Chapter XXVII: Some First Experiences 348 (4)

Lackaye is also the man who gravely suggested to a patriotic Scotchman that the reason the bagpipes were put in the rear of a regiment in battle was that the men would be so anxious to get away from the music that they would run toward the enemy.

One of the greatest nuisances of the entertainment business, the theatre and all other “shows,” is the persistent “deadhead.” Every good fellow in the profession likes so much to have his friends see his performance that he provides free tickets to the extent of his ability, often paying cash for them. But people who are not friends—some who are not even acquaintances, are the most determined deadheads; to have heard about their deceased mother-in-law is reason enough—to them, for a demand for a free ticket. Yet a man on the stage or platform is sometimes startled by seeing close personal friends in the line, cash in hand, at the box-office, and is reminded of the story Senator Jones of Nevada tells about crossing a river out west. He reached the ferry but no boat was there. He saw a man across the stream chopping wood, so he shouted, “Hello, there! Where’s the boat?”

“No boat, wade across,” was the man’s answer, “and I will direct you. Walk ten feet to the right,—five feet to the left. Look out—there’s a d⸺ big hole there! Now three feet to the right.” Arriving on the other side of the stream, the senator asked, “What shall I pay you?”

“Wa-all,” said the man, “there’s been a dozen men across this ferry, and you are the first that ever offered to pay anything, so I guess I’ll let you dead-head it.”

Occasionally the unexpected is delightful in the extreme.

Before Charles Frohman became the busiest man and Napoleon of the dramatic stage, he used to affiliate frequently with the Lambs’ Club, of which he was a member. One day the Lambs gave what they call their “washing,” otherwise their summer treat or picnic, at an island in the sound owned by Lester Wallack. At high tide boats could land passengers on the island, and in the morning the Lambs were safely landed. But at night the steamer which brought us was anchored out about a half mile from the shore. When the entertainment was at an end, the members had to be rowed in small boats to the steamer. The oarsman of the boat I was in was a large, corpulent chap. The passengers consisted of Charles Frohman, also a heavy weight, George Fawcett and myself, making three men and a half. This weighed the boat down to almost within an inch of the water, and coupled with the fact that neither Mr. Frohman, Mr. Fawcett nor myself could swim, I fully expected it would be our last sail, but we reached the steamer in safety. One little false move on the part of either of us would have caused the head of the Dramatic Syndicate, an excellent actor and “Merrily Yours” to be busy—for a moment or two, in “Davy Jones’s Locker.”

Augustus Pitou tells a suggestive story of the unexpected. Late at night he asked for a barber at a hotel. It was “after hours,” but after much delay one appeared and asked as a favor of Mr. Pitou if he would kindly lie on the lounge and let him shave him in a horizontal position. Mr. Pitou consented. The touch was so gentle he fell asleep. When he awoke and felt of his chin he said:

“That’s the gentlest shave I have ever had.”

“Well, sir, you are the first live man I have ever shaved.”

The man was an undertaker’s barber!

Nat Goodwin tells how Billy Mannering, a brilliant old time negro comedian, sprang the unexpected on a hotel proprietor. The company was having hard luck on one night stands. Country hotels were as bad in those days as now—even worse. The boys were eating breakfast one morning when Bill came down late and said:

“Boys, how is it? About the same as all the rest of the hotels?”

“Yes, Billy.”

In came the proprietor and said: “Good-morning, gentlemen.”

Billy asked: “Who are you?”

“I’m the proprietor, sir.”

“So you’re the proprietor! Do you know you are a brave man? If I were you, I would live out in the woods, and not come near the hotel. I would be afraid to face my boarders.”

“How’s that? Are not the beds all right?”

“Yes, but we can’t eat our beds. Still, you have two things here that can’t be improved on.”

“What are they?” asked the proprietor, filling out his chest.

“Why, your pepper and salt.”

I played the unexpected on several people aboard a certain ocean steamship, on which my friend Perugini was a passenger. Several of the ladies on board became enamored of “Handsome Jack,” and were very anxious to be introduced to him. They made me their confidant, but Perry was not much of a “masher” and did not care to meet them. At this time, he had an affliction of which I am glad to say he has been cured; he was deaf. One morning I rapped on his stateroom door, and getting no response, I concluded I would run the risk and go in. There he lay, sound asleep. His valet had preceded me, and everything looked as neat and cozy as could be. Perry did not hear me, no matter what noise I made. I went on deck, found four of the young ladies and said:

“Now’s your chance to meet Perugini; just follow me.” They accompanied me and all four looked in at the door, but were afraid to go in.

“Oh, don’t he look lovely,” said one.

“Isn’t he charming—I could just hug him!” said another. I went in; as he did not hear me they took courage and one by one they stole in and got near to Perugini. I slipped toward the door and quickly closed it. The girls were too frightened even to cry out. Then I took hold of Jack and gave him a shake that awakened him. Poor Jack! He was more frightened than the four girls put together. All I got out of him when he and I got on deck was,

“Oh, Marsh! How could you?”

Kyrle Bellew was a passenger on the same steamer. My acquaintance with Mr. Bellew is a most pleasant one, so I know he will forgive me if I detail this little joke, which, like all my jokes, was played in good nature.

