Title: Empty chairs
Author: Bancroft, Squire
Language: English
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[Frontispiece: Marie Bancroft]



  EMPTY CHAIRS


  BY

  SQUIRE BANCROFT



  LONDON
  JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
  1925



  FIRST EDITION ... _March_ 1925
  _Reprinted_ ... April 1925



  _Printed in Great Britain by
  Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._



  TO
  MY SON



PREFACE

These pages are mainly concerned with men and women who, in days gone
by, have done my wife and me the honour to sit at our table, and have
now left us.  I think of their Empty Chairs from a warm corner of my
heart: their friendship has brightened my life and stored my mind
with rosemary.

Having already written _Recollections_, I am bound to repeat myself,
so let me plead forgiveness for the besetting sin of advanced years.

My apology for the book is its last chapter.

S. B.



CONTENTS


I. King Edward VII

II. _Place aux Dames_

III. The Church

IV. The Law

V. Painting: Sculpture: Music

VI. Literature

VII. More Men of Mark

VIII. The Stage: I

IX. The Stage: II

X. One other Empty Chair



{1}

EMPTY CHAIRS



I

KING EDWARD VII

"Blessed are the peacemakers"


All who were born, as I was, in 1841 must count it an honour to have
come into the world in the same year as King Edward the Peacemaker.
And the honour appeals especially perhaps to one who owes many of his
friends and much of his happiness to the stage, for the stage has
never found among Royal heads a firmer friend than was the late King;
his gracious words and acts went far to conquer a decaying prejudice.

The first time that either my wife or I met or had speech with the
Prince of Wales (as he was for many years) was so far back as in
1868, when he, with the present Queen Alexandra, attended an early
performance of one of Robertson's comedies during our managerial {2}
career at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre (which he had graciously
given his permission, through the Lord Chamberlain, to name after
him).  On this occasion the Prince came for the first time behind the
scenes, and honoured our little green-room with a visit.  His love of
exactitude in all matters of costume enabled us then, I remember, to
correct a slight error in a military uniform.

His Royal Highness was accompanied by Frederic Leighton, then young
and handsome, who ten years later was elected President of the Royal
Academy; and by Carlo Pellegrini, whose caricatures, bearing the now
historic signature "Ape," were then attracting both attention and
admiration.  The celebrated "originals," I imagine, have now all
passed away.  Lord Chaplin was the last survivor of the unpublished
"set" which enrich the Marlborough Club.

The weather was foggy, and during the performance became so dense
that at the close the streets were dangerous.  The Royal carriages,
after great difficulty, arrived safely, surrounded by a body of
police, bearing torches, who escorted our visitors to Marlborough
House.  In all the years of our management the Prince never came
again without asking, upon his arrival, to be {3} informed at which
interval it would be convenient for my wife to receive his visit to
the green-room.

[Sidenote: A domestic drama]

One of these visits to our theatre caused, indirectly, the plot of a
domestic drama.

The Royal box was constructed by throwing two private boxes into one,
and on a certain Friday night news reached the theatre that it was
required by the Prince for the following evening.  This was before
the days of telephones.  Both boxes had been taken--one at the
theatre, the other at a librarian's in Bond Street--and nothing
remained unlet but a small box on the top tier.  Not to disappoint
the Prince of Wales, it was decided that every effort should be made
to arrange matters.  The box which had been sold at the theatre was
kindly given up by the purchaser, and a visit to Bond Street
fortunately disclosed the name of the possessor of the other.  The
gentleman was a stockbroker; so a messenger was at once sent to his
office in the City, only to find that he had just gone.  After a
great deal of difficulty our invincible messenger succeeded in
learning his private address, where, on arrival, he was told that
"Master went to Liverpool on business this morning, and won't be back
till Monday."

The door of a room leading from the hall {4} was opened at this
moment, and a portly lady appeared upon the scene.

"Went to Liverpool!" echoed the messenger.  "Nonsense!  He's going to
the Prince of Wales's Theatre this evening."

The lady now approached, and asked if she could be of any service.
The messenger repeated his story and stated his errand.  The lady
smiled blandly, and said that, if the small box on the upper tier
were reserved, matters no doubt would be amicably arranged in the
evening, and so that man went away rejoicing.

At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman who had in
vain been sought so urgently arrived in high spirits, accompanied by
a lady, handsome but not portly.  When the circumstances were
explained to him, he agreed to use the smaller, and upstairs box.

There ended our share in the transaction; but hardly were the
unfortunate man and his attractive companion left alone than the
portly lady reached the theatre and asked to be shown to Box X.  She
was conducted there; the door was opened.  Tableau!  What explanation
was given as to the business trip to Liverpool we never knew, or
whether the third act of this domestic drama was afterwards played at
the Law Courts before "the President."

{5}

[Sidenote: Grave illness]

It was in the winter of 1871 that the Prince fell seriously ill from
typhoid fever.  The national excitement reached so high a pitch and
the craving for the latest news of his condition grew so great, that
the bulletins from Sandringham were read out in the theatres between
the acts, and the National Anthem and "God Bless the Prince of Wales"
were nightly played by the various orchestras.

The Prince was hardly expected to survive from hour to hour, but when
reassuring bulletins were issued I vividly remember the relief they
caused.  The extraordinary manifestation of loyalty to the Throne and
attachment to the Prince which this illness set ablaze culminated on
the day of General Thanksgiving, when London was _en fête_, and Queen
Victoria, with her convalescent son, went to the service held at St.
Paul's.  My wife and I were fortunate in being invited by the Lord
Chamberlain to represent the stage--young managers as we then
were--at the Cathedral.  I shall never forget the effect when the
great west door was thrown open and a loud voice announced "The
Queen."  The imposing ceremony, the aspect of the building, with its
splendid assemblage of people, have only since been equalled at the
Jubilee Thanksgiving of 1887 in Westminster Abbey, at which we were
{6} also present.  On the day which followed I remember being at the
corner of Pall Mall and St. James's Street while the decorations were
being taken down.  I said to a police constable: "You fellows must
have had a long and very tiring day, yesterday."  "Yes, sir, we had,"
the man replied, "and we'd willingly go through it all for her again
to-morrow."

I also recall an amusing incident which took place at that time in
the grounds of Chelsea Hospital.  There was a parade of the old
Pensioners, looking as if they had stepped from the canvas of
Herkomer's "Last Muster."  The Prince and Princess of Wales, with
other Royalties, including the Duchess of Teck, who was in a
bath-chair, passed along the line, the Prince in his kindly way
stopping now and then to say a pleasant word.  The breast of one old
man was ablaze with medals--the Prince handled them and said: "You
have indeed seen a deal of service, my man."  The old fellow drew
himself up, saluted, and answered: "Yes, your wusshup!"  The Prince
controlled his amusement at the new title and passed along, but, as
she was drawn after him in her chair, the Duchess did not repress the
merry laughter for which she was loved by all sorts of people.

[Sidenote: Dinners to actors]

Among my treasured memories is that of {7} the dinner given by the
Prince at Marlborough House to the principal actors of London--one of
the many acts by which he endeared himself to the theatrical
profession.  On this occasion I was honoured by being placed on the
right-hand of our host.  This was in 1882.  Without having realised
it, I found that I had already been the senior manager in London for
some years.  Thirty-eight were at table, the actors present being
Henry Irving, J. L. Toole, John Hare, Charles Wyndham, Charles
Coghlan, W. H. Kendal, John Clayton, David James, Arthur Cecil, Henry
Neville, Lionel Brough, Hermann Vezin, George Grossmith the elder,
and myself.  H. J. Byron was invited, but serious illness kept him
away.  I am the only survivor of that happy company.  Of the guests
invited to meet us, Lord Lincolnshire (then known to his intimates as
"Charlie Carington") alone is with us still.  Lord Knollys, a
charming guest, the trusted servant of three monarchs, and Sir
Dighton Probyn, for so many years Queen Alexandra's devoted henchman,
have both recently gone from us.

The Prince gave a similar dinner a year or two later at the
Marlborough Club, and also honoured the actors by accepting an
invitation to dine with them at the Garrick.

{8}

During an interval in a performance of Robertson's comedy, _Ours_, at
the Haymarket Theatre, I was conducting the Prince to the green-room,
when, on crossing the stage, there was a congested condition of some
scenery.  I turned to our master-carpenter, whose name chanced to be
Oliver Wales, and said, "Which way, Wales?"  I realised the effect of
the words by an amused look on the Prince's face.  My wife on that
evening had taken her autograph book to the theatre to ask the Prince
to add his name to it; he wrote at once, "Not '_Ours_,' but Yours
sincerely, EDWARD P."

My wife and I were naturally proud of the personal interest taken by
King Edward in the farewell performance which we gave on our retiring
from management in 1885.  The Prince (as he still then was) suggested
the date, in order that with the Princess of Wales he might be
present.  They were accompanied by the three young princesses.

On November 9th, 1891, some of the leading actors, including Hare and
myself--Irving was in America at the time--went to Sandringham as a
deputation, to present H.R.H. on his fiftieth birthday with a cigar
and cigarette box, in gold, with the feathers mounted in brilliants,
the gift of members of the theatrical profession.  The Prince was
greatly pleased with {9} what was really a handsome present, and, to
my knowledge, he never missed an opportunity, when the box was placed
by his order in front of him after dinner, to say what it was and who
gave it.  On the occasion, after a happy luncheon, we were, as was
customary, I was told, weighed in the hall, much to the annoyance of
one of the party, who had a superstitious objection to the proceeding.

[Sidenote: Alone in the storm]

London was visited by violent blizzards in March 1892.  On an
afternoon in that month I determined to go out and face one of the
worst of them.  I dressed for the enterprise, and as the door of our
house--then in Berkeley Square--was opened for me, a solitary
pedestrian passed the portico, wearing a black Inverness cape and,
with difficulty, holding up an umbrella.  In spite of the driving
sleet and snow I could not help noticing a remarkable resemblance
borne by the passer-by, who was walking towards Piccadilly, to the
Prince of Wales.  I followed at short distance, and was more and more
surprised by what I thought must be a striking "double."  At the
corner of Hay Hill the pedestrian stopped, turned round, stared at me
as I was slowly approaching, and after some hesitation trudged on
down Berkeley Street.  By this time I felt certain it must be the
Prince, so I crossed the road and {10} continued my walk by the side
of the wall enclosing the gardens of Lord Lansdowne and the Duke of
Devonshire.  As I reached the passage which divides them, the Prince
again stopped and looked at me; he then crossed the slushy road with
the evident intention of speaking.  I advanced towards him.  The
Prince begged me to put on my hat and walked with me to the pavement
I had left; he stood there and spoke of the recent death of the Duke
of Clarence, of the grave illness of Prince Louis of Hesse, of the
disastrous fire at Sandringham; since when, he said, according to an
old superstition, he had known no luck, adding that he was starting
that evening with the Princess for the south of France and a stay at
Cap Martin, that meanwhile "he did not know what to do with himself,
as they were so steeped in sorrow."  After some minutes I said that I
must not keep him standing longer in such weather.  The Prince then
shook me cordially by the hand, and said, very simply, "I am so glad
to have had this talk with you."  He hesitated again as I left him,
then turned back and passed out of my sight up Hay Hill.

[Sidenote: Visiting the sick]

On the evening of the same day it chanced that my wife and I had been
invited to a musical party given by Lady Londesborough.  {11} We took
our places in a row of chairs; a few minutes later the one next to
mine was occupied by the then Lord Wharncliffe, whom, as Chairman of
the Beefsteak Club and in other ways, I knew.  He turned to me and
said: "Bancroft, if there is such a thing as a ghost, I saw one this
afternoon, for as I was slithering down Hay Hill in a hansom, hanging
on to the doors through the dangerous condition of the road, a man
was walking on the pavement, so like the Prince of Wales, that I
instinctively raised my hand to take off my hat, when I remembered
that it could only be some amazing resemblance to the Prince, who
never walks in the streets alone."  I was able to convince him that
it had been no ghost.

A few weeks afterwards I went to Monte Carlo.  On my arrival I heard
that Arthur Sullivan was lying very ill at Eze.  I went to his villa
on a broiling hot day, and was talking under the verandah with his
devoted nephew, Herbert Sullivan, then a young fellow, when the sound
of a carriage stopping at the gate was followed by the figure of a
visitor walking up the garden path alone.  I saw at once it was the
Prince of Wales, who, directly he came close to us, greeted me with
the words: "Very different weather from when we last met."  The
Prince, among other kind acts, {12} sent his own doctor to see the
sufferer, who was too ill to be allowed to receive anyone.

At that time I was much occupied by the readings of Charles Dickens's
_Christmas Carol_, which I gave on behalf of hospitals.  A great
stimulus to their success was one of the many acts of kindness which
I have received from the then Prince of Wales.  Soon after I started
them I had the good fortune to meet the Prince, by the invitation of
the late Lord Burnham, at Hall Barn, where he was staying for a shoot
extending over several days.  The Prince spoke to me warmly about the
"Carol," and asked if I would like to give the reading at Sandringham
at the coming Christmas-time, when the house would be full of guests.
Needless to say, I could have wished for no greater help to any
project that I had a part in.

[Sidenote: At Sandringham]

On my arrival at Sandringham I was met by Sir Dighton Probyn.  We
were soon joined by my host, who took a personal interest in the
preparations for my evening's work.  In the drawing-room, before
dinner, I found among the "house-party" two old friends, Sir Charles
du Plat and Sir Charles Hall.  On entering, the Princess of Wales
paused to look round the room; she then left the Prince's arm,
advanced towards me, and most graciously welcomed me.  {13} At the
table, also, were the present King and Queen.  The audience for my
reading was completed by invitations given to many friends and
neighbours, the household, the tenants, and the servants--the
ballroom being full.  The reading was accompanied by laughter and
applause, a special tribute being paid to my impromptu description of
the memorable turkey as "real Norfolk."  In the billiard-room, later
in the evening, I had suitable opportunity to show the Prince the
cigar-case which was given to me by Queen Victoria at Balmoral,
saying that it was the first occasion on which I had carried it.  The
Prince at once replied, suiting the action to the word, "Perhaps you
would like me to be the first to take a cigar from it?"

When in 1897 the late Marquess of Salisbury submitted to Queen
Victoria that the honour of Knighthood should be conferred upon me,
none of the many congratulations that my wife and I received were
more charmingly or warmly expressed than those of the Prince of Wales.

It was, however, at Marienbad, where King Edward went annually to
take the waters, that he might be seen at his friendliest, free from
the cares of his high estate and able, as the "Duke of Lancaster," to
relax something of Royal {14} ceremony; but, however unbending, the
King had great unconscious dignity.  Happy luncheons and pleasant
dinners have I enjoyed in his company there, charmed by a perfect
host, put entirely at ease by his geniality and constantly impressed
by his wide knowledge and deep interest in the affairs of the world.
Among fellow guests I may mention Pinero, Tree, and Hawtrey.

The one exception to "Marienbad dress" was when the King gave a
dinner on the fête-day of Francis Joseph, the old Emperor; then the
card bore the words, "Evening dress and decorations."  I was honoured
with an invitation, and that year had no tail-coat with me.  A
soldier friend said if his decorations, for which he had telegraphed,
did not arrive in time he would lend me his "tails."  After luncheon,
however, I bolted up to the golf-course, hunted down Sir Edward
Goschen's attaché, a charming tall fellow, and, knowing he would have
to wear diplomatic uniform at the dinner, asked if he would lend me
his ordinary evening coat.  On the night of the ceremony the guests
were assembled waiting for the King, who went the round of the
half-circle with a happy word in several languages to all.  His
humorous salutation to me was, "A very becoming coat, Bancroft."

{15}

I recall an amusing incident told me by my neighbour at table, who
was High Sheriff of his county.  At a ceremony which the King had
journeyed from London to perform, a provincial Mayor, after being
himself presented, nervously said: "May I present Your Majesty to the
Mayoress?"  The King immediately replied: "Certainly; the Mayoress is
generally presented to me, so it will be a novelty."

[Sidenote: His love of precision]

I have referred to King Edward's well-known love of exactitude in
matters of etiquette and ceremony, and I remember a curious instance
of this quality.  On one of the occasions when I was His Majesty's
guest, a discussion arose about the period of some incident that had
been mentioned in the course of conversation; one of the guests said
that it took place early in the reign of Queen Victoria.

"No," said our host, "you are mistaken; it happened towards the close
of the reign of the late King."

Not for a moment or two did those present realise that by "the late
King" His Majesty was referring to King William IV, who, sure enough,
was strictly "the late King," although full seventy years had passed
since the "sailor King" sat on the throne of England, and he had {16}
died before anyone then at the table was born.  I had occasion to
notice also that King Edward was always punctilious to give his
predecessors their Royal title.  Should anyone, for instance, allude
to "the statue of Charles I" at Charing Cross, the King would be sure
to reply with a reference to "the statue of King Charles I."

In 1909, the year of the King's last visit to Marienbad, my memory
for dates was appealed to at His Majesty's table with regard to the
year of Lord Fisher's birth.  I answered that the great little
"Jacky" was born in the same year as the King and, as it happened,
myself.  This led to other names, all friends of our host, being
similarly mentioned.  I told the King that I held the Royal vintage
to be a good one.  He was both amused and interested, and wished the
list of names to be made out for him, adding: "I must ask you all to
dinner."

[Sidenote: His end]

Alas, too soon afterwards came his death--a national sorrow!  King
Edward impressed the world by his conduct on the throne, which he
filled greatly and with a great humanity from the hour he was called
to it.  He was beloved by all sorts and conditions of men, who felt
that when he died they had lost a great friend, the State a great
servant, our country {17} a great King.  "The King is dead: long live
the King."

Of the present Prince of Wales it may be truly said, in the words of
Shakespeare: "Thy noble grandfather doth live again in thee."



{18}

II

PLACE AUX DAMES

"For some we loved, the loveliest and the best"


It is a long cry back to 1878, when we had Jenny Lind for our guest
and we had the pleasure of hearing her sing; there cannot be many
people living who have listened to a trill from the throat of the
"Swedish Nightingale."  My wife and I first met her at Pontresina,
where she was staying with her husband--"Little Otto," as we called
Mr. Goldschmidt.  It is difficult to describe that gifted
creature--plain in feature, insignificant in figure--until she opened
her lips: then everything changed--she cast a spell round her and
became idealised.

[Sidenote: The black box]

I remember, too, the humour with which the great lady told and acted
an amusing incident that occurred on one of her travelling operatic
tours when she appeared at a different place every evening.  This was
not altogether lost; my wife reproduced it afterwards.  All the
members of the company were seated in the train except the tenor, a
funny-looking little {19} fat man who stammered painfully when
speaking, but sang without a trace of his affliction.  Just on the
point of starting he appeared in a state of excitement at the door of
the great songstress's compartment, having discovered that a large
black box which contained her wardrobe had been left behind.  He
hurriedly opened the door and stammered violently: "Mad-ame,
Mad-ame."  "Yes, yes."  The poor tenor got a step further: "The
b-b-b-b--"  The bewildered lady cried, "What is it?  What's the
matter?"  Still the afflicted tenor, stammering more and more, could
only answer, "The b-b-b-----"  "Yes, yes, yes, but what is the
b-b-b--, my dear fellow?"  The stammer nearly choked the wretched
creature as he gasped, "The bl-bl-bl-bl----"  "Sing it, sing it, for
mercy's sake, sing it!" cried the diva.  The tenor lapsed
dramatically into recitative: "All, I fear, is lost!"  "Go on, go on.
What's lost?"  "I fe-ar--is lost!"  "Go on, tell us, go on, what's
lost?"  The wretched tenor struck an attitude as he sang, "The black
box!"  "Yes, yes, what about it?"  The only answer was, "The black
box!"  "What of it, man?" cried the poor lady in despair.  The tenor
reached his highest note as he shrieked, "The black box has been
for-got-t-en!"  Jenny Lind fell back in her corner and {20} muttered:
"Great Heaven!  I shall have no clothes!"

The whistle sounded, the tenor was hoisted into his compartment, and
the train started.

I recall another story of how when a great composer--I think it was
Meyerbeer--died, a pushing musician sent a great musician the score
of a funeral march, which he had written in honour of the illustrious
man who had passed away, with the hope that it might be played at his
burial, and asking for a candid opinion of its merits.  He was
rebuffed by a judgment to the effect that things would have shaped
better had he himself died and Meyerbeer undertaken to compose a
funeral march.

It is bewildering to contrast the modest fees earned in Jenny Lind's
day, and by gifted creatures like Malibran, Grisi and Mario (the pair
sang in large houses for about thirty guineas) with the fabulous
figures reached by such artists as Melba, Caruso and Paderewski in
recent times.

There is a pretty medallion of Jenny Lind on the walls of Westminster
Abbey, and I am glad that a statue has now been erected to her memory
in the capital of her native land.

Another glorious songstress, Adelina Patti, was our friend for many
years.  She invited {21} us to stay at her Welsh castle, but we could
not go.  She amassed wealth and also charmed the world longer than
any of her rivals.  It has been truly said that the harp-strings
slumber until touched by a magic hand: the echo of her wonderful
voice still beats in human hearts, although its music has ended in
the silence that waits for us all.

[Sidenote: "Sarah"]

In this little chapter--devoted to honoured women who have been our
guests--mention must be made of one so famed as Sarah Bernhardt, the
first actress to receive the Legion d'Honneur.  My wife and I met
her, and sat by her side, at the Mansion House, the occasion being a
luncheon given by the then Lord Mayor in 1879 to the members of the
Comédie Française, which comprised a group of players no theatre then
could equal or has ever equalled since.  I recall an amusing incident
which occurred at the banquet concerning two busts--one of Nelson,
the other of Wellington--which prominently adorned the room we were
in, called the Long Parlour.  We were obliged to assure "the divine
Sarah" and her angry comrades that the Lord Mayor meant no slight to
them or to their country in not having the offending busts removed,
and also had to defend his lordship for not wearing his robes and
chain of office, and for being {22} unaccompanied by sword and mace
bearers.  Incredible, but true.

The finest piece of acting I ever saw from "Sarah" was at the
_répétition générale_ in Paris of Sardou's play _Fédora_.  She rose
to great heights, and held a brilliantly composed audience under a
spell and in her grasp.  Among those present, I remember well, were
Alexandre Dumas, Alphonse Daudet, and Georges Ohnet; Got and
Coquelin; Blanche Pierson and Maria Legault.

Edward Pigott, who was then the official Reader of Plays, wrote to me:

"The English version of _Fédora_ is an admirable piece of literary
workmanship.  It reads almost like an English original.  The part is
all Sarah.  It is written exactly to her measure--that electric play
of feature and gesture, that nervous intensity, that range of power
and variety of accent, and sudden changefulness of mood, which belong
to the feline instinct or temperament."

Later on, when I saw that great actress--so soon to be a legend, a
tradition--Eleanora Duse, play in _Fédora_ I learnt that Sardou and
Sarah had left some things unthought of.

Here is a little letter from the brilliant Frenchwoman:

{23}

"BIEN CHÈRE, MADAME,

"Je vous remercie mille fois pour vos si belles roses et l'aimable
lettre de Monsieur Bancroft.  Je suis très heureuse que vous ayez
pris plaiser à m'entendre, et très touchée que deux artistes de votre
valeur m'accordent du talent.

"Veuillez me croire reconnaissante, et agréez, Madame, je vous prie,
mes meilleurs sentiments.

"SARAH BERNHARDT."


Years afterwards, on the fiftieth anniversary of the great actress's
first appearance on the stage, my wife was chosen to present a
testimonial which had been prepared in her honour, in the presence of
a remarkable gathering in which Monsieur Paul Cambon, the honoured
French Ambassador to our Court for so many years, took a prominent
part.

These were some of her words:


"Dear Madame Bernhardt, or, as you have so closely fastened yourself
to our hearts 'with hoops of steel,' I hope you will allow me to say,
dear Sarah.  My words will be brief, but they come from my heart--the
heart of a comrade and friend.  Since my retirement no greater
pleasure has befallen me than I feel at this moment, and when I was
invited to perform {24} this delightful ceremony I was proud to be
remembered and to be thought worthy to have the honour of presenting
this tribute to your genius; an endorsement, as it were, of the force
and value of the _Entente Cordiale_ which so happily unites our two
great countries.  Your fame belongs to all the world--the homage of
every land is yours.  Your name will live with those of Siddons,
Rachel and Ristori.  You have shed lustre and glory on the beautiful
art you have so long and nobly served and in which you reign supreme."


The great woman took the opportunity to repeat her opinion given to a
mutual friend, Hamilton Aidé, years before, of my wife's acting as
Peg Woffington.

[Sidenote: Aimée Desclée]

But great as she was, unequalled in technique, wonderful in the range
of her art, perfect in her command of every tone in her beautiful
language, Sarah Bernhardt was never to my mind quite free from the
blemish--it may be thought heresy to say so--of being something of a
show-woman.  The drum was too big in her orchestra, while I always
considered her to be surpassed in the reality of emotion and passion
by one other woman I have seen upon the stage--Aimée Desclée.  No
other serious actress, to my mind, took more absolute {25} possession
of her audience.  I doubt if even Rachel could have eclipsed her.
Her acting in _Froufrou_, her original part, was supreme.  The
quarrel with her sister I can best describe as a whirlwind of
dramatic art in its highest form, as was the pathos with which--when
she had wrecked her life and gone away with her lover--she moaned:
"_Une heure de colère, et voilà ou j'en suis._"  Only those who are
now quite old can have seen Desclée.  Her fame was achieved in a few
brief years, as she died in the flower of youth, being little more
than thirty, if my memory serves me, in 1873.  When Sarah then was
asked her opinion of Desclée's acting she answered, "Truth!"  She
made no claim to beauty, but possessed more "magnetism"--I know no
better word--unclouded by exaggeration than any of her rivals.  Had
Desclée been spared to act for twenty years her name would have lived
among the immortals.

Alexandre Dumas thus wrote of her:


"Nothing remains of what was once so dear.  Let us regret this great
artist, but pity not her death.  She has won the rest for which she
prayed.  Her best reward is death.  Of the details of her actual life
I have told you nothing.  Where was she born?  How was she brought
up?  Where did she first appear?  {26} What became of her?  What
matters it at all?  A woman like her has no biography.  She touched
our souls: and she is dead.  There is her history."


[Sidenote: Réjane]

Another Frenchwoman whose name and fame give her an honoured place
among the great ones, was Réjane.  Our acquaintance began with a
visit she paid us behind the scenes at the Haymarket when she was
quite young.  My wife at the time was acting the part first played by
Réjane in a play by Sardou, called _Odette_.

She was never a guest at our table at home, but only when we met in
France.  Her art was the embodiment of abiding charm in _Ma Cousine_,
in _La Vierge Folle_, in _Madame Sans-Gêne_, and many another play.
Paris loved her and she loved Paris.  How they must miss each other!

She was proud of her Montmartre origin, where she passed a poor and
hard-working youth, painting fans and teaching.  She told the company
assembled to celebrate her nomination to the _Légion d'Honneur_, that
it was at Montmartre she learnt her art and at Montmartre, in contact
with lovers of the theatre, that she perfected it.

I remember the days in London when her {27} carriage was drawn by a
pair of Spanish mules and people would struggle for a glimpse of her
fascinating, though not beautiful, face.  The last time I saw Réjane
was at the Queen's Hall, during the War, when she recited Émile
Cammaerts's poem, _Carillon_, to the music written for it by the
composer, Edward Elgar, who conducted it himself.  All concerned
seemed to be inspired and gave you out of themselves some minutes of
ecstasy; just as Karsavina and Nijinsky did in _The Spectre of The
Rose_ at Covent Garden, before the War.  These are things which are
yours while memory lasts.

