Chapter XXVII: Some First Experiences 348 (5)

Few Americans are busier than the successful entertainer. His hands are full of the work of brightening up the heavy parts of the social affairs that crowd the long winter afternoon and evenings, so with hurrying between New York, Boston and Chicago, with occasional moves to Philadelphia and Baltimore, he is kept “on the jump.” Yet the public hears little of his work, for it is not advertised. Why, not long ago I went to a large party at a house only three blocks from my apartments, and I am sure thirty or forty of the guests had never heard my name before.

Such is fame.

XV

IN THE SUNSHINE WITH GREAT PREACHERS

I am Nicknamed “The Theological Comedian.”—My Friend, Henry
Ward Beecher.—Our Trip Through Scotland and Ireland.—His
Quickness of Repartee.—He and Ingersoll Exchange
Words.—Ingersoll’s Own Sunshine.—De Witt Talmage on the
Point of View.—He Could Even Laugh at Caricatures of His Own
Face.—Dr. Parkhurst on Strict Denominationalism.

Nat Goodwin once nicknamed me “The Theological Comedian,” because many of my entertainments were given in churches. On such occasions a minister would generally preface the proceedings with prayer—whether that I, or the people, might be strengthened for the ordeal I never was able to discover. But the ministers always laughed at every joke I cracked, so there is a very warm spot in my heart for them.

One of the first of the profession I ever met was Henry Ward Beecher. I became well acquainted with him and—of far more consequence, he was always friendly, fatherly and merry when I met him. I had the pleasure of traveling through Scotland and Ireland with him, and no man could have been better company. Yet he was not traveling merely for pleasure. Wherever he went and was known the people welcomed him effusively, insisted on hearing from him, so whenever he spoke in a church or Sunday-school he had a crowded house.

We spent one Sunday together in Glasgow, and the depression of that city on the holy day cannot be imagined. I have heard that some Scotchmen get full of bad whiskey on Saturday night for the sole purpose of being properly dismal on Sunday, but perhaps that is not true. But the street cars do not run; there is no sign of animation; the very houses look as dull as if they were untenanted; to a person accustomed to the cheer and bright faces of Americans on Sunday the town seemed enveloped in the gloom of death.

In the morning I awoke very early; I veritably believe that the appalling silence disturbed my slumbers. I felt so lonely and dismal that I instinctively went over to Mr. Beecher’s room; better a drowsy American than a whole city full of wide-awake Scotchmen—on a Scotch Sunday. Mr. Beecher was also awake, though in bed, and in spite of the morning being quite chilly he lay with one toe uncovered. I said:

“Mr. Beecher, aren’t you afraid of catching cold?”

“Oh, no,” he replied, “I always sleep that way.” I was greatly mystified at this, and asked him the reason. He laughed—and what a laugh he had! It was as big and solid and enduring as the Berkshire hills amid which he was born. Then he replied:

“Marshall, that toe is the key to the situation.”

In Ireland we went about a good deal together in jaunting cars and extracted a lot of high-grade Hibernian wit from the drivers. Although Mr. Beecher was one of the sensible souls who could discern the difference between poverty and misery, he had an American’s innate soft spot in his heart for a man in rags, so he overpaid our drivers so enormously that Mrs. Beecher, who was with us, begged that she might be allowed to do the disbursing.

One day we were driven to our hotel in Belfast through a drizzling rain. When I paid the driver I said:

“Are you wet, Pat?” With a merry twinkle of his eye he replied:

“Sure, your honor, if I was as wet outside as I am inside, I’d be as dry as a bone.”

Mr. Beecher’s quickness at repartee, of which Americans knew well, was entirely equal to Irish demands upon it. One day in Ireland, after he had made an address to a Sunday-school, a bewitching young colleen came up to where we stood chatting and said:

“Mr. Beecher, you have won my heart.”

“Well,” replied the great man quickly, with a sunburst of a smile, “you can’t get along without a heart, so suppose you take mine?”

Which reminds me of the day when he and Col. “Bob” Ingersoll were on the platform together at a public meeting and Beecher went over and shook hands heartily with the great agnostic, though he knew that the act would bring a storm of criticism from people with narrow-gauge souls. Then Ingersoll brought up one of his daughters and introduced her, saying:

“Mr. Beecher, here is a girl who never read the Bible.” Bob delighted in shocking ministers, but he missed his fun that time, for Beecher quickly replied:

“If all heathen were so charming I am sure we should all become missionaries.”

Ingersoll himself was as quick as the quickest at repartee. One day a malignant believer in an awful time for the wicked after death asked him:

“Are you trying to abolish hell?”

“Yes,” said Ingersoll.

“Well, you can’t do it.”

“You’ll be sorry if I don’t,” the Colonel replied.