On the ship he wore a yachting cap and a full yachting costume, including a big cord around his neck, to which was attached a telescope. In the evening he would walk up to the side of the steamer, pull out this glass full-length, gaze out on the ocean at some distant ship, close it and again walk down the deck, posing in an effective manner, seemingly unconscious of the amusement he afforded the other passengers. In a burlesque spirit I arranged, as best I could, an imitation of him. I got a seaman’s trousers, blouse and hat, and extemporized a sort of wig as like to my friend’s as possible; to a piece of rope about my neck I attached a Belfast beer bottle. At a safe distance I walked up and down the deck and gave the passengers the benefit of my burlesque. I don’t believe Bellew ever saw me. If he had, I fear it would have been my finish; still, I think he would have enjoyed the practical joke afterward.

Even a book-canvasser can be floored by the unexpected. James Whitcomb Riley tells of an insinuating member of this profession who rang the bell of a handsome residence and when a specially aggressive looking servant opened the door he asked politely:

“Is the lady in?”

“What do ye mane?” the girl asked. “I’d have ye know we’re all ladies in this house!”

In another part of this book I have referred to entertainments I gave at an insane asylum—a place where the unexpected should be the rule, to the performer. But at the Bloomingdale Asylum I once saw it work the other way, and to an extent that was pathetic all round. Among the inmates were Scanlon and Kernell—two men who had thousands of times delighted great audiences with song and joke. I knew of their presence but how they would look or feel I had no means of imagining.

One of my assistants for the occasion was Miss Cynthia Rogers of Toledo, Ohio. The programme was not printed, nor arranged in detail, so we were in ignorance as to what songs had been selected. Miss Rogers “went on” dressed as an Irish lad, beginning in a copy of Scanlon’s familiar make-up, the most popular song of his own composition, “Mollie O.”

Everybody looked at Scanlon. His face was suddenly aglow with interest. His lips followed, word by word, the course of the melody. He raised one hand and motioned as if he were directing the music. At the close of the first verse, when the building shook with applause, he smiled happily. He was living his triumphs over at that minute, oblivious to his surroundings. He was impatient for the next verse; he followed the words intently; his face was flushed, the old inspiration showed in his eyes, and when the applause broke forth again he laughed and bowed his head.

“Did you see that man?” Miss Rogers asked me a second later. “Did you ever see such an expression? Who is he—that young man yonder, with his head bowed?”

“Why, I thought you must have known,” I replied. “That’s Scanlon.”

“Scanlon the actor?”

“Yes. The author of your song.”

Miss Rogers was tearfully uncertain, as she went on to respond to an encore, whether she had done right or wrong. She sang “In It” and the “Latch Key in the Door.” Then Scanlon was brought back to us and Miss Rogers was introduced to him.

“I want to thank you,” he said simply. “I felt as I used to, you know. Some day I will sing it again. You are very pretty and you sing well.”

If there was one man in the audience blind to the pathos of the scene which had just occurred it was Harry Kernell, the comedian. He had looked on quietly, his face impassive, his hands clasped loosely over one knee. He smiled when Scanlon came back to the seat just in front of him; then his face became fixed and vacant as before.

Kernell raised his face again as his wife who had been sitting beside him, left her seat. He seemed to have forgotten her, and to be hearing nothing and seeing nothing, when I announced the next number on the programme.

“We have a pleasant surprise for you,” I said, smiling in anticipation. “Mrs. Kernell is here; she came up to see her husband, my old friend, and we wouldn’t let her refuse to sing for you.”

But Kernell did not look up until his wife, Queenie Vassar, began singing. The little woman watched him tenderly. The poor fellow understood. After that, no lover could have been more appreciative than he was. It was the one voice in all the world that could move him. Scanlon turned and whispered to him, but Kernell’s soul was in the song. Quickly he looked ten years younger than he does ordinarily. He seemed grateful for the applause, and eager for another song, and another, so Mrs. Kernell sang “Peggy Cline,” “Sligo” and “The Bowery.”

After that Kernell sat still and gloomy. The spell was broken that had made him young. The deep lines came back on his face, his shoulders stooped and he was an old man again, listless and helpless. One could hardly imagine him the man that scattered sunshine so royally, laughing his way to fame, building his triumphs on the happiness he gave to others.

Miss Claude Rogers played a mandolin solo of her own composing with “Il Trovatore” for an encore. Later she played again, and was encored repeatedly. As for me, I had as difficult an audience as ever confronted a humorist, or any other sort of speaker, but the success was complete and the fun was contagious. It was curious to see how an audience, of so many different states of mind, could be affected by humor and music. I have had far less appreciative audiences among sane people, and have been at my wits’ end to rouse them. Here is a story that tells how Digby Bell once roused a cold audience without giving offense; it proved the biggest hit of his act. He recently had to deal with a particularly frigid audience, and the best of his jokes met with but indifferent success. There happened to be a little flag fastened on one side of the stage, and the humorist, after delivering his last joke ineffectually, ran over, gravely pulled the banner down to half-mast and made his exit. The audience appreciated the sarcastic proceeding, and applauded him till he was obliged to give them a little additional entertainment, and this time he had no need to complain of their appreciation.