[Sidenote: Modjeska]

A dear friend and guest was the brilliant Helena Modjeska.  Like the
distinguished actor, Fechter, she never quite mastered the
difficulties of the English tongue, but again, as in the Frenchman,
her foreign accent became a fascination.  She ran the great Sarah
very close in _La Dame aux Camélias_.  Her performance was the more
spiritual: she seemed to have sacrificed purity only through passion
and was ever fighting for Divine forgiveness.  You almost had doubts
if she could have so sinned, but none as to her salvation.  My wife
could give a most dramatic imitation of their different treatments of
the tragic end, when with difficulty the feeble, outstretched {28}
hands reached a table-mirror and they looked upon their dying faces.
It was hard to decide if the heart-rending, pitiful wail with which
the one murmured, "How changed I am!" was surpassed by the terrifying
awe which slowly spread over the emaciated face of the other.  Both
were supreme moments in their beautiful art.

I recall an incident at a dinner given by Madame Modjeska and her
husband, when the subject of an unhappy break-up of what seemed a
happy marriage through an unfortunate lapse on the husband's part
became the topic.  The lady by my side said passionately: "That is an
indiscretion, an outrage, a sin, call it what you will, I could never
forgive--whoever the woman might be."  She paused for a moment and
added: "With one exception--Ellen Terry.  Any man _ought_ to be
forgiven."

Let me say a word about an Irish girl born at Limerick but taken to
America in her childhood; the delightful, alluring Ada Rehan.  She
and Irving were our guests, both for the last time, together, I
remember, and when they sat side by side.  No words of mine could
compete with those I copy, written by one who had followed Ada
Rehan's art in every phase:


{29}

"The secret of her allurement was elusive.  Among its elements were
absolute sincerity, the manifest capability of imparting great
happiness, triumphant personal beauty, touched and softened by a
wistful and sympathetic sadness, and that controlling and compelling
instinct, essentially feminine, which endows with vital import every
experience of love, and creates a perfect illusion in scenes of
fancied bliss or woe."


[Sidenote: Gifted women]

It has been a pleasant task to pay my tribute to brilliant artists of
foreign birth; I do not wish to write of gifted women now before the
public, but let me render homage to comrades of the stage in days
gone by who were born in these isles, and who reigned in their
kingdom with a splendour equal to the great of any land.  That
mistress of her beautiful art, Madge Kendal; the incomparable Ellen
Terry; the glorious and unique Mrs. John Wood; and Marie
Bancroft--the salt of the art they adorned, who, in their bright
springtime and their affluent summer, filled the scene: all as
distinct from one another as Raphael from Rubens, as Watts from
Whistler, yet each stamping the mark of her personality on every part
she played, and of whom it might be said the deaf could hear them in
their eloquent faces: the blind could see them {30} in their vibrant
voices.  Deep is the debt which never can be paid for the cares they
lightened, for the sorrows they soothed; they dragged creatures from
the books wherein they were born, making them live, their hearts
beating, their pulses throbbing, and enshrined their joyousness in
many grateful memories.

The mantle of the great must be of their own weaving; on other
shoulders it is bound to be a misfit.

It is pleasant to have one's views confirmed; the more so in the
judgment of a distinguished American man of letters whose knowledge
of people connected with the stage was remarkable.


"Our age indeed has no Colley Cibber to describe their loveliness and
celebrate their achievements; but surely if he were living at this
hour, that courtly, characteristic, and sensuous writer--who saw so
clearly and could portray so well the peculiarities of the feminine
nature--would not deem the period of Marie Bancroft and Ellen Terry,
of Clara Morris and Ada Rehan, of Sarah Bernhardt and Jane Hading,
unworthy of his pen.  As often as fancy ranges over those bright
names and others that are kindred with them--a glistering sisterhood
of charms and talents--the regret must arise that no literary artist
with just the {31} gallant spirit, the chivalry, the fine insight and
the pictorial touch of old Cibber is extant to perpetuate their
glory."


[Sidenote: Ouida]

I turn to another calling, and can say something of two distinguished
women whose fame was earned as writers of fiction--Ouida (Louise de
la Ramée) and Miss Braddon (Mrs. Maxwell).  They were much of an age,
but their careers had no other resemblance; except in their enormous
vogue and hold upon the public of their day.

The name "Ouida" was a nursery corruption of Louisa.  She had an
English mother and a French father, but lived chiefly in Italy.

My wife and I first met her at the Langham Hotel, where she stayed
when in London--as odd to look upon as she was pleasant to talk with.
She had strange large eyes of a sort of dark blue and, in her white
satin gown and sandalled shoes, was strangely reminiscent of
mid-Victorian days.  She always wore white frocks in the summer time
and, as I was told, black velvet in the winter months.

We hoped Ouida might, as she earnestly wished, write a play for us,
but she got no further than a title.  Of her novels, if I remember
rightly, quite a fairly good play was {32} concocted from _Moths_.
She had a great appreciation of my wife, both on and off the stage,
and we valued her friendship.  There are few readers nowadays, I
suppose, of _Under Two Flags_, _Puck_, or _Two Little Wooden Shoes_,
which engrossed the public of her time.  She was proud of the fact
that Bulwer Lytton read every book she wrote.

As an instance of her "style," here is a description of a young
Italian peasant girl:


"The marigolds and the sunflowers had given her their ripe rich gold
to tint her hair; the lupins had lent their azure for her eyes; the
moss-rose buds had made her pretty mouth; the arum lilies had
uncurled their softness for her skin; and the lime blossoms had given
her their frank, fresh, innocent fragrance."


Ouida would have had no vogue in these times.  She violently opposed
female suffrage and expressed her view that "millions of ordinary
women have as little of the sage in them as of the angel."

As for the new woman, she wrote of her as "violating every law alike
of common sense and of artistic fitness, and yet comes forward as a
fit and proper person to make laws for others."  She was strong in
her views that {33} the private lives of all artists are not fit
objects of curiosity, and was firm in declining, in unedited
language, to be interviewed.  Ouida was undoubtedly an eccentric,
with a golden heart, and a passion for dogs.  She died in her beloved
Italy, alas! in abject poverty, mainly due, I fear, to her
unpractical nature and her uncurbed generosities.  No one is left to
tell us what became of all the lovely things by which she was
surrounded in her prosperous days at the Florentine Villa Farinola.
I think she rests in peace.

Not long before the end my wife received this letter from her:


"DEAR THALIA,

"I have been and am still very ill.  For two days I was near death.
I should grieve to leave my dear dogs.  Their lives are too short in
comparison with their devotion.  I got your long letter after some
delay and fear many letters are lost between Italy and England.  I
have seen a bag filled with the contents of pillar-boxes reposing in
sweet solitude on the pavement of a deserted street in Florence!

"I am so glad that you and your dear husband are well and happy....
I wish I could come and see you all and the dear old country where
its sons and daughters {34} are never content except when they are
out of it.

"Love to you and Sir Squire.  Believe me, always your and his admirer
and friend.

"OUIDA."


[Sidenote: Miss Braddon]

I was a young actor in the country, full sixty years ago, when a new
novel appeared which made the writer of it--a girl in her
twenties--famous throughout the land.  The book was _Lady Audley's
Secret_.  The girl was Miss Braddon.  The fame of the new novel
spread like wildfire and the rush for its three volumes--most novels
were so published in those days--was extraordinary.

From one of the old Strand Theatre burlesques I recall words like
these: "Always a lady's secret I respect, save _Lady Audley's Secret_
which that deep Mudie lets out and won't let people keep."

Dickens and Thackeray were still alive and at work, as were George
Eliot, Bulwer Lytton and Wilkie Collins.

Miss Braddon's own share reached more than seventy novels in more
than fifty years of work.  We knew her for many of those years, and
loved her company, here in London, as in Switzerland and Italy.

In a long railway journey we took together {35} from Lugano to
Boulogne some anxiety arose as we neared the sea about what the
"crossing" would be like.  I remember Mrs. Maxwell's amusement at my
wife's saying: "I don't feel comfortable about it; the small boats
and fishing-smacks in harbour are too polite to each other, with
their little bows and curtseys.  I fear we shall find things more
quarrelsome when we have crossed the bar."

The famous novelist was an open-air woman, at home in a saddle, loved
to follow the hounds, and was devoted to her dogs, her cats and her
birds.  She adored Dickens, had great admiration for Balzac, and
placed George Eliot on a lofty pedestal.  The way she did her work
was the oddest thing in the world.  She huddled herself up in a
little low chair, made a desk of her knees, and wrote for hours in
that position.

Happily, she bountifully bequeathed her power over the pen to her son
"Willie," who has the affection of his troops of friends.

I will close this chapter with a reference, full of kind thoughts and
remembrances, to one of the most remarkable, as she was one of the
most delightful, women my wife and I ever had the privilege to
know--Lady Dorothy Nevill.  She was a great little lady--happy,
blithesome, clever, and so gay.

{36}

At her Sunday luncheon parties in Charles Street, one met everybody
worth knowing and heard pretty well everything worth listening to.
There assembled folk of all opinions and of every class and
calling--honey gathered from many a hive.

[Sidenote: A great little lady]

Few people could have had--and kept--three such different friends as
Cobden, Disraeli and Chamberlain; but the little lady knew how to
deal with contradictions.  Her sense of humour was as keen as a razor.

Happily for us, Lady Dorothy loved a play and rejoiced in visits to
our theatre.  She had a great affection for my wife.  Often and
often, generally in the early winter evenings, she would dismiss her
carriage at our door, walk upstairs to the second floor, and sit for
hours with her.  When she left she declined all help or offer to be
seen safely home, preferring to walk there in the dark, facing two
crossings on her way, and this when she was more than eighty years of
age.

Her reminiscences, edited by her son, Ralph Nevill, are delightful
reading, while the characteristic portrait painted of her in early
life by Watts--so happily reproduced--will tell you what she looked
like.  It helps you to feel that she uttered no ill of anyone.

{37}

Lady Dorothy once said to me: "One of the greatest treats I can now
be given is to be taken by a strong young man to Piccadilly, there to
be hoisted on to the top of a 'bus, and driven through the City to
Whitechapel, with time to look in at the London Hospital on my way
back."

I repeat--a great little lady.



{38}

III

THE CHURCH

"There is, I know not how, in the minds of men, a certain presage, as
it were, of a future existence; and this takes the deepest root, and
is most discoverable in the greatest geniuses and most exalted
souls."--CICERO.


We have not been honoured with the friendship of distinguished
members of the Church so intimately as to leave many empty chairs
once filled by them, but I can write something in affectionate
remembrance of a few.

[Sidenote: J. M. Bellew]

The first prominent clergyman whom we knew was that strange creature
Bellew, first as the Reverend J. M. Bellew, when he preached at a
church in Bloomsbury and drew large congregations, having previously
enjoyed great popularity at St. Mark's, Hamilton Terrace.  He was
gifted with an exceptionally fine voice and a striking appearance.  I
never heard the death chapter from the Corinthians better read than
by him--it was dramatic without being theatrical.  There was,
however, a pitfall into which he used to stumble when he attacked the
Commandments--in the Fifth {39} he thundered out the first three
words "Honour thy father," then dropped his voice to its softest
tones, quietly murmuring, "and thy mother."

Later on, he became both friend and neighbour.

I will repeat a story he told of another neighbour, a canon of the
Church, who wore the most palpable of wigs, which took every shade of
colour in the sunlight, but was blindly convinced in his own mind
that no one shared his secret.  Bellew met this friend one morning as
he was leaving his house, and suggested their proceeding together.
"Delighted," said the owner of the many-coloured "jasey"; "I am going
to Bond Street _to get my hair cut_."  The pretender went so far as
to have various wigs of different lengths to aid the evident
deception.

In middle life Bellew appeared as a public reader and reciter here
and in America, having left the Church of England, and become a
devout Roman Catholic, in which faith he died.

Henry White, the Chaplain of the Chapel Royal, Savoy, as it then was,
was many a time a welcome Sunday guest, almost invariably punctual,
though always begging to be forgiven should he not be.  His letters,
carefully {40} sealed with the Savoy arms, were full of quotations,
such as, "I cannot tell you how much I value the friendship you have
allowed me to enjoy so long: 'my love's more richer than my tongue,'"
while his interesting sermons were often described as "elegant
extracts."  His reading of the Litany was peculiarly impressive.  The
Baroness Burdett-Coutts was a frequent member of his restricted
congregation.  I left an evening party in his company long years ago,
when we walked together towards our different homes.  On the way I
put a straight question to him on a sacred subject.  His answer was
frank enough: "If it is in my power to be of use to you, or indeed to
any man, it can only be from my pulpit."  He tried his utmost to
persuade me to read the Lessons in the Chapel Royal.  I firmly
declined, adding that if I consented I should ask to be allowed to
select them.  "Even that," he said, "might be arranged."

An old, and to us, dearly-loved friend who also enjoyed his Sunday
visits, was the Sub-Dean of the Chapels Royal, Canon Edgar Sheppard.
Our hospitality was returned by him and Mrs. Sheppard at their quaint
old home adjoining Marlborough House Chapel: and I also knew the
Canon in his other home, {41} so picturesque, in the precincts of
Windsor Castle.  One of his last public services was held for me when
my sorrow came.  His friendship had so long been valued by my wife;
the kindness shown to me then, as well as by his son, the present
vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, dwells sacredly in my memory, and
will be referred to in the final chapter of this book.

[Sidenote: Archdeacon Wilberforce]

Archdeacon Wilberforce--who belonged to the 1841 "Vintage"--was also
our friend.  He drew large congregations to the church of St. John
the Evangelist, Westminster--that odd-looking building which looks
rather like an elephant sprawling on his back with his short legs in
the air.  I recall an afternoon when we were the guests of Mrs.
Wilberforce and himself in Dean's Yard; he took us aside and said
they were asking some of their friends to linger when the party broke
up, as they had a treat to follow.  We gladly did so, and were well
repaid, being conducted to the Abbey by the Archdeacon, and seated in
the choir.  Presently Sir Frederick Bridge--("Westminster Bridge
")--another old friend who has left an empty chair--broke the
silence--the tones of the organ swelled out--when, from by his side
in the loft and out of sight, the wonderful voice of Clara Butt {42}
sang "Abide with Me."  There are moments in life, and that was one,
the remembrance of which can never fade; this we felt, as afterwards
we went from the Abbey in the falling light.

I recall an occasion when both Bishop Ellicott and Archdeacon
Wilberforce were staying at Birchington.  The Bishop was gravely ill.
We had known him in the Engadine and at the Bel Alp, and had also
been to those musical parties in Great Cumberland Place, to which
Mrs. Ellicott and all her family were so passionately and unceasingly
devoted that they seemed to fill their lives.  The Bishop was always
expected to be a listener.  My wife drove to the bungalow where the
Bishop was, to ask after him, and, to her delight, was told he would
like to see her.  She found the Archdeacon by his side, and as she
approached his chair the Bishop was thanking him for "kind and
comforting words," adding: "I hope, my dear friend, when it shall
please God to take me, He will graciously grant me a little
niche--and _not too near the music!_"

The Archdeacon's love of animals is well known.  He adored his dogs,
and at a garden-party showed us the graves of little lost friends by
the Cloisters, dwelling in a {43} most interesting way on his belief
in their after-life.  In support of this, I recall an incident told
by my old comrade, John Hare, when he had a seaside home at
Overstrand.  The Archdeacon visited him one day: and Hare, who was
never without a dog, put a question to him.

"Do you really believe, Archdeacon," he asked, "in a hereafter for
our dogs?"

"Indeed I do."

"But do you mean that I shall meet my dog again?"

"Undoubtedly--if you are good enough!"

[Sidenote: Father Bernard Vaughan]

A friend whom it was always a pleasure to welcome or to meet was
Father Bernard Vaughan.  We became acquainted many years ago at
Manchester, where my wife and I were acting.  He was then the rector
of a church there, and would come and see us at our hotel, and tell
us Lancashire stories.  From time to time he visited us in London,
and later on at our seaside home.

He never spoke a word to me on religious subjects, knowing, I
suppose, that I did not chance to belong to the beautiful faith which
he and his many brothers and sisters so devoutly served as priests
and nuns, beginning with the eminent Cardinal.  Father Bernard
Vaughan attracted crowded congregations, {44} drawn from all degrees
of creed, to Farm Street, there to listen to his outspoken sermons on
the Sins of Society.  They were both romantic and emotional, with
sentences to the effect that unless England fed the fires of religion
with the fuel of faith she might wake one day to the sound of a
passing bell tolling her soul's death.

The circumstances in which I first saw Dr. Boyd-Carpenter, then the
Bishop of Ripon, were comical, although the scene of them was a place
of worship.  I have a predilection for a good sermon, and at one
period made a practice of hearing the best English preachers of the
day, no matter what their particular aspect of the Faith might be.
On a Saturday I read in _The Times_ that the Bishop of Ripon was to
preach at the Chapel Royal, Whitehall; so I determined to go and
listen.

The Chapel Royal, Whitehall, exists no more, but at that time it
occupied the first floor of the old banqueting hall (from one of the
windows of which King Charles I stepped forth to his execution),
since given over to the Royal United Services Institution.  The hall
was not, from the clergy's point of view, well adapted to its sacred
purpose, for there was no vestry, or, at any rate, no separate
entrance for the officiating minister, who could only {45} enter the
chapel by the staircase in the same way as the general public.

[Sidenote: The verger's mistake]

Presenting myself on a wintry morning, some time before the appointed
hour, after fighting my way up the crowded staircase, I found the
chapel already full, when the verger, catching sight of and
recognising me, whispered that if I waited a moment he would find a
seat for me among the front rows.  Just then I felt someone trying to
push past me, and looking down saw a small and energetic figure, the
head swathed in a large white muffler, eagerly struggling to make
towards the altar.  The verger, prompt but polite, attempted to stop
the vigorous little man.  "You really can't, sir; there isn't another
empty place."

What was the good man's surprise and confusion to receive the answer,
in a telling stage whisper: "But I've come to preach!"

The intruder was no other than the Bishop, then in the prime of life.
When at last he reached the pulpit, he preached so fine a sermon that
though my watch told me it lasted only five minutes short of an hour,
it seemed to occupy less than the half of one.

Another trenchant and dramatic sermon I recall was preached by
Boyd-Carpenter in the Abbey soon after the death of Tennyson, {46}
when the Bishop shattered an idea which had got abroad that the great
poet had no faith in an after-life.  Who, I wonder, could have
attributed such thoughts to the man who wrote: "I hope to meet my
Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar"?  The only time I saw
the Victorian Poet Laureate, a picturesque figure, was on board a
Channel steamer.  He passed the time between Calais and Dover on the
bridge, talking with the captain and smoking a short clay pipe.

Acquaintance with the Bishop soon followed the episode at the Chapel
Royal, and, I rejoice to add, warm friendship with my wife and myself
both in London and at our seaside home, which lasted until his death.

There is a story told of the Bishop--which may or may not be true--of
his being rudely interrupted at a public meeting by the query if he
believed Jonah was really swallowed by the whale.  The Bishop said
that if he got to heaven he would try to find out.  The man in the
crowd answered loudly: "But suppose he is not there?"  The Bishop at
once replied: "Then you'll have to ask him."  For my own part, I have
always thought that Jonah's condition was like that of a vulgar
tourist--he travelled much and saw little.

[Sidenote: Speaking and reading]

I remember well a happy week-end passed {47} with the Bishop at his
palace, and a delightful drive in the snow to Fountains Abbey.  It
was then that he persuaded me to undertake the difficult task of
saying something at a forthcoming Church Congress on "The Art of
Speaking and Reading," and I devoted time and thought to so important
a subject.

I began by saying that it was customary for a clergyman to preface
his sermon by a text from the Bible, but that I, as an actor, would
begin my address with a quotation from Shakespeare to be found in the
comedy of _Much Ado About Nothing_: "Happy are they that hear their
detractions and can put them to mending."

This text, if I may so call it, led to some remarks on the affinity
between the words of Shakespeare and the pages of Holy Writ.  The
same inspired truths so abound throughout them both as to prove that
the poet was a student of the Scriptures.  There could be no firmer
bond between Church and Stage; it must, for all time, be the
strongest link, for both books are eternal.

I called to mind the care and cost lavished upon choral services in
our cathedrals, the pains taken to acquire the skill melodiously to
chant the Litany: why were not the same labour, the like devotion
bestowed upon the {48} teaching of young clergymen to speak audibly
and to control a congregation?  One could not but be amazed at
glaring instances of false emphasis in the dull recital of the Order
for Morning Prayer: surely such a monument of learning and piety
should be spared such treatment.

I dared to add that I had heard the Bible read--now and then very
beautifully, often very vilely.  That I had listened to such extracts
as tell of the death of Absalom, of the death of Jezebel, of Daniel
in the Den, of the Prodigal's Return, read as though the moving
stories were little more dramatic than so many stale problems in
Euclid; and had heard St. Paul's funeral chapter so droned as to make
the hallowed bones of the Apostle who bequeathed it to humanity turn
in their resting-place.  On the other hand, I had heard the same
words read so truthfully by men who are living and men who are dead,
as to be a lasting memory.

[Sidenote: The actor and the bishop]

It was natural on my part to draw attention to the resemblance which
exists between the great preacher and the famous player, not only for
the mighty sermons he can preach, but because, when his work is done,
when he has for ever left the pulpit or the stage, the "divine spark"
is extinguished; his voice, {49} his fascination, his originality,
are soon but memories; while his renown too often rests upon the
imperfect records of tradition.  The personality of John Knox must
remain a mystery; the tragic tones of Sarah Siddons can be heard no
more.  What would the young parson not give to hear Martin Luther
preach?  What would I not give to see David Garrick act?  "Into the
night go one and all."

I reminded my listeners of the answer David Garrick gave to the
bishop who asked him this question: "Can you tell me, sir, why it is
that you players, who deal with romance, can yet profoundly move an
audience, while we preachers, who deal with reality, fail to do so?"
"Yes, my lord, I can.  It is because we players act fiction as if it
were the truth; while you preachers too often speak of truth as
though it were but fiction."

Thackeray wrote: "There is an examiner of plays, and there ought to
be an examiner of sermons."  I would go further, and urge that every
curate should pass an examination in the art of preaching before he
is allowed to mount a pulpit.  A bad preacher will empty a church
more easily than a good preacher will fill one.  It was well said,
also, by an eminent {50} minister in the Nonconformist Church, the
late Dr. Parker:


"To-day the man who would preach with true and lasting effect must be
sincere, intelligent, and sympathetic--in a word, he must be a man, a
teacher, a friend.  Preaching is the most impertinent of all
impertinences if there is not behind it and round about it a sense of
authority other and better than human."


The best advice I can remember was once given by my wife, in a single
sentence, to a public speaker who consulted her on the subject; she
said simply: "Don't be afraid of opening your mouth, and don't forget
that the roof of it is Nature's sounding-board."

Bishop Boyd-Carpenter, as some may still recollect, was honoured with
the personal friendship of the late Empress Frederick of Germany.  In
connection with that unhappy lady, the eldest daughter of Queen
Victoria, and our Princess Royal, he told me an interesting story,
the point of which was to be proved tragically true in later years.

The Bishop was summoned to Germany to give the Empress the
consolations of religion in a grave illness.  The Prince of Wales,
who had hastened to the bedside of his favourite {51} sister, in the
kindness of his peace-loving heart was attempting to smooth over the
notorious differences between the suffering lady and her son, the
ex-Kaiser, who, as is well-known, had treated her with unfilial
harshness.  But the Empress knew Wilhelm too well to hope for
reconciliation.  She laid her hand on her brother's arm, saying sadly
and earnestly: "Bertie, your country has no greater enemy than my
son."

[Sidenote: A Mohammedan legend]

Among my papers I find a letter from Boyd-Carpenter, redeeming a
promise which he had made over the dinner-table to look up for me a
Mohammedan legend upon which he had preached a remarkable sermon:


"When God made the earth it shook to and fro till He put the
mountains on it to keep it firm.

"Then the angels asked: 'O God, is there anything in Thy creation
stronger than those mountains?'

"And God replied: 'Iron is stronger than the mountains, for it breaks
them.'

"'And is there anything in Thy creation stronger than iron?'

"'Yes, fire is stronger than iron, because it melts it.'

"'Is there anything stronger than fire?'

"'Yes, water, for it quenches fire.'

"'Is there anything stronger than water?'

{52}

"'Yes, wind, for it puts water in motion.'

"'O, our Sustainer, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than
wind?'

"'Yes, a good man giving alms: if he give with his right hand and
conceal it from his left he overcomes all things.'"


[Sidenote: The wrong train]

I may here relate an unaccountable blunder I committed when on my way
to do a little service for the Bishop at Bradford.  At that time
there were two express trains to the North, one from Euston, the
other from King's Cross; both started at 1.30.  Full of thought, I
drove to Euston instead of to King's Cross.  When I asked for a
ticket there was some delay; at last it was given to me with the name
of my destination written upon it in ink.  I thought it strange that
tickets for so important a place should be out of print, but took my
seat in the train; and it was only when well beyond Rugby that I
realised what I had done.  Eventually, after hurried, anxious talk
with the authorities at Stafford, I got out at Stockport.  There, in
great excitement, I ordered a special train and telegraphed home to
allay anxiety.  Some difficulties about the special were overcome by
earnest appeals to disregard cost, as I was prepared to pay anything
demanded of me, for never in my life had I failed to keep an {53}
appointment with the public, and should have been doubly distressed
at breaking an engagement in which I was doing the work without any
question of a fee.  Eventually I reached Bradford five minutes before
the time fixed for the entertainment.  To add to my troubles, the
confusion had driven out of my head the name of the hall where I was
to appear.  Fortunately, one of the flymen on the station rank
remembered it, and drove me quickly to its doors as the audience was
pouring in.  After inquiry at an hotel hard by--the same hotel in
which a few years later Irving stumbled in the hall and then fell
dead--I found the Bishop.  He had telegraphed to London for the cause
of my absence, and, receiving no explanation, had settled to fill my
place by giving his lecture on Dante; but on my appearance he drove
to the hall, asked for a short delay, explained the reason, and then
returned to fetch me.  I dressed as if by magic, swallowed some soup,
and, appearing on the platform only fifteen minutes late, was greeted
with great warmth.  I had never felt so pleased to face my audience.

The Bishop of Ripon, like myself, was born in the year 1841, and,
like myself, was proud to belong to that fine "vintage."

I am not likely to forget a dinner-party he {54} gave at his home in
the Abbey Cloisters in 1916 to a select band of "75's," or
"soixante-quinzes," as he called us.

The company included the Bishop of Chichester (Dr. Ridgeway),
Field-Marshal Lord Grenfell, Admiral Fisher, Lord Sanderson, Sir
Frank Lascelles, Sir Walter Parratt, Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace and
myself.  The late Lord Cromer was invited, but was prevented by
illness from being present.  Our host had not only prepared for us a
delightful evening, but had composed some appropriate verses for the
occasion, of which each guest was presented with a copy.  This is how
they ran:


  "1841-1916

  "The Fairies stood and watched the years
    'Till forth came Forty-one,
  The Fairies smiled and then they gave
    Their kiss to Forty-one.
  The vintage ripened well and good,
  That year must ever famous be,
  Because it brought forth you and me,
    The men of Forty-one.

  "The Fairies watch where kisses go
    In hope that they survive;
  Lo! great in arms by land[1] and sea[2]
    Their sons in valour thrive;
{55}
  In Russian lore[3], in minstrelsy[4],
  In mock[5] and true[6] diplomacy,
  Till brave in toil they came to be
    The men of Seventy-five.

  "Great William said 'Ripeness is all,'
    And we are Seventy-five,
  Old dogs are more than lions dead,
    And we are still alive!
  We need not fear age or mischance,
  In good we may and will advance,
  Like _soixante-quinzes_ in war-tossed France
    Our guns are good at Seventy-five."