Agnostic though he was, Ingersoll is frequently quoted by preachers, for in one respect he was very like the best of them; he never wearied of urging men to right living, not through fear of eternal punishment, but because goodness is its own excuse for being. No pastor was ever more severe than he in condemnation of everything mean and wicked in human life, so he was worthy of place among the great teachers of ethics. Personally he was as kind, sympathetic and helpful as some ministers are not; whatever he thought of systematic theology, he was practically a teacher of the brotherhood of man as defined by the founder of Christianity. In his lighter moments he was one of the merriest companions that any one could meet; no matter what he had to say, he would always illustrate it with a story. One day he was talking of people who have a knack of saying the right thing at the wrong time, and told the following, as a sample:

A well-to-do merchant out west lived in a town not remarkable for much but malaria and funerals. His wives had a way of dying, and whenever he lost one he went into another county and married again. A loquacious lady in the healthy county kindly assisted him in finding young women who were willing to marry him and take the chances. About six months after burying his fourth wife he appeared again in the healthy county, called on his friend and was greeted with:

“How’s your wife, Mr. Thompson?”

“She’s dead,” he replied sadly.

“What? Dead again?” the woman cried.

Ingersoll was full of stories hinging on the place he believed did not exist. Here is one of them:

A man who wanted to visit hell was advised to buy an excursion ticket. He did so, and when the train stopped at a place full of beautiful trees, warbling birds and bright sunshine he did not get off. The conductor said:

“I thought you wanted hell?”

“Is this hell?” the passenger asked; “I didn’t think it looked like this.” Then he walked about and met a man to whom he said:

“I am surprised to find hell such a beautiful place.”

“Well,” the man replied, “you must remember that there have been a great many clever people here for many years, so the place has greatly improved. You ought to have seen it when I came here.”

“Indeed? And who are you?”

“I am Voltaire.”

“I am very glad to meet you, Voltaire, and I wish you would do me a favor.”

“With pleasure. What is it?”

“Get some one to buy my return ticket, please.”

Colonel Ingersoll arrived late one evening at a Clover Club dinner in Philadelphia, to which he had been invited, and while looking for his seat he regarded the decorations so admiringly that Governor Bunn exclaimed:

“You’ve found heaven at last, Colonel, and a place waiting for you.”

At a Lambs’ Club dinner in New York, of which the late Steele MacKaye was chairman, Ingersoll was formally introduced and made a speech, in the course of which he made so unfortunate a remark about Deity that he sat down amid silence so profound as to be painful. MacKaye arose and with admirable tact brought the Club and the speaker en rapport by saying:

“Gentlemen, we all know that Colonel Ingersoll dare not believe in God, but those of us who know Colonel Ingersoll and do believe in God know that _God_ believes in _him_.”

The late T. DeWitt Talmage never lost a chance to emphasize a point with a good story. As I knew him to be a good man and a first-rate fellow, I used to be indignant at newspaper abuse of him, and particularly with some caricatures that were made of his expressive features. I took occasion to tell him of this, but he replied:

“Marshall, I’m as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros, and I never mind what is said about me. Some of the caricatures annoy me, but only because they pain people I love—my wife and family. You see, my boy, it doesn’t pay to be too sensitive, for it breaks a man up, and that’s the worst thing that can happen to him if he has any duties in the world. Besides, everything depends on the point of view. Once a German family emigrated to America and settled in Milwaukee. The oldest son, in his teens, concluded he would start out for himself. He ‘fetched up’ in New York, and without any money, so he wrote home, ‘Dear father, I am sick and lonely and without a single cent. Send me some money quick. Your son John.’ The old man couldn’t read, so he took the letter to a friend—a great strapping butcher with a loud gruff voice and an arrogant manner of reading. When the letter was read to him the father was furious and declared he would not send his son a cent—not even to keep him from starving. But on his way home he kept thinking about the letter and wanting to hear it again, so he took it to another friend—a consumptive undertaker who had a gentle voice with an appealing inflection in it. When this man read the letter the father burst into tears and exclaimed, ‘My poor boy! I shall send him all the money he wants.’ You see, the same thing viewed from a different point takes on a different color.”

After the Rev. Dr. Parkhurst visited some notorious New York “dives” and preached his famous sermon on New York politics he was the sensation of the day and also one of the best abused men in the land. He was besieged by reporters until he had scarcely time to say his prayers and came to hate the sight of a newspaper man. About that time I was making a trip to Rochester and saw Dr. Parkhurst enter the car I was in. I said to some friends:

“That is Dr. Parkhurst. Now watch me; I’m going to have some fun with him.”

His chair was at the other end of the car and he was having a good time with newspapers and magazines and far away, as he supposed, from reporters. I passed and repassed him two or three times; then, assuming as well as I could the manner of a newspaper man I stopped and said:

“Dr. Parkhurst, I believe?”

He looked up with a savage frown, and I saw that he took me for one of the tormenting fraternity. I continued in an insinuating, tooth-drawing manner until he became so chilling that I could hear the thermometer falling with heavy thuds. When I felt that I had made him as uncomfortable as I could I said,

“Pardon me, Doctor, but evidently you don’t remember me.” Then I handed him my card. His manner changed like a cloudy day when the sun breaks through, and he said cordially:

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Wilder. I mistook you for a reporter.”

“I thought, you would,” I replied, “for that’s what I was trying to make you believe.”