XII

SUNSHINE IN SHADY PLACES

On Blackwell’s Island.—Snakes and Snake Charmers.—Insane People
as Audiences.—A Poorhouse That was a Large House.—I am Well
Known by Another Profession.—Criminals are not Fools.—Some
Pathetic Experiences.—The Largest Fee I Ever Received.

For many years the late Cornelius Vanderbilt paid me a regular salary to visit a lot of charitable institutions,—the Almshouse, the Penitentiary, the Newsboys’ Lodging House and a number of other places, where laughter was not part of the regular daily exercises and was therefore valued most highly. One of the places frequently visited was the Insane Asylum on Blackwell’s Island, and I was often invited to lunch with the Superintendent. A harmless patient, who was employed as waiter, was at times quite amusing through her faculty for seeing people where none existed. She would often stop and argue indignantly with some one whom she imagined was in her way, and to see how with a tray of dishes in her hands she scolded the empty air, was first very funny and afterward creepingly uncanny. Once she imagined that one of these annoying people had climbed upon the table, and she attacked him so savagely with a broom that we had to have a new set of dishes and goblets.

One night a severe storm compelled me to remain at the Asylum. My friend the house-surgeon gave me a comfortable room, near the wing where the more violent patients were confined. In the middle of the night, one of these began to rave and scream; his appeals for help were pitiful. I put my head out of my door and asked an attendant what was the matter.

“He’s seeing snakes,” was the reply, “but he’ll be all right in a few minutes.” Just then the man informed the neighborhood of a new misfortune, by shouting,

“For God’s sake come to me quick. There’s a woman in my room!” Again he became quiet and the attendant said,

“It’s all right now.”

“Yes,” I replied: “she must have been a snake charmer.”

I always found insane audiences very appreciative. Probably the majority of them were “out of their head” on one subject only. Certainly their enjoyment of song and pantomime was very keen, and their interest in my exhibitions of ventriloquism was quite pathetic. Whenever I threw my voice in a certain direction, some of them would look under chairs and tables, in search of the supposed person who was talking. The poor creatures took such hold of my sympathies that I exerted myself to amuse them optically, for the eye is the surest route to the wits. I would, while on the platform, make quickly different articles of colored paper and give them to the patients, whose pleasure was as childlike as it was sincere.

On one of my visits I was startled by coming face to face with a notice which read “Almshouse wagon reserved for Marshall P. Wilder and party from 12 to 4.” On inquiry I learned that this wagon was a Pooh Bah among vehicles, serving by turns as patrol wagon, ambulance and hearse, so it took some jollying of myself to ward off gruesome imaginings and keep my risibilities in working order.

At one of the Almshouse entertainments at which the room was packed, I said, “This is the first time I ever knew a poor house to be such a large house,” and the audience “caught on” as quick as a flash.

The only painful experience of my years as an entertainer among the public institutions was at the Home for Consumptives, at Fordham. The patients were cheerful and spirited, as consumptives always are, and they seemed to enjoy my jokes mightily, but laughter usually brought on violent fits of coughing, so I would have to wait from five to ten minutes after a joke, before I dared venture another.

I always recall with pleasure a visit to Elmira, where I had the brightest and most responsive audience of my whole career. It was at the State Reformatory, and there were three or four thousand prisoners in the audience. Mr. Brockway, the Superintendent, said he would like me to talk about ten minutes, and asked kindly if that would be too long to talk continuously. Before I appeared he said to the boys,

“We have with us this evening Mr. Marshall P. Wilder. How many of you know him?”

Fully three-quarters of that great assemblage raised their hands. It was quite flattering to be so well known in a “profession” as cautious and exclusive as theirs. I found my audience so quick, appreciative and responsive that instead of restricting myself to ten minutes, I learned afterward that I had talked an hour and thirty-five minutes!

It may be argued by some skeptics that these boys and young men, being prisoners, were grateful for any entertainment that would break the monotony of their daily routine, but I prefer to believe their appreciation was due entirely to their native cleverness. It takes brains to place and accomplish anything, whether legal or illegal, and prisoners of the class that is sent to the Reformatory have proved their ability to think, or they would not be there. There are thousands of clever men who are good, and of good men who are stupid, but among criminals the rule is not reversible, for I have yet to see a criminal who is a fool.

I met many interesting and pathetic personalities while engaged in the institutions. One old man in the Home for Incurables was so badly paralyzed, that he could move only his hands, and these but a few inches. He would lie all day on his back, with his hands on his chest, holding a little switch broken from a peach-tree, with which he would gently scratch his face and head. This was his only occupation and pleasure; it was also the limit of his ability to move. Yet this pitiable old man was always smiling and happy; he would have repelled the idea that he was unfortunate, for he was constantly recounting his blessings and comforts—his bed, his food, his kindly attention, and not the least of all, his little peach-twig.