  [1] Lord Grenfell.
  [2] Lord Fisher.
  [3] Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace.
  [4] Sir Walter Parratt.
  [5] Sir Squire Bancroft.
  [6] Sir Frank Lascelles.


The good Bishop did not live to see the return of Peace which
followed the triumphant victory of the _soixante-quinzes_ and their
Allies.  In the month before the Armistice was declared, he was laid
in his grave.  But he had not forgotten the happy gathering of 1916,
as is proved by the following treasured letter, which I received from
his son, Major Boyd-Carpenter:


  "6 LITTLE CLOISTERS,
      "WESTMINSTER,
          "_October_ 26, 1918.

"DEAR SIR SQUIRE BANCROFT,

"Shortly before my father's death he asked that 'a message of
greeting be sent to all the 77's.'  As you were one of those {56} who
joined him at the gathering he always remembered with such pleasure,
I am sending you this, his message.

  "Believe me,
      "Yours sincerely,
          "A. BOYD-CARPENTER."


More recently we lost another honoured friend in that remarkable and
distinguished man, Dr. Wace, the Dean of Canterbury.  When we had a
home by Folkestone he was often our guest, while we have enjoyed the
hospitality of himself and Mrs. Wace at the Deanery.  Their kindness
at all times to my wife is a happy remembrance.  The Dean loved a
good story: he told many and was an appreciative listener.

I always read the powerful letters which he wrote to _The Times_, and
could not but admire the strenuous blows he dealt with dauntless
courage on matters which were too profound for the likes of me.
Shortly before his lamented death I met the Dean at the Athenæum and,
during our talk, had more than one proof of the undiminished power of
his great memory.

[Sidenote: A disreputable trio]

As an end to this chapter I quote the most startling words I ever
heard from a pulpit, uttered by a prominent dignitary of the Church,
{57} in referring to the first chapter of Genesis, which had been the
lesson of the day: "Adam was a cad; Eve, I am afraid, was no better
than she should be; and for my part, I have long since regarded the
silent serpent as the most respectable of a disreputable trio."



{58}

IV

THE LAW

  "For pity is the virtue of the law,
  And none but tyrants use it cruelly."


There is a sort of affinity between the bar and the stage: actors are
attached to lawyers because lawyers are attached to actors; at least
that has been my experience--my wife and I were rich in their
friendship from very early days.

I have often thought there is a strong link between our callings.
The feelings of the distinguished counsel when he goes into court,
with all the anxious weight upon his mind, with all his grave
responsibility, cannot be unlike the feelings of the great actor on a
"first night," when his fame may be in peril.

I was once, when a child, taken to the House of Lords by my
grandfather; he pointed out to me the venerable Lord Brougham, who
was sitting in judgment with other Law Lords.  I remember that he
wore shepherd's plaid trousers, also his nose, the famous nose which
{59} was immortalised by Dicky Doyle on the mask which is being
dragged along the lower part of the title page of _Punch_.

[Sidenote: Cockburn, L. C. J.]

Lord Chief Justice Cockburn was the first great man we knew; our
meeting was at dinner, when we were young, at the house of Henry
Fothergill Chorley, a worshipper of Dickens and a prominent musical
critic of those days; two of the guests were "Mamie" Dickens, the
elder daughter of the great novelist, and Arthur Sullivan, then quite
young and a protégé of our host.

I have never forgotten the feeling of awe which came over me when the
butler announced, "The Lord Chief Justice of England."  I always
thought he looked less like a lawyer than an admiral, or the skipper
of his own beloved yacht, the _Sybil_.  My wife had the good fortune
to be placed next to the Lord Chief.  She had the gift of manners,
and was at home in any surroundings.  He took a great fancy to her,
and we enjoyed the charm of his friendship for about ten years, until
the end of his career.  In those days I thought his was the most
attractive male voice I ever listened to, whether on the Bench or in
a room--even during the lengthy summing-up of the Tichborne trial it
never grew monotonous--although I admit that, nowadays, the voices of
Johnston {60} Forbes-Robertson and Henry Ainley could run it very
close.

Let me add that the two most attractive female voices I have listened
to were owned by women widely apart in rank and station: one belonged
to Queen Victoria, the other to my wife, and both voices were
preserved unto old age.  It is pleasant to have this opinion
confirmed by no less a person than Ellen Terry, who wrote of my wife
"such a _very_ pretty voice--one of the most silvery voices I have
ever heard from any woman except the late Queen Victoria, whose voice
was like a silver stream flowing over golden stones."

The Lord Chief was a perfect host, well described as having the
vivacity of youth tempered by the wisdom of age.

He also adored music: it was almost certain you would meet its
professors at his house, and I recall memories of Madame Schumann,
Joachim and Piatti.  During a short time when my wife was not acting,
her delight was great at being taken by him to the _Monday Pops_.
Among his other accomplishments was an intimate acquaintance with
languages: his French was as near perfection as a foreigner could get
to.

[Sidenote: "Justice is blind"]

On one occasion when we had asked Sir Alexander Cockburn to dine with
us, my wife {61} took George Critchett, the eminent ophthalmic
surgeon and father of our lost friend, Sir Anderson, to him, saying:
"Let me present Mr. Critchett to you, Lord Chief; as Justice is said
to be blind, you may find his services useful."  On another, in reply
to a similar invitation, he wrote that he was just starting for
Geneva to preside at the Alabama Conference, and wished that
troublesome vessel had gone to the bottom of the sea the day she was
launched.  Soon afterwards, at the close of our annual Swiss holiday,
we passed through Geneva just at the time the Alabama claims were
settled there, and paid our respects to the Lord Chief at the old
Hôtel des Bergues, to the sound of guns firing and the glory of flags
flying.

This delightful friendship was broken suddenly.  It was in the year
we opened our newly rebuilt Haymarket Theatre, which he greatly
admired, that after presiding over an intricate case in Westminster
Hall, the Lord Chief left the haunts of justice and the "law's delay"
for the last time.  He dismissed his smart little brougham and walked
home to Hertford Street.  During the night came a fatal attack of
_angina pectoris_.

When I was a struggling country actor in Liverpool, so far back as
1864, I made the acquaintance of a struggling barrister on the {62}
Northern Circuit.  His name was Charles Russell, and he, too, became
Lord Chief Justice of England.  I enjoyed his friendship until his
death.  His personality was both dominating and downright.  You could
not be in a room with him and not be conscious of his presence.  No
man more firmly said what he meant and meant what he said, while his
Irish tongue was ever ready with the apt bright answer, as, for
instance, when, asked the severest sentence for bigamy, he answered:
"Two mothers-in-law!"  He was a relentless cross-examiner, and though
sometimes a sharp antagonist was always a friend.  There was no
littleness about him, and he had no use for a fool.

[Sidenote: Russell, L. C. J.]

When I started my hospital "readings," I made a point of avoiding any
suggestion of "creed," and arranged two recitals on behalf of Jewish
and Roman Catholic institutions: at the former the Chief Rabbi
presided, at the latter Cardinal Vaughan promised to do so, but was
prevented by sudden illness: his place was taken by the Lord Chief
Justice.  Soon afterwards I was asked to serve a cause which was
pronouncedly Protestant.  In talking over who was to be invited to
preside, I found the committee very desirous that Lord Russell should
be approached.  I pointed out that he, being a fervent Roman
Catholic, {63} could hardly be expected to comply, adding that he had
only quite recently presided at a "reading" of the same story which I
had given for the benefit of Catholics.  The committee, however, said
they could but be refused, and made their request.  Lord Russell
replied that I had gone out of my way to help a charity of his Faith,
and that he would gladly do the same for me.  The generous speech he
made on the occasion was a warm tribute to the Reverend William
Rogers--known widely as "Hang Theology Rogers."  I cherish the
remembrance of many acts of kindness shown to me and mine by Lord
Russell of Killowen, but not one of them touched me more than that I
have just related.

He was an ardent playgoer, with an intimate knowledge of Shakespeare,
and rarely missed first nights, or when a play of one of his many
friends was produced.  He loved a game--of cards or otherwise--and I
have seen him at Monte Carlo writhe because his exalted position
robbed him of the pleasure of a "flutter" at _trente-et-quarante_.
He was a real sportsman and a member of the Jockey Club.

I was greatly struck by a tribute the Lord Chief paid to an old
guest, a host and true friend of mine for many years, the late Sir
George Lewis.  It was at the close of the {64} Parnell trial, when he
spoke to this effect: "The most remarkable attribute in George Lewis
is not his great knowledge of the law, not his unrivalled skill in
conducting difficult cases, not his wonderful tact, not his genius
for compromise.  They are all beaten by his courage."

At a banquet given to Irving on his return from one of his tours in
the United States, I was seated next to Lord Russell, who, half-way
through the dinner, suddenly said to me: "I have to propose Irving's
health.  What shall I say?"  I replied that no one could answer the
question so well as himself.  However, the Chief persisted, with that
well-remembered, imperious manner of his, "Come, come, my friend, you
must have done it often: tell me what I am to say."  I recalled an
occasion when I had proposed Irving's health, and said that I spoke
of him as possessing "the strength of a man, the sweetness of a
woman, and the simplicity of a child."  Lord Russell turned to me
with the question, "How about the wisdom of a serpent?  I could not
have left that out."

[Sidenote: Alverstone, L. C. J.]

Lord Alverstone, so long known as "Dick" Webster, who succeeded
Russell, was Attorney-General, Master of the Rolls, and Lord Chief
Justice, all in the same year.  It was as Attorney-General that
Webster dined with {65} me, and I paid a pleasant visit in his
company to the Isle of Wight (which he represented in the House of
Commons) to do him a small service.

I have always understood that he was a great worker: one of the gang,
like Francis Jeune and Rufus Isaacs, who could light a fire and brew
tea at any ghastly hour a.m.

Soon after he became Lord Chief, Alverstone presided at the Annual
Dinner of the Actors' Benevolent Fund.  He made an eloquent appeal on
its behalf and generously headed the list of subscriptions.  This was
not the only instance of the real interest he took in the drama,
being of great service when the old Covent Garden Theatre Fund came
to an end.

He was no mean athlete, and fond of all sports; also a capital
singer--a conspicuous figure for many years in the choir of the
church in the Kensington High Street.

I have had the privilege to know, but not to act as their host, all
the eminent lawyers who have held the office of Lord Chief Justice of
England since the Cockburn days: Coleridge, Reading, Trevethin and
Hewart.

The late Lord Esher, Master of the Rolls, my wife and I had the
pleasure to know well and to delight in his friendship and
hospitality.  My acquaintance began when the Courts were {66} held in
Westminster Hall, and I was foreman of a jury before "Mr. Justice
Brett," in an interesting case, but troublesome to me, as it kept me
from important rehearsals.

In a New Year letter to my wife he addressed her as:


"DEAR FRIEND,--You are a very perplexing person to write to.  If I
say 'Dear old friend' it won't do in every sense: because, although
you are an old friend, you are in looks and ways a young woman.  If I
say 'Dear little friend,' it is a term of endearment--but you are a
very great person.  However, I begin by wishing you both a very happy
year.  If it is as prosperous as your goodness deserves I can wish
you in that respect no more.  I cannot tell you how I chafed under
not being able to see you in _Money_; but in the mornings I was in
Court, and in the evenings did not venture out!  Vile old age!!  Lady
Esher went to see you, and told me she had never seen anything more
charming than you.  With that I stop.  My love to you both.  Believe
me always a very true admirer and very truly yours."


Of all the judges I have known I think the imposing presence of Lord
Hannen on the Bench was second to none.  His dignity appealed to me
enormously when, through the kindness {67} of the Bar, I attended
some of the sittings of the Parnell Commission.  I remember my wife
saying to him at our table, when he was President of the Divorce
Court, that he seemed to her to pass too much of his life in
separating united couples.  His answer was that he passed much more
of it in wondering why the couples had ever wished to be joined
together.

[Sidenote: James of Hereford]

I never knew much of Lord James of Hereford, but saw a good deal in
early days of Mr. Henry James, a successful self-made barrister who
had just taken silk, and was on the way to the great position he
reached.

He was one of a little coterie which included Lord Anglesey, ("P."),
Millais, Merewether, Q.C., Hare, "Willie" Mathews, one or two others,
and myself, who played, with great zest, an old-fashioned card
game--four-handed cribbage.

James was made Attorney-General, refused the Lord Chancellorship, and
became a Peer.

I remember his once saying: "Fame has no Present; Popularity no
Future."

One of our early legal friends was Baron Huddleston.  When we first
met he was known as "the buck of the Bar," and always pleaded as
Counsel in black kid gloves.  We owed to him and "Lady 'Di'" many
happy visits in {68} delightful company to the Grange at Ascot.  He
had his vanities, and gloried in being written and spoken of as "The
Last of the Barons."

I was dining with Arnold Morley, at one time Postmaster General,
after Huddleston's funeral, when I "put my foot in it" more painfully
than ever in my life.  The little company comprised: John Morley,
Herbert Gardner, afterwards Lord Burghclere, Sir Charles Dilke,
George Lewis, Henry Labouchere, and one other man whose name I
forget.  During dinner Lewis said: "Oh!  Bancroft, I saw by an
evening paper that you were among Huddleston's friends to-day, tell
us about his cremation; what is it really like?"  Without thought I
let myself go and replied that when the coffin disappeared from view
Henry James (Lord James of Hereford) asked Sir Henry Thompson, the
pioneer and President of the new movement, if we could see any more.
Accompanied by Lord Falkland, we entered the inner compartment, so I
described what we there saw, it being remembered that cremation was
then in its infancy, adding that I revolted against the idea of
consigning the remains of a loved one to such a fate.  As I spoke my
eyes fell upon Sir Charles Dilke, and I was conscious that his late
wife had been {69} so treated.  It did not need the leer on
Labouchere's face to tell me so.

[Sidenote: St. Helier and Holker]

Lord St. Helier, who became President of the Divorce Court, was also
a kind friend of long standing.  My wife and I first met him as
Francis Jeune, when he was just foreshadowing his successful career,
at the house of Lady St. Helier, Mrs. John Stanley then, and soon
afterwards we passed them in a carriage on the St. Gothard
Pass--before the days of its wonderful railway--when they were on
their honeymoon.  He was a great authority on ritualistic and
ecclesiastical law generally and always a tremendous worker.  He had
charming manners and was never ruffled--not even when he committed a
duchess to gaol.  We enjoyed their hospitality in London and at
Arlington Manor.  I have only one little objection to offer--I cannot
help a feeling of resentment against a judge, or, in fact, any
barrister, having a moustache and beard.  It is not fair to the wig.

A dear friend of far-away days was Lord Justice Holker ("Sleepy
Jack").  I knew him first in my old Liverpool apprenticeship when he
was leader of the Northern Circuit and its legal giants.  I saw him
once at the Assizes there stop a case for some minutes after
whispering to his clerk, who hurriedly left the court, {70} and
returned with Holker's snuff-box, which had been left in the
robing-room.

Later on he had a place in Yorkshire where he had happy
shooting-parties for his friends, but nothing would induce him to
fire a gun himself.

Another legal friend and welcome guest was Lord Justice Mathew, who
told us a pretty story of his witty fellow-countryman, Father Healy.

A young Englishwoman, who was his companion at a dinner party, asked
him, as there was no mistletoe in Ireland, what the girls and boys
did at Christmas-time without it.  "Ah, if it's kissing you mean,"
the old priest answered, "they do it _under the_ rose!"

Mathew had a witty tongue of his own.  No doubt, it will be
remembered by his legal friends that at the time Herschell was Lord
Chancellor, Arthur Cohen, a distinguished Q.C., quite looked to be
appointed to a puisne judgeship, which he did not get.  When Mathew
heard of Cohen's resentment, he expressed surprise that his learned
friend expected anything else from Herschell but a Passover.

[Sidenote: Serjeant Ballantine]

I made acquaintance in my early professional days with Serjeant
Ballantine, always a pleasant and amusing companion, with a {71}
great love of the theatre.  Throughout his life he was very Bohemian
in his tastes and habits.  I remember him first at Evans's, a
music-hall of those days, in Covent Garden--it stood where
prize-fights now take place at the National Sporting Club--where
there was a noted choir of boys, and where "Paddy Green," the
manager, squeezed hot potatoes from their jackets with his napkin for
favoured guests.

Ballantine devoted himself entirely to criminal cases.  He was a
great cross-examiner, but he found his equal in Serjeant Parry, who
had masterly power over a jury.  Another of his rivals was the
distinguished advocate, Henry Hawkins, afterwards Lord Brampton, who
was known to be as rich as Ballantine was poor.  In a robing-room on
one occasion Ballantine asked Hawkins what he was going to do with
all his money, adding that when he died he could not take it with
him, and that even if he could he feared it would melt.

Ballantine defended the impostor Arthur Orton, the "Claimant," in the
first Tichborne trial and professed belief in the genuineness of that
rascal.  Later he was retained for the defence of the Gaekwar of
Baroda in India.  He received for his services the largest fee then
{72} known, but he lost the bulk of it at Monte Carlo on his way home.

When I became acquainted with Frank Lockwood he was a young actor at
a seaside theatre.  He did not, in the judgment of his comrades, show
much promise and wisely abandoned the stage as a career.  I next met
him as a rising barrister at the house of the Kendals, with whom he
was on terms of close friendship, as he soon became with my wife and
me.

Lockwood was a brilliant caricaturist.  His company was always a
delight.  I remember an evening when he sat by me at dinner after he
had fought many a hard battle, and I asked if he were offered a
judgeship would he accept it.  In a moment he answered, no; he loved
the fight too much.  Soon afterwards, however, he had changed his
mind, longed for relief from the struggle and sighed for peace.  It
was not to be.  His health suddenly broke down, his strength was
failing, and he had to give in.

Frank Lockwood was a popular leader at the Bar, a genial Member in
the House, a perfect host, a welcome guest, a delightful companion, a
staunch friend.

[Sidenote: Montagu Williams]

The career of Montagu Williams was the most varied of any man I have
known.  Both {73} his father and his grandfather were barristers.
After he left Eton, Montagu was for a time a schoolmaster; then
fired, I suppose, by the outbreak of the Crimean War, he entered the
Army.  After peace was declared he resigned his commission and became
a member of a theatrical touring company with a well-known amateur of
those days, Captain Disney Roebuck.  Next, on the advice, I believe,
of his godfather, Montagu Chambers, he resolved to go to the Bar.
During his studies he wrote for the Press, including Dickens's
_Household Words_.  He also wrote plays, chiefly in collaboration
with his old friend and school companion at Eton, Frank Burnand.  The
best of them was _The Isle of St. Tropez_, a really good drama, in
which Alfred Wigan played.

From the time Montagu was called by the Inner Temple there were few
important criminal cases in which he did not take a part--and very
quickly a prominent one.  His great knowledge of every side of life
and quick grasp of things resulted in a large practice, and he
defended more scoundrels than any man of his day.  Later on, he was
grievously afflicted by throat mischief, which ended in the saving of
his life at the cost of his voice, through a serious operation; he
could afterwards only speak in a whisper.  He was, however, {74}
appointed a London police magistrate, in which work he again
distinguished himself, and soon became known as "the poor man's beak."

It was during the theatrical episode in his varied career that he
came across, and married, Louise, a daughter of two prominent and
respected early Victorian players, Mr. and Mrs. Keeley, whom I
remember seeing act so long ago as 1851, the year of the Great
Exhibition, when Robert Keeley was the partner of Charles Kean at the
old Princess's Theatre.

Louise Williams was gifted with a sweet voice and sang with charm.  I
still seem to hear her exquisite rendering of Edgar Allan Poe's
words, which I can trust my memory to recall:

  "And neither the angels in Heaven above,
  Nor the demons down under the sea,
  Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
  Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."


I can recall no man who enjoyed more universal popularity than
Douglas Straight; it began at Harrow and followed him throughout his
life.  He never allowed his interests to become cramped: they
embraced the law, politics, journalism, sport, the drama and society.
He began as a journalist, was {75} Conservative M.P. for Shrewsbury,
and had a successful career at the Bar, which ended in a judgeship of
the High Court in India.

He had great social gifts, nowhere better proved than by my friend
Pett Ridge, who tells a story of his popularity with the fair sex,
that twelve ladies agreed to give a dinner at a fashionable
restaurant, the novelty on the occasion being that each of them was
to be responsible for one male guest.  The whole dozen invited
Douglas!

[Sidenote: "Willie" Mathews]

I lost a close and affectionate friend in Charles Mathews, the Public
Prosecutor, whom I first knew in the sixties, when he was a little
chap at Eton and wore a turn-down collar.  My next remembrance of him
is as the "baby" member of the Garrick Club, where, from the date of
his election, he was beloved.  In those days "Willie" Mathews was
"devil" to Montagu Williams and working hard in his company and that
of Douglas Straight at the criminal bar, the scene of many triumphs
in his successful career.  He was _persona grata_ wherever he went,
and in widely different circles, from Balmoral to Bohemia.

Charles Gill was another old friend.  We saw more of him at his
beloved Birchington than in London.  He was known in his Kentish home
as "The Mayor"--so christened, I {76} think, by his neighbour, that
modern Colossus who seems to be always striding between New York and
Leicester Square, the successful and erratic Frederick Lonsdale.

Gill was closely associated in early days with Straight and Mathews;
later in his brilliant career there was scarcely a sensational
criminal trial in which he did not play a leading part.

A very wise member of his profession only lately said that were any
friend of his in a difficulty that called for unerring judgment and
delicacy of handling his best advice would be: "Consult Charles Gill."



{77}

V

PAINTING: SCULPTURE: MUSIC

"So famous, so excellent in Art."


[Sidenote: Painting]

It is many years since, as my wife and I were leaving the Savoy
Theatre at the close of an afternoon performance of a Gilbert and
Sullivan opera, we were shocked by a newsboy shouting "Death of Lord
Leighton."  We made Frederic Leighton's acquaintance in the
green-room of our theatre.  Soon afterwards we dined at his beautiful
house in Kensington.  In its neighbourhood there was a nest of his
comrades in art, including Val Prinsep, Luke Fildes and Marcus Stone.
We were friends for years: he did me the honour to propose me at the
Athenæum, but did not live to see me elected.  He was a remarkable
and gifted man--an Admirable Crichton--painter, sculptor,
linguist--as well as an eloquent, if a somewhat florid, speaker, and
an admirable man of affairs, besides, as we actors say, having a
perfect appearance for his part.  Was it not Thackeray who told him
once that Millais {78} was the only man with a chance against him for
the Presidency of the Royal Academy?

His beautiful art was best illustrated in his early days, I always
thought, by _The Slinger_ and the sculptured figure of an athlete
struggling with a python.  I also remember well his life-like
portrait of the famous explorer, Sir Richard Burton.

[Sidenote: Millais]

In many respects a total contrast to Leighton was the successor to
his great office, John Everett Millais.  I was fortunate in his
acquaintance at the Garrick Club when I was elected as a member
fifty-six years ago.  Millais loved the club and cared but little for
any other.

Although looked upon as a Jerseyman, he chanced to be born at
Southampton, and I remember being told by a man--who was for many
years prompter under our management--that he had seen Millais, as a
very small boy, sprawling upon the stage of the Southampton theatre
and drawing with a piece of chalk things that had form and shape.

I don't know when he first came into fame and astounded the world by
the wonderful children of his brush and brain.  Beautiful things teem
through the memory.  I see the little creature, on a church bench,
listening to _The First Sermon_; a work of infinite pathos {79}
called _The Blind Girl_; Walter Raleigh on the shingly shore,
clutching his knees and absorbing the yarns of an old sea-dog; the
two nuns digging a grave for a comrade in _The Vale of Rest_; those
well-known masterpieces, _The Princes in the Tower_, _The Black
Brunswicker_ and _The Order of Release_.  And then the gallery of
portraits--Tennyson, Newman, Gladstone, Bright and the unfinished
Disraeli.  Others also crowd upon remembrance: those of my comrades,
Henry Irving and John Hare--not, in my judgment, among his best
examples,--of Arthur Sullivan--one of the very best,--and the great
surgeon, Henry Thompson, which, like the striking portrait of Mr.
Wertheimer by Sargent, as you look at it, seems that it might speak.
I see also the beautiful portraits of Mrs. Langtry and Mrs. Jopling
Rowe, but, alas! not one of my wife.  I offered Millais a large sum
to paint one of her for me, but he declined, for two reasons; he said
that he could not bring himself to accept money from a brother
artist, and that he should fail, as the face would change while his
eyes turned even for a moment to the palette.  One word to recall his
masterly landscapes, _Chill October_, and, if I remember their
attractive titles, _The Fringe of the Moor_ and _The Sound of Many
Waters_.  Never in any man's work was {80} refinement more closely
merged with art.  I see a fine photograph of him daily, if in London,
with an autograph in the corner, briefly accepting an invitation to
dinner in these words: "I'm your man."  I looked down upon his
handsome features, as he was fading away from life, and kissed him.

[Sidenote: Poynter]

Edward Poynter succeeded to the President's chair, which had only
been occupied by Millais briefly.  It was during his reign that I had
the honour at the Royal Academy Banquet to respond for the Drama: the
toast had only once been proposed before, when Irving replied.  It
was a difficult task, and the greatness of the audience impressed me
with my own littleness.  Wisely, I am sure, I limited myself to five
minutes only, and venture to give an extract from what I said:


"I was not unmindful that the proposal of this toast at that great
banquet was a mark of respect to the stage which could only make the
stage the more respect itself.  I could not speak in that
room--surrounded as I was by the rulers in that fairyland--without
some attempt, however faint, to say that my admiration of the
beautiful art, so splendidly illustrated year by year upon those
walls, was as true as my love for the living pictures we players
tried to paint.  Our pictures, alas!  {81} died early, for the
greatest actor's work must be a passing triumph; it was not cut in
marble, nor did it live on canvas, but could only owe its fame to
written records and traditions.  Vast wealth might keep for us, and
for the ages yet to come, the undying splendour of a Reynolds or a
Millais, but no sum could buy one single echo of the voice of Sarah
Siddons.  The drama was the most winning, fascinating, alluring thing
that ever was conceived for the recreation of mankind.  As England
could claim to be the parent of the drama in Europe, so could she
claim to be the mother of the greatest dramatist the world had owned,
whose mighty genius left all art in debt that never could be paid,
and whose works alone would make the stage eternal."


The pictures by Poynter which live clearest in my memory are his
_Catapult_ and _Visit to Æsculapius_.  Concerning the latter work a
story "went the rounds"--possibly as untrue as many another--that two
beautiful sisters were as flattered by the eminent painter's wish to
make drawings of their heads as they were horrified to find them
reproduced upon bodies of well-known models in the nude.

Poynter painted a portrait of himself for the Uffizi Gallery as
Millais did.  There is an {82} admirable copy of this portrait in his
beloved Garrick.

I was never really intimate with Alma Tadema, although I knew him for
many years, beginning with the time when he lived in Regent's Park.
Owing to an explosion of gunpowder on the canal there, if my memory
is accurate, his house was wrecked and he went to live in the Grove
End Road, in a house formerly occupied by Tissot, a French artist,
who had quite a vogue for a time.  Tadema translated the house into
"a thing of beauty and a joy for ever," where he entertained a great
artistic company, worthy to be surrounded by the _Roses of
Heliogabalus_.

I owe the following painful and remarkable story to my friend Aston
Webb, lately President of the Royal Academy; it was told to him and
others by Tadema.  A young woman, an American, the daughter of
parents of wealth and position, was the cause of great anxiety to her
father and mother, to her intimate friends, and to her doctor, on the
score of health, which puzzled all concerned, and became a mystery
which no one seemed able to unravel.  At last the doctor was driven
to advise a year's absence from home and its surroundings by a trip
to Europe, to be spent where and how the girl might wish, in the
companionship of a {83} female friend--she had no sisters, and the
parents could not leave their own country at the time.

