it down again. Suppose you adopt this idea, eh? What do you think?”

“Certainly, it is better,” says Claudio.

Irving, as he speaks, illustrates his own view of the scene.

“Then we will try it again.”

The scene is repeated.

“Yes, very good, that will do.”

The rehearsal goes on.

“No, no,” says Irving, “there must be no wait; the second procession must come on promptly at the cue. Try it again. And hold your halberd like this, my boy; not as if you were afraid of it. There, that’s it.”

The supernumerary accepts his lesson; the music cue is repeated; the halberdiers file in; the military strains cease, the organ peals out, the wedding procession comes on.

“Bow, bow,—don’t nod,” says Irving, stepping forward to instruct a subordinate in the scene; “that’s better—go on.”

The solemn voice of Mead opens the scene, and as it proceeds, Irving calls Loveday aside.

“Too much light at the back there, eh?”

“Do you think so?” says Loveday. “Lower the light there,—the blue medium.”

Steps have been placed as a way from the stage to the stalls. Irving (“Charlie” following at his heels) goes into the third row, Loveday watching and waiting.

“Yes, that will do,” says Irving, at the same time turning to me to remark, “do you see what a difference that makes? You have no difficulty now in imagining the distance the subdued light suggests,—chapels, vestries, dim cathedral vistas. Do you notice what a last touch of reality to the scene the hurried entrance of the pages give?—they break up the measured solemnity of the processions with a different step, a lighter manner, the carelessness of youth; they have no censers to carry, no ecclesiastical robes to wear.”

As he is speaking he strides up the steps and upon the stage once more.

“Mr. Ball! Call Mr. Ball, please.”

The musical director appears.

“The basses are too loud; they spoil the closing movement, which is too quick altogether. Come into the stalls and hear it.”

“Howson!” says Ball, “please give them the time.”

Ball goes into the stalls. The movement is repeated and repeated again, the last time entirely to Irving’s satisfaction.

In these passing notes I merely desire to give the reader a hint at the kind of work which was done at rehearsal on the Monday of the production of “Much Ado.” It lasted until a quarter-past five. Irving was there until the end. Out of sight of the audience he had done enough work to entitle him to a night’s rest; but, so far as the critics and the public were concerned, his labors were only just beginning. Shortly after seven he was on the stage again, and when the play began he was never more heartily engaged in his rôle as actor.

“Yes, I am rather tired,” he said, in his quiet way, when I spoke to him at the wing; “feel inclined to sit down,—hard work, standing about all day,—but this is the reward.”

He pointed to the setting of the garden scene, which was progressing quite smoothly.

“If we pull through with the cathedral set all right, one will not mind being a little tired.”

I waited to see the work done, and, though I am familiar with the business behind the scenes, I was glad to escape from the “rush and tumble” of it on this occasion. At the Lyceum every man knows the piece, or flat, for the position of which he is responsible. He goes about his work silently, and in list slippers; he fetches and carries without hurry; nothing seems more simple; you see the scene grow into completeness, silently but surely. At the Star, on this first night, it was, to all appearance, chaos. Wings were slid about; curtains unrolled; tapestries hauled up by unseen strings; great pillars were pushed here and there; images of saints were launched into space from the flies, to be checked by ropes, just as you might think they were coming to grief; a massive altar-piece was being railed in, while a painted canopy was hoisted over it; a company of musicians were led out of the way of falling scenes to join a chorus party of ladies and gentlemen, who were gradually losing themselves among a picturesque crowd of halberdiers. Everybody seemed to be in everybody’s way; it looked like a general scramble. Irving, with “Less noise, my boys—less noise!” continually on his lips, moved about among the throng; and as Ball, who had made a third and last effort to find a prominent position from which to conduct his band, stepped upon a bench, which was instantly drawn from under him by the stage hands who had it in charge, I went to the front of the house. Ball’s musicians struck up their impressive strains of the “Gloria,” and the curtain slowly rose upon the cathedral at Messina, as if it had been there all the time, only waiting the prompter’s signal. Pandemonium behind the curtain had given place to Paradise in front. It was a triumph of willing hands under intelligent and earnest direction.

II.

NEXT day, when the success of the night had been duly chronicled in the press,[63] I suggested to Irving that we should place on record some account of the manner in which the Lyceum scenery, dresses, and properties had been dealt with on the tour; to what extent the equipment with which he had set out had been used; and, as a concluding chapter, that we should tell the story of the production of “Much Ado” in New York. After a consultation with Loveday, and the verification of some necessary statistics, Irving exhausted the subject in a very pleasant and instructive chat, the points of which are not too technical to mislead the general reader, while they are sufficiently technical to be of special interest to actors and managers.