Another interesting case in the same Home was a feeble minded boy—almost an imbecile. His physical development was perfect; he was healthy and very strong, yet his vacant eyes, dropped jaw and frontal expression of head indicated plainly a sad lack of wits. He was gentle and tractable and devoted to the matron, who by demonstration had taught him how to be useful in many ways. His strength was utilized in moving helpless patients from bed to chairs, or vice versa, and he had been taught to change the beds and do other work in the men’s ward as neatly as a woman.

But his chief duty, and one at which he excelled, was to act as baker for the institution. The matron had taught him, and he had followed her method so faithfully that every day he dropped a little flour on the floor and then wiped it up; the matron had chanced to this “aside” in the first lesson, so it was impossible to convince the boy that this was not a necessary detail of bread-making. His bread was delicious too; he made thirty-six loaves every day in a triple oven holding three pans of twelve loaves each, and never had a failure. Being exact in every way, his success was always assured.

One old woman, who might have been admitted to this admirable home, refused to enter it; she said she preferred the Almshouse. She had been wealthy in her youth but, through unbridled extravagance, had been reduced to poverty so dire, that for years she had eked out a miserable existence by selling newspapers. When she became too ill and feeble to do even this, it was suggested that she should enter the Home for Incurables, but she refused, saying that she would go to no private institution, but to the poorhouse, which, when she was rich, she had helped to maintain. A charitable gentleman who would have helped her, and to whom she expressed her desire, assured her that she should have her choice in the matter, foolish though it was. She asked him if instead of being conveyed in the almshouse wagon, she might be moved in some other way; her would-be benefactor assured her she should go in his own carriage, and he himself would be her escort. He invited me to accompany them, I having already met the old woman and been interested in her. At the appointed time we called for her and as she stepped into the carriage she was visibly elated by the thought of once more going through the streets in a manner like that of her wealthy days. She had dressed for the occasion in style truly wonderful. Her bonnet, though of startling construction, commanded attention by its antiquity; a rag of a camel’s hair shawl was pinned tightly across her narrow chest; a black silk reticule hung from one thin arm, which was encased in a long suede glove, boasting the special advantage of leaving her fingers free while her other hand was covered with a lace mitt of antique fashion.

During the drive she sat stiffly erect, gazed with scorn at people who were merely walking, and occasionally dropped a stiff, formal speech, after the manner of polite conversation in her youthful days. When we had almost reached our destination, she said to my friend her escort:

“For your extreme kindness to me, I should like to bestow upon you a slight remembrance, something saved from the beautiful things I once owned.” She put her hand into her reticule and we expected to see a trinket such as women prize, but she pulled out a pistol and apparently leveled it at my friend. We gasped, instantly convinced that she had lost the tiny bit of sanity that was left to her, but in a second we saw that she was presenting it to, not at, him. It was a pretty toy with a pearl handle and inlaid with silver, but, like herself, rusty and dilapidated. It was her last bit of elegance and all the poor creature had to offer in token of her gratitude.

A touching feature of this Home was the manner of furnishing the rooms for the pay patients. When the wing for this class of inmates was built it was believed that a long time would elapse before there would be money enough in the treasury to furnish the rooms. A kind hearted woman who visited the house weekly with donations of snuff, tobacco and candy conceived a clever plan. She had just lost her mother, in whose name she presented the entire furnishings of her mother’s room to the Home. Word of this got abroad; other people followed her example and in a short time the entire wing was furnished in similar manner; so now the visitor to the home sees a wing of four stories, the halls lined with doors on each of which is a brass plate engraved with the name of the person who furnished the room in memory of parent, brother, sister or child.

This is an appropriate place in my story to tell of the largest fee I ever received for entertaining, for although the giver was not heartily interested in a public institution, he was _en route_ for one.

I was traveling in the West and looking about the railway car for a friend, an acquaintance or even some one with whom I might scrape acquaintance, for I don’t enjoy being alone a long time, when I saw, in one end of the car, an officer with a prisoner. It did not take long to see that the prisoner was handcuffed, his feet were shackled to the bottom of the seat, and behind him were two guards with revolvers in hand. Evidently the prisoner was of some consequence, although he looked like a mere boy. He sat with bowed head and a hopeless look on his white face. His eyes, which in so young a man ought to have been bright and merry, were downcast and full of gloom.

I ventured over to the party and soon recognized one of the guards, as a man I had seen in a similar capacity at the Elmira Reformatory. In reply to my questions about the prisoner, he told me that the youth had been brought on extradition proceedings from England, after evading capture a long time. His crime had been peculiarly atrocious and he was now being taken to Kansas City for trial.

I was sorry for the officer and guards, as well as for the prisoner, for there can’t be much that’s cheery in hunting down and manacling a fellow man, no matter how bad he may be. Besides, they looked about as uncomfortable as the prisoner, so I got off a joke or two to brace them up. Soon the prisoner raised his head and manifested a trace of interest. Then I asked if I might try some card tricks on them. Of course I might; it’s hard to find a man so troubled, that he won’t forget his misery a moment or two over a card trick.