[Sidenote: Sargent]

The patient went first to London and enjoyed her stay there.  During
it, she conceived a strong wish to be painted by her eminent
fellow-countryman, Sargent, the magician who reveals unknowingly what
have been hidden mysteries.  The portrait when finished was highly
thought of and presently despatched to the parents of the sitter,
while she went her way to Switzerland and Italy.  The great artist's
work delighted the father and mother.  An "at home" was arranged that
their many friends might share their admiration.  All of this took
place; among the invited guests being the friendly doctor who had
been so puzzled by the condition of his patient.  I will come briefly
to the sad sequel.  The doctor gazed at the portrait long and
earnestly: he left the house perturbed and saddened.  On the
following day he sought an interview with the father, told him that
Sargent had revealed to him, beyond doubt, what he had failed to
discover himself.  Put briefly, the poor girl afterwards died in a
madhouse.  When Tadema had finished his story, Abbey, who was also
present, quietly remarked: "All too true.  I could tell you the names
of those concerned."

{84}

The painter who ran dear Millais close in my appreciation, and who
has given me, if I bare my heart and tell the naked truth, greater
pleasure than any other painter, was Orchardson; the fact that his
work is so dramatic being, I suppose, the reason.  His two phases of
the _Mariage de Convenance_ were gems.  I don't know whether Act I
surpassed Act II, or if the verdict was the other way.  The glorious
_Queen of the Swords_, _The Challenge_, _Hard Hit_, _The Young Duke_,
_Napoleon in the Bellerophon_, _The First Cloud_, with their
exquisite colourings, the secret of which never seems to have been
divulged; and still one other, so delicate in conception, so perfect
in its pathos, _Her Mother's Voice_.  What a story!  How simply told!

Edwin Abbey was also a painter who appealed strongly to me; again,
because he was dramatic.  His _Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and the
Lady Anne_, I always looked upon with admiration.  The splendour of
its colouring is lost to me, for I see it now only _en gravure_.  Nor
can his _Hamlet_ and _King Lear_ be forgotten, while his decorative
work was magnificent and will preserve his fame.  He had great charm
as host and guest.

I travel back to the far-off days when W. P. Frith, an old friend,
was the popular Academician {85} of his time; his pictures of the
_Derby Day_ and _Ramsgate Sands_ having to be "railed in" at the
Annual Exhibition, which was then held in the National Gallery, to
protect them from the crowd.

Frith, I remember, was struck with the beauty of our production of
the _School for Scandal_, which he highly praised.  In its acting and
historical accuracy he said it was like the last edition of a grand
book, the handsomest and the best.  He fell in love with the minuet,
and said it took him back to the days of his great-grandmother.  The
minuet, which was introduced at Lady Sneerwell's "rout," was the
brilliant idea of my wife: it was danced by two couples in a crowded
room of guests.  I have since seen it danced by a crowd to an
otherwise empty stage.

I look back with interest to pleasant times spent in the company of
Hubert Herkomer, that "jack-of-all-trades and master of many."  His
versatility was bewildering.  Tools of every kind and shape seemed to
be playthings in his hands; he grasped them with firmness and used
them with skill; painting, engraving, etching, and all sorts of metal
work alike came easily to him; he played the piano and the zither,
composed and wrote, and was, in a way, a pioneer of film work.  His
shoals {86} of portraits were amazing, and his fame might rest
enduringly upon his painting of _The Last Muster_.

Briton Rivière was for many years our friend.  We met first in the
Engadine.  He was, in my opinion, a great artist, and has crowded my
memory with his works.  I think often of those speaking dogs in _The
Vacant Chair_, _Sympathy_ and _Charity_, as I do of _Circe_ with the
amorous pigs, and the majestic _Daniel_ facing the lions in their den.

I have always understood that Rivière was within an ace of being
elected President when Millais died.

In early Bohemian days, Henry Stacey Marks, long before he had
blossomed into a Royal Academician, was an amusing and pleasant
friend.  Years afterwards I bought, at Christie's, the attractive
panels of the _Seven Ages of Man_ which he had painted for Birket
Foster.  They were well-beloved companions until a changed life came
to me; they now adorn the walls of the Green Room Club.

[Sidenote: Val and Marcus]

Another R.A. and old friend was Val Prinsep, whose burly form looms
from distant days, which his name recalls.  It is easy to believe
that he was the original "Taffy" in George du Maurier's _Trilby_.  I
have a remembrance of him in the sketch he made for his painting {87}
_The Minuet_, which was inspired by our introduction of the dance
into _The School for Scandal_, again in its turn reproduced in our
act-drop at the Haymarket Theatre.  On his return to England after
painting the Great Durbar, when Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress
of India, he gave my wife a handsome native bracelet, which, as a
souvenir of her, I passed on a little while ago to Marie Löhr, who
married Val's son, Anthony.

"Val" left many dear friends behind him, with happy recollections of
his worth.

Recently another friend of long standing, Marcus Stone, left us.  He
once told me an interesting incident of his childhood, a link with
the past, when he was kissed by a very old and well-known man named
Pickersgill, the engraver, who begged him, impressively, always to
remember that he had been kissed by a man who once was kissed by Dr.
Johnson.  It is odd to remember, in these days of petrol, that
Johnson said there were few keener pleasures in life than being
whirled along in a post-chaise, in the company of a pretty lady, at
the average speed of ten miles an hour.

Stone owed much to his early, almost boyish, friendship with Dickens,
who engaged him to illustrate the book he was then writing, thereby
made him known to eminent men, {88} and altogether helped his career
greatly.  He was a good talker, and he read more books in a week than
I do in a year: he also had what are called good looks and a
distinguished bearing.  Was it not written of him:

  "Marcus Apollo Belvedere Stone,
  Stands there erect, in all his glory shone."


[Sidenote: Sculpture]

In the hope that I have not been tiresome, I will close my
remembrances of Academicians with the names of two sculptors: one,
whom we knew with some intimacy, was Edgar Boehm.  He chanced to be
our guest on the evening when his baronetcy was "in his pocket," to
be announced to his large circle of friends on the following morning.

There was a beautiful work of his on the staircase landing of the
house Millais built for himself in Kensington.  His fame rests
chiefly, I suppose, on the statue of Carlyle, near to his Chelsea
home; on the tomb of Dean Stanley; and the statue of Wellington at
Hyde Park Corner, which replaced the old one, now at Aldershot, that
I was taken as a child to see when it was erected--an earlier
remembrance than that I retain of the Iron Duke's funeral.

I always remember an evening as Boehm's guest, when a lady whom I had
taken down to {89} dinner, in answer to an opinion I timidly
expressed that it was just possible she might be on the verge of
"spoiling" her two boys, who chanced to be at Eton with my son,
turned upon me with the amazing question: "Do you think I can ever
sufficiently apologise to them for my share in bringing them into
this world?"

[Sidenote: Boehm and Onslow Ford]

Boehm's end was distressing.  He was a great Court favourite, and one
afternoon, in his studio, told his man that he expected a visit from
the Princess Louise, and that Her Royal Highness, with her lady, was
to be conducted to the studio at once.  When taken there, on the door
being opened, they found Boehm, who had sunk upon the floor from a
sudden heart attack, unconscious and just breathing; he passed away
in a few minutes.

Onslow Ford, another friend of ours, was as well known for his
personal charm as for the refinement of his work.  He was beloved by
his brother Academicians, the features of several of whom he has
immortalised in marble, and by a large circle of friends.  One of his
best achievements is the seated figure of Henry Irving, now in the
Guildhall Picture Gallery; while the Christopher Marlowe memorial at
Canterbury, the Shelley memorial in University College, Oxford, and
the great {90} statue of Gordon, mounted on a camel, at Chatham, will
make his fame secure.

Another sculptor whose friendship we enjoyed was the late Count
Gleichen, who regarded his art as far more than a recreation; and his
statue of King Alfred at Wantage is the work of no mere amateur.  We
found it an interesting experience to sit to him for the two portrait
busts which are now in the Garrick Club.  The sittings in his studio
at St. James's Palace were often enlivened by visits from well-known
people of many kinds, which I hope did not detract from the merit of
the sculptor's work.

I dare not try the patience of my readers by attempting at any length
to write of that rebellious, capricious, tempestuous, and captivating
genius "Jimmy" Whistler.

After welcoming him as our amusing and interesting guest, my wife and
I were bidden to one of his historic luncheons at the White House,
which then stood quite alone in Chelsea by the river.  We had
excellent company and ate buckwheat cakes, cooked by himself.

His despotic value of himself was exalted and could not be excelled:
nothing shook it.  The rapier and the bludgeon were alike his weapons
of either attack or defence.

I believe his portrait of Irving as King {91} Philip has varied in
different markets from bids of a few pounds to some thousands.

[Sidenote: "Punch"]

Sir John Tenniel was an old friend and guest.  His remarkable
connection with _Punch_ extended over fifty years.  During this
marvellous record he contributed between two and three thousand
cartoons to its pages.  The most famous of this vast collection was,
perhaps, _Dropping the Pilot_, which showed Bismarck leaving the Ship
of State, while his new chief, who was to wreck Europe, looked
superciliously down on him.

I was present at a banquet given in his honour upon his retirement.
The company gathered was exceptional and was presided over by Mr.
Balfour, as he then was.  When Tenniel rose to return his thanks, the
demonstration was too much for the old man; he was unable to speak,
and resumed his seat in tears.  As the chairman said at once, no
expression of thanks could have been more eloquent.

We knew George du Maurier for many years: I wish it had been more
intimately.  After his early days in Paris and his familiarity with
the Quartier Latin, his connection with _Punch_ began, ten years
later than Tenniel's.  Soon afterwards he succeeded to Leach's
prominent position and earned his world-wide {92} fame, which was not
lessened by his novels, _Peter Ibbetson_ and _Trilby_.

I should have loved to hear him say at one of the weekly _Punch_
dinners, as the man who told me did: "Fellows will write to me as
_de_ Maurier; I wish they'd give the devil his du."

[Sidenote: Painting]

One of du Maurier's closest friends was that fascinating man Canon
Ainger, Master of the Temple, with whom I had only a slight
acquaintance.  They met constantly, almost daily, in their beloved
Hampstead, and indeed haunted its Heath: du Maurier was at home in
Bohemia; Ainger had never stood upon its soil; while their widely
separated religious views never hurt their friendship.  "A strange
world, my masters."

He loved the stage.  Would he had lived to see the position of its
leader in England, to-day, achieved by his son Gerald!

"Sammy," as Linley Sambourne was affectionately called by his
intimates, will complete my trio of _Punch_ draughtsmen.

He was an amusing little creature, always very horsey in get up.  I
have his gift of the first drawing from his pencil which appeared in
_Punch_, so long ago as 1867, when he was but twenty-two; it is a
droll little sketch of George Honey as Eccles, John Hare as Sam
Gerridge, {93} and myself as Captain Hawtree in _Caste_.  He told me
that it was drawn from memory, after visits to the pit when
Robertson's comedy was at the height of its first success.

I recall an amusing incident which occurred at a fancy-dress ball,
largely attended by the artistic and "Bohemian" world.  "Sammy"
appeared, admirably appointed and dressed, as a little fat Dutchman.
He was cheerily greeted by Gilbert, who ran against him with the
words: "One Dutch of Sambourne makes the whole world grin."

[Sidenote: Pellegrini]

I must write a few lines in memory of the prince of caricaturists,
Carlo Pellegrini.  We knew him throughout his career and always
enjoyed his company.  On one evening when he gave it to us, on being
announced, he kissed my wife's hand and uttered some compliment in
Italian; she immediately, in a spirit of fun, rapidly recited an old
and rather long "proverb" in his language, which she had learned by
heart, as a child--it being her sole acquaintance with Italian--the
little man's expression of amazement was a study.

She played the same trick, with still greater effect, on the stage of
the Scala Theatre at Milan which we went over with a party of
friends, when Arthur Cecil asked her to address an imaginary audience.

{94}

[Sidenote: Music]

I sat to Pellegrini once, when he began to paint portraits
seriously--the idea was soon abandoned.--With regard to mine he
wrote: "I have sent your _fac simile_ to the Grosvenor: I hope you
will be well hanged."

I saw the "Pelican"--as Pellegrini was called by his friends--in his
last illness at his rooms in Mortimer Street.  Shortly before the
peaceful end he said pathetically to his faithful servant:
"Wil-li-am, put me on clean shirt--I die clean."

I hardly regarded my old friend Leslie Ward as a caricaturist; his
clever drawings were, to my mind, portraits--humorously, but gently,
exaggerated.  They were mainly the result of sittings.  Pellegrini's
work was produced from memory.

Leslie Ward was the son of distinguished painters; his sister
Beatrice shared their art, as I can testify by a valued possession, a
very charming drawing of my wife.

[Sidenote: Arthur Sullivan]

The brilliant composer and musician, Arthur Sullivan, was our
much-loved friend for thirty years.  We first knew him about the time
he and W. S. Gilbert were made known to each other by Frederic Clay.
His great career began, like many others, very simply, for he was one
of the "Children of the Chapel Royal," as they are still called,
before his more serious {95} studies began at the Royal Academy of
Music and at Leipzig.  He returned with his music to _The Tempest_,
to be followed by _The Light of the World_.

His wonderful partnership with Gilbert has given joy to every land.
It is said that the success of _H.M.S. Pinafore_ was so amazing in
America that 100,000 barrel-organs were specially constructed to play
nothing else.

I recall a happy gathering of friends at Pontresina.  Sullivan was
one of them, and his old mother was with him: his devotion to her
revealed a beautiful side of his affectionate nature.

A different meeting was when my wife and I met him one morning in the
rooms at Monte Carlo.  It was settled that we should have lunch
together at the Café de Paris, which they went away to order, leaving
me, unfortunately, at my own request, to join them in a few minutes.
When I did so, my face must have told the sad story of those few
minutes, as Arthur called out, cheerily: "Come along, B; this way to
the cemetery."

He had a peculiarly entrancing personality: he lived a happy but not
a long life, laden with honours.

When I had the sad privilege of being one of the pall-bearers at his
funeral I was as {96} impressed as I was pleased to see the blinds of
the Athenæum drawn as we passed on our way to St. Paul's Cathedral,
where, I have always understood, he was laid to rest by the wish of
Queen Victoria.

Music had to bear three heavy blows, dealt within a few days, when
Charles Stanford, with his keen sense of humour, Walter Parratt, with
his winning personality, and Frederick Bridge, with his ever-ready
stories of killing fish, left us.  I knew them all, but Parratt was
never my guest.  He had no London home.  We met pleasantly sometimes
at the Athenæum, and my nearest link with him was that of having been
born in the same year.  Bridge and I received our knighthoods
together.  I have happy recollections of a stay at Harrogate when
Stanford was also there.  Although he lived so many years in London,
he seemed to me to have left Dublin only recently; but what lingers
most firmly in my mind in regard to him, is the majestic march he
composed for Irving when Tennyson's play _Becket_ was produced at the
Lyceum.  The last time I listened to its strains was at his own
funeral service in the Abbey.

[Sidenote: Frederic Clay]

The name of another old musical friend, Frederic Clay, must be
remembered, for it was in his company that I met Gounod.  I {97}
dined with Clay when he lived with his father, who was the friend of
Lord Beaconsfield, and known as the finest whist-player in London.  I
once saw the old gentleman in the cardroom of the Garrick, where he
distinguished himself by revoking.

Frederic Clay's career was checked by a long and distressing illness.
His fame will live in the remembrance of his melodies: "She wandered
down the Mountain Side," "The Sands of Dee," and, above all, by the
ever-enduring "I'll sing thee songs of Araby."



{98}

VI

LITERATURE

"Think of the achievements of a great writer--a great poet--their
works embrace the past, the present, and the future: their fame is
for ever growing through the gifts they have made to the dead: the
pleasure they have still the power to bestow upon the living: and the
delight of bequeathing their wealth to unknown ages while their
language lives."


[Sidenote: Browning]

The most prominent man of letters known to my wife and to me was
Robert Browning, who looked as unlike the conventional idea of a poet
as I resemble a sweep; his appearance seemed to me a better "make-up"
for a family physician or legal adviser.

Many years ago my wife and I were present at the wedding of an old
friend's daughter and afterwards at the reception.  On entering the
drawing-room, which had heavy blinds and was rather sombre, my wife
mistook an elderly and bearded guest for the host, went behind him,
turned his head round, and, as she thought, kissed her
congratulations to the bride's father.  The recipient of the mistaken
salute proved to be Browning, who avowed that {99} whenever and
wherever he met my wife he was to be treated in the same way.  The
ceremony was afterwards always gone through, and more than once in
the open street.

When he first dined with us he was made happy in finding a bottle of
port by his hand, that he might help himself and not be offered other
wines.  I remember a story he told us of Longfellow when he visited
England.  The two poets were driving in a hansom, and a heavy shower
suddenly came on.  Longfellow insisted upon thrusting his umbrella
through the trap in the roof of the cab that the driver might protect
himself from the rain, which he did.

At a dinner given at the old Star and Garter, Richmond, Browning met
my wife on the terrace with an impromptu, hurriedly scrawled on a
menu, which I may give imperfectly:

  "Her advent was not hailed with shouts,
  Nor banners, garlands, cymbals, drums;
  The trees breathed gently sighs of love,
  And whispered softly, 'Hush! she comes!'"


In the last letter my wife received from him he wrote: "I heartily
wish I had been privileged to begin feeling twenty years ago what I
feel now, and I shall make what amends are in my power, by feeling so
as long as I live."

{100}

I was in the Abbey on the cheerless, foggy, December day, when
Browning joined the "Poets" in their "Corner."

I had the honour of enjoying the friendship of that distinguished man
of letters, Monckton Milnes, afterwards Lord Houghton.  He once told
me a story worth repeating.  He was in search of a piece of
furniture.  On entering a dealer's shop in Wardour Street, he caught
sight of the portrait of an admiral, apparently of the last century,
and of this he asked the price.  "Ten pounds," was the answer.  Lord
Houghton offered five; the dealer was obdurate.  The article wanted
was sought for, found and bargained for.  On going away Lord Houghton
returned to the price of the admiral's portrait.  At last the dealer
said: "Well, my lord, and to your lordship only, seven pound ten";
but his customer would not go beyond his offer of a fiver, and there
was an end of the matter.

Soon afterwards, visiting a neighbour in Yorkshire, Lord Houghton
recognised the portrait of the admiral hanging in the dining-room,
and said: "Hallo! who's that?  What have you got there?  Something
new?"  "Yes," replied the friend; "he was a well-known admiral in his
day--fought with Nelson--good bit of work too--recently bequeathed to
us-- {101} an ancestor of my wife's."  "Ah, was he?" said Lord
Houghton.  "Six weeks ago he was within two pound ten of becoming one
of mine!"

[Sidenote: Henry James]

Once, at a dinner party we gave, a scrupulously clean-shaven guest
was announced, whose name neither host nor hostess had caught.  He
shook hands gaily with us both, and as he moved away to another
couple, whom he evidently knew, I gathered from the expression of my
wife's face that she, like myself, had no idea of his identity.  A
bachelor friend who was next announced, after speaking familiarly
with the puzzling stranger, came back to me and said, happily in the
hearing of my wife: "Do you like Henry James's appearance better with
or without his beard?"  The mystery was solved.  That sort of
transformation seems hardly fair.

I beg to be forgiven if I quote a few words from Henry James, written
in _The Middle Years_: "How can I think of the 'run' of the more
successful of Mr. Robertson's comedies at the 'dear little old'
Prince of Wales's Theatre, by Tottenham Court Road, as anything less
than one of the wonders of our age?"

Some ten years ago, James became a British subject--many people, I
dare say, have thought him to have always been one--and in return
{102} England rightly bestowed upon him the Order of Merit.

Even at the end, when telling a friend of the pain he suffered in his
fatal illness, he was gay, and said of death, that he felt the
distinguished thing had come to him at last.  Much the same thought
doubtless crossed the mind of Charles Frohman, the theatrical
manager, when he went down on board the _Lusitania_.  He turned to
his companion with the words, borrowed from _Peter Pan_: "Now for the
great adventure."  Courage is expressed in many wonderful ways.

I have mentioned my first meeting at the elder Boucicault's with
Charles Reade, author of _The Cloister and the Hearth_.  As a man of
letters, his name is entitled to be enrolled among the giants of his
day.  Friendship with him began at the Garrick Club, where I have
seen him at a whist table with Anthony Trollope and Charles Lever,
playing in the same rubber.  It ripened rapidly when we produced
_Masks and Faces_, over which my wife and I had many a fight in
getting him to agree to some important changes we wished to make.  We
won the day, and the old book was done with for all time.  I will
quote from a superb description, written with the insight of a gifted
woman, Ellen Terry: "Dear, {103} kind, unjust, generous, cautious,
impulsive, passionate, gentle Charles Reade! who combined so many
qualities, far asunder as the poles.  He was placid and turbulent,
yet always majestic.  He was inexplicable and entirely lovable--a
stupid old dear, and as wise as Solomon!  He seemed guileless, and
yet had moments of suspicion and craftiness worthy of the serpent."

[Sidenote: Wilkie Collins]

Wilkie Collins was another Victorian novelist of high repute, whose
books would give great pleasure to modern readers if they sampled
_The Woman in White_, _Armadale_, or _The Moonstone_, and left
themselves in debt to such creations as Count Fosco, Margaret
Vanstone, Mercy Merrick, and many more.  We knew him well, and sided
with his view of the well-known unfortunate episode in the early
history of the Garrick Club which resulted in the expulsion of Edmund
Yates, through his youthful indiscretion in writing of Thackeray in a
way that so great a giant could have afforded to ignore.

At the most, he might have called for an apology--which was offered
but declined.  "Wilkie" stood by Dickens in the defence of Yates, and
they resigned their membership together.

For years Collins was a confirmed opium {104} taker and a slave to
the drug.  He once left the Engadine, in its primitive days, and
found himself, to his horror, without any.  He and an intimate
friend, who happily spoke German like a native, were travelling
together: they represented themselves to be doctors and so obtained
from chemists at Coire, and afterwards at Basle, the maximum supply
the Swiss law allowed, and so reached Paris without the catastrophe
Collins described in alarming words.

At my table, Wilkie Collins, George Critchett, who had left general
practice and become an eye specialist, and Sir William Fergusson, the
eminent Victorian surgeon, were present together.  Critchett told Sir
William that Collins had confided to him what was the dose of
laudanum he then took every night, and had his permission to ask Sir
William if it was not more than enough to prevent any ordinary person
from awaking.  Fergusson replied that the dose of opium named would
suffice to kill the twelve men who sat round the table.

[Sidenote: T. W. Robertson]

It is impossible for me not to recall, however briefly, from the
shadowy past the name of T. W. Robertson, whose empty chair was left
vacant more than fifty years ago.  He was the first of my friends to
speak and write to me as {105} "B."  There are few to whom the
once-famous name of Tom Robertson now has full meaning, although his
comedies made so deep a mark in their day and so largely influenced
the future of the stage.  Time has not lessened my remembrance of the
charm with which he read his comedies; a melody sung sweetly in the
long-ago.  My wife was always very proud that he dedicated to her the
best of them, his masterpiece, _Caste_.

I look back with sorrow at the small reward he received from them,
and the brief time he enjoyed their fame.  The fees paid to dramatic
authors were miserably poor in those days, although we advanced them
materially, added to which, there was no copyright for foreign
authors in America.  Expert shorthand writers were cunningly
scattered in different parts of our theatre on successive nights,
until the text of Robertson's principal comedies was completely taken
down, and they were played throughout the United States without a
dollar being sent to the author.  No wonder that Robertson was
sarcastic and bitter.

The unusual compliment of closing our theatre when he died was, I
fear, but a small set-off against the pain he must have endured
before he once said to me: "My dear B, I have often dined on my pipe."

{106}

[Sidenote: Edmund Yates]

Edmund Yates was an old friend.  He knew my wife in her girlhood, and
I first met him at Epsom on the historic day, in 1867, that Hermit
won the Derby in a snowstorm.  My mention of that incident reminds me
that, years afterwards, at a public sale, among effects which had
belonged to Mr. Baird--known on the turf as "Mr. Abingdon"--I came
across a letter-case made from the coat of Hermit, and so inscribed
on a silver shield.  I bought it, that I might have the pleasure of
giving it, on the thirtieth anniversary of the race, to Mr. Henry
Chaplin, as he then was, the great horse's owner.  Yates at that time
held a position in the General Post Office and told me, soon
afterwards, that he made an early marriage upon a small income and
was handicapped for many a long year by a domestic calamity--the
birth of three sons in eleven months.

Yates was an admirable after-dinner speaker and story-teller, a power
which doubtless owed something to inheritance, both his parents
having held prominent positions on the stage.  At one dinner party,
Edmund Yates, Dion Boucicault and George Augustus Sala, all being
present, were asked in turn if they regretted and repented of any
"backslidings" they had to answer for.  Boucicault at once {107} said
he was sorry for his sins; Sala admitted that he hoped some day to be
sorry; Yates, after a pause, smote the table and muttered "No."  He
was a fierce fighter.

A mutual friend was rather severely caricatured in _Vanity Fair_.  I
asked Yates what he thought the original would say about it.  "Say,
my dear B.?  He'll _say_ he thinks it delightful, but will go
upstairs to his bedroom, lock the door, and rub his head in the
hearthrug."  When his trouble came, as it did soon afterwards, I
wonder what his own conduct was.

His tragic end was connected with the revival of a comedy in which my
wife appeared for her old friend John Hare, at the Garrick Theatre.
Yates was seated in the centre of the stalls, and throughout my
wife's performance had laughed and applauded heartily.  At its close,
when she was loudly called for by the audience, he gave her his last
smile, turned to his neighbour and said: "The old brigade, the old
brigade--it will take a deal to beat it!"  He stooped for his hat,
fell forward in a fit, and never recovered consciousness.  "How oft
when men are at the point of death have they been merry!"

[Sidenote: W. S. Gilbert]

I made the acquaintance of W. S. Gilbert during the year I spent in
Liverpool; he had just been "called" and was a briefless barrister
{108} on the Northern Circuit.  Having failed to become attached to
the staff of Punch, he was already a contributor to a comic journal
called _Fun_, in which his _Bab Ballads_ first appeared.  Soon
afterwards he began to write for the theatre.  _The Palace of Truth_
and _Pygmalion and Galatea_ both had great success at the old
Haymarket; the latter was perhaps a starting point in the brilliant
career of Madge Robertson (Mrs. Kendal).

He will, of course, be best remembered through the enduring success
of the comic operas he wrote in conjunction with Arthur Sullivan, the
most memorable of artistic partnerships.

What humorous things he was constantly uttering!  I will endeavour to
repeat one or two which may not have been heard.  When the beautiful
Scala Theatre was built on the site of our old Prince of Wales's, my
wife was appropriately invited to perform the opening ceremony.  At
the end of the pretty speech she made, Gilbert joined her on the
stage, and said he had been to the back of the dress circle, where he
heard every word of it; adding that the voice was as beautiful as
ever and that, if she continued to take pains and work hard, she
might be sure of having a great career _behind_ her.

Talking with a Mr. Such Granville, who was {109} on the stage and
said to Gilbert: "My name is Such, but I act as Granville," he at
once replied: "I wish your name were Granville and you'd act as such."

A young lady who was always known as "Nelia" was about to be married.
Gilbert was congratulating her, adding that her Christian name would
join charmingly with her forthcoming surname; the girl then told him
that her first name was really "Cornelia."  Gilbert at once replied:
"Oh, I see, you've cut your corn."