“After the Philadelphia engagement,” said Irving, “I discussed the question of scenery with Loveday, and we found that it was impossible to carry or to use many of our largest set-pieces. Even if we could have carried them conveniently we would not have got them into many of the theatres. Loveday, therefore, packed a mass of it up and sent it back to New York. What we had left was enormous in its bulk, filling two 62-feet cars, and one huge gondola-car, which was made to carry all the flat scenery. We took on with us, however, all the cloths for our entire _repertoire_, and many of the small practical set-pieces. We carried every property of the entire _repertoire_,—the bedstead of ‘The Belle’s Stratagem,’ the altar of ‘Much Ado,’ the horse of ‘The Bells,’ down to Cattermole’s picture of Letitia Hardy, some Chippendale furniture of the period, and other minor things, that are characteristic or useful decoration in the furnishing of interiors and exteriors. All our dresses were included,—principals and supers. Loveday tells me they filled one hundred and twenty great baskets, the properties being packed in thirty baskets, making a total of one hundred and fifty.

“We took everything to Boston and Philadelphia. It was at the latter city that, as I say, we decided to modify our arrangements. We sent back to New York twenty-seven cloths, eighty flats, sixty wings, ninety set pieces, and twelve framed cloths; so that we had to adapt our requirements to the local situation.

“As regards such of our scenery as is painted in tone, you know that one of the most remarkable we have is the frescoed interior of the hall of justice in ‘The Merchant of Venice,’—a complete reproduction of the period. I had the portraits of the Doges painted by White and Cattermole. I think it is one of the most superb pictures ever seen upon the stage. I understand that some people thought it worn, mistaking the tone for dirt. Here and there, I think we found the tapestries, which we used instead of the frescoes, more acceptable.

“Some of the scenes in ‘Hamlet,’ ‘The Bells,’ and ‘Much Ado,’ we had specially reproduced ahead of us. Indeed, the companies following us will find portions of the cathedral of Messina around the walls of many an American theatre; and in every house where we have played, travelling stage-managers, asking for a cottage scene, will find a reminiscence of ‘The Lyons Mail’ in the inn at Lieursaint. We have left one in each town. As they are fac-similes, they will, I should think, bewilder some of the agents in advance.

“As to our full Lyceum scenery, and what may be called the administration of it, we achieved our greatest triumph this week, presenting ‘Much Ado’ as nearly like the Lyceum production as the space at our disposal would permit. Our stage at home, including the scene dock, which we always use, is seventy feet long, measuring from the foot-lights; the Star-stage is fifty feet. We took possession of the theatre on Sunday morning, March 30, the stage having been occupied until Saturday night. A small army of men, besides our own, aided by the heads of departments in Mr. Wallack’s employment, began work, under Loveday’s direction, at seven o’clock A.M., and by four o’clock on Monday morning every scene had been set, lighted, and rehearsed three times over. At four they adjourned, and came on again to meet me at a quarter to eleven, when we had a full rehearsal of scenery, properties, lighting, and of the entire company. I was impressed and delighted with the earnestness of everybody employed in the work, Wallack’s people showing as great a desire as our own to do their best to achieve the success we were all striving for. This is very gratifying; and it has been our experience, wherever we have reappeared, that the employés have thoroughly entered into our work, and shown something like pride in being associated with us. Our experience was not as pleasant at first. Here and there they thought our labors affected, and considered that we gave them unnecessary trouble. In one or two instances they put great and serious difficulties in our way. When, however, they saw the results of our labors they became more amenable to orders; and when we returned to Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, and now to New York, there was no trouble too great for them to undertake for us. I thank all these good fellows heartily.”

III.

“BUT to return to ‘Much Ado,’” I said; “let us go a little into detail as to the number of scenes, cloths, flats, properties, and changes there are in the work. To have got through the piece, without a hitch, within three hours on the first night, is a very remarkable performance.”

“Well, then, there are five acts in the play, thirteen scenes. Every scene is a set, except two, and they are front cloths; there is not a carpenter’s scene proper in the entire representation. To begin with, there is the opening scene,—the bay, with Leonatas’ palace, built out twenty-four feet high,—a solid-looking piece, that has all the appearance of real masonry. I am giving you these details now from a cold, practical stage-manager’s point of view,—fact without color. Well, this scene—the outside of Leonatas’ house—has to be closed in, in two minutes and a half, discovering the inside,—the ball-room, which extends right round the walls of the theatre. This finishes the first act.