We laughed together and for the remainder of the trip we were close companions. He is a delightful talker, full of anecdotes and reminiscences. I never met a keener lover of good stories than he, and, beside being an appreciative listener, he is so good a raconteur himself that a listener is willing that he should do all the story telling. He has no patience with narrow, hide-bound denominationalists; he defined them by telling me a story of a minister who preached a sermon so touching that all his hearers were melted to tears—all but one man. When asked how he had succeeded in keeping his eyes dry the man replied:

“Well, you see, this isn’t my church.”

XVI

THE PRINCE OF WALES

(_Now King Edward VII_)

The Most Popular Sovereign in Europe.—How He Saved Me From a
Master of Ceremonies.—Promotion by Name.—He and His Friends
Delight two American Girls.—His Sons and Daughters.—An
Attentive and Loving Father.—Untiring at His Many Duties
Before He Ascended the Throne.—Unobtrusive Politically, yet
Influential.

If all kings were as competent as the genial and tactful gentleman who recently ascended the British throne, it would be a thankless job to start a new republic anywhere. Personally, I have strong grounds for this opinion, for I had the pleasure of meeting His Majesty many times while he was Prince of Wales, and these meetings were due entirely to his kindness of nature and generally were of his own initiative.

I don’t imagine he knew it, but the Prince of Wales once lifted me out of as uncomfortable a fix as I ever got into in London. The Ancient and Honorable Artillery, Boston’s swell military organization, visited England in 1896, as guests of the Ancients and Honorables of London, who entertained them handsomely and had them presented to Her Majesty the queen. The Boston company in turn, gave a great dinner to their hosts. Some Americans then in the city were invited, and I had the good fortune to be of the number, through the kindness of Mr. B. F. Keith, who was one of the Boston Ancient and Honorables.

The spectacle was brilliant in the extreme, nine out of every ten men present being in full dress uniform. The entire assemblage was gathered informally in two long, glittering rows, awaiting the Prince of Wales, who was always the soul of punctuality. I had many acquaintances in the two uniformed bodies, as well as among the non-military guests, and was moving about from one to another. I was in conventional evening dress, and had a tiny American flag pinned to the lapel of my coat.

The Master of Ceremonies, whose manner was more consequential than that of any distinguished person in the room, seemed annoyed that any civilians were present, and he did his utmost to separate them from the soldiers. I had the misfortune to become his _bête noire_; whenever he found me among the military men he gently but persistently pressed me away, but no sooner did he eject me in one direction than I reappeared from another and between two pairs of gaily-appareled soldiers’ legs, so I made the poor fellow nervous and fussy to the verge of distraction.

Exactly at eight o’clock the Prince of Wales was announced and every one came to attention. He entered with the genial smile which was an inseparable part of him and shook hands with the American minister and other dignitaries. Soon he spied me, came across the room, greeted me very kindly, and said:

“How are you, little chap?”

“Very well, thank you, sir,” I replied.

“I am to hear you to-morrow night at the Duke of Devonshire’s, I understand,” he continued. “Won’t you give us that mother-in-law pantomime of yours?”

“Certainly, sir,” I answered; as the Prince left me and ascended the stairs I saw that the Master of Ceremonies, who had witnessed the meeting, was visibly disturbed. Soon he literally hovered about me and displayed a fixed and conciliatory smile. The guests began to follow the Prince, and as they passed up the stairs many of them greeted me. Senator Depew remarked:

“Hello, Marshall, how are you?”

That dear old gentleman and English idol, John L. Toole, passed, blinked merrily at me and said:

“Glad to see you again, Marshall. How are you?”

Presently the Master of Ceremonies turned nervously to an English officer and asked, with an aggrieved tone in his voice:

“Who is this little chap, anyway? Everybody seems to know him.”

The officer did not chance to know me, but an English Sergeant who was of the attendant guard and was willing to impart information said:

“He belongs to the American Army. He’s a marshal.” The great functionary immediately regarded me with profound respect, not unmixed with wonder at the modesty of great American soldiers, for an officer of my supposedly exalted rank was entitled to follow close behind His Royal Highness.

At the Duke of Devonshire’s on the following evening I was assisted by two young Americans—twin sisters, the Misses Jessie and Bessie Abbot. Miss Bessie had a wonderful voice, and has since achieved a great success in Paris in the title part of the opera “Juliet.” Both girls were clever and charming and we three maintained a friendship which was delightful to me and which they, too, seemed to enjoy. At that time they were living in London with their mother, and taking part in private entertainments, but the evening at the Duke of Devonshire’s was their first appearance before the Prince of Wales or any of the Royal family. They charmed the audience and were loaded with compliments, some of which were expressed by the Princess of Wales in person.

While the Princess was conversing with the sisters she mentioned the Prince, upon which Miss Jessie said:

“I have not yet met the Prince, but I wish to very much.”

“Oh, have you not?” the Princess exclaimed, as she smilingly regarded the pretty girl who was unconscious that she had committed a breach of etiquette. “Then I shall arrange it.” Immediately she walked the entire length of the long picture gallery in which the entertainment had been given, found the Prince, came back on his arm, and Miss Jessie’s request was granted. The Prince, noting the resemblance of the sisters to each other, asked if they were really twins.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Jessie replied, and then turning to me she continued, “Aren’t we, Marshall? Her ingenuous manner compelled the Prince to laugh, after which he said to me:

“You seemed to be posted, little chap.”