Once, in my presence, Gilbert was being questioned by an ardent
playgoer as to one of his serious plays, and was finally asked how it
ended; its author immediately answered that it had ended in a
fortnight.

On another occasion I arrived at the Garrick Club on foot as Gilbert
drove up in a hansom: when he alighted he handed the driver
half-a-crown.  The cabman asked, "What's this?"  Answer: "It's your
fare."  Cabman: "This ain't my fare."  Gilbert took back the
half-crown, saying: "I beg your pardon, I made a mistake, there's
your fare"--as he gave the man a florin.  Tableau.

Someone remarked to him what an extraordinary title Henry Arthur
Jones had given a new play of his.  Gilbert asked: "What is {110}
it?"  _The Princess's Nose_.  Gilbert hoped it would "run."

The fashion of the "hobble skirt" was being discussed in Gilbert's
presence, who said that it reminded him of the boards outside a
prospering theatre--"standing room only."

In long past days what was called a shilling subscription was got up
by the _Daily Telegraph_ as a testimonial to W. G. Grace.  At one
time there was a fine cricket ground known as Prince's, which was a
rival to the Oval and Lord's, and stood upon the land now occupied by
Pont Street and Lennox Gardens.  At an afternoon party the question
of the testimonial was being discussed, and a young girl asked
Gilbert if Grace was anything besides a great cricketer.  The
brilliant tongue at once replied: "Oh, yes, my dear, he is lord of
Lord's and the only ruler of Prince's."

As a rule I have been careful in the choice of guests and successful
in seating them to ensure good companionship, for what you put on the
chairs is quite as important as what you place on the table, but let
me confess to a terrible blunder when I invited Gilbert and Burnand
to the same dinner.  At an early stage of it, when all was going
well, a loud-voiced guest said: "Tell me, Mr. Burnand, do you ever
receive for _Punch_ good jokes and things {111} from outsiders?"
This was not long after he had been elected to the editor's chair,
and Burnand replied, cheerfully: "Oh, often."  Gilbert sharply
grunted from the opposite side of the table, over his knife and fork:
"They never appear!"  The rest was silence.  This is the true version
of an otherwise much-told tale.

[Sidenote: Editors of "Punch"]

The allusion to _Punch_ reminds me that I can readily tell how many
weeks old I am, as we were born in the same year; and not many people
now can say they have known all its editors: Mark Lemon--when he was
old and I was young, Shirley Brooks--who was my proposer at the
Garrick Club, Tom Taylor, Frank Burnand and Owen Seaman.  What
pleasure they have given, and how incomplete the week would be
without the charm of Mr. Punch's infinite pen and pencil!

Burnand's humour was different from Gilbert's: he excelled as a
punster.  From his earliest days he was devoted to the theatre and
founded the A.D.C. at Cambridge.  He wrote with marvellous rapidity.
When he saw _Diplomacy_, in the height of the play's original
success, he left the theatre, sat up through the night, began and
finished a most amusing travesty, which he called _Diplunacy_.

Years ago my son was at Ramsgate, reading for an examination in the
law.  He met {112} Burnand, who asked what he had been doing.  George
told him that he had been on the Goodwins with his "coach."  Burnand
replied that he had no idea you could drive there!

He told me once that, in spite of every kind of exercise, he was a
slave to liver--a livery servant.  One of the best of his many smart
things was said when he was recovering from a serious illness.  A
journalist friend paid him a sympathetic visit, and said: "Your
condition has been so grave that my editor asked me to write an
obituary notice of you, adding that he wished it to be generous and
that I must give you a column."  Burnand at once exclaimed: "A
column!  Why, that's all they gave Nelson."

My first meeting with Oscar Wilde was at Oxford.  He had recently
"come down," but was visiting a friend there.  His appearance
suggested to me that he might have prompted Disraeli to write these
words, they seemed so accurately to apply to the once spoiled
darling: "The affectations of youth should be viewed leniently; every
man has a right to be conceited until he is successful."

I think the best plays from his pen were _Lady Windermere's Fan_ and
_The Importance of Being Earnest_.

He was talking with us about one of his comedies, just produced, when
my wife {113} remarked that the leading situation rather reminded her
of the great scene in a play by Scribe, to which Wilde unblushingly
replied: "Taken bodily from it, dear lady.  Why not?  Nobody reads
nowadays."

He once congratulated us when we wrote some account of ourselves, on
and off the stage, on not having waited, as most people do, until
they have lost all memory.

[Sidenote: Robert Marshall]

One of many heavy blows I have naturally had to bear during my
fifty-six years' membership of the Garrick Club was through the loss
of Robert Marshall.  His was a strange career.  The last man to
imagine who could claim the honour of rising from the ranks, through
failing to pass an examination, to be a captain in the army.  He had
left it before we met, but was always smart and soldierly in
appearance.

He wrote some charming plays, with a distinctive quality of their
own.  I recall especially _A Royal Family_, _His Excellency the
Governor_, _The Second in Command_, and _The Duke of Killiecrankie_.
What pleasant evenings they gave us!  When he was stricken and his
friends knew that his lease of life was not to be renewed, he was
lying in a nursing home close to Portland Place.  A man who loved him
was sitting by his bed-side one afternoon when Marshall's quick ear
caught the sound of {114} approaching military music.  It was the
band of the Horse Guards on the way from Albany Street barracks to a
Royal function.  He started up in bed and with a far-off look in his
eyes, his mind having travelled back to his soldier days, listened
for the last time to the trumpets and the drums: as their sound died
away he fell back on his pillow in a flood of tears.

[Sidenote: Henry Lucy]

Henry Lucy--Toby, M.P.--was an old and amusing friend; we often
enjoyed the pleasant parties to which Lady Lucy invited us, and they
were our guests in London and frequently at Underlea, when they lived
hard-by, at Hythe.  Perhaps the greatest of the many surprises I have
had was the discovery that instead of the poor journalist he was
thought to be, he left a quarter of a million.  How so vast a fortune
was accumulated has remained a mystery to me, fostered by the fact
that during the War they discharged their servants as a duty, and ran
their cottage themselves, with the simple help of one old woman and
then only once in a week.  However his wealth was achieved, it was
hardly by such means as those of a brother journalist, a wily Scot,
who, when he was seen coming out of a telegraph office by a friend,
who knew his penurious ways and asked: "Surely, Mac, you've not been
wasting your money in sending {115} telegrams?" replied: "Not I, mon,
I've only been giving my fountain pen a drink!"

Lucy was an odd looking little creature, with his hair standing
straight up, reminding me of some strange bird that might have
escaped from the zoo.  I remember his telling me once that, when
dining with Lord Rothschild, he arrived late, jumped from a hansom,
ran up the steps, flung his Inverness cape into the arms of a
footman, but, as he passed his hand through his hair, was stopped
from entering the dining-room by a stately butler, who told him,
pointing to a door, that he would find brushes in his lordship's
dressing-room.

On the occasion of one of his visits to us, the talk turned upon
Forbes-Robertson's acting in _The Passing of the Third Floor Back_.
Lucy told my wife that he had not yet seen the play, but much wished
to do so, and would she tell him the story.  To the amazement of
those who heard her, she gave the most perfect and dramatic
illustration I have ever listened to--if I may use the expression,
she seemed to be inspired.  We sat spell-bound as the various
incidents were unfolded and brought to a wonderful climax.  After a
pause, Lucy rose from his chair, took her hand, and said: "Good-bye,
my dear; there is no need for me to see the play."



{116}

VII

MORE MEN OF MARK

"Why dost thou lead these men about the streets?"


For the egotism which is bound to occur in a book of this sort it is
useless to offer excuses or apology; it must have its sway.

My wife one day on returning from an afternoon party, to which I was
unable to go, in answer to my question: "Who were there?" humorously
replied: "Oh, ladies and other dukes."  The phrase came to
stay--being often used by us.  In writing further of departed
guests--"Shadows of the things that have been"--it will constantly be
on my tongue.

[Sidenote: Prince Francis of Teck]

I enjoyed the acquaintanceship of Prince Francis of Teck, who was
certainly a man of mark, at a social club as well as at the Middlesex
Hospital, of which he was the energetic chairman.  Having been a
member of the weekly board for more than thirty years, I ought to
know something of the value of his services and devotion to the
welfare of that institution.  {117} My wife first met the Prince in
the Engadine, long before he was our guest; in fact, when he was a
boy on a visit to St. Moritz, in the company of his mother, the
Duchess of Teck, his sister, Queen Mary, and other members of his
family.

The Prince was a good soldier, and bore himself well, with an air of
command.  He served with distinction in Egypt and South Africa.

He died at forty, or thereabouts.  I saw him in the Welbeck Street
nursing home before he succumbed to that enemy, even of the robust,
pneumonia, and was one of the deputation from the hospital bidden to
Windsor, where he was buried.

I now find myself up against a duke.  There is no need to dwell at
any length on the name of his late Grace of Beaufort, beyond saying
that he was a great lover of the stage and gave us his friendship.
(I mean the grandfather of the present Duke.)

When it became known that my wife and I had decided to abandon the
old Prince of Wales's Theatre, and had a lease of the Haymarket, a
movement was set on foot, in which the Duke took a prominent part, to
present us with a "testimonial."  That sort of thing was always
obnoxious to me; and, happily, {118} the intention came to my ears in
time for me to bring it to a prompt end.

Referring to our farewell night at the Haymarket Theatre, later on,
the Duke wrote to my wife:


"Do you know, I feel it to be too melancholy an occasion to assist
at.  I should hate it all the time.  Some day, when you both play for
a benefit or a charity, I hope to be there to welcome you.  Let me
say how very much I regret your determination to retire from
management.  What a loss I feel it, and how sure I am the general
public share that feeling."


Another duke!--but merely a viscount when he sat at our
table--Viscount Macduff, a close friend of Horace Farquhar, whose
name reminds me of his amusing brother Gilbert, generally known as
"Gillie" Farquhar.  Gillie, when it was rumoured that he intended to
go on the stage, was angrily sent for by Horace, his elder and
prosperous brother, who loudly expostulated on such a step being
taken, but learned from Gillie that he was quite in earnest.  Horace
then thundered: "Of course you will take some other name.  What do
you mean to call yourself?"  Gillie quietly replied: "I have thought
of calling myself Mr. _Horace_ Farquhar!"

When we first knew Macduff we were neighbours, {119} and constantly
saw him lead his father, the old and infirm Earl of Fife, into the
garden of Cavendish Square, where tea was taken across the road to
them.

I was invited to dine at No. 4 one Sunday evening, but had to be
elsewhere with my wife, so asked leave to join the party later, as I
knew it would not be an early one.  When I entered the room a young
man was standing in the middle, giving an imitation of myself.  When
he had finished I was made acquainted with Herbert Tree.

[Sidenote: Lord Londesborough]

Lord Londesborough, the first earl, was also a keen playgoer.  For
years he and Lady Londesborough showed us thoughtful kindness.  Our
theatre did not seem to be complete if they were not present on a
"first night."

With reference to the farewell performance of _Caste_, which had an
added interest from Hare's coming to us, from his own theatre, to
play his original part, Lord Londesborough wrote: "The demonstration
was most thoroughly well deserved, for there is no one to whom the
stage, and therefore the country, owes more than to you and to Mrs.
Bancroft.  It is always satisfactory when the public shows its
appreciation of those who do their work, and make their mark, without
beat of drum and flourish of trumpets."

{120}

He was a great "whip" and a prominent member of the Coaching Club.  I
was of his joyous party to the Derby for a number of years, until his
sight failed him through an accident while shooting; and I remember
his telling my wife, in the later years of his life, that the
remaining eye was saved by a consultation held at Lord's between C.
I. Thornton, W. G. Grace and myself.  I was fond of cricket in those
days, and became a member of the M.C.C. before it was necessary to be
proposed in boyhood.

On one occasion I drove with our kind friend to Ascot.  While seated
in a prominent position on the front of his coach, helping a group of
gorgeously-dressed ladies to lobster salad, I felt someone touching
my toe; on looking down I saw a well-known "nigger," who for years
frequented the race-courses.  He held up his tambourine to me and
called out, with a grin: "Now, Mr. B, don't forget the perfession!"

These Men of Mark who gave me the joy of their friendship are more
numerous than I had looked for, and the names of those left to me
must not be dwelt upon.  I cannot ignore, however, the delightful and
unique dinners enjoyed in Whitehall with the late Lord Onslow, when
Members from both {121} Houses streamed in and sat, informally, at
separate tables, reinforced by men prominent in other walks of life.
As an example, I once was placed in the company of the Archbishop of
Canterbury and Mr. Balfour, as he then was.  Onslow was a delightful
host and a delightful guest.  I have never forgotten his saying to me
that very few men, even eminent men, had any idea who their
great-grandfathers were.

[Sidenote: Lord Rowton]

Few more attractive men have graced a table than Lord Rowton: we knew
him first as Montagu Corry.  Later on he became a next door
neighbour: our No. was 18, his 17.  In his courtly way he said to my
wife we ought to change houses, so that he might address her as
"sweet seventeen," and not as his "dear neighbour."  It is, to my
pen, difficult to describe his pervasive charm, which I am sure was
as manifest in simple homes as at Balmoral.  He always appeared to be
gay, never boisterous, and his devotion to his great chief, Disraeli,
must have been priceless.

I was told by an eminent authority for many years at the bar, my
friend Sir Edward Clarke, that in his early days he "read" in
chambers where "Monty" Corry was his companion.  The career of my
informant speaks for his diligence; and he assured me that Corry
{122} chiefly passed his time in making rhymes on the names which
appeared in _The Times_ of the day in the column restricted to the
announcements of "hatches," "matches" and "despatches"!

Two other things about this dear man occur to me.  He told me, after
the great fancy-dress ball given at Devonshire House on a State
event, that he was at the head of the staircase when Irving arrived,
and was struck with the impression that the actor alone of all the
distinguished crowd wore his robes (he went as a cardinal) as if they
were his daily garb, and not obviously hired from a costumier's
store, or made for the occasion.

My last remembrance of Rowton is on leaving a club with him one night
to walk home; he suddenly stood still on the way and, after a pause,
said, as if dreaming of secrets under mental lock and key: "I seem to
have passed the whole of my life in holding my tongue."

[Sidenote: "Jacky" Fisher]

At the hospitable board of mutual friends we first met Sir John and
Lady Fisher, as they then were.  The great Admiral took my wife down
to dinner, and from that evening was her good friend and mine.
Others at the table, I remember, were the scientist Lord Kelvin and
Canon Ainger, the Master of the Temple.  {123} Fisher accepted an
invitation to dine with me in these words: "On the 25th, with
pleasure.  Yours till hell freezes, J. F."  His bad language was
really only a not very bad habit--his bark was infinitely worse than
his bite; in fact, he was a deeply religious man, as a beautiful
letter he wrote to my wife when Lady Fisher died would testify.  He
knew much of the Bible, and quotations from it were as often on his
lips as were his stock phrases.  A friend of mine told me that he was
once as astounded to hear the old Sea Lord preach a sermon in the
Duke of Hamilton's private chapel as he was by its excellence.
Whenever he caught sight of me, no matter where, Lord Fisher would
call out, cheerily, "How's the vintage?"

When Queen Alexandra shared King Edward's throne, Lord Fisher paid
Her Majesty a pretty compliment when offering his congratulations on
her sixtieth birthday.  "Have you seen, Ma'am," he asked, "the paper
which says: 'Her Majesty is sixty years old to-day; may she live till
she looks it!'  The words were his own, but he thought it would
please the Queen more to believe that the compliment had been paid to
her publicly.  Soon afterwards, the Queen cut out from an illustrated
catalogue the figure of a little girl, stuck on the top of it a
portrait of her own head, and {124} wrote underneath it: "May she
live till she looks it!" and sent it to Lord Fisher.

This reminds me of a compliment that I will dare to mention, paid to
me by Alfred Sutro on my eightieth birthday, when he ended a charming
letter with these words: "But then, my dear B, you are not really
eighty, you are only forty for the second time."

We did not know that dandy of the Senior Service, Lord Alcester,
until he had retired upon his laurels and left the planks of an
ironclad for the pavement of St. James's Street, of which his
lavender kid gloves seemed to be a daily part, and had earned for him
his gorgeous nickname, the "Swell of the Ocean."

It was as Beauchamp Seymour that he so ably served his country, the
height of his career being the brilliant success of his bombardment
of Alexandria, which gave him his Peerage, and doubtless paved the
way to our occupation of Egypt.  It is interesting to know that two
of his captains at the time were named John Fisher and Charles
Beresford.

The first Admiral Sir Edward Inglefield was our neighbour fifty years
ago, and many a nautical salute have we exchanged "over the garden
wall."  As a "handy man" I never met his equal.  If a pane of glass
in house or conservatory was broken he replaced it; if {125} the
kitchen clock stopped he soon made it go again; if a chimney took to
smoking it soon gave up the habit through his means.

On the other hand, Lady Inglefield used to say that the punctuality
with which she heard our wheels at night, when we returned from work,
regulated her movements.

[Sidenote: Sheridan's Granddaughter]

At a garden party given by them we met the celebrated Mrs. Norton,
the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, famous alike for her
poetry and novels, and for her unhappy relations with her mean and
cruel husband.  She was still a beautiful woman in the sixties, and
it was easy to believe that she was the granddaughter of the lovely
Elizabeth Linley.  Time had then all but obliterated the old and
untrue scandal that she had sold to _The Times_ the news of Peel's
conversion to Free Trade, and his intention to get the Corn Laws
repealed.  George Meredith's novel, _Diana of the Crossways_, had
(though wholly against the author's will) done something to revive
the false report that, for her own financial ends, Caroline Norton
had wormed the secret out of Sidney Herbert; the truth being that
Delane had been told it by Lord Aberdeen himself, who intended him to
publish it.

On one occasion, when Sir Edward was in command of one of our fleets,
he condemned {126} a man to receive so many strokes from the lash,
and was on deck to see the sentence carried out.  When the delinquent
approached he made certain signs known to Freemasons.  "Oh," said the
Admiral, "a Mason, eh?  Well, I doubt if you're better at that job
than as a seaman.  Go down and take your punishment."

[Sidenote: Garnet Wolseley]

Having written of Lord Fisher, a great sailor, I will now turn my
attention to a great soldier, whom we first knew, fifty years ago, as
Sir Garnet Wolseley.  We became friends and later on were neighbours.

To my regret, I only had a club acquaintance with Lord Roberts, who
was too true a gentleman ever to murmur: "I told you so--why did you
not listen to me?"  The same with Lord Kitchener; we only knew him as
a fellow-guest at other people's tables.  It was a Frenchman who
wrote this tribute on his sad end, which staggered the country:
"Great England's valiant soldier needed a nobler tomb than a hole in
the ground, and he had the noblest of all tombs.  God ordered his
funeral; the waves sang his requiem; the organ-pipes were rocky
cliffs; his pall was the black sky, foam the flowers, and the
lightning his funeral torches."

Wolseley was, I repeat, a great soldier.  One of those leaders whom
men will follow--even {127} unto death.  These words were written
before the powerful biography written by two friends of mine, Sir
Frederick Maurice and Sir George Arthur, was published.  I think he
saw service even before the Crimean War, where, as little more than a
boy, he became Captain, and was almost cut to pieces by bullets.
Then came Lucknow and service in many lands.  He was a
Lieutenant-Colonel when twenty-six; and throughout his long career
honours of all kinds poured on him.  He became Commander-in-Chief,
but was not destined to have realised the wish expressed to my
wife--"I hope I shall never die in a bed."  There was something about
him, about that slight cheerful figure, and that glowing face, that
outspoken talk, that was very helpful and strengthening: he seemed in
some way to shed happiness round him.

Among the accumulated correspondence we found waiting after a holiday
in 1882 was a cheery letter from Wolseley, postmark Alexandria,
August 18th, in which he wrote: "The 'army' keeps arriving daily, and
I hope very soon to be in a position to bring Mr. Arabi to book."
The realisation of this prophecy, and the curious incident of an
atmospheric phenomenon caused by the comet of that year, prompted
some verses, that were sent to the hero of the achievement and thus
{128} acknowledged from the War Office: "I am very glad Bancroft
induced you to send me your lines on Tel-el-Kebir, for I like them
extremely.  The word-painting is admirable, and the whole incident is
told most feelingly and well.  I shall put the little poem away among
my treasures.  Many, many thanks for it."  I wonder where it is now.
He was a shockingly bad speller--double pp's and double ll's were
sure to be found where they were not wanted.

[Sidenote: A rebuff]

I was told of a terrible rebuff Wolseley brought upon himself on an
occasion when he took Madame Melba down to dinner, not having, most
unfortunately, caught her name when presented.  He neglected her at
table and devoted himself to a charming lady on his other side, whom
he knew well.  After a time he asked--as was rather his habit--too
loudly, "Who is my other neighbour?"  "Surely you know Madame Melba,"
was the answer.  "Only heard of her: never met her before: did not
catch her name: when I brought her down she conveyed nothing to me."
At last he turned to the great songstress and addressed some casual
remark to her.  Melba quietly asked: "To whom am I speaking?"  He
answered: "General Wolseley," and received the reply: "I am afraid
the name conveys {129} nothing to me."  I hope Dame Nellie Melba will
forgive me for repeating the story.

Writing of Wolseley reminds me of another, his comrade, Sir Redvers
Buller, for years, with Lady Audrey, our friend and neighbour.
Buller was a man of unflinching courage and dogged bravery: it was
said that he had won his Victoria Cross three times over.

He invited me to join a congratulatory dinner party to be given by
him, at a military club, in honour of Wolseley having been made a
Field-Marshal.  All the guests turned up except Wolseley, who had
received a late summons from Windsor, commanding him to dine at the
Castle, as Her Majesty wished to present the _bâton_ to him in person
on that very evening.

A long spell of years has passed since my wife and I were guests at
what was then Thomas's Hotel, in Berkeley Square, now converted into
flats, and met Evelyn Wood when he was about thirty, having already
won the V.C. in the Indian Mutiny, after beginning his adventurous
career as a midshipman and being wounded in the Crimea.  We lost
sight of him for a long while, and he must have become a
Field-Marshal when he dined with us, as he often did, until
increasing deafness made him cautious of accepting such invitations.
He amused us once by {130} threatening to recite the Lord's Prayer in
an alarming number of languages if provoked.

Another Field-Marshal and V.C. whom we knew was the hero of
Ladysmith, Sir George White.  I met him first on board a P. & O.
steamer when he was Governor of Gibraltar.  We walked many a mile
together on the deck of the _Arabia_.  Both he and Lady White were
very kind to me when I landed from his launch for a short stay on the
Rock, and enabled me to be present at a memorial service for the Duke
of Cambridge.  When his own time came White was Governor of Chelsea
Hospital.  His body was taken across London, for burial in his native
Ireland, to such a tribute of affection and regard from his comrades
and the people as is rarely given.

I first knew the popular old soldier and father of the charming Lady
Burnham and Lady Somerleyton, Sir Henry de Bathe, in the early days
of my membership of the Garrick, and was so struck by his appearance
that I did my best to suggest it in a part I played soon
afterwards--I suppose with a measure of success, for when I stepped
upon the stage Lady de Bathe (now the Dowager, still, happily, strong
and well), who was seated in the stalls, exclaimed audibly, "Why,
it's Henry!"

My wife was so impressed by a dramatic {131} story the old general
told of his Crimean days, that she often repeated it.

[Sidenote: A convict from Eton]

One evening, in the severe winter time, it was de Bathe's duty to
direct the clearing of the dead and wounded after a deadly encounter
with the enemy, the brunt of which had been borne by men drawn from
the French convict settlements, who were thrust into the hottest
places when trying work had to be done.  The searching party came
across one poor fellow who was grievously wounded but still alive: de
Bathe had him placed upon a stretcher, lifted his head, and poured
brandy into the soldier's mouth.  The man took his hand and pressed
it, murmuring in English, "Thank you, de Bathe."  Thunderstruck, he
stooped down and asked how a Frenchman knew his name and could also
speak such perfect English.  The wounded man smiled and whispered,
"Eton!" as he fainted; de Bathe accompanied the stretcher to the
French lines, saying that he would return as soon as his duty would
allow him.  He did so, but the man was dead; de Bathe lifted the
sheet from his face and gazed upon it earnestly without recognising
the lost creature, once his school companion, then known only as a
French convict with a fictitious name.

I remember being once so fortunate, when {132} the old general dined
with me, as to place him between Sir William Howard Russell, the war
correspondent, and Dion Boucicault, the dramatist, and to learn that
all three of them in boyhood's days had been at the same school
together in Dublin.

Lord Rathmore--better remembered and thought of by me as David
Plunket--was a fascinating creature.  What otherwise could he be with
such youthfulness, brightness, wit--such qualities as earned for him
the friendship of the sphinx-like Disraeli?

Our acquaintance with him began many years ago at Homburg, where we
had a happy time, and continued until 1915, when, with his company
and that of other pleasant people, my wife and I passed a holiday at
the old Queen Hotel, on The Stray, at Harrogate.  He was a delightful
guest, an arresting personality at any table, and one of the most
gifted orators--I can use no smaller word--I have listened to; his
highly polished sentences being rendered even more attractive by his
sometimes pronounced stammer, which often added charm to his
brilliant flow of language.  David Plunket's many friends at his
favourite club, the Garrick, where he was beloved, missed him greatly
and mourned his loss.

Lord Glenesk, always a great supporter of {133} the drama, gave us
his friendship for many years.  As Sir Algernon Borthwick, he was, to
our great delight, at Balmoral when we were commanded by the late
Queen to act there.  From his house in Piccadilly, we saw both joyful
and mournful processions.  In a letter to my wife he wrote: "You were
the first to teach the school of Nature, and not only by your own
bright impersonations, but also by your influence over all those with
whom you were brought in contact, to prove that English art is second
to none."

Acquaintance with the first Lord Ashbourne, so long Lord Chancellor
of Ireland, began years ago in the Engadine, and I recall happy times
spent there and by the Lake of Como in his excellent company.

[Sidenote: Edward Carson]

We were dining with him one evening when my wife asked who was a
young man at the farther end of the table.  "Oh," said her host, "his
name is Carson.  He is a fellow-countryman of mine, who has just been
called to the English Bar, where he means to practise."  "And where
he will go far, if I am any judge of a face," was my wife's reply.
Lord Ashbourne brought the "young Irishman" to her afterwards, and so
an affectionate and enduring friendship with the brilliant advocate,
the valiant patriot, Lord Carson, had its birth.

{134}

I was one of four who made up a table with Lord Ashbourne--who was
gay and amusing--to play bridge at the Athenæum on the day before he
was stricken.

I first met Edward Lawson, afterwards Lord Burnham, on the morning of
my wedding day, which chanced to be his birthday.  My wife had made
his acquaintance before, as also that of his sage old father, who
founded the fortunes of the great newspaper, of which three
generations have now been justly proud.

I gratefully remember that it is to the senior of the trio the stage
owes much of its present recognition by the press.  To digress for a
moment, it was well that Clement Scott, young and enthusiastic, was
given his head, and for a long while--years, in fact--his virile pen
was devoted to the service of the drama.

Lord Burnham continued in his father's footsteps, as, in his turn,
his own son has done.  I remember hearing Burnham say, when asked if
there was any particular advantage in being very rich: "Only one; you
can afford to be robbed."

I was indebted to his constant kindness and hospitality, especially
at Hall Barn, for little short of fifty years, until the war broke
his splendid spirit and claimed him as its victim.

Of my friend since his boyhood, the present {135} Viscount, I will
only say, although I can hardly believe it, that I have given him a
sovereign when he went back to Eton!