“Now, the second act was rung up in eight minutes, showing Craven’s beautiful garden scene,—terraces, glades, and arbors,—in which set the business of the entire act occurs.

“The next act opens in front of Craven’s cloth,—the terrace, which changes to the morning view of the garden, which, in its turn, is covered with the cedar cloth; thus accounting for three scenes. After the last one, in two minutes the change was made to the effective representation of the town at night; the riverside street; the quay with its boats moored; the houses on the other side of the river illuminated, Leonatas’ palace among them. This closes the second act.

“Our great anxiety, as you know, centred in the cathedral set. We calculated that a wait of eighteen to twenty minutes would be required to send the curtain up on that, no doubt, very remarkable scene. It was rung up in fifteen minutes, displaying Telbin’s masterpiece,—the cathedral at Messina, with its real, built-out, round pillars, thirty feet high; its canopied roof of crimson plush, from which hung the golden lamps universally used in Italian cathedrals; its painted canopy overhanging the altar; its great iron-work gates (fac-similes of the originals); its altar, with vases of flowers and flaming candles, rising to a height of eighteen feet; its stained-glass windows and statues of saints; its carved stalls, and all the other details that are now almost as well known in New York as in London. What a fine, impressive effect is the entrance of the vergers!”

“Yes, you were telling me once, when we were interrupted, how you came to introduce this body of men into the scene; it might be worth while to mention the incident along with these practical details of the working of the piece.”

“It came about in this wise. I went into Quaritch’s bookstore one day, and among other curious books I picked up an old, black-letter volume. It was a work on ‘Ceremonies,’ with four large illustrations. I went into the shop to spend four or five pounds; I spent eighty-four or five, and carried off the black-letter book on ‘Ceremonies,’—all Italian. I was at the time preparing ‘Much Ado’ for the Lyceum. In the picture of a wedding ceremony I saw what struck me at once as a wonderful effect, and of the period too,—the Shakespeare period. The effect was a mass of vergers, or javelin men,—officers of the church, I should imagine. They were dressed in long robes, and each carried a halberd. I pressed these men at once into the service of Shakespeare and his cathedral scene at Messina, and got that impressive effect of their entrance and the background of sombre color they formed for the dresses of the bridal party. And it is right too,—that’s the best of it. Not long ago I was at Seville, and saw a church ceremony there, where the various parties came on in something like the fashion of our people on the stage; but we never did anything so fine in that way as the entrances of the visitors at the Capulets in ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ Do you remember the different companies of maskers, with their separate retainers and torch-bearers? But I see you are about to suggest that we get back to the stage of the Star Theatre; and so we will.

“The last act of ‘Much Ado’ was rung up in seven minutes, disclosing the scene where Dogberry holds his court; this is withdrawn upon the garden scene. Then we come to the tomb of Hero, never before presented, except by us, I believe, since Shakespeare’s own time. This scene, with its processions of monks, vergers, and mourners, and the few lines that are spoken, gives us four minutes to make a remarkable change, back to the ball-room in Leonatas’ house, where the story is concluded. As you say, to have moved all this scenery, and represented the piece with its many characters, smoothly and without a blemish, in the various pictures,—and when you think what trifling mistakes will upset the effect of the finest scenes,—to have done all this within three hours is a great achievement. The theatre was handed over to us on Sunday morning; on Monday night at a quarter-past eight the curtain rose on ‘Much Ado,’ mounted and set with our Lyceum effects,—scenery, properties, company,—and fell at twelve minutes past eleven.”

* * * * *

“And the longest journey comes to an end,” said Irving.