Among royal children whom I have had the honor to entertain, none are more widely known, through their portraits and also by common report, than the sons and daughters of the present King and Queen of England. The first time I ever appeared before them was at an exhibition given for the benefit of the Gordon home for boys. It was a social affair of great prominence, the audience being composed principally of the royal family and the nobility. The Prince and Princess of Wales were accompanied by their children—Prince Albert Victor, who has since died but was then heir-apparent, Prince George, who is now Prince of Wales, and the Princesses Louise, Victoria and Maude. Other members of the royal family in the audience were the Duke of Connaught (brother to the Prince), the Duke and Duchess of Teck and the Princess Louise of Teck.

I suppose I ought to do the conventional thing by likening King Edward’s daughters to Washington Irving’s “Three Beautiful Princesses,” but my first impression of them has remained clear that I frequently revert to the day I received it—three wholesome, pretty, dainty English little girls of demure manner, with exquisite complexions, and whose blonde hair was very long and their simple white frocks rather short. They had many points of resemblance to one another, but their brothers were quite dissimilar in one respect, Victor being slight and delicate while George was sturdy and robust. All seemed to enjoy the entertainment, but did not forget and lose control of themselves, as well-bred American children sometimes do in public. Princess Louise of Teck, who is considered the handsomest of the princesses, was at that time a very beautiful and attractive child.

I afterward met them all at the Duke of Devonshire’s and found that in conversation with their elders their manner was marked by the simplicity, thoughtfulness and kindness inseparable from good breeding. They frequently rode or drove in the park, accompanied by a lady-in-waiting or a gentleman of the Queen’s household. The universal respect manifested for them did not turn their heads in the least; in acknowledgment of the bared heads about them they did not bow haughtily, but graciously and kindly, as if grateful for the attention bestowed upon them. It seemed impossible, to any one who had observed the condescending and even arrogant manner in public of so many English children whose dress and equipage indicated parental wealth and station, that the Prince of Wales’s children could be what they really were—scions of the most firmly-rooted royal stock in all Europe and that from among them would in time come an occupant of the only throne whose influence is felt entirely around the world.

But the key to the mystery was not far to find; one had but to go back to the parents of these model children—to the Prince of Wales and his consort, the daughter of a king whose tact and sense are universally recognized and admired and who to this day, although past his eighty-sixth birthday, is a model for rulers everywhere. The Prince of Wales was, as under his new title of King Edward he still is, as affectionate and attentive a father as can be found in the world. Despite common report, founded on his affable and leisurely manner in public, he has for many years been a close student of affairs and a very busy man, yet there never was a time when his children had not free access to him, nor when he was not his children’s industrious teacher and mentor. For years he has been known as the most tactful man in England, and without a superior in this respect in the world. Speaking literally, royalty is his life business; it is also to be the life-business of his children, so he has made it a matter of sense as well as of duty that his sons and daughters should be prepared to so comport themselves as to make their royalty secure and themselves safe. History has taught him that neither great armies nor well-filled coffers can maintain a family on the throne, and that the only security of a ruler is found in the respect and affection of the people. While his mother was on the throne he probably heard thousands of times—indirectly, of course, the common prediction of “advanced” politicians that he never would succeed her. Probably this prediction never caused him to lose a single hour of sleep, for he never allowed himself to neglect one of the thousands of duties that devolved upon him as his mother’s personal representative. Never obtrusive politically, he nevertheless became a positive influence in national politics; he appeared at all public functions that asked royal sanction, always said and did the right thing, made himself approachable, always was affable though never lacking in dignity, and gave to every man, great or simple, the full measure of attention and respect that was due him, seasoning the same so thoroughly with courtesy as to make a lifelong admirer of the receiver. He imparted his manner to his sons and daughters and his consort added to his influence by motherly training similar to his own. No breath of scandal has ever touched one of these children; in this respect the family is almost unique, for black sheep are prominent in almost all royal families of Europe, and one such character is enough to inflict a lasting smirch on the entire house.

The Prince of Wales whom I met is now King of England and his children are men and women. His official presence is overshadowing his unofficial past, almost to the extent of forgetfulness. But no thoughtful observer will forget that King Edward and his children as they now appear date back to many years of His Majesty’s life when he was Prince of Wales and in apparent likelihood of being outlived by his mother.

XVII

SIR HENRY IRVING

A Model of Courtesy and Kindness.—An Early Friend Surprised by
the Nature of His Recognition.—His Tender Regard for Members of
His Company.—Hamlet’s Ghost Forgets His Cue.—Quick to Aid the
Needy.—Two Lucky Boys.—Irving as a Joker.—The Story He Never
Told Me.—Generous Offer to a Brother Actor-manager.—Why He is
Not Rich.

The American people at large know Henry Irving as a great actor, scores of Americans and hundreds of Englishmen of his own and related professions know him as one of the most friendly and great-hearted men alive. Many volumes could be written about his thoughtful kindnesses, and at least one of them could be filled with mention of his goodness to me, for, in my many visits to England, he never failed to “look me up” and show me every kindness in his power—and his power is great. If I were to go into details regarding myself, I should offend him, for, like any other genuine man, he does not like his left hand know what his right hand does, but it shouldn’t hurt for me to tell some open secrets about his kindness to others.