[Sidenote: Alfred Lyttelton]

My first acquaintance with Alfred Lyttelton was as a spectator at
Lord's, in the field, and in the courts.  Before I knew him I had the
privilege of two well-remembered talks with Miss Laura Tennant, whose
beauty and charm left a lasting impression.  His career, political
and otherwise, is too well known to need a word from me.  The
widespread popularity he enjoyed began early.  He was captain of both
his school and university elevens, and held the tennis championship
without a break for many years.

A personal note I can strike with this most lovable man is through
going with him in Paris to see one of the earliest performances of
_Cyrano_ by Coquelin.  He also did me the honour to take the place of
Sir Henry Thompson as my seconder at the Athenæum.

Alfred Lyttelton was spared the agonies of the Great War and the
bewildering sense of uncertainty as to what will result from it in
this much-altered world.  On the day he was buried, in July, 1913,
the Oxford and Cambridge match was being played at Lord's.  At the
solemn hour the game was stopped, and the great assemblage stood
uncovered as they {136} thought of him.  Later, on the same day, Mr.
Asquith said of him in the House of Commons that he, perhaps of all
men of this generation, came nearest to the ideal of manhood which
every English father would like to see his son aspire to and attain.

It is among my happy memories to have been many times the guest of
that prince of hosts, Sir Henry Thompson, extending over twenty
years.  No dinner parties were more justly celebrated than the
"octaves," generally eight guests and himself, he arranged with so
much thought and knowledge.

He was an exceptional, an extraordinary, man, in addition to his
skill as a great surgeon.  He had talent as a painter, had pictures
hung in both the Academy and the Salon; he wrote novels, and his
knowledge of old Nanking china, of which he owned a fine collection,
was that of an expert; and he was founder and president of the
Cremation Society.  He introduced me to motoring, when it was in its
infancy.  He was an enthusiast in astronomy, having a private
observatory erected by himself.  He gave a valuable book on this
subject to my wife with the inscription: "Homage from an Astronomer
to a Star of the First Magnitude."

[Sidenote: Public servants]

Other names crowd my mind: Sir Frank {137} Lascelles, so long our
Ambassador in Berlin, and Sir Rivers Wilson, also a distinguished
public servant--delightful hosts, delightful guests--both great
gentlemen, and both devoted to cards as an amusement.  The former
cursed them (never his partner) when they persistently went against
him; the latter caressed them, however badly they treated him.

Of Schomberg McDonnell, known better to his big circle of friends as
"Pom," I recall one personal incident.  He was the first to
congratulate me on my knighthood, through being at the time Lord
Salisbury's private secretary, a post which he had the courage to
give up to take his part in the South African War, where he did good
service with the C.I.V., and was rewarded on his return by being
reinstated.  He again served his country in the Great War and died
from his wounds, beloved and regretted.

I must in these names include that of a friend of many years, Sir
Thomas Sutherland, so long the chairman of the P. & O. Company.  To
the kindness of his invitations to be a guest on trial trips of ships
of that great fleet I owe the happiest "week-ends," in wonderful
company, I have ever spent.

"Mr. Alfred," as Alfred de Rothschild was generally spoken of, was
once our guest; {138} we were often his in Seamore Place.  I was
invited to join a week-end party, when I might have seen the wonders
of his country home, with its circus and performing animals, but I
could not go.  Being delicate and of a highly nervous temperament, he
must have been a mine of wealth to members of the medical profession.
He was a great lover and patron of the theatre.  I remember a
peculiar incident concerning him when we revived Robertson's comedy
_School_ at the Haymarket.  Sometimes for several nights running,
sometimes twice in a week, he took a large stage box, occupied it for
not more than half an hour, sat alone to see the second act of the
comedy, and then went.

[Sidenote: Burton and Stanley]

The two famous travellers and explorers, Burton and Stanley, were old
friends of ours.  I couple their names because it so chanced that we
saw the most of them, and more intimately, together with Lady Burton
and Lady Stanley, in hotels--one in Switzerland, the other in
Italy--when we were all holiday making.

Burton's early career was that of a wild, untamed gipsy spirit.  His
childhood was passed in France and Italy, when his mastery of tongues
began.  At Oxford he acquired Arabic, having turned his back on Latin
and {139} Greek.  He told me that, eventually, he conquered well over
thirty languages--I forget the exact number--as well as made progress
towards interpreting what he called the speech of monkeys.  We first
met him at the table of a dear friend, Dr. George Bird, who asked how
he felt when he had killed a man.  Burton replied that the doctor
ought to know, as he had done it oftener.

Stanley's fame was chiefly established by his "finding" of
Livingstone, when he was only about thirty, the search having
occupied eight months.

Of the two, Burton was the easier to get on with, being full of talk
and anecdotes.  Stanley was reserved, and it often took my wife some
time to draw from him stories, full of interest, about the King of
Uganda and other persons, and incidents of his courageous travels.

[Sidenote: Labouchere]

Our acquaintance with Henry Labouchere dates back to the time when he
built the Queen's Theatre in Long Acre, where St. Martin's Hall
formerly stood, and of which his wife was the manageress.  Henrietta
Hodson was a clever actress, whom, in the early days of the old
Prince of Wales's Theatre, we introduced to London.  She afterwards
played Esther Eccles in _Caste_ with the first complete company which
toured the provinces.

{140}

Labouchere's varied career, after he left Eton and Cambridge, began
in diplomacy.  Among many similar stories I have heard of him in
those days, is one of a pompous visitor who, calling at the embassy
in Washington, and not liking the look of so youthful an attaché,
said abruptly: "Can I see your boss?" Labouchere calmly replied:
"With pleasure, if you'll tell me to what part of my person you
refer."

After giving up diplomacy he entered Parliament; at one time
represented Northampton with Bradlaugh.  I think it was then he
became known as "Labby," and a sort of licensed clown.  He was also
prominently associated with journalism.  His "Letters of a Besieged
Resident," sent over from Paris by balloons, were so sensational as
to increase the circulation of a daily paper by more than double.

We knew him best on the Lake of Como, at Cadenabbia, a place he
loved, which my wife said ought really to be renamed Cade_labbya_.  I
remember his suddenly turning to her one morning and saying that he
would rather be deformed than unnoticed.

On the night that our Haymarket career commenced London was
fog-bound.  The density lasted for days, being unique in its horrors,
as records of the time can tell.  {141} Labouchere was at the theatre
and emerged with the rest of the audience into dreadful gloom.  This
is the story of his reaching home.  He ran heavily against a man, who
asked him in what direction he wanted to go.  Labouchere replied,
"Queen Anne's Gate."  The questioner said that he also was going that
way, in fact, that he lived hard by, and would take him there safely
if he chose to go with him.  Labouchere had some fears as to being
trapped, but decided to risk it and be wary.  The two plodded along
together arm-in-arm; they met with one or two minor difficulties; but
presently the cheerful stranger, who evidently was of humble station,
stood still in the pitch darkness and said: "Here we are; what's your
number?"  Labouchere told him, and his companion answered: "Then we
must cross the road."  They did so, the man groped about a door with
his fingers and said: "That's your house; you're all right now; try
your latchkey."

Labouchere, before rewarding his friendly guide, in amazement asked
how he had found his way so accurately on such a night.  The simple
answer was: "I'm blind!"

He ended his days at his villa in Italy.  When I read his name in the
Honours List as Privy Councillor, I sent him a telegram: {142}
"Labouchere, Florence.  Congratulations.  Bancroft."  His reply was
to the effect that I had puzzled him dreadfully, as he had no idea to
what I referred until he received _The Times_ on the following day.

Oscar Browning--or shall I say "O.B."?--was an odd-looking creature.
We made his acquaintance in our haunt for many years, the Engadine,
when my wife christened him "The Wicked Monk."  For my part, I never
felt quite certain how much of him was "Jekyll" and how little there
was of "Hyde."

Some time afterwards he sent word to me at the theatre that he was in
the stalls and would like to introduce me to a young friend who was
his companion.  I arranged that he should do so at the end of the
play, when they were brought behind the scenes, and O.B. made me
known to Mr. George Curzon, who had recently left Eton, and whose
friendship, if I may use the word, I claim the privilege of having
since enjoyed, in the great position to which Browning had no doubt
foreseen that his pupil would attain.  Our last meeting was when Lord
Curzon presided at the dinner given to another old friend of mine, T.
P. O'Connor, with a charm only equalled, in my experience, on
somewhat similar occasions by Lord Rosebery and Lord Balfour.

{143}

[Sidenote: Comyns Carr]

I think it was when I first met Comyns Carr--"Joe"--early in the
seventies, that I heard him rebuke a pushing young man as "a
pantaloon without his maturity and a clown without his colour"--the
sort of thing that he fired off throughout his life, as if he were a
well-charged satirical machine-gun.

He had been called to the Bar, but was then on the eve of his
marriage with the attractive Miss Strettell, the daughter of a
delightful old clergyman whom I knew as the chaplain at St. Moritz.
Carr did not stick to his first choice of a profession, which I
always regarded as a pity, but drifted into journalism instead.  He
was, in his day, attached to many newspapers.  Then, fostered by his
love and knowledge of art, came a long career when Sir Coutts
Lindsay, our old friend and guest, reigned at the Grosvenor Gallery,
with Carr as Director.  It was famous for Sunday afternoon parties,
which were unique.  The robes of Royalty rubbed against the skirts of
Bohemia.  "Ladies and other dukes" were plentiful, as were the
followers of every art, and all were happy.  Then he wrote plays;
next managed a theatre.

I often think he was right when he said to me: "My dear B, the first
duty of wine is to be red."  Most of the witty things he uttered
{144} have no doubt appeared in print; perhaps the following gem has
not.  An old and well-known friend, who dyed his hair and beard so
unnatural a black that even the raven's wing had no chance against
it, was lunching, on a hot day, in the revealing sun's rays, with
some club friends, of whom one was Comyns Carr, and presenting a sad
picture of the struggle between the ravages of time and the
appliances of art.  He left the table early, and his departure was
followed by remarks.  "How dreadful--what a pity!"  "Can't somebody
advise something?"  Some one turned to Carr, who had remained silent,
and asked him what he thought.  Joe replied that of all his friends
and acquaintances the old fellow was the only one who really was as
black as he was painted.

Carr's gift of eloquence was naturally sought at public banquets,
where his speeches took high rank.  But was it not, after all, the
old story of "a rolling stone" which left him best remembered by his
brilliant tongue?

[Sidenote: Cecil Clay]

I could go on writing of other Men of Mark to whom I have had the
good fortune to play the host, and tell again of the great goodness
shown to followers of the stage by members of the healing art, and by
lights in the law; but let me bring this chapter to its close by a
reference to Cecil Clay, who wrote _A Pantomime {145} Rehearsal_ and,
with those who acted his amusing play, gave the old generation much
pleasure.  He was beloved in every circle that he moved in, and I
never heard an unkind word pass his lips or saw an unkind look upon
his face.  He went so far once as to reproach a fellow-member of one
of his many clubs who swore at the matches because they would not
strike.  "My dear fellow, don't be angry; pray remember they are the
only things in the country that don't!"

I have asked Owen Seaman to allow me to reprint some lines which
appeared in _Punch_, written, I feel sure, by the pen of Charles
Graves.

  "Athlete and wit, whose genial tongue
  Cheered and refreshed but never stung:
  Creator, to our endless joy,
  Of priceless _Arthur Pomeroy_.
  Light lie the earth above his head
  Who lightened many a heart of lead;
  Courteous and chivalrous and gay,
  In very truth no common Clay."


[Sidenote: The Sickles tragedy]

I have alluded to an early visit to New York, when I was a lad of
seventeen.  During my stay what was known as "The Sickles Tragedy"
occurred in Washington; the details of which have lingered in my mind
ever since.  Many years afterwards my wife {146} and I were at an
evening party given by the Dion Boucicaults to a handsome and
distinguished-looking American, with one leg and a crutch; the other
leg he had lost, valiantly, on the field of Gettysburg.  His name was
Daniel Sickles.  My interest was at once aroused.  He was, or had
been, United States Minister to Spain, being no less eminent in
diplomacy and the civil service than as a volunteer soldier and
general.  At one time the tragedy of his life might have robbed his
country of his great abilities.  He had married, some six years
before, a beautiful girl of sixteen, Italian by origin, and they were
living in Washington, where Sickles held a Government appointment,
when he learned from an anonymous letter that his young wife was
false to him, clandestinely meeting at a certain house hired from an
old negro woman by her lover, named Philip Barton Key, a widower
nearly twice her age, a Government lawyer, and the son of the author
of "The Star-Spangled Banner."  Sickles had the house watched, and
found that the news was true.  Charged with the offence, his wife
confessed all, and explained the system of signals by which, from an
upper window, she and Key, watching through an opera-glass from his
club, arranged their meetings.  Sickles demanded her wedding-ring,
told {147} her to leave his house and return to her parents.  Soon
afterwards, looking out of his window, he saw the seducer walking
towards the house and make a signal with his handkerchief.  He went
out, and coming up with Key at the street-corner, accused him to his
face and shot him.  Key attempted to defend himself, but Sickles
fired twice more, and then, while Key was on the ground and still
breathing, put his revolver to his own head.  Twice it missed fire.
Sickles then walked away and gave himself up to the police.  The case
aroused intense excitement, not only in America but in England.  The
trial lasted some weeks, and so strong was public opinion in the
prisoner's favour that he was acquitted, and set free to do his
country services in the future.  I have been told that, in years
after, husband and wife came together again.  It is certain that all
through the affair, Sickles treated her with the greatest
consideration, even allowing her to keep their eldest child, who,
grown into a beautiful girl, was present with her father when we met
at the Boucicaults' and who soon afterwards was our guest.

Of the distinguished Americans who have been sent to our country as
Ambassadors from their own land I have met Mr. Lowell, Mr. Phelps,
Mr. Bayard, Mr. Choate, Mr. Page, and {148} Mr. Davis.  It is a
privilege to have known such men; a greater privilege, in the case of
Mr. Choate, to have been his host.  I don't know whether a charming
little story has been in print before--very likely it has--but I can
answer for its exactitude as I now tell it, and where the incident
occurred.

On one of his visits to us the subject was started--I think by Bishop
Boyd-Carpenter--of changing one's identity.  My wife turned to her
chief guest and said: "Tell us, Your Excellency, who you would rather
be if you were not Mr. Choate."  The Ambassador, slightly rising from
his chair, bowed across the table to his wife, who was at my side,
and at once replied: "Mrs. Choate's second husband."



{149}

VIII

THE STAGE

"Of all amusements the theatre is the most profitable, for there we
see important actions when we cannot act importantly
ourselves."--MARTIN LUTHER.


I

When I was nineteen I ran away from home to become an actor, and have
been stage-struck ever since.

[Sidenote: Charles Mathews]

Of eminent Victorian leaders of my calling the first to be our guest,
in very far-away days, was the accomplished Charles Mathews, the most
conspicuous comedian of his time.  The memory of childhood's
play-going days tells me that I once saw Madame Vestris, his first
wife, a beautiful and accomplished woman, in one of Planche's
extravaganzas called _The King of the Peacocks_, at the Lyceum
Theatre.  I first met Charles Mathews in 1863, as a star in the
theatrical firmament when I was a struggling young actor in Dublin,
where I had the great advantage of playing with him in a round of his
favourite comedies for a whole {150} month; during which I hope I
learnt something from his delightful personality of the beautiful art
of acting.

Among other accomplishments, he was an amusing after-dinner speaker.
When presiding at a theatrical charity banquet, with his own charm of
manner, he began: "Douglas Jerrold once said to me that he did not
despair of living to see the day when I should be trudging up Ludgate
Hill, with an umbrella under my arm, to invest my funds in the Bank
of England.  I am sorry to say that the great humorist did not live
to see that vision realised.  The only step I have advanced towards
it is, that I have bought the umbrella."

When Mathews left England for a tour in Australia, a banquet was
given in his honour at which he presided; himself proposing the toast
of his own health in these words:


"The most important task assigned to me has now to be fulfilled, and
I rise to propose what is called the toast of the evening with a
mixture of pleasure and trepidation.  I was going to say that I was
placed in a novel but unprecedented position, by being asked to
occupy the chair.  But it is not so.  There is nothing new in saying
that there is nothing new.  In _The Times_ of October 3rd, 1798,
there is an advertisement of a dinner given to Mr. Fox {151} on the
anniversary of his first election for Westminster: 'The Hon. Charles
James Fox in the chair.'  Here is a great precedent; and what was
done by Charles James Fox in 1798 is only imitated in 1870 by Charles
James Mathews.  I venture to assert that a fitter man than myself to
propose the health of our guest could not be found; for I venture to
affirm that there is no man so well acquainted with the merits and
demerits of that gifted individual as I am.  I have been on intimate
terms with him from his earliest youth.  I have watched over his
progress from childhood, have shared in his joys and griefs, and I
assert boldly that there is not a man on earth for whom I entertain
so sincere a regard and affection.  Nor do I go too far in stating
that he has an equal affection for me.  He has come to me for advice
in the most embarrassing circumstances, and what is still more
remarkable, has always taken my advice in preference to that of any
one else."


Needless to say the speech was interrupted at every point by
laughter.  Here is a characteristic letter I received from him during
a winter which he was passing at Nice:


"It is hard to be obliged to come indoors on such a heavenly day to
write a letter, and you will no doubt think it harder to be {152}
obliged to read it.  But friendship calls, and I sacrifice myself
upon its altar.  Do thou likewise.

"A very nice fellow has written a comedy.  ('O Lord!' I hear you
say.)  All I ask of you is to read it, have the parts copied out and
produce it, playing the principal part yourself--nothing more.  Your
new piece, of course, will not run more than two or three years, and
then you will have this ready to fall back upon.  The human mind
naturally looks forward, and managers cannot make their arrangements
too soon.  If by any unforeseen and improbable chance you may not
fancy the piece (such things have happened), please drop me a sweet
little note, so charmingly worded that the unhappy author may swallow
the gilded pill without difficulty.  There is something in the
piece--or I would not inflict it upon you.  If well dressed, and
carefully put upon the stage, it _might_ be effective.

"This is what is called writing just _one line_.  You will of course
say it 'wants cutting,' like the piece.  So I will cut it--short.

"On reading this rigmarole, I find I have only used the word 'piece'
four times.  When you give my letter to the copyist, you can make the
following alterations: For 'piece' (No. 1) read 'play.'  For 'piece'
(No. 2) read 'production.' For 'piece' (No. 3) read 'work.'  For
'piece' (No. 4) read 'comedy.'"


{153}

[Sidenote: "Our Boys"]

As an instance of his good judgment, on the first night of Byron's
comedy, _Our Boys_, which had a phenomenal run, I was in the billiard
room of the Garrick Club; a group of men came in who said they had
been to see a new comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre.  Various opinions
were expressed, several present thinking the comedy would only have a
moderate run, when Mathews, who was playing pool, said, quietly: "I
don't agree with you fellows.  I was there, and haven't laughed so
heartily for a long while.  Byron this time--he doesn't always--has
taken his goods to exactly the right shop.  That play is sure to run."

Charles Mathews was originally an architect of considerable skill and
promise.  Although he did not go upon the stage until he was thirty,
he became one of the most beloved of the public's favourites.
Mathews was distinctly an actor of manners: it was beyond his range
to portray emotion.  Later on, Charles Wyndham, at one time in his
career, had some of his attributes, and so, very strongly, had
Kendal.  Nowadays, the actor who at times recalls him to me in the
delicacy and refinement of his comedy is Gerald du Maurier.

Pictorially, Charles Mathews lives again in {154} the interesting
series of stage portraits on the walls of the Garrick Club with which
I was first familiar on the staircases when he lived in Pelham
Crescent and Belgrave Road.

In a defence of himself and the view he took of his art, he once
said: "It has been urged against me that I always play the same
characters in the same way, and that ten years hence I should play
the parts exactly as I play them now; this I take as a great
compliment.  It is a precision which has been aimed at by the models
of my profession, which I am proud to follow, and shows, at least,
that my acting, such as it is, is the result of art, and study, and
not of mere accident."

[Sidenote: Charles Fechter]

I can also take the reader back to another link with the past and
tell him briefly something of Charles Fechter, also of Victorian
fame, whose name opens up a mine of memories.  In our early married
days we lived in St. John's Wood; Fechter was our neighbour and once
our guest.  I regard him as the finest actor of the romantic drama I
have ever seen.  The eye, the voice, the grace--all so needed--were
at his command.  He was the original of the lover in _La Dame aux
Camélias_.  I was present at his début in London, so long ago as
1860, when, as Ruy Blas, he forsook the French for the English stage,
and I saw his first {155} performance of _The Corsican Brothers_, in
which play he also acted originally in Paris.  This was at the old
Princess's Theatre in Oxford Street, which, a decade earlier, had
been the scene of the Charles Kean Shakespearean revivals, most of
which I saw in my 'teens.  They were a great advance scenically on
all that had been done by Macready, while their splendours and
pageantry were in turn eclipsed first by Irving and afterwards by
Tree; but genius has no part in plastering treacle on jam.

So vivid is my remembrance of Fechter's acting in _Hamlet_, which
took the town by storm, that I can describe and illustrate much of it
after a lapse of more than fifty years.  He made the Prince a
fair-haired, almost flaxen, Dane.  Dickens said: "No innovation was
ever accepted with so much favour by so many intellectuals as
Fechter's Hamlet."

Quite recently I came across the impressions of Clement Scott, for
many years one of the most prominent of our dramatic critics.  He
wrote: "Let me candidly own that I never quite understood _Hamlet_
until I saw Fechter play the Prince of Denmark.  Phelps and Charles
Kean impressed me with the play, but with Fechter, I loved the play,
and was charmed as well as fascinated by the player."  He {156}
afterwards failed as Othello, while his performance of Iago was a
triumph.  It is a coincidence that Fechter should have received
valuable help during his reign at the Lyceum from Kate Terry, whose
younger sister, Ellen, in a similar position, did so much for Irving
in the same theatre later on.

Fechter died in America in 1879.  His last years were sad.  But a
decade or so before, the idol of the playgoing public, the compeer of
all distinguished in the arts, the welcome guest of Charles Dickens
at Gad's Hill, he died beyond the seas neglected, friendless, almost
forgotten.  Few actors at their zenith have held greater sway; few
could compare with him in romantic parts; fewer still could claim to
have stirred two nations of playgoers in different tongues; but such
is the fleeting nature of our work, so faint the record of it left
behind, that one might ask how many now can speak of Fechter as he
really was, how few will even know his name?  "Out, out, brief
candle!"  His talent was not confined to the stage, as a spirited
bust of himself, his own work, now in the Garrick Club, will show.

[Sidenote: Salvini]

Later on, there came the eminent Italian actor, Salvini, whose visit
to this country in 1875 may still be remembered by a dwindling few.
He was the greatest tragedian I have {157} seen--he was never a tenor
trying to sing a bass song.  On the stage the Italians, to my mind,
have the advantage over other actors in being beyond question the
finest pantomimists in the world--they can say so much without
speaking.  Those two great actresses, Ristori and Duse, made masterly
use of this gift.

At an afternoon performance of _Othello_ by Salvini, specially given
at Drury Lane Theatre to the leading representatives of the English
Stage, who chiefly composed the vast assemblage, I was present.
Salvini's superbly delivered address to the Senate at once convinced
the remarkable audience that no ordinary actor was before them--so
calm, so dignified, so motionless--broken only by the portrayal of
love as he caught sight of Desdemona entering on the scene.  No
ovation that I have taken part in equalled in enthusiasm the
reception from his up-standing comrades at the close of the third
act.  His death scene I took exception to as being too shocking, too
realistic, too like an animal dying in the shambles or on a
battle-field.  There I thought the Italian was surpassed by the
Irishman, G. V. Brooke, the only actor I have seen who shared
Salvini's natural gifts of voice and bearing, and who, but for his
unfortunate intemperate habits, might have achieved lasting {158}
fame upon the stage.  His death in _Othello_ seemed to me as poetic
in conception as it was pathetic in execution.  Acting, although not
speaking, the closing words, "Killing myself, to die upon a kiss," he
staggered towards the bed, dying as he clutched the heavy curtains of
it, which, giving way, fell upon his prostrate body as a kind of
pall, disclosing, at the same time, the dead form of Desdemona.  I
agree with the great Frenchman who said: "Even when it assassinates,
even when it strangles, tragedy remembers that it wears the crown and
carries a sceptre."

In a little letter to my wife, Salvini wrote:


"CHÈRE MADAME,--Que vous êtes aimable!  Je tiendrai votre joli cadeau
comme un doux souvenir de votre sincère amitié.  Ce sera un précieux
talisman qui suivra le reste de ma carrière artistique, et qui, je
suis sûr, m'apportera du bonheur."


[Sidenote: The perfect Hamlet]

In a conversation I had with Salvini, he modestly said his
nationality and Southern blood made it comparatively easy for him to
play the jealous Moor, while they stood in his way when he attempted
the part of the Northern moody Dane, to which his robust physique was
not suited.  Salvini's performance, however, of _Hamlet_ has left me
{159} memories almost as keen as those bequeathed by Fechter.  In his
arrangement of the play he acted the long speech of his father's
ghost.  You only heard, and hardly saw the Phantom.  His scene with
his mother was very fine: his management of the foils in the fight
with Laertes as superb as it was original: his death the most
touching I can recall: it was the "Kiss me, Hardy" of Nelson; he felt
for Horatio's head and drew it down to his face as the spirit fled.
To make a perfect Hamlet I should weld together ever to be remembered
portions from the performances of Fechter, Salvini, Irving and
Forbes-Robertson.

It is interesting to read what Macready, the greatest of the
Victorian classic actors, said of this complex, fascinating character:


"It seems to me as if only now at fifty-one years of age, I
thoroughly see and appreciate the artistic power of Shakespeare in
this great human phenomenon: nor do any of the critics, Goethe,
Schlegel, or Coleridge, present to me, in their elaborate remarks,
the exquisite artistical effects which I see in this work, as long
meditation, like long straining after light, gives the minutest
portion of its excellence to my view."


From my childhood I have always looked {160} upon Macready as the
head of my craft, and regarded him with the reverence a young curate
would feel, I suppose, towards the Archbishop of Canterbury.

I regret that I never saw Macready act.  I was not ten years old when
he left the stage.  I had the pleasure, long afterwards, to know his
son, Jonathan, a clever surgeon, whose son, Major Macready, I now
know; and I rejoice in the friendship of the tragedian's youngest
child, General Sir Nevil Macready, whom I first saw at his father's
funeral, when he was lifted from a mourning coach--a little fellow of
about ten.

My wife was the last stage link with Macready.  At one of the
farewell performances he gave when he retired she appeared as the
child apparition in _Macbeth_.

I am wandering from my departed guests, but may mention that in my
boyhood I saw much of that fine actor, Samuel Phelps, who had so wide
a range and to whom no character seemed to come amiss.  I have always
felt, however, that he was a disciple of Macready, to whom
undoubtedly he owed much, and whom he followed as Richelieu, Werner
and Virginius.

I may just say that, in my early career, I have acted with Phelps, as
well as with Charles Kean and G. V. Brooke, and it may surprise {161}
young actors of to-day to know that, in my provincial novitiate of
four years and three months, I played no fewer than three hundred and
forty-six different parts, with the advantage of repeating many of
the Shakespearean characters with different leading actors.

[Sidenote: A tribute from Got]

I met and knew the great French comedian Edmond Got, for many years
doyen of the _Comédie française_, in the far-off days of the Commune.
The chief members of the troupe were here in exile for many months,
when it was a privilege to entertain them.  It was strange to learn
that Got had served in the French cavalry before he went upon the
stage.  I append a gracious letter I received from him:


"Je veux vous remercier de la gracieuse hospitalité que vous avez
bien voulu nous offrir, et vous prier de mettre aux pieds de Mme.
Bancroft l'hommage de mon respect et de ma très sincère admiration.