All the men in the car were soon looking on, but I kept my eye and heart on the prisoner; no matter what he deserved, it was plain to see what he needed. The poor wretch became thoroughly aroused from his dejection, so I sandwiched tricks and stories and saw him “pick up” a little more after each one. I “played at him,” and him alone, as actors sometimes do at one man in a theatre audience. It was a big contract, and I was a small man, but I was bound to see it through. It took two hours of hard work, but at the end of that time the prisoner was an entirely different man in appearance. His eyes were bright, the color had come back to his cheeks, his whole manner had changed; he had forgotten his past and for the moment he was a man again. When we were near Kansas City, he asked me if I wouldn’t shake hands with him, and he said that I could never know what my kindness in the past two hours had been to him. The look he gave me, as I clasped his manacled hand, was the biggest pay I ever got in my life.

XIII

“BUFFALO BILL”

He Works Hard but Jokes Harder.—He and I Stir up a Section
of Paris.—In Peril of a Mob.—My Indian Friends in the Wild
West Company.—Bartholdi and Cody.—English Bewilderment
Over the “Wild West” People.—Major “Jack” Burke.—Cody as a
Stage-driver.—Some of His Western Stories.—When He Had the
Laugh on Me.

My acquaintance with Col. William F. Cody—“Buffalo Bill”—dates back to a time when I was a boy at Hartford and he was an actor in Ned Buntline’s play “The Prairie Waif.” His life had been strenuous in the extreme ever since he was thirteen years of age, but neither hardship nor danger had ever suppressed his inherent merriment and his longing to get a joke out of something or on somebody.

Our acquaintance was renewed at Rochester, where I had for schoolmate his only son, Kit Carson Cody, named for a famous scout of fifty years ago. The death of this boy was a great and lasting grief to his father, and his memory became more and more a link to bind the Colonel and me together, so in time we formed a close and lasting friendship. Whenever we chanced to be in the same city we were together so much that we became nicknamed “The Corsican Brothers.”

When the “Wild West” Company first went to Paris I was one of Buffalo Bill’s guests for several weeks. The Paris shopkeepers and theatre managers had heard of the enormous success of the “Wild West” in England and some of them, who feared it might divert money which otherwise would find its way into their pockets, arranged for a powerful “clacque” on the opening day, not to applaud but to disturb the performance and discourage Cody, so that he would leave the city. They did not know their man, so they had only their expense for their pains. Besides, even a Paris mob, which is said to be the meanest in the world, would think twice before “demonstrating” much in the face of an arena full of Indians and crack shots. The performance went on with little or no annoyance, but after it ended a great crowd burst into the ring and almost caused a riot. Suddenly another French peculiarity was manifested; a single gendarme worked his way to the centre of the crowd and fired a bullet from his pistol; in an instant the multitude dispersed. The worst of the French people respect the majesty of the law—when it is backed by firearms.

I soon duplicated, as well as I could, the Colonel’s plains costume, which he always wore in the streets as an advertisement. I too appeared in buckskin trousers, fringed leggings, pistol belt and broad sombrero hat. I must have looked like an animated mushroom, but the Parisians were quick to note the resemblance and to dub me “le petit Buffalo Bill.” Cody himself generally called me his “stove-in-pard.”

One morning the Colonel went out to be shaved and asked me to accompany him. As both were dressed in wild west costume, to which the colonel had added a pair of pistols and a knife, a large crowd followed on and lingered about the shop we entered. A Parisian shopkeeper generally has his wife with him, to act as cashier and general manager, and the barber to whom we had gone had a chic and attractive wife, regarding whom Cody and I exchanged admiring remarks in English, at the risk of the barber understanding us and becoming disagreeable. Then Cody seated himself and asked the barber:

“Do you speak English?”

“Non, m’sieur,”—with apologetic eyebrows and shoulders. The colonel thrust his hands into his long brown curls and said:

“I want you to put a little oil on my hair and rub it in; compre?”

“Oui, oui, m’sieur.”

Then Bill asked: “Marsh, what is French for shave?”

My French was as limited as his, so I replied:

“‘Razoo,’ I guess.”

“And I want you to razoo my face, compre?”

“Oui, oui, m’sieur.”

The barber shaved his customer, but he had mistaken the sign language of Cody’s first order, for he raised a pair of shears to clip the Colonel’s long hair—one of his most treasured possessions and features; in fact, like Samson of Biblical fame, his hair was the secret of his strength. Just as the barber lifted a lock and posed the shears for the first snip Bill saw the situation in a mirror. With a cowboy yell that would have made a Comanche Indian green with envy he sprang from the chair to save his hair. The barber, who had been working with bated breath, appalled by the savage appearance of his customer, dropped his shears and his knees shook, as, with chattering teeth, he begged for mercy. The wife’s screams added to the confusion, the lingering crowd pressed in and was reinforced by a gendarme who began a rapid fire of questions in excited French. No explanations that were offered in either tongue were comprehended by the parties who spoke the other language and, as the barber seemed consumed with a desire to get rid of us, we hurried away in a cab, the barber’s wife following us with a torrent of imprecations—and she so pretty, too!

One day, while the show was at Paris, we saw a distinguished looking man pressing against the rope stretched around Colonel Cody’s tent. When he found opportunity he said, in excellent English:

“Pardon me, Colonel Cody, but I should like to speak to you. I have many friends in your great country—a country for which I have a sincere admiration.”