Lionel Brough often talks of the time when he and Irving, both of them young men, were members of a company in Manchester. In those days Irving was a dreamer of dreams and had a fondness for being his own only company, so his associates made him the butt of many jokes that did not seem to disturb his self-absorption. He had no intimates in the company, although he was of lovable nature. Near the theatre was an upholstery shop, the owner of which became acquainted with Irving, understood him and loved him, as did the family; they called the young actor “Our Henry,” always had room and a hearty welcome for him, and in many ways served as balm to his sensitive nature.

When Irving went to London he did not forget his Manchester friends—not even after he became a successful and very busy manager. He sent them frequent evidences of his regard, though he had no time to make visits. On coming into possession of the Lyceum Theatre he determined to reupholster every part of it. A large London firm desired the contract and made estimates but Mr. Irving sent to Manchester for his old friend, and, as the Irving company was leaving England for a long American tour, gave the upholsterer _carte blanche_.

On Irving’s return from America be inspected his theatre, was delighted with the renovation, and asked the upholsterer for the bill. After looking it over he sent for the London firm that had offered plans and estimates, and asked them what they would have charged to do what had been done. They named a sum five times as large as the Manchester man had charged; Irving discovered later that his old friend had charged only for materials, the work being “thrown in” for old affection’s sake. But Irving disregarded the bill entirely and drew a check for twice the amount of the London firm’s estimate.

But it does not require memories of past kindnesses to open Mr. Irving’s purse, for he is almost as susceptible to the influence of old association. He has always maintained a far larger company than his productions demanded, and retained old members long after their services would have been dispensed with by a manager at all careful of his pennies. Many Americans have pleasant remembrances of old “Daddy” Howe, who died in Cincinnati some years ago while a member of the Irving company on tour. At a memorable dinner given Mr. Irving by his professional admirers in America, Mr. Howe arose and told of his offering to retire when the company was preparing to come to this country, and how his suggestion was received. Although he was eighty years old at the time, he had been a member of but three companies, one of which was Mr. Irving’s. He knew that the expenses of the American tour would be enormous, and that the small parts for which he was usually cast would be well played here for far less than his own salary, so his conscience compelled him to write Mr. Irving saying that he comprehended the situation and would either retire or accept less pay. As he received no reply, he repeated his suggestion in person to Mr. Irving.

“Dear me!—Ah! yes!—Well, I’ll let you know presently,” was the evasive answer from which Howe assumed that he would be retired, so it was with trembling hands that he opened a note from the manager the next day. He read:

“Of course I expect you to go to America, and I hope the increase of your salary will indicate my appreciation and good wishes.”

As Howe told this story his eyes filled and overflowed, but Irving, when all eyes were turned toward him, looked as if he did not see that there was anything in the incident to justify the old actor’s emotion or the applause of every one around the tables.

I am indebted to my friend, Mr. J. E. Dodson, who came over with Mrs. Kendall’s company, for these stories illustrating Mr. Irving’s manner on the stage in circumstances which would make almost any manager star drop into rage and profanity. Here is one of them:

“Old Tom Meade, beloved by all English players, and the best stock ghost any company ever had, was much given to reading in the dressing-room between his cues. “Hamlet” was on one night, and after his first appearance as the murdered king, Meade went to his room for the long “wait” before the closet scene. With his heels on the table, a black clay pipe in his mouth and silver spectacles astride his nose he was soon in the profoundest depths of a philosophical work. The call boy gave him notice of his cue.

“Uh-yes,” was the reply, but Meade went on reading. Several minutes later there was feverish excitement in the wings and messengers from the stage manager poured into Meade’s room; the lights had been lowered, the stage was enveloped in blue haze, but there was no ghost! Dropping his book, Meade hurried to the stage, but in his excitement he entered on the wrong side, and almost behind Hamlet. It was too late to go around to the other side, so Meade whispered huskily to Mr. Irving:

“Here, sir, here—just behind you!”

About this time the man who managed the calcium light succeeded in locating the dilatory ghost and in throwing the blue haze upon him, as Hamlet exclaimed:

“See where he goes e’en now, out at the portal!”

Poor Meade was in agony until he was able to speak to Mr. Irving.

“Gov’n’r,” he faltered, “reading in my dressing-room—heard call, but forgot. Rushed to wrong side of stage, sir. Never happened before—never will again, sir. And after all, it didn’t go so bad, sir.” For a moment Mr. Irving looked him through and through, after which he said icily:

“Yes, Tom—but I like it better the other way.”

One day Mr. Irving chanced to meet McIntyre, with whom he had played in the provinces in his own struggling days. The two men had not met in years, and Irving’s eyes—marvelous eyes they are, beamed with delight, as they always do when they see an old companion.

“Well, well, McIntyre!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”—and he led the way into Haxell’s, where they might have a quiet chat over cigars and brandy and soda.

“Nothing,” was the comprehensive reply.

“Have you settled on anything?”