"Quant à vous, monsieur, vous avez montré ce que peut obtenir de ses
artistes un habile administrateur, doublé d'un parfait comédien,
c'est-à-dire un ensemble que je souhaiterais rencontrer sur beaucoup
de scènes parisiennes, et quelquefois sur la nôtre."


Two often welcomed guests were the brothers Coquelin, _ainé_ and
_cadet_.  The elder was a great actor, the younger a good actor and a
{162} brilliant _diseur_.  Coquelin, as well as his distinguished
comrade, Mounet-Sully, also his eminent compatriot, Clemenceau,
belonged to "The Vintage."

[Sidenote: Coquelin]

My friendship for Coquelin was one of many years.  No stage-struck
youth perhaps was more unlikely to succeed; but his teacher at the
Conservatoire--the great Regnier--always argued that to make a really
fine actor a man should have to fight against some physical drawback.

Coquelin was the most outspoken admirer of my wife's acting.  He
said: "her splendid vitality was contagious: her winning magnetism
would fill the largest stage."  If my saying so does not detract from
this praise, I may add that he showered encomiums in a Parisian
journal on my performance in _The Dead Heart_, when I acted with
Irving.  He once wrote to me:


"CHER BANCROFT,--Vous avez un excellent théâtre que vous dirigez en
maître--et en maître artiste--que pouvez-vous désirer de plus?  Ah,
cette fois-ci, Bravo, et sans restriction.  Cet orchestre qu'on ne
voit pas, cette rampe presque imperceptible, cette absence du manteau
d'Arlequin, ce cadre contournant la scène!  Le spectateur est devant
un tableau dont les personnages parlent et agissent.  C'est {163}
parfait pour l'illusion et pour le plaisir artistique.  Votre
ami,--C. COQUELIN."


I have a valued souvenir of him in his autographed portrait as Cyrano.

In his home his gaiety was delightful, while his love for his simple
old mother was enshrined in his heart as it would seem always to be
in that of a good Frenchman.

The farewell words of Jules Claretie, the accomplished director of
the _Théâtre français_, spoken by his grave, were indeed a tribute:
"Coquelin was more than a stage king, he was a king of the stage, and
has left a luminous trail in the heaven of art."

I was one of the group of English actors who went to Paris with our
sculptured offering to his genius which is enshrined in the historic
foyer, where, at a luncheon, I had the temerity to make a short
speech in indifferent French, urged to do so by Madame Bartet, a
brilliant actress, who helped me to frame some of its sentences.

And his poor brother.  It is painful to think of _cadet's_ bright
nature being quenched by incurable melancholia: distressing indeed to
imagine what his sufferings must have been before the evening when,
in the middle of the play, he rushed through the stage door, clad
{164} as an abbé, to be seen no more at his beloved _Comédie
française_.  In an amusing account published in a leading Paris paper
of a visit to see Robertson's comedy, _School_, he wrote:


"Les décors sont executés de main de maître.  C'est le triomphe de
l'exactitude.  Les comédiens sont excellents.  M. Bancroft joue dans
la pièce un rôle de grand gommeux à monocle, et rien n'égale son
élégance et sa stupidité.  Madame Bancroft joue la pensionnaire gaie:
cette petite femme est un mélange d'Alphonsine et de Chaumont--gaie,
pimpante, mordante et d'une adresse! ... C'est la _great attraction_
du Théâtre de Haymarket.

"Après je reviens rapidement en cab ("hansom") à mon hôtel, et je me
demande en chemin pourquoi les cabs vont si vite?  C'est tout simple;
les cabs vont très vite parce que les cochers les poussent derrière."


No less an authority than David Garrick once said to an ambitious
stage aspirant who sought his advice, that he might humbug the public
in tragedy, but warned him not to try to do so in comedy, for that
was a serious thing.  This opinion was borne out by Voltaire, who, in
his anxiety not to imperil the success he had achieved in tragedy,
when he wrote his first comedy did so anonymously.

{165}

[Sidenote: Joseph Jefferson]

Having pleasant memories of two distinguished American actors--one a
comedian, the other a tragedian--I will follow the high opinion held
by the great Englishman of Thalia's children, and write first of
Joseph Jefferson, incomparably the finest actor who has come to us
from America, and who in his day made a powerful impression and won
enduring fame by his performance of _Rip Van Winkle_ and his new
rendering of Bob Acres in _The Rivals_, which he admitted was not
free from liberties with Sheridan.  I can think of no actor who has
been more beloved by audiences in his native land.  I must, of
course, use that expression, although his grandfather, or perhaps
great-grandfather, was British, and an actor under David Garrick.  He
was, as it were, cradled on the stage.

Jefferson might also have made fame and money by his brush.  His work
was worthily hung upon the walls of the Royal Academy.  I cherish two
of his paintings: one, a gift to my wife in remembrance of a happy
day we all spent together on the Thames, a charming example of one of
its many backwaters near Cookham; the other--a purchase--of
Shakespeare's church at Stratford-on-Avon--both reminiscent of Corot.
The former always suggests to me the misty Hebrides and an {166}
appropriate background for the "Island that liked to be visited," in
Barrie's _Mary Rose_.

Gazing, I remember, at the old Maidenhead bridge at sunset, Jefferson
murmured: "What a lovely place is this England of yours!  How I
should just like to lift it in my arms and carry it right away."

When Edwin Booth, the American tragedian, came over to play in
London, Millais gave him a dinner, and invited the leading players of
the day to make his acquaintance.  He was a fine actor; especially
so, I thought, in _The Fool's Revenge_ and _Richelieu_.  When he drew
the "awful circle" round the shrinking form of the young heroine and
said to the villain of the play: "Set but a foot within that holy
ground and on thy head--yea, though it wore a crown--I launch the
curse of Rome!" you felt you were in the presence of high dramatic
art.  The performance at the Lyceum Theatre, in which he and Irving
alternated the parts of _Othello_ and _Iago_, created great interest.
Booth was the better Othello; Irving the more attractive and less
conventional Iago.

Booth would now and then dine with us on a Sunday evening--to help
him bear a sorrow which is, at such times, the actor's lot, and which
an extract from a letter to a close friend will best explain:


{167}

"I am tired in body and brain.  The poor girl is passing away from
us.  For weeks she has been failing rapidly; and the doctors tell me
that she is dying.  You can imagine my condition: acting at random
every evening, and nursing a half-insane, dying wife all day, and all
night too, for that matter.  I am scarce sane myself.  I scribble
this in haste at two in the morning, for I know not when I will have
a chance to write sensibly again."


The room in which Edwin Booth died--which I have visited--at the
Players' Club in Grammercy Park, New York, founded by himself, and
where he had been so beloved, was left untouched after he had passed
away, and, I understand, so remains.

When I was a lad of seventeen I went for a trip to New York, and
during my stay I chanced to see Edward Askew Sothern--to give him his
full name--play his world-renowned character, _Lord Dundreary_, for
the first time in his life.  Some years later, when we met upon the
stage, I gave him my copy of the original playbill, which, of course,
had great interest for him.  The eccentric nobleman drew all
playgoers for years in England as well as in America.  At the time I
mention I saw Sothern and Jefferson act together in a round of old
English comedies.  As young men they {168} made giant successes in
individual parts--_Dundreary_ and _Rip Van Winkle_--the one a
masterpiece of caricature, the other a veritable old Dutch master.

Another of Sothern's chief parts, in those days, was _David Garrick_,
of which he was the original representative, long before the play was
taken over and prominently associated with the career of Charles
Wyndham.

Sothern was always kind to me, whether in my early days in the
provinces or afterwards in town.  He was my guest at the first
dinner-party I had the courage to give.  Among those who sat with him
were Dion Boucicault, W. S. Gilbert, W. R. McConnell and Tom Hood.  I
was a young host, not having struck twenty-six.  He was a fearless
rider and hunting man.  Once, after he had met with a bad accident,
following the staghounds, I went to see him at his charming old
house, called The Cedars, in Kensington, and found his bed placed in
the middle of the room.  The house, when I last saw it, had become a
home for cripples.

Sothern was the king of practical-jokers and would stop at nothing in
the way of thought, time or money, to carry out his wild projects.  A
poor game at its best, I have often thought in mature age; a selfish
form of innings.

He was an intense admirer of my wife's art.  {169} Only after he had
passed away did it come to my knowledge that in some stage
experiences, published in America, with the title _Birds of a
Feather_, he gave his judgment of her.


"Among the actresses I should certainly place Mrs. Bancroft and Mrs.
Kendal in the foremost rank, their specialities being high comedy.
Mrs. Bancroft I consider the best actress on the English stage; in
fact, I might say on any stage."


Sam Sothern, so long a pleasant actor on our stage, is dead, so his
father's name and fame are now successfully held by his son, Edward,
in America.

[Sidenote: Dion Boucicault]

One of the most remarkable of Victorians in stage-land was Dion
Boucicault, father of my life-long little friend, "Dot," the
accomplished husband of Irene Vanbrugh.  Boucicault produced his
first comedy, _London Assurance_--a brilliant one in its day--about
the date of my birth, when he himself was not more than twenty-one.
He was a colossal worker as author, actor, and producer until 1890; a
career as distinguished as it was lengthy.  His delightful Irish
plays, _The Colleen Bawn_, _Arrah-na-Pogue_ and _The Shaughraun_,
were among the joys of my youth.  I first met Boucicault {170} at
Birmingham, where I was specially engaged to act his own part, the
counsel for the defence in his drama _The Trial of Effie Deans_.  I
learnt much from him at the one rehearsal he travelled from London to
attend.  When about half way through the trial scene he took me aside
and told me I was wrong in my treatment of the part, adding: "Let me
rehearse the rest of the scene for you, and I am sure you will grasp
my own idea of it directly."  I saw at once how right he was, how
wrong I had been.  The result was a considerable success for me.  In
the early days of our managerial career we produced a comedy of his,
_How She Loves Him_--clever, but not one of the best.  A situation at
the end of an act became very muddled, after being tried at rehearsal
in several ways.  An idea struck me, which was a distinct
improvement, but I hardly dared to interfere with so great an
autocrat, kind as he had always been.  At last, in despair, I
suggested to Boucicault that his original ending of the act was more
effective than that he had changed it to.  He said: "What was that?"
I then boldly explained my own idea as if it were his.  No doubt he
saw through the strategy, but merely said: "Perhaps you're right,"
and rewarded my shrewdness by adopting the suggestion.

{171}

When, years afterwards, I asked his consent to my making some
alterations in _London Assurance_ and combining the fourth and fifth
acts, he replied from Chicago: "Your shape of _London Assurance_ will
be, like all you have done, unexceptionable, and I wish I could be
there to taste your brew."

[Sidenote: Rest and rust]

Later on, when my wife was taking only a small part in some of our
plays, he wrote:


"MY DEAR FRIEND,--Will you feel offended with an old soldier if he
intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark?

"Why are the Bancrofts taking a back seat in their own theatre; they
efface themselves!  Who made the establishment? with whom is it
wholly identified? of what materials is it built?  There--it's out!

"Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive as
_rest_ if persisted in; you must alter the vowel--it becomes _rust_,
and eats into life.  Hers is too precious to let her fool it away;
she is looking splendid, and as fresh as a pat of butter.  Why don't
you get up a version of _The Country Girl_?  Let her play Hoyden and
you play Lord Foppington."


Boucicault was a perfect host, a brilliant talker and sympathetic
listener.  I first dined with him, when a young man, in the
delightful {172} company, I remember well, of Charles Reade, J. M.
Bellew and Edmund Yates.  On the menu was printed: "The wine will be
tabled.  Every man his own butler.  Smiles and self-help."  And there
was cognac of 1803 from the cellars of Napoleon III.  I had many
years of unbroken friendship with Boucicault.  His final words to me
were in a letter from America, following on an illness:


"I doubt whether I shall cross the ocean again.  I am rusticating at
Washington, having recovered some strength, and am waiting to know if
my lease of life is out, or is to be renewed for another term.  I
have had notice to quit, but am arguing the point ('just like you,' I
think I hear you say), and nothing yet is settled between Nature and
me."


He was a hard worker, and said his epitaph should be: "Dion
Boucicault; his first holiday."

Where shall my pen wander next?

[Sidenote: Montague and Coghlan]

I can revive memories in the old--and tell a little to the young--of
actors who became prominent as members of our companies at different
times.  Let me try to do so.  First, there was Harry Montague.
Without being an actor of high rank, he had a great value as a _jeune
premier_.  He was what I heard an American describe as "so easy to
look at."  His charm {173} of manner made him a special favourite
everywhere, and he was the original matinee idol.  When in his
company he had the gift of making you believe that he had thought but
of you since your last parting, and, when he said "good-bye," that
you would remain in his memory until you met again.

He was in America, acting in _Diplomacy_, when he died suddenly; as
young in years as he always seemed in heart; for he was but midway
between thirty and forty, that age upon the border-land when one has
to own to being no more young, while resenting for a little while
that ambiguous epithet, "middle-aged."

Charles Coghlan was an actor of a higher grade; gifted, cultivated
and able: his acting as Alfred Evelyn and Charles Surface in our
elaborate revivals of _Money_ and _The School for Scandal_ was of the
highest character.  It may be interesting to note that when he first
joined our company his salary was £9 a week; during his last
engagement we paid him £60, which would be doubled now.  I asked him
once to accompany me on a short holiday abroad, and found him a
delightful companion.  This was soon after the siege of Paris, when
many of the terrible stains left on the fair city's face were sadly
visible.

{174}

Coghlan often lived outside London, at places like Elstree and
Kingsbury, generally in picturesque old houses.  My wife and I rode
out to one of them to luncheon.  For a time he drove a rather
ramshackle four-in-hand, and, naturally, was in constant financial
trouble.  He ended his career rather recklessly in America, at
Galveston, and his body was washed out to sea from the catacombs by a
flood.  It was afterwards recovered and reburied.

The father of the happily present Dion and Donald Calthrop, a
connection of Lord Alverstone, John Clayton (Calthrop) was also a
fine actor.  His performance in _All for Her_ was of a high order,
and he did some admirable work with Irving at the Lyceum.  I also
recall a remarkable piece of acting on his part in a play, adapted
from the French, in which he appeared as a father whose brain was
turned by his having accidentally shot his little son.  Under our
flag, he only acted in _Diplomacy_ and _Caste_.  He was then growing
fat, and never knew of a strong wish I had to revive the _Merry Wives
of Windsor_, with himself as Falstaff.  He was otherwise engaged,
unfortunately.  This was when that brilliant actress Mrs. John Wood
was with us, to play with my wife the two Merry Wives, supported by
myself as the jealous Mr. Ford--I always found the portrayal {175} of
jealousy very amusing--and a troupe of able and suitable comedians.

Clayton gave remarkable performances in the joyous comedies by Pinero
at the Court Theatre.  He died young.

[Sidenote: Arthur Cecil]

Arthur Cecil comes next to my mind: an amiable gentleman and
companion.  It was I who, when he was "wobbling," as he did on every
subject, induced him to go on the professional stage.  He seemed to
me to pass a large slice of his life in the effort--or want of
effort--to make up his mind on trivial things, and so wasted at least
one half of it.

At the dress rehearsal of _Diplomacy_--in which he gave a fine
performance of Baron Stein--he appeared with a totally different
make-up in each act.  They were all clever and appropriate, but we,
not he, had to decide for him which was to be finally adopted.  He
was very devoted to what Sir James Barrie christened "Little Mary."
On one occasion, after dining at the Garrick Club, before his
evening's work, having finished his meal with a double helping of
orange tart, he was leaving the coffee-room, when he saw a friend
seated near the door just beginning his dinner.  Cecil sat down
opposite to him for a few minutes to exchange greetings; he became so
restless and agitated at the sight of a dish of stewed eels that at
last he dug {176} a fork into a mouthful, saying, "I must," and so
wound up his meal.  There are several similar stories extant, equally
amazing, equally true.

[Sidenote: Henry Kemble]

Our old and staunch friend, Henry Kemble, a descendant of the
illustrious stage family whose name he bore, was for years a valued
member of our company; a capable but restricted actor, from his
peculiarity of diction.  My wife christened him "The Beetle," owing
to a large brown Inverness cape he wore at night.  Many are the
amusing stories told of him.  He fought the income tax strenuously,
and on one occasion, being brought to bay, told the collector that he
belonged to a precarious profession, and begged that Her Majesty
might be asked not to look upon him as a source of income!

Kemble was well up in Shakespeare, and had a greater knowledge of the
Bible than any actor I have known, except one.

This reminds me of a visit paid, at his instigation, on a New Year's
Eve, in the company of his close friend, Arthur Cecil, to a midnight
service held in one of the big churches.  They entered reverently,
just before the hour, and were about to kneel, when a verger touched
Kemble on the shoulder and said: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but
this is a service being held for fallen women."

{177}

Kemble suddenly made up his mind to retire from the stage and end his
days in Jersey, not in a cloistered cathedral city, as he said would
be the case.  He, unfortunately, invested his savings in an annuity,
as he only lived a few months after doing so.  He came to see my
wife, to whom he was much attached, to say good-bye, and brought her
some fine Waterford glass as a farewell gift.  When fatally ill, his
last words were written to her on a telegraph form: "All over, dear,
dear Lady B.  Blessings on you all.  Beetle."  The doctor who
attended him transcribed the words, and sent my wife the
tremblingly-written farewell he had penned himself--a touching and
kind act.

Another friend and comrade of those days was the humorous Charles
Brookfield, son of Canon Brookfield, a distinguished preacher.  My
wife and I gave the young undergraduate what was practically his
first engagement, and he remained a popular member of our company
during the whole of our career at the Haymarket.  Several of his
performances showed marked ability, notably in Sardou's play,
_Odette_, and Pinero's comedy, _Lords and Commons_.  Many amusing
stories are attributed to him.  Against the accuracy of one of them I
must rebel.  It ran in this way: That at a time when Charles Wyndham
was appearing {178} in his favourite part of David Garrick, for a
run, he was sitting in the club named after the great actor, just
under one of his several portraits there, when Brookfield went up to
Wyndham and said: "It really seems quite surprising, you grow more
like Garrick every day."  Wyndham gave a delighted smile; when
Brookfield continued, in his peculiar cynical way: "Yes, every day,
but less like him every night."  A good story; but, unfortunately,
Brookfield was never a member of the Garrick Club.

[Sidenote: Charles Brookfield]

I think it was Brookfield who, when a friend asked his advice, saying
that a member of a club they frequented having called him a "mangy
ass," whether he should appeal to the committee or consult a
solicitor, quietly told him he thought it a case for a vet to decide.

He wrote various amusing comedies, and, later on, was appointed by
the Lord Chamberlain to be joint examiner of plays.

Brookfield had his serious side, and wrote us the following letter,
affectionately signed, when we retired from management:


"The sadness I feel at the prospect of never again working under your
management is far too genuine for me to endeavour to convey it {179}
by any conventional expressions of regret.  Although I have always
appreciated your unvarying goodness to me, it is only by the
depression of spirits and general apathy which I now experience, that
I recognise how much my enjoyment of my profession was affected by
the kind auspices under which I had the good fortune to practise it."



{180}

IX

THE STAGE

II

"Pity it is that the animated graces of the player can live no longer
than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best can
but faintly glimmer through the memory of a few surviving spectators."


[Sidenote: Henry Irving]

I will now write of the man who was for many years the chief of the
English stage, Henry Irving.  He was a born leader and had the
magnetism which compels the affection of his comrades; he knew that
to be well served meant first to be well beloved.  Although denied
the advantages of early education, Irving had the learning which
colleges may fail to teach; and in his later years would have graced,
in manner and in aspect, any position in life.  This personal
attribute came to him gradually, when, as it were, he had recreated
himself.  Truth to tell, in the early part of his career he had none
of it.  In those distant days there was a strong smack of the country
actor in his appearance, and a suggestion of a {181} type
immortalised by Dickens in Mr. Lenville and Mr. Folair.

We soon became friends and remained so throughout his remarkable
career--the most remarkable in many respects that ever befell an
actor.  He told me an interesting incident of his early life.  He was
engaged, in the summer of 1867, to act in Paris.  The enterprise
proved a failure.  The little troupe of players was disbanded and
returned to London, with the exception of Irving, who, finding
himself abroad for the first time, lingered in the bright city for a
couple of months.  He lived in a garret on a few francs a day, and
paid nightly visits to the cheap parts of the theatre.  Although he
had no knowledge of the language, he was all the while studying the
art of acting in its different grades and kinds.

When, in later years, he entertained in his princely fashion eminent
foreign artists, in answer to compliments showered upon him in
French, he would, without the slightest affectation--a failing from
which he was free--answer simply: "I am sure all you are saying is
very kind, but I don't understand a word of it."

Soon after his success as Digby Grant in James Albery's comedy, _Two
Roses_, shortly before what proved to be the turning-point in his
career--his becoming a member of the {182} Lyceum company, then under
the Bateman management--I had occasion to see a well-known dramatic
agent, who, as I was leaving his office, said: "Oh, by the way, would
Henry Irving be of use to you next season?  I have reason to believe
he would welcome such a change."  The question was startling.  I
replied that I should be delighted, but feared it would be difficult,
as Hare, Coghlan and myself would be in his way.  How possible it is
that a different answer might have influenced future events in
theatre-land!  Then came his memorable performance in _The Bells_,
which gave him fame in a single night, followed by other early
triumphs, _Charles the First_ and _Hamlet_.

I once saw Irving on horseback, cantering in the Row on a Sunday
afternoon: it was a singular experience.  His companion was George
Critchett, who gave up his practice one day in the week to hunt
instead, and who was as much at home on a horse as Irving was plainly
uncomfortable.

Later on, Irving was speaking to me of the success of one of our
plays.  I answered that in my belief the same could be achieved at
the Lyceum (the theatre was not yet under his own management), if
money were freely and wisely spent.  But wide is the difference {183}
between spending and wasting.  While the disasters which darkened his
brilliant reign were sometimes, it must be conceded, the result of
errors of judgment in the choice of plays, had he been in partnership
with a capable comrade, to whose guidance he would sometimes have
submitted, he might have realised a fortune, instead of allowing
several to pass like water through his hands.  As an artistic asset,
Irving was often wasted and thrown away.

Let me turn for a moment from the stage side of this extraordinary
man.

[Sidenote: A toy theatre]

In the gloaming of a Christmas Day, full forty years ago, my wife and
I were sitting alone, when, to our amazement, Irving was announced.
It was a bolt from the blue.  After a pleasant talk, we asked him who
was to have the pleasure of giving him his pudding and mince-pie.  He
answered that he should be all alone in Grafton Street with his dog.
We told him that ourselves and our son George, then a small boy,
comprised our party, and begged him to join us.  Irving gladly said
he would.  At the time he was acting in _The Corsican Brothers_, of
which famous melodrama Master George had his own version in his
little model theatre, with an elaborate scene of the duel in the
snow, represented by masses of salt smuggled from the kitchen; and
this, {184} with managerial pride, he told Irving he would act before
him after dinner.  To an audience of three the performance was
solemnly gone through, being subjected to the criticisms, seriously
pronounced and respectfully received, of the great man.  I seem to
hear his voice crying out: "Light not strong enough on the prompt
side, my boy."  For years a broken blade of one of the rapiers used
in the duel at the Lyceum, given to him by Irving, was among the
boy's proud possessions.  I daresay he has it still.  A memorable
Christmas evening!

The idea occurred to me to give a supper to Irving before his first
visit to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character
by inviting none but actors.  Feeling that nowhere could be it so
appropriately given as in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my
fellow-members of the Committee to ask if, in the special
circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room.  Greatly to my
delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was "an
honour to the Club."  The attractive room, so suitable for the
purpose, its walls being lined with the portraits of those whose
names recall all that is famous in the great past of our stage, was
arranged to accommodate a party of a hundred, of whom there are but
very few {185} survivors.  A humorous drawing of a supposed wind-up
to the supper--Irving, Toole and myself staggering home,
arm-in-arm--was among the early successes of Phil May.  He made two
copies of it.  One of the three belonged to King Edward, which I
afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and
myself.

In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he
wrote:


"I shall wear your gift--and a rare one it is--as I wear you, the
giver, in my heart.  My regard for you is not a fading one.  In this
world there is not too much fair friendship, is there?  And I hope it
is a gratification to you--it is to me, old friend--to know that we
can count alike upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness."


[Sidenote: "The Dead Heart"]

When Irving contemplated a production of _The Dead Heart_, he
flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with him as the Abbé
Latour he would not carry out the idea.  I was then free from
management, and tried to persuade him to let me undertake the part as
a labour of love, but he would not listen.  After a long
talk--neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other,
but each gazing separately at different angles into Bond Street {186}
from the windows of the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of
Grafton Street--he said that I must content him by being specially
engaged, on terms which soon were settled.

It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of
to govern; and in one where the policy was so different.  My wife and
I had so often been content to choose plays without regard to
ourselves: the policy of the Lyceum was upon another plane.  _The
Dead Heart_ is a story of the French Revolution, on the lines of _A
Tale of Two Cities_.  The best scene in the play was between Irving
and myself, in which we fought a duel to the death.  A clever drawing
of the scene--I regret failing to secure it when it was sold at
Christie's--was made by Bernard Partridge.  From all I have heard
said of it, the fight must have been well done--real, brief, and
determined.  It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and
forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not
leave it alive.  I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who
found himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a
duel in _The Corsican Brothers_, and boldly attacked his chief by
suggesting that a little of the limelight might fall on his side of
the stage, as Nature was impartial.

{187}

[Sidenote: A tribute from Irving]

One night during the hundred and sixty on which _The Dead Heart_ was
acted, when we had acknowledged the applause which followed the duel,
Irving put his arm round me as we walked up the stage together, and
said: "What a big name you might have made for yourself had you never
come across those Robertson plays!  What a pity, for your own sake;
for no actor can be remembered long who does not appear in the
classical drama."

I fear egotism is getting the better of me.  Irving once said:


"One point must strike all in connection with Bancroft's
career--before he left the Haymarket, at the age of forty-four, he
was the senior theatrical manager of London.  In conjunction with
that gifted lady who was the genius of English comedy, he popularised
a system of management which has dominated our stage ever since, and
the principle of which may be described as the harmony of realism and
art."


It is to be much regretted that no really satisfactory portrait of
Irving exists.  The one painted by Millais, and given by him to the
Garrick Club in 1884, is a beautiful work of art, but, to my mind,
somewhat effeminate in its {188} beauty.  A portrait by Sargent,
painted when Irving was fifty, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in
1888, was amazingly clever, but a somewhat painful likeness.  The
great painter showed something in the great actor--as he so often
does in his sitters--which his gifted and searching eyes could not
help seeing, and which, once having been shown, you cannot afterwards
help seeing always.  Irving hated the portrait, and when it was taken
from the walls of the Academy it was never seen again.  I heard
Irving, at my table, tell Sir Edward Poynter that he hid it away in a
garret, and when he left the old Grafton Street chambers, his
solitary home for many years, he hacked the canvas to shreds with a
knife.  What a treasure lost!

Irving's hospitality was unbounded.  At one of his many parties I
recollect his saying to Frank Lockwood, when he was
Solicitor-General: "The fortunate actor is the actor who works hard."
He then pointed across the table to me, and added: "Look at that
fellow, and remember what hard work meant in his case.  'B' is the
only actor since Garrick who made a fortune purely by management of
his own theatre--I mean without the aid of provincial tours and
visits to America."  After a pause he continued: "But he has paid the
{189} penalty of leaving his best work as an actor undone."