“I am very glad to see you,” the colonel replied wearily; he had heard this same speech so often. “May I ask your name?”

“My name is Bartholdi,” modestly replied the sculptor whose magnificent statue, “Liberty Enlightening the World,” has endeared him to Americans. From the moment he made himself known to Cody he “owned the show.”

Indians generally manifest extreme suspicion of white men, but while I was Colonel Cody’s guest I made friends of some of the chiefs and braves, especially Red Shirt and Flat Iron. The former, a famous scout and warrior, has been called “The Red Napoleon” for his knowledge of military tactics, his commanding dignity and reserve. He has a fine physique, and a noble head, while his bearing is absolutely regal. He has always been friendly to the whites, and was a valuable ally of Buffalo Bill in many raids against his unruly brethren.

I knew Red Shirt was fond of me, but no one else would have imagined it from his manner toward me, for your Indian friend does not slap you on the back or buttonhole you with a joke, after the manner of white men. Later I learned of the earnestness of his regard through a story told me by Bronco Bill, the Wild West Company’s interpreter. It seems that, after Red Shirt had left the company for a few months and returned to his reservation, he found an old illustrated paper in which was a portrait he thought was mine. He could not verify it, for he was unable to read. Although the winter had set in and snow was deep on the ground he rode twenty miles to the home of Bronco Bill to ask if the face was mine. Being assured that it really was a picture of his friend, he took it back home and fastened it to the wall of his cabin—an unusual proceeding, for an Indian regards it beneath his dignity to indicate emotion, even among his own people.

When the Wild West was last at Madison Square Garden, I again met Red Shirt and Flat Iron. The former was very glad to see me, so the interpreter told me, and I had reason to believe it, but no bystander would have imagined it from his reserved manner and impassive face. Flat Iron, who is an exception to almost all Indians in having a twinkling eye and vivacious manner, rapidly asked me many questions: was I stronger?—had I a squaw?—etc. The fact that I was unmarried had worried him so greatly in the earlier days of our friendship that he offered to select me a charming squaw from among his own grandchildren.

Flat Iron is a shrewd financier, with a money getting system peculiarly his own, which he had worked successfully on many whites. In New York, he sometimes walked alone, in a street full of people, muttering to himself and staring at the sky. When he saw that he had excited curiosity—and an Indian can see out of the back of his head as well as out of both sides of it, he would stop, place several nickels,—never pennies, on the sidewalk, and make solemn “passes” over them, as if doing an incantation act. Occasionally he would look aside, and indicate by signs that the observers should add to the number of nickels. These additions he would arrange in geometric figures, which always lacked some point or line. Bystanders would supply the deficiency, the coins would be rearranged, still with missing parts, and the mysterious passes would continue, accompanied by solemn gazes heavenward. This pantomime would continue until the crowd had parted with all its nickels; then suddenly the old man would pick up the entire collection, stow it in his pocket and stalk off as jauntily as a broker who has succeeded in unloading a lot of wild-cat stocks on a confiding public.

While the Wild West was at Manchester I had my hundredth laugh—perhaps it was my thousandth, at the density of intelligent Englishmen’s ignorance regarding American people and ways. Colonel Cody, his partner and business manager, “Nate Salsbury,” were standing together, when an Englishman approached and asked for Mr. Salsbury. Nate asked what he could do for him and the man replied:

“I’m the Greffic.”

“The wha-at?”

“The Greffic—the London Greffic. I make sketches, don’cher know?”

“Oh! The London _Graphic_? All right. Sail right in. You might begin with Cody.”

“And who is Cody?” the artist asked.

“Why, Cody is Buffalo Bill!”—Salsbury almost screamed, he was so amazed.

“And does he speak English?”

It may be admitted, in explanation, that some artists are as ignorant as idiots of anything but their own profession. But list to a tale of an American lady and an English clergyman who was an Oxford graduate and a great reader. He was also of charming manner and conversed brilliantly. The lady was the first American he had ever met, and he confessed to her that he was startled by her complexion, for he had supposed that all inhabitants of this country were copper-colored! When she spoke of driving near her own home the clergyman said:

“Er—may I ask if you drive the native animals?”

“‘The native animals?’” the mystified lady echoed.

“Yes;—the elk, and moose, and buffalo, you know.”

A notable “character” of the Wild West organization was Major Burke. He was so witty and genial that every one liked him at first sight. The Indians almost worshiped him and his authority over them was unquestioned. He had been made a member of one tribe by the “blood brotherhood” ceremony, but it had not needed this to make him regarded as “big medicine” by all the others. He had been associated with Buffalo Bill ever since “The Prairie Waif” days, and, though his nominal position with the Wild West was that of press-agent, he was an all-round and indispensable part of the management. His quick wits have served on many occasions to put an end to difficulties which less able men would have endured. For instance, on one occasion a number of women were standing on the front benches and obstructing the view of a hundred or more people behind them. Burke shouted,—though his voice was smooth and exquisitely modulated,—

“Will the beautiful young lady in front please sit down?” And twenty-eight women dropped as one.