McIntyre admitted that he was expecting to play in something at the Holborn. Before they parted Irving said: “You must come down and have seats in the house, so you can tell me what you think of us.” Next day he sent to the Holborn a most cordial letter containing tickets for the two best seats in the lyceum and an urgent request for another chat. Merely as an afterthought was this postscript:

“Forgive me for handing you a ten-pound note as a loan at your convenience. You may need to get something new for the play.” McIntyre’s feelings may be imagined when I repeat his confession that at that moment he did not know where his next meal was coming from.

Mr. Irving is very fond of children and—as does not always follow in other men’s fondness of the same nature, he is very attentive to them. When he produced “Olivia,” the juvenile part was played by a nine year old boy who kept himself very clean and tidy, but his street clothes were so old that extreme poverty was evident. One night Mr. Irving asked:

“Where do you live, my lad?”

“Beyond Hammersmith, sir”—a London section some miles from the theatre.

“And how do you get home?”

“I walk, sir,” the boy replied, surprised by the inquiry.

“Yes, yes. But after this you must ride”—and Mr. Irving ordered that the boy should be supplied with bus fares thereafter. Later Mr. Irving noticed that the boy had a troubled look on his face. Asked if he didn’t enjoy riding, he confessed that he had been walking to save his ’bus fares, for his mother was ill and his father out of work. An order was given that the boy’s salary should be raised; throughout the summer, though the company was not playing, the child continued to receive his salary, at Irving’s personal order.

Still more significant of his cherishing regard for children is a story of how he squandered time—more carefully guarded on the stage than anything else,—to make a boy happy. It occurred in a one-act piece—“Cramond Brig,” in which there is a supper-scene in a cottage, a steaming sheep’s head and an oat-cake are brought in and the cottar’s little son is supposed to do boyish justice to the feast. The little chap who played the part did not look as if he had eaten more than his allowance, which was not to be wondered at; stage feasts are not prepared by chefs, and the sheep’s head was indifferently cooked, the only stage demand being that it should send up a cloud of steam and look piping hot. One night, when the meat chanced to be well cooked, Mr. Irving noted that the boy entered into the spirit of the scene with extreme realism, so with a smile at the youngster’s energy he asked:

“Like it, me boy? Ah, yes; I thought so. Boys are always hungry.”

No sooner was that hungry boy out of hearing than Mr. Irving ordered that the sheep’s head and oat-cake should in future be properly seasoned and carefully cooked; still more, he informed the players that the supper-scene was not to be hurried, but was to be governed by the boy’s appetite. And how that boy did enjoy the change!—though Mr. Irving seemed to get as much pleasure out of the feast as he.

“Old John,” Irving’s personal servant and dressing-room valet, used to go on a spree about once a year. With the fatality peculiar to such men, his weakness took possession of him on a night of “The Lyon’s Mail”—a play in which the leading character must make so rapid a change that quick and sober hands must assist him. Just as the change was impending poor John stole into the theatre and stood in the wings with comb, brush and other necessary articles hugged to his breast, though he was plainly incompetent to use them. He cut a ludicrous figure, though the time was not one for fun—not for the star. Mr. Irving grasped the situation; almost any other actor in similar circumstances would have grasped the valet also and shaken the life out of him. Irving merely said mildly—very mildly:

“John, you’re tired. Go home.”

Almost any man possessing a sense of humor has one and only one way of manifesting it, but in humor as on the stage Mr. Irving is protean. In the course of a long chat which he and Richard Mansfield had one night at the Garrick Club, Mansfield spoke of his noted Jekyll-and-Hyde part, which was very long yet called for but two notes of his voice—a severe physical strain, and he said:

“You know, Mr. Irving, it is longer than your great speech in Macbeth. I have been advised by our New York physicians not to do it.”

Irving looked thoughtful for a moment or two, which is a long period of silence for an eloquent man. Then he asked:

“My boy, why _do_ you do it?”

Members of the Dramatists’ Club (New York) still recall with delight a story he once told them and which promised a brilliant climax that they could distinctly foresee. The end was quite as effective as they had imagined, yet it was entirely different and consisted of but two words.

Irving can turn even his peculiarities to account in story-telling. Like any other man of affairs he had sudden and long periods of absent-mindedness—which means that his mind is for the time being not only not absent but on the contrary is entirely present and working at the rate of an hour a minute. One day while we were driving together he turned to me and said:

“Marshall, I have a story you can add to your repertoire—a very quaint one.” Then he went into deep thought and we had gone fully a block before he spoke again; then he said:

“And you know——”

Then we went another block, then farther, but suddenly he asked:

“Now wasn’t that droll?” It certainly was, no matter what it was, if he said so, but he still owes me the story, for he had told it only to himself.

Such details of Irving’s thoughtfulness—almost fatherly solicitude, for other members of his profession, as have become generally known are but a small fraction of what might be told had not the beneficiaries been begged to hold their tongues. But here is one that was made public by my friend, E. S. Willard, an English actor already referred to and very popular in America. To realize its significance, one must imagine himself an American manager with an appreciative eye for Lyceum successes. At a dinner given at Delmonico’s by Willard to Irving, Mr. Willard said:

“When he heard of my first venture into the United States, Mr. Irving, without telling me of it, wrote a lot of friends over here that I was not a bad sort of chap, and they might look after me a bit. He gathered around me the night before I left London, a lot of his friends whom he knew I would like to meet. When I was about to leave the room he took me aside and said:

“‘If you find when you get to the other side that your plays don’t carry, or that the American people don’t take to them, just cable me one word. Here is my new play at the Lyceum, a beautiful success, and you shall have it—words, music and all, as soon as the steamer can get it to you.’”