FINIS.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] John Henry Brodripp Irving was born at Keinton, near Glastonbury (the scene of the tradition of the sacred thorn), February 6, 1838. In 1849 his father sent him to the private school of Dr. Pinches, in George Yard, Lombard street, London. During his school days he evinced a taste for dramatic poetry. He was placed in the office of an East India house, and might, had he liked his occupation, have become a prosperous merchant; but his ambition gravitated towards the stage. He made personal sacrifices in many ways to educate himself in the direction of his taste for dramatic work. He read plays, studied the theatre and dramatic literature, became an expert fencer, practised elocution with a famous actor, and in 1855 left London and obtained an engagement in a provincial theatre. An earnest student always, he fought his way through a world of troubles, and made his first success at the St. James Theatre, London, October 6, 1866, as Doricourt in “The Belle’s Stratagem.” He afterwards played in eccentric comedy with Toole; made a hit in melodrama at the now defunct Queen’s Theatre; then went to Paris with Sothern, and played Abel Murcot in “Our American Cousin.” Returning to London, he filled important engagements at the Gaiety and Vaudeville Theatres. His appearance at the Lyceum Theatre, London, followed. Here, after his friend, Manager Bateman, had staked and lost everything on “Fanchette,” Mr. Irving advised the production of “The Bells,” which restored the fortunes of the house, and was the beginning of a series of artistic and financial successes, both for the management and the leading actor. On the death of Mr. Bateman, and the withdrawal of his widow from the lesseeship of the theatre, Mr. Irving entered upon management. One day I hope to tell the story of his life and adventures. Placidly as the river of his fortunes may seem to have flowed since he became lessee of the Lyceum, in October, 1878, the incidents of his early struggles are not more interesting than his managerial battles and victories in these latter days of London. Pending a more complete biography, the sketch entitled “Henry Irving,” by Austin Brereton, may be consulted with advantage; its data are well founded, and its figures are correct.

[2] The following cablegram appeared in the “Herald,” on October the 18th, and it was alluded to in the editorial columns as “a hint” which “will not be lost upon the theatrical critics”:—

“LONDON, Oct. 17, 1883.

“The ‘Standard,’ in an editorial this morning, thus appeals to America for a dispassionate judgment of Henry Irving:—

“American audiences have a favorable opportunity of showing that they can think for themselves, and do not slavishly echo the criticisms of the English press. We confess that, though one has read many eulogistic notices of Mr. Irving and listened in private to opinions of different complexions, it is difficult to find anything written respecting him that deserves to be dignified with the description of serious criticisms. Cannot New York, Boston, and Chicago supply us with a little of this material? Are we indulging vain imaginings if we hope that our cousins across the water will forget all that has been said or written about Irving and the Lyceum company this side of the ocean, and will go to see him in his chief performances with unprejudiced eyes and ears, and send us, at any rate, a true, independent, inconventional account of his gifts and graces, or the reverse?

“Most Englishmen naturally will be gratified if the people of the United States find Irving as tragic, and Miss Terry as charming, as so many people in this country consider them. But the gratification will be increased should it be made apparent that a similar conclusion has been arrived at by the exercise of independent judgment, and if in pronouncing it fresh light is thrown upon the disputed points of theatrical controversy.”

[3] The “Tribune’s” reporter drew Miss Terry’s picture with studied elaboration:—

“As she stepped with a pretty little shudder over the swaying plank upon the yacht she showed herself possessed of a marked individuality. Her dress consisted of a dark greenish-brown cloth wrap, lined inside with a peculiar shade of red; the inner dress, girt at the waist with a red, loosely folded sash, seemed a reminiscence of some eighteenth-century portrait, while the delicate complexion caught a rosy reflection from the loose flame-colored red scarf tied in a bow at the neck. The face itself is a peculiar one. Though not by ordinary canons beautiful, it is nevertheless one to be remembered, and seems to have been modelled on that of some pre-Raphaelitish saint,—an effect heightened by the aureole of soft golden hair escaping from under the plain brown straw and brown velvet hat.”

[4] These simple facts prove that, aside from his acting, with which it is not our duty to deal at present, Mr. Irving is one of the most remarkable men of this or any other age. But he is unquestionably right when he asserts that he owes his success to his acting alone. It has been said that the splendid manner in which he puts his plays upon the stage is the secret of his popularity; but he first became popular in plays which were not splendidly mounted, and his greatest financial and artistic successes have been made in pieces upon which he expended no unusual decorations. It has been said that Manager Bateman made Irving; but, as we shall presently prove, Irving made Manager Bateman in London, and has been doubly successful since Manager Bateman’s death. It has been said that his leading lady, Ellen Terry, is the Mascot of Irving’s career; but his fame was established before Miss Terry joined his company, and he has won his proudest laurels in the plays in which Miss Terry has not appeared. It has been said that the financial backing of the Baroness Burdett-Coutts gave Irving his opportunity; but he had been overcrowding the London Lyceum for years before he made the acquaintance of the Baroness. No; the unprecedented and unrivalled success of Mr. Irving has been made by himself alone. He became popular as an actor in a stock company; his popularity transformed him into a star and a manager; and, as a star and a manager, he has widened, deepened, and improved his popularity. He has won his position fairly, by his own talents and exertions, against overwhelming odds, and he has nobody to thank for it but himself, in spite of the theories which we have exploded.—_Spirit of the Times, New York, Oct. 27, 1883._