Long before he went on the stage Colonel Cody had earned several desirable reputations in the West. One was as a stage-driver, in which capacity he was so much talked of that several Englishmen who went West insisted on riding in his coach. They made so much fuss about it, even in anticipation, that Bill resolved to give them a ride they would remember as long as they lived. His only special preparation was to fill his pockets with pebbles. The four mules started at a good pace, at which the passengers expressed delight. At the first down-grade, the driver pelted the mules furiously with the pebbles; their rough hides would have been insensible to the whip. Soon the pace became terrific, for the shower of pebbles continued; Cody looked back, saw the Englishmen huddled on the front seat, and shouted:

“Sit on the back seat!”

“It’s no use, old chap,” one of the frightened tourists replied. “We’ve just left there.”

When Cody is not acting or riding or fighting Indians or ranching or asleep he is likely to be telling stories, and he has so many that it is hard for him to tell any story twice, unless by special request. One that has been frequently called for is of an Eastern man who was employed by Colonel Cody out West. The man had not been out long enough to know the illusive tricks of the clear atmosphere of the plains and hills. A picturesque mountain, that seemed only a mile away, interested him so greatly that he started early one morning to visit it and return by breakfast time. He didn’t return for three days. A few days later the colonel saw him beside an irrigating ditch, and asked him what he was going to do, for the man was taking off his clothes.

“I’m goin’ to swim across this river,” was the reply.

“Swim? Why don’t you jump it? It’s only three feet wide.”

“Ye-es; I know it looks that way, but I ain’t goin’ to be fooled again.”

One evening, at the Hoffman House, he told this story to two or three friends with whom he was spending the evenings while he was General Sheridan’s chief of scouts. There was “a little affair” in camp at which every one present got drunk but Cody; he had determined to keep sober, and succeeded. Toward morning he went to the cottage where he lived, rapped on the window, and made himself known, and his wife, who refused to open the door, said:

“Go away, whoever you are. Colonel Cody isn’t home yet.” At this point of the story Cody laughed and continued:

“Boys, I’d gone home sober, and my wife didn’t know me! I went back to the camp, got as full as any one else, returned to my house, approached the door unsteadily, fumbled the latch, and my wife’s voice greeted me, saying:

“‘Is that you, Willie?’”

When this story ended, we started from the Hoffman House for the Lambs’ Club, which was then in Twenty-sixth Street. With Cody and me were Steele Mackaye and Judge Gildersleeve, both of whom were tall, strong men. As we neared the club we met a crowd of very tough-looking men, and stood aside to let them pass, which they did, to my great relief. Then my companions got the laugh on me, for I remarked with earnest confidence:

“I’d like to see any four men get away with _us_!”

XIV

THE ART OF ENTERTAINING

Not as Easy as it Would Seem.—Scarcity of Good Stories for
the Purpose.—Drawing-room Audiences are Fastidious.—Noted
London Entertainers.—They are Guests of the People Who Engage
Them.—London Methods and Fees.—Blunders of a Newly-wed Hostess
from America.—Humor Displaces Sentiment in the Drawing-room.—My
Own Material and Its Sources.

An entertainer always leaves a pleasant impression on other men; otherwise he is not an entertainer. Sometimes his gestures and manner are more effective than his words. Yet he is not necessarily an actor. He is a sort of half-brother of the man on the stage, for, like the actor, he must endeavor to please his entire audience. The humorous paper or book, if it is not to the reader’s taste, may be dropped in an instant, but in a crowded hall or drawing-room one must listen, unless he is deaf.

So the entertainer must be very careful in selecting his material. Hundreds of jokes that are good in themselves and decent enough to tell to one’s wife and children are called vulgar by some people who aren’t noted for refinement in other ways. Other stories that are all right to try on your minister when you invite him to dinner, are shockingly irreverent to some folks who never go to church. Every man knows of honest hearty jokes that he wouldn’t venture when ladies are present, but entertainers know of some stories told by good women that would make all the men in a drawing-room face toward the wall. Selecting stories for society is almost as dangerous as umpiring a baseball game.

John Parry was the original entertainer in England, a country so loyal to whoever amuses it that it honors its favorites, even after they have lost the power of pleasing. He wrote many sketches for use in drawing-rooms and became very popular and successful. The entertainers most in vogue in England, until recently, were Corney Grain, a six-footer, who died about three years ago and George Grossmith, whom many Americans remember and who was quite prominent in connection with D’Oyley Carte productions of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. These gentlemen, both of fine appearance and manner, had their fill of engagements throughout the London season, going from one drawing-room to another and always hailed with delight. Their monologues never wearied, no matter how oft-repeated, for it is an amiable characteristic of the Englishman, that he can never get too much of a good thing. The American goes so far to the other extreme that he will stand something awfully bad if it is only new.

In England, the jester’s arrangements are made with great ease and simplicity. There are no annoying business details. His terms of fifteen or twenty pounds an evening are already known, so money is not mentioned by him or his host and there is no attempt at “beating down,” such as sometimes occurs in bargaining America. He goes to the house and the table as a guest and is treated as an equal by the hostess and her company, when he is making his adieus, which he does soon after completing his monologue, a sealed envelope is handed him, or the money reaches him at his hotel in the morning, and let me say right here for this custom, that in my own hundreds of English engagements I never lost a penny through bad pay.