It is not generally known that before being knighted Sir Henry Irving had twice refused a title, and accepted only after he had been convinced, by men prominent in other professions, that his “elevation,” as the English call it, would redound to the benefit of the profession at large. Personally the rank could have placed him no higher socially than he already was, for ever since he became known he has been surrounded by an aristocracy of brains. He will not and cannot be patronized, and, through the lasting respect which he has earned, he has done wonders for the dignity of the actors’ calling. His title has not changed his manner in any way. His great dinners on the stage of the Lyceum and his lunches at the Beefsteak Club are matters of history. His social engagements are as numerous as ever; often he does not retire until three or four o’clock in the morning, generally to arise in time to conduct a rehearsal at ten, so his duties require an executive genius equal in degree to his artistic endowment.

It is strange to many people that a man of Mr. Irving’s business ability and personal popularity should be in comparatively poor circumstances instead of having acquired a fortune. He lives plainly, in hired rooms, not indulging in the luxury of a house of his own, with horses, carriages, etc. He spends money freely for books, and professionally for anything that may enhance the effect of his art and that of his theatre. But the few incidents cited above, are illustrations of the manner in which thousands of pounds have leaked from his pockets and show that it is bigness of heart that keeps Henry Irving from being a rich man.

XVIII

LONDON THEATRES AND THEATRE-GOERS

Why English and American Plays do Best at Home.—The Intelligent
Londoner Takes the Theatre Seriously.—Play-going as a Duty.—The
High-class English Theatre a Costly Luxury.—American Comedies
Too Rapid of Action to Please the English.—Bronson Howard’s
“Henrietta” Not Understood in London.—The Late Clement Scott’s
Influence and Personality.

I believe I can explain why most English plays have failed to please American audiences, and that I have discovered the reason of the appalling apathy with which Londoners usually receive an American play.

When I say “Londoners” I refer to the better class. The common people flock to the comedies, farces and burlesques, of which London is full; they laugh at whatever is placed before them and demand a lot more of the same kind. But the educated, well-bred Englishman makes a serious matter of theatre-going. He goes to the play with the same face that he displays in “the city,” as the business section of London is called. He changes his clothes, for it is bad form not to be in evening dress when one goes to a London theatre of the better class. But he does not change his face. Play-going is as much a duty with him, as business is, and I am inclined to believe it is quite as much of a bore. However that may be, it is a matter of his serious daily routine. He goes to the theatre to think; goes as solemnly as an American on his way to church.

Indeed, the talk one overhears in the lobby and stalls of a high class English theatre recall some church experiences to an American. The play is analyzed; so are its parts, as if the whole thing were a matter of conscience or morals, as occasionally it is. A “problem” play which would drive Americans out of a theatre, unless in Boston, where they would doze through the performance, trusting to the morning papers for points enough to talk about, will make its way to the profoundest depths of the English heart and head.

It must not be inferred that English gentlemen and ladies do not enjoy good comedies. They are grateful for anything that is humorous and witty, but they regard such performances as mere relishes or dessert; the _pièce de rêsistance_ must be solid.

The best London audiences are drawn from the fashionable set—the “smart set,” all members of which attend the theatre whenever their evenings are unoccupied by social duties. There are no matinées—by name; the English say “morning performance,” which means the same thing; and of course “morning” means afternoon, for the fashionable set turn night into day so successfully, that the old fashioned morning is gone before they get out of bed.

Only a man of good income can afford steady theatre-going on the English plan. His seat costs him about $2.75, and his program twenty-five cents more; to these expenses must be added cab fares both ways, for your Londoner won’t walk more than a block after dark, if he can help it. After he has seen and heard the performance he talks a lot about it, and thinks it over, and next day reads what the papers say about it, and these say as much and say it as seriously as if the playhouses were of as much importance as the House of Parliament. Only recently have American literary weeklies taken up the theatres, but the Englishman has seen solemn critiques of plays in the _Athenæum_ and _Academy_ ever since he began to read those papers.

The well-to-do American wants change, relaxation and fun when he goes to the theatre. He is fully as intellectual as his English cousin and has quite as keen comprehension of the best dramatic work; this is proved by his enthusiastic support of all productions of Shakespeare. But a coldly correct drama with a sad end does not appeal to him, no matter how good the acting.

American plays are usually too compact and too rapid of action to succeed on the English stage. Bronson Howard’s brilliant “Henrietta” was highly praised by the London press and Londoners loyally try to like whatever their newspaper tells them to. Yet “The Henrietta” did not quite suit. The audience simply could not understand the character of “Bertie” the millionaire’s indolent, cheery, stupid son who pretended to be a devil of a fellow at his club, but really had no head for liquor and tobacco nor any heart for the society of chorus girls. London society has many young men with some one of Bertie’s peculiarities, but the combination—why, as one Londoner said: “No chap can be so many things, don’t you know.”