[Sidenote: Knighthood]

It will ever be remembered that Henry Irving was the first actor to
receive from his Sovereign the honour of State recognition: so
placing his calling on a level with the rest, no more to be looked at
askance, but recognised as leading to a share of the distinctions
enjoyed by his fellow-men.

For a year or more before the end it was manifest to those who loved
him that the sword had worn out the scabbard--it hung so listlessly
by his side.  This I strongly realised the last time he sat at our
table, and was struck by his plaintive manner to my wife and to me.
He then had a flat in Stratton Street, and left us at midnight,
saying that he must be home before the lift ceased running or he
would have to be carried upstairs.

In affectionate remembrance I close my tribute to Henry Irving.  His
remarkable career has taken its place in the history of his country,
for he was one of the leaders of men who earned the privilege, given
to but few, to become the property of the world.

It may also be truly said of Irving, as of one of the most
distinguished of his predecessors: "He who has done a single thing
that others never forget, and feel ennobled whenever they {190} think
of, need not regret his having been, and may throw aside this fleshly
coil like any other worn-out part, grateful and contented."

Although I knew and loved them from their boyhood, I find it
difficult to write of Irving's sons, being, as they were, so
overpowered by the dominant personality of the father.

[Sidenote: "H.B." and Laurence]

They both went to Marlborough.  "H.B." afterwards to New College,
Oxford.  Laurence left school for Paris, to perfect his knowledge of
French, his ambition and inclination being the diplomatic service.
He then passed some three years in Russia, acquiring mastery of the
difficult language.  Unhappily, his wished-for career had to be
abandoned for want of the imperative funds.  "H.B." was called to the
Bar, but lacked the necessary patience, and so abandoned a
profession, as was thought by many competent judges, in which he was
eminently qualified to take a high position; while his "hobby" until
the end was criminology, and he wrote remarkable books on that
fascinating subject.

Both sons drifted on to the stage.  Before that step was taken I had
seen "H.B." at Oxford give a striking performance, for one so young,
of _King John_.

Later on, I had no wish to see him act a long round of his father's
old parts.

{191}

Towards the end of the War he left his work at the Savoy Theatre and
devoted himself to hard work in the Intelligence Department at the
Admiralty, which proved to be a great strain upon him.  We met
frequently at that time, by appointment, at the Athenæum, hard by,
and had luncheon together, as he did with his close friend, E. V.
Lucas.  It was manifest then that his fatal illness had begun.

Laurence was a more frequent guest of ours than Harry, especially at
Christmas time, having no children to command his presence at home;
he was not so trammelled on the stage as his brother; it was easier
for him to escape from perpetual reminders.  The performances I
remember best on his part are his high-class acting in _Typhoon_ and
the admirable drawing of a character he played in _The Incubus_, who
is, in point of fact, his mistress and has become sadly in the way.
My wife and I saw the play together from a stage box, and were much
amused at the end of it by a conversation between what we took to be
a young married couple in the stalls, just beneath us.

The girl said: "Good play, isn't it?"  The man answered: "Capital.
I've only one fault to find with it."  "What's that?"  "Title."
"Title, why it's a perfect title."  The man: "Rotten title--it's
nothing about an incubus." {192} The girl: "It's all about an
incubus."  The man: "The thing was never once mentioned."  The girl,
in amazement: "What is an incubus?"  The man: "Why, one of those
things in which they hatch chickens."

The sons died at an age that is not closed to hope and promise, which
now must be handed on to another generation--Laurence and Elizabeth,
the children of Harry Irving, both gifted with good looks and charm.
The boy distinguished himself during the War in the Air Force and now
shows promise as a painter.  My love descends to them.

[Sidenote: J. L. Toole]

Extremes meet; they always do and always will.  The closest friend
Henry Irving had was J. L. Toole.  The strong affection between the
two men, which lasted until the end, began when Toole was making a
name on the stage in Edinburgh and Irving only a beginner.  The
famous comedian belonged, as it were, to "the City," and was educated
at the City of London School.  He was a close second to Sothern in
inventing practical jokes, generally harmless, and would take as
infinite pains to carry them through.  I remember a silly story he
loved to tell, how, after a bad baccarat night at Aix-les-Bains, he
went to the bank to draw money on his letter of credit.  Tapping at
the _guichet_, he inquired of the clerk in feeble, {193} broken
English how much the bank would advance upon a gold-headed cane which
he carried.  As might be expected, the little window was slammed in
his face.  Nothing daunted, Toole made his way to the market-place
hard by, and bought from various stalls some small fish, a bunch of
carrots, and a child's toy; he then returned to the bank and arranged
his purchases on the counter, with the addition of his watch, a
half-franc piece and a penknife.  When all was ready he again tapped
at the window, and, in a tremulous voice, implored the clerk to
accept these offerings in pledge for the small sum needed to save him
from starvation.  The clerk indignantly requested Toole to leave the
establishment, explaining, in the best English at his command, that
the bank only made advances upon letters of credit.  At the
last-named word Toole broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of
credit, handed it to the astonished clerk, with the explanation that
he would have offered it at first had he thought the bank cared about
it, but the porter at his hotel had emphatically told him the bankers
of Aix preferred fish.

Toole was never the same after the painful death of his son: he
became more and more a slave to "late hours," but was still a
delightful, {194} buoyant companion, beloved by his comrades and
friends.

Wilson Barrett was a good actor of the robust type.  He had an
adventurous career: sometimes high on the wave of success, at others
deep down in the trough of the sea of failure, but always strictly
honourable.  At the old Princess's Theatre, in Oxford Street, he made
large sums by good dramas like _The Silver King_ and _The Lights of
London_, and lost them through the failures of ambitious efforts,
which included a youthful _Hamlet_, to be wiped out in turn by the
enormous success of _The Sign of the Cross_, a religious drama that
appealed to a large public which rarely entered theatres.  The play
provoked Bernard Shaw to say that Wilson Barrett could always bring
down the house with a hymn, and had so evident a desire to personate
the Messiah that we might depend upon seeing him crucified yet.

[Sidenote: William Terriss]

A restless, untamable spirit was born in William Terriss.  He tried
various callings before settling down to the one for which he was so
eminently fitted.  He embarked in the mercantile marine, but the
craze only lasted a fortnight.  Then came tea-planting in China.  The
next experiment was made in medicine, to be followed by an attack
upon engineering.  {195} He then positively bluffed me into giving
him an engagement, and made his appearance on the stage.  Suddenly he
decided to go sheep farming in the Falkland Islands.  He made an
early marriage, and his beloved Ellaline was born there.  Of course
he soon came back; returned to and left the stage again; next to
Kentucky to try horse-breeding.  Another failure brought him to his
senses.  Five years after he had first adopted the stage he was an
actor in earnest and became one of its greatest favourites.

His career was chiefly identified with the Lyceum and the Adelphi;
but he first became prominent by his acting as Thornhill in _Olivia_,
under Hare's management at the Court Theatre.  His bright, breezy
nature was a tonic, and, like his daughter and her husband, Seymour
Hicks, he carried sunshine about with him and shed it on all he met.
He was as brave as a lion and as graceful as a panther.

Alas! one Saturday evening the town was horrified as the tragic news
quickly spread that Terriss had been fatally stabbed by a malignant
madman as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre to prepare for his
evening's work.  At his funeral there was an extraordinary
manifestation of public sympathy.

Lionel Monckton told me a curious story of {196} how when he reached
home he found that a clock which Terriss gave him had stopped at the
hour of the murder.

However briefly, I must record grateful thanks for past enjoyment
given us by Corney Grain, as great a master in his branch of art as
that friend of my youth, John Parry.  His odd name was often wrongly
thought to be assumed, as was that of a dramatist of those days,
Stirling Coyne, who rejoiced in the nickname of "Filthy Lucre."

I always remember the stifled laughter of my wife and Corney Grain,
who was present with ourselves at a dinner party, when a
distinguished foreigner, accredited by Spain to the Court of St.
James, was announced by a nervous manservant as the "Spanish
Ham..."--a long pause being followed by a trembling sotto
voce--"bassador."

[Sidenote: "Gee Gee" and "Wee Gee"]

George Grossmith, the elder--"Gee Gee"--is of course best remembered
by his long connection with the Gilbert and Sullivan operas.  To
their great success he contributed a share of which he was justly
proud.  After he left the Savoy Theatre he toured as an entertainer,
with excellent financial results, both here and from two visits to
the United States.  When he returned for the second time, I remember
his saying to me, in his funny, {197} plaintive way: "Do you know, my
dear 'B,' things are really very sad.  The first time I came back
from America I found myself spoken of as 'Weedon Grossmith's
brother,' and now, after my second visit, I am only 'George
Grossmith's father.'"

I have always looked upon Weedon Grossmith--"Wee Gee"--as an
admirable actor, and his death as bringing a personal loss, having
valued his friendship and his company.  On the stage I best remember
him in Pinero's comedies, _The Cabinet Minister_ and _The Amazons_,
in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, and, towards the end of his career, in a
remarkable performance of a demented odd creature, who believed
himself to be the great Napoleon.  My wife was so impressed by the
acting that she wrote to our little friend about it in a way which
delighted him beyond words.  Weedon was educated as a painter, and
became an exhibitor at the Academy and other galleries.  I have two
charming examples from his brush, which I bought at Christie's.

The Great War dealt severe blows to the stage, many a young life of
promise being taken.  The toll was heavy; but they are honoured
always by their comrades and remembered for their valour, as are
those who served so bravely and survived.  During those {198}
terrible years the stage also lost E. S. Willard, Lewis Waller,
Herbert Tree, William Kendal and George Alexander--all men in the
front rank; every one hard to replace.

I associate Willard with his success in _The Silver King_, and
afterwards in Henry Arthur Jones's plays, _The Middleman_ and
_Judah_.  In these he had a prosperous career through the United
States--as in the part in which I best remember him--the old man in
Barrie's comedy, _The Professor's Love Story_, a charming piece of
artistic work.  He owed a modest fortune to the appreciation he met
with in America.

Willard had an ambition to build a theatre at the top of Lower Regent
Street, where the County Fire Office, so long a London landmark,
stood; but, granting the site to have been available, it had no
depth: the theatre could only have been erected on a part of the
Regent Palace Hotel, and reached by burrowing under the road--so far
as my architectural knowledge serves me.  With the demolition of the
County Fire Office the last fragment of the old colonnade
disappeared, which, I remember, in my boyhood extended on both sides
of the Quadrant from the Circus to Vigo Street.

Early retirement from management prevented intimacy with several
prominent actors, who otherwise might have been associated {199} with
our work.  For instance, Lewis Waller was only once our guest, as
things happened.  Of his acting, my wife and I were among the warm
admirers.  The first play in which he commanded our attention was
_The Profligate_, which Pinero wrote for Hare when his management of
the Garrick Theatre began.  One recalls with admiration his acting as
Hotspur, Brutus, Faulconbridge, and King Henry V.

I am sorry I did not know him better, or see more of him.  He was a
great loss to the stage he loved.

[Sidenote: Too many windows]

It was, naturally, a satisfaction to my wife, as to me, when Herbert
Tree became our successor at the Haymarket.  We felt the future of
the theatre to be secure for a while, and that its traditions would
be worthily maintained.  He did all sorts of good work there, ranging
from _Hamlet_ and _Henry V_ to _The Dancing Girl_ and _Trilby_, until
he was responsible for building its beautiful opposite neighbour, the
present His Majesty's Theatre, where he migrated.  During its
erection I was walking one day on the opposite side with Comyns Carr,
who asked me what I thought of it.  He seemed to be greatly amused by
my answer: "Too many windows to clean."

Good fortune continued to smile upon the smaller house under the
joint management of {200} Frederick Harrison and Cyril Maude.  Much
of its deserved success was due, in those days, to the art of
Winifred Emery, which was then approaching its best, before cruel
disease came in the plenitude of her powers and robbed her of that
very front position which is reached by so few, and which I think she
would surely have attained in her maturity.

Herbert Tree was for many years a power and an authority upon our
stage: he rendered its alluring profession great service.  I still
trust in the hope that successors may be found with something of his
splendid courage, his boundless imagination, to follow in his firmest
footsteps and leave as memorable marks.

In private life he was an amusing creature, a delightful companion, a
perfect host.  It was once said of him, not altogether without truth,
that he walked in a dream, talked in a dream, ate in a dream, drank
in a dream, smoked in a dream, and acted in a dream.

He had enormous energy in starting things, but less strength in
carrying his ideas through: he grew tired quickly through his love of
change.

I will end with a comic note, for which I am indebted to Pinero.  It
so happened that the names of Arthur Pinero and Herbert Tree were
announced for knighthood in the same Honours {201} List.  A man who
was an old friend of both wrote a letter of felicitation to each of
them; but unfortunately he put his letters into the wrong envelopes.
The one Pinero received was as follows: "My dear Tree.  Hearty
congratulations.  You ought to have had it long ago.  But why
Pinero?"  The distinguished dramatist sent this letter to the
distinguished actor with the necessary explanation, and in return had
from him the note intended for himself.  This was it: "My dear
Pinero.  Hearty congratulations.  You ought to have had it long ago.
But why Tree?"

[Sidenote: The Kendals]

"Will" Kendal, until he "passed into the night," chanced to be my
oldest theatrical friend.  We first met at Birmingham, in our early
struggling days, and not again until he had planted his feet firmly
at the Haymarket.  Mrs. Kendal I knew in the following year, when we
acted together in the country.  She was Madge Robertson then, and a
"flapper" of fifteen, already foreshadowing her brilliant future.
After the Kendals married, my wife and I had the great advantage of
their services in our company for two seasons.  When, later on, their
successful partnership with Hare came to an end, they travelled much
in America, where they became special favourites and amassed a large
fortune.

{202}

Kendal was an actor in the foremost rank, being trained by some years
of hard work in the provincial "stock companies," as we of the "old
brigade" all were.  There were certain parts he played to perfection.
I never saw his equal as Captain Absolute in _The Rivals_, young
Marlow in _She Stoops to Conquer_, and Charles Courtly in _London
Assurance_.

It must be full five and forty years since George Alexander called
upon my wife one Sunday afternoon with a letter of introduction from
our dear friend, Sir Morell Mackenzie.  We were sorry, for all our
sakes, that we could only offer him encouragement.  He had much in
his favour; was acting with a travelling company in the Robertson
comedies, and warmly recommended for a London engagement, which he
soon received from Irving at the Lyceum.  Many pleasant tributes from
Ellen Terry were paid to him during his stay there, and he rendered
yeoman service to his chief.  Alexander's long and successful
management of the St. James's Theatre was beyond reproach, and for
years gave stability to the stage and good repute to those who worked
with him.  He was a staunch friend to English dramatists and produced
plays written by Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones, Alfred Sutro,
Anthony Hope, Claude Carton, Haddon Chambers, Louis {203} Parker,
Stephen Phillips, Oscar Wilde, and Henry James: a worthy record.

[Sidenote: "Mrs. Tanqueray"]

The finest feather in Alexander's managerial cap--his _panache_--was
the production of Pinero's great play, _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_.
He alone had the courage--a quality most essential in theatrical
enterprise--to risk what thirty years ago was a dangerous
undertaking, the truth and humanity of the play, which has kept it
vigorously alive, being at the time of its production lost sight of
in the sensation caused by the selection of such a daring scheme and
subject for the stage.  That fears existed for the success of the
play on that score may now excite wonder in the minds of the present
advanced generation.

The part of Paula has been a vehicle for the widely differing genius
and conceptions of so many eminent actresses--Mrs. Patrick Campbell,
Duse, Jane Hading, Mrs. Kendal, Miss Gladys Cooper, and numerous
other distinguished foreigners--that special interest attaches to the
curious incidents surrounding the first production of the play and
the original casting of the heroine.

The play was in the first instance offered to Hare, who very
decidedly refused it.  On Hare's rejection, it was offered to
Alexander, who, though greatly impressed by its strength, {204} also,
but reluctantly, declined it.  Pinero then proposed to Alexander that
he should do the play at a _matinée_, without being asked for any
author's fee.  This proposal was agreed to; and the play was
announced for a series of morning performances.  It happened,
however, that Alexander's forthcoming production was _Liberty Hall_,
a comedy written by Claude Carton, who, not unnaturally, represented
to Alexander that the performances of _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ in
the afternoons might militate against the success of the regular
evening bill.  (An odd little coincidence is that one of the
characters in _Liberty Hall_ was originally named Tanqueray--a name
which Carton, out of consideration for Pinero, changed to Harringay.)
Alexander thereupon undertook that, if Pinero would release him from
his agreement to give morning performances of _The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, he would at the earliest opportunity put the play into
the evening bill.  In these circumstances the play was produced
towards the end of the season of 1893.

[Sidenote: The first Paula]

In the ordinary course the original Paula would have been Winifred
Emery, but the expected arrival of one of her daughters robbed her of
the chance.  The choice at the time was very limited, actresses of
prominence all being engaged.  It happened, however, {205} that at
the Adelphi a young and handsome lady of no long stage experience,
named Mrs. Patrick Campbell, was acting in a drama by G. R. Sims.
There were doubts whether the methods of an actress who had graduated
at the Adelphi were suitable to the St. James's, but Pinero suggested
to Alexander that they should see what impression she produced upon
them in a talk with her in a room.  The interview took place, and
after it Pinero told Alexander that, if she would act on the stage as
she talked in his office, he felt pretty sure that she was the woman
for the part.  But her engagement was dependent on her release by the
management of the Adelphi.  Word promptly came that this was refused,
and once more the author of the play and the manager of the St.
James's were up to their necks in difficulties.  Pinero then proposed
to Alexander that he should wind up the matter by engaging Miss
Elizabeth Robins, who had lately made a striking success in Ibsen's
_Hedda Gabler_, and he proceeded to do so.

As was the custom then, the date and hour were fixed for the author
to read his play to the actors and actresses who were to represent
it.  Alexander was engaged to have luncheon that day in Portland
Place, and Pinero arranged to call for him on his way to the theatre.
As {206} he drove up in a hansom, Alexander came out of the house in
a state of great excitement, crying out: "We can get Mrs. Campbell!"

It appeared that he had only just heard from her that, thanks to
pressure put upon them by G. R. Sims, the managers of the Adelphi had
consented to release her.  On reaching the St. James's Theatre,
Pinero said to Alexander: "Look here; this is your job.  I will go
for a walk in St. James's Park and come back in half an hour to read
my play either to Miss Robins or Mrs. Campbell, as it may turn out."

Alexander went to his room, rang the bell, asked if Miss Robins had
arrived, and on learning that she was in the theatre requested her to
come and see him.  She soon entered, holding the book of the play.
Alexander told her that an unexpected condition of things had arisen.
He would put his cards on the table.  Did Miss Robins know that the
part of Paula had been first offered to Mrs. Campbell, who, in fact,
had been engaged to play it?  He was answered: "Yes."  Alexander then
said: "She has been set free, and is in the theatre.  What am I to
do?"

Pointing to the book in her hand, Miss Robins replied: "Mr.
Alexander, this is the chance of my life.  It is also the chance of
{207} Mrs. Campbell's life.  She is a friend of mine, and I will not
take the chance from her."

It was, in my opinion, a great mistake on Alexander's part to add the
cares of the London County Council to the management of an important
theatre.  The strain, I have no doubt, shortened his life, which was
of great service to his calling.

[Sidenote: Sir Frank Benson]

"Alec" was always my good friend; and when he summoned a meeting of
the leading actors and managers in 1916, the year the Shakespearean
Tercentenary was to be celebrated at Drury Lane Theatre, he put the
matter so strongly to those assembled that there was no gainsaying
his suggestion that I should there and then be invited to speak the
address on the occasion if, as he hoped, I would undertake the task.
It was no mean effort, and I am afraid that egotism is again fast
getting the better of me and urging me to print the result of my
labour.  My excuse is that the event had national importance: a
dramatic episode being the knighthood conferred by the King on Frank
Benson, who had given the best years of his life to spreading the
love of Shakespeare throughout the land.

Here is the address:


"I am proud, indeed, that it was thought {208} fitting by my comrades
to give me the unsought honour, on this great day, of addressing you
on their behalf.  I thank them for the privilege with all my heart,
and promise to bear in mind the wise counsel of Polonius, 'brevity is
the soul of wit!'  I can only speak from my point of view.  There are
debts which can never be paid in full; there is homage which never
can be amply rendered; there is love no tongue can truly tell.  All
these are Shakespeare's.  As every tribute must fall short of what is
really due, I resolved to speak my own words--the best in my power to
frame--rather than be but the echo of an abler brain.

"In my early days in theatreland, with the audacity of youth, I acted
many characters in Shakespeare's plays and then laid some budding
leaves of a modest chaplet at the shrine of the master whose works
have made the stage eternal.  Now, in my old age, I rejoice in the
remembrance that I have been what William Shakespeare was--an actor.
With a boundless prodigality he has enriched this England which
claims his birth--the dear land he loved so deeply and called:

  'This fortress built by Nature for herself,
  This precious stone set in the silver sea.'


"We owe to Shakespeare the most alluring, the most entrancing
creations in our mother-tongue.  How much poorer should we be if we
lacked the imperishable charm of those {209} Princesses of the
drama--Juliet, Rosalind, Ophelia, Beatrice, Viola, Miranda, Portia,
Imogen, Desdemona, and Cordelia.  They are not withered by age, nor
stricken by decay.  The Angel of Death passes them by.  They are
celestial and immortal.  What joy that mighty pen must have given for
three hundred years to the gifted women who have portrayed those
matchless heroines.

"As Shakespeare is 'for all time,' so is he for all men the 'guide,
philosopher, and friend.'  From whom can even monarchs surer look for
majesty?  Who so inspires the statesman with true patriotism?  Who so
teaches the gentleman his conduct; the preacher simple piety; the
soldier chivalry and courage?  Who gives the poet nobler themes; the
painter loftier models; the lover sweeter idols; a son such sound
advice?  Who so plainly tells the player of his faults? and by whom
is youth so upheld by hope, or declining years so soothed with
consolation?

"I remember well a visit I paid upon a dusky evening to Westminster
Abbey.  As I walked beneath its stately roof, to the sounds of the
organ, twilight shadows were cast down the sacred aisles.  It seemed
easy under such influence to believe the legend that, while writing
the awful scene between Hamlet and his father's ghost, Shakespeare
passed a long night alone within those hallowed walls.  In the fading
light I looked upon the monument {210} in Poets' Corner and read the
lines from _The Tempest_ as they are inscribed there:

  'The cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
  The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
  Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
  And like the baseless Fabric of a Vision
  Leave not a wrack behind.'

What grandeur, what pathos, are in the words; but we will not believe
them--at least not of him.  The lustre--the undying
lustre--Shakespeare's transcendent genius has shed upon the world
marches down the ages undimmed by time."


I lately came across a tribute to Shakespeare which provoked alike my
admiration and surprise: the author being that brilliant wit and
humorist, Douglas Jerrold.  These are his words:


"The great magician who has left immortal company for the spirit of
man in his weary journey through this briary world--has bequeathed
scenes of immortal loveliness for the human fancy to delight
in--founts of eternal truth for the lip of man to drink, and
drink--and for all time to be renovated with every draught."


[Sidenote: Charles Wyndham]

Of that accomplished and delightful comedian, Charles Wyndham, there
are bright thoughts of the happiness he gave to playgoers {211}
during an exceptionally prolonged career.  Its only blemish, indeed,
was its length, when the inevitable decay, which at last declines to
be warded off, became manifest towards the end.

His early successes were made at the Criterion Theatre, in plays of
an amusing and frivolous kind, such as _The Great Divorce Case_,
_Pink Dominoes_ and _Betsy_.  These were followed by far better work,
of a higher kind, and the production of those admirable comedies by
Henry Arthur Jones, _The Case of Rebellious Susan_ and _The Liars_.

I confess to having thought, had I remained longer on the stage, how
happy I should have been to have played some types of those
delightful, helpful, elderly men, who often make life pleasanter to
the young, and were so perfectly acted by Wyndham.

He retained his youthful appearance until late in life: the
preservation of his "figure" was amazing, and he remained a good
walker to the end, but never carried a cane.

To recall a peculiarity of his hard working days, I have frequently
known him stop at a post office and scrawl a hurried letter or send a
telegram to himself, as a reminder of something important that he had
to remember or to do.

The memory of Charles Wyndham should {212} always be held in high
regard for his unbounded generosity and devoted service to the
Actors' Benevolent Fund.  It was a pleasure and a privilege to me to
propose that Lady Wyndham should be chosen to follow in his footsteps
as its president.

Charles Hawtrey was a very old friend.  We knew him first at his
father's well-known preparatory school for Eton, where I sent my son.
The next phase came soon afterwards, when he confided to us his wish
to go upon the stage; a wish my wife and I at once encouraged.  This
appeared a little before we commenced our Haymarket career with a
revival of Lord Lytton's comedy, _Money_.  We said he could appear as
a young member in the club scene, with a few lines to speak.  Hawtrey
enthusiastically accepted the offer.  Unfortunately, an illness
prevented its fulfilment, or he would have been the companion of Fred
Terry in making his first appearance on that eventful evening.

Our paths in life, both on and off the stage, were much asunder, but
we were always the best of friends, and I remember with pleasure a
strong wish he expressed, during one of our meetings at Marienbad,
when a scheme was on foot to build a theatre for him in the
Haymarket, that he might christen it "The Bancroft." {213} My wife
and I were sorry when the scheme fell through.

He leaves the happiest memories to his shoals of friends--from the
early days, of _The Private Secretary_; the middle stage, of _Lord
and Lady Algy_ and _The Man from Blankley's_; to end, with the gay
maturity of _Ambrose Applejohn's Adventure_,--and laughter all the
way.

Charles Hawtrey was the actor I have alluded to who had the widest
knowledge of the Bible of any layman I have known.

[Sidenote: John Hare]

My intimate and affectionate relations, both private and
professional, with John Hare make me a little shy of writing about
him with the warmth his long and brilliant career upon the stage
deserves.  I was his oldest professional friend, having been a member
of the company he first joined.  In the following year my wife
offered him an engagement, and for ten years he was prominent among
the attractive company of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre.  No
young actor was, perhaps, so fortunate as himself, appearing as he
did in three such successive and distinctive character parts as Lord
Ptarmigant, the sleepy old Peer in _Society_, Prince Perovsky, the
courtly Russian diplomat in _Ours_, and Sam Gerridge, the humble
gasfitter in _Caste_.  The delicacy and finish of Hare's {214} acting
was of great service to the Robertson comedies, in all of which he
appeared.

When he left us it was to enter into friendly managerial rivalry.  I
applauded the step as a wise one on his part; but, after so many
years of close intimacy, I felt the wrench.  From that moment the
dressing-room he and I had shared knew me no more, and I found a
lonely corner on another floor.

And a friendly rivalry it was.  If we had our _Diplomacy_, he had his
_Olivia_, a delightful play, in which Ellen Terry made so conspicuous
a success and Terriss laid the firm foundation of his fine career.
My sole disappointment in connection with this beautiful production
was that Hare had not plucked up the courage to attack the part of
the dear old Vicar himself.

It is not for me to dwell upon his career, which was always to the
credit of his calling, or enumerate his successes, only naming
Pinero's brilliant works, _The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_ and _The Gay
Lord Quex_.  In the first of them Mrs. Patrick Campbell clinched her
previous triumph; in the second Irene Vanbrugh seized the opportunity
of rushing to the front, where she has remained ever since.

On an occasion when Hare proposed my health in distinguished company,
it was pleasant {215} to listen to words which were too flattering to
allow of their repetition.

[Sidenote: Meissonier of our stage]

I am inclined to say that Hare's best and most complete individual
work was his delightful portrait of old Benjamin Goldfinch in _A Pair
of Spectacles_, a performance which gave us something of the
simplicity and benevolence of the