Some of the more wealthy people do not limit themselves to the customary prices. For instance, Baron de Rothschild often pays sixty pounds for an entertainment not lasting more than ten minutes—a little matter of thirty dollars a minute, and by a strange coincidence, he never fails to get the entertainer he wants; some hosts do.

Most of my own London engagements are in May and June, up to July when the Goodwood races end the season. They are made some time in advance, the only preliminary on my part being a batch of letters I send off when my steamer reaches Queenstown. The fast mail reaches London before me, so by the time I reach my hotel, some replies are awaiting me. The receptions usually begin at ten in the evening. The hostess does not announce me formally, as if she owned me, body, soul and breeches, but asks graciously if Mr. Wilder will not kindly favor the company with some of his interesting experiences or reflections. Then I mount the piano, or a chair, if the affair is a dinner party, and the other guests listen politely, instead of all beginning to talk on their own account.

Entertainers almost never are subjected to snubs or other rudeness; when such unpleasantnesses occur they are promptly resented. An American woman who had “married into the nobility” invited me to come to her house at half past nine in the evening. I naturally assumed that this meant dinner. When I arrived, the flunkey took me into the parlor and left me there, saying Lady So-and-so and her guests were at dinner. I waited some moments, but as no one came to relieve me of my embarrassment, I rang the bell, requested the flunkey to take my card to his mistress and say I had been invited at that hour and had arrived. Word came back that “my lady” would be up in a few minutes. Then the ladies came into the drawing-room, leaving the gentlemen to their wine and cigars; those who knew me, the Princess Mary of Teck was one of them, greeted me kindly, but my hostess and countrywoman did not seem to think me worthy of notice.

Then my American spirit rose to boiling point. I called my cab and was bowling down the street when a panting servant overtook me and gasped:

“Lady Blank would like to see you a moment, sir.”

“Oh, would she?” I replied. When I returned I found the fair American in great distress. She wanted to know why I had deserted her at the critical moment, and when I told her bluntly that I was not in the habit of going to houses where I was not welcomed as a guest, she assured me her rudeness was unintentional, it was due to her ignorance of the custom, etc., etc., and she begged me not to leave her in the lurch. Of course, I pretended to be pacified, but the story got around London and did me much good, which is more than it did for her ladyship.

A peculiar thing about the English sense of humor is that although it is there and of full size, one must sometimes search hard to find it. Some types of American joking are utterly wasted on the Englishman.

The English greatly prefer burlesques on American characteristics to those on their own ways. I can’t call this a peculiarity, although Americans specially like to see themselves and their own people “hit off,” even if some one is hit hard. I am glad to say that although I am given to personalities, and exaggeration, I try never to cast ridicule on the people of whom I talk and I have never knowingly hurt any one’s feelings by my character sketches.

In London the theatres are almost countless and are steadily increasing in number, and comedy, burlesque and farce are the rule—all because of the demand for fun. The English enjoy eating and sleeping more than any other people on earth, but English chops and sleep without some fun between, are as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, for dyspepsia will knock out the chops and insomnia will knock out sleep. But fun takes dyspepsia on one knee and insomnia on the other and bounces both into forgetfulness.

Since the days when Ward McAllister came into style, there has been a marked change in the work of the American jester. Time was, when here, as in England, any old thing would do for parlor entertainments, no matter how often it had been heard before. It did not even have to be funny, either; who can exaggerate the number of times he heard “Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night,” in those good old times? Now, however, the entertainer must continually supply something new, or he will fall by the wayside. It must be something funny too; people used to crowd lecture rooms, and enjoy serious talks by great men—the greatest in the land, but whoever hears a lecture-course now? Fun—fun—fun, is the demand everywhere, so every entertainer is a joker.

In fact, to speak with my customary modesty, this demand for amusement places Mr. Depew and me on the same footing. Often I get letters from people who say they expect my friend the Senator, but, if he cannot come, will want me to fill the gap. Not long ago Mr. Depew cheated me out of a famous dinner at Delmonico’s, so I grumbled a bit when I met him. He got off the big, hearty laugh, on which he has a life patent, with no possible infringement in sight, and replied,

“Why, Marsh, why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known it, I wouldn’t have gone.”

Ha, ha, pretty good, wasn’t it?

Where do I get the material for my own sketches? From the originals every time. I pick it up in the streets, in the cars and restaurants, get it from the newsboys, from men of all sorts on the curb-stone, from almost everywhere, but never from books or newspapers, for the world is full of fun if one only has the ear to hear it.

When I get hold of a new thing that seems to be good, I always “try it on the dog”—that is, on my friends. I take it down to the Lambs’ Club and work it off on some of the good fellows there. If I escape alive with it, I inveigle a couple of newsboys into a dark corner and have them sample it. If it “goes” with them, I am pretty sure it is good, so I add it to my repertoire; but if it fails there, I never disagree with my critics; it is damned—absolutely, no matter who may think it might be made to work.