Even Mr. J. L. Shine, the accomplished actor who played the part, did not seem to understand it. Another mistake was with “The little English Lord,” as he was called in the play—a lordling whom a rich American girl had married. Here he was a fussy little fellow, an undersized dude—a caricature, in fact, and made no end of fun, but on the London stage he was the real thing, and taken seriously. The management seemed to be afraid to travesty so sacred a personage as a noble lord. I imagine this was a mistake, for at least a portion of the British people had been so far emancipated as to appreciate fun poked at the “hupper classes.”

I have mentioned London’s respect for dramatic criticism. Let us admit for a moment that London is the centre of the universe—the great wheel that sets all the rest in motion, and that what is successful there ought to succeed everywhere else—even if it doesn’t. Then, in logical sequence, let us understand that the greatest critic of the metropolis can make or break any “attraction,” and that this commanding position was held by the late Clement Scott,—poet, _littérateur_ and playwright, for more than a quarter of a century and have we not practically admitted that Mr. Scott was theatrical dictator of the universe?

Even logic is sometimes at fault. I remember being taught at school that dry bread was better than heaven, because dry bread is better than nothing and nothing is better than heaven—see? This is not cited to imply that what I have said of Clement Scott is wrong, but to convince the skeptical that all men cannot be expected to reason alike.

There was no doubt of the greatness of the London _Daily Telegraph’s_ critic, for nothing was easier of comprehension. He was a master of word-painting; the grace and truthfulness of his word-pictures were evident to the most careless reader. There was nothing vulgar or flippant in anything he wrote, and irrelevant witticisms, such as many would-be critics indulge in, were entirely lacking in his work. Slow to condemn, when he corrected a player the work was done with gracious gentleness, although his satire, when needed, was biting and deep. In the righting of wrongs he proved himself utterly fearless, and regardless of consequences to himself. By this course he made many friends and more enemies. Indeed, one of his peculiarities was his readiness to make an enemy, if by so doing he could win a friend.

Mr. Scott was truly a friend to the friendless, a helper of the helpless and a clever adviser to all. Both he and his wife were very active in charitable work, but his greatest energies seemed to have been exerted in securing employment for needy actors and aiding aspiring ones by word and deed, for he did so much for both classes that his friends wondered how he found time for anything else. His kindness knew no bounds of nation or tongue, and the antagonism supposed to exist between Englishmen and Americans found no echo in his big heart.

In appearance Mr. Scott resembled a rugged oak-tree that has grown so vigorously in all directions that any part seems fully as strong as any other. He was rather tall, with broad shoulders that drooped slightly, and was quite fleshy although not obese. His ears were set far back on his head and his face, though intellectual, was largely modeled—high forehead, heavy eyebrows, kind and thoughtful gray eyes, a large nose and mouth and in his later years a white moustache. His hands, though large, were so shapely as to command attention.

In manner he was emphatic but never dogmatic, as some members of his profession are. His prominence was greater than can be imagined in the United States, where the people seldom know the names of the dramatic critics whose work they most admire, yet he was as modest and unaffected as any of his admirers. There was nothing of the _ergo ego_ about him, nor anything pretentious. Yet there lurked behind his mild, quiet manner an enthusiasm for work and a scholarly application to work, that were absolutely remarkable. At the theatre he was the last man whom a stranger would suspect of being a critic, for the bored look and the feigned weariness that some of the dramatic reviewers affect were entirely lacking in him. He did not even make notes on his programme. Men like Scott do not have to affect wisdom or the resigned look that is supposed to result from it. I know a young whipper-snapper with a nice, fast-black bored look that cost years of effort to cultivate. He is said to wrap it in a silk handkerchief and keep it in a bureau drawer when not in use, but he never forgets to dust it and have it properly adjusted when he calls on a lady or attends the theatre.

Clement Scott was not that kind of man. He had some little peculiarities, like all men of genius but they were neither affected nor obtrusive. The most noticeable of these was a habit of saying “yes, yes,” and “what?” continually. Some of his gestures were a bit odd and he had an amusing way of belittling his own work. He said to me one day,

“I make no money from my books. It is all I can do to give them away.”

He had the coziest possible little home at 15 Woburn Square, London, and a wife who would reflect honor on any mansion in the land. Her portrait hangs before me while I write—the face of an intelligent, refined, charming English lady, and on its margin is written “Yours in all faith, Margaret Clement Scott.” That describes her perfectly—“in all faith” she was the best possible helper to her husband, aiding him in his correspondence, taking proper care of his memoranda, writing at his dictation and assisting him in many other ways.

In Mr. Scott’s study were many hundred valuable books, some of which are very rare, and a great collection of curios. One of the walls was hung with old prints of noted theatrical people of earlier generations; another with fine china. The room was richly furnished and had an air of oriental luxury which, combined with picturesque disorder, was more than charming—it was bewilderingly bewitching. In one corner was an interesting souvenir in a frame; his first letter of credential as dramatic critic, and was given by the _Sunday Times_, with which he was first connected; he went to the _Telegraph_ in 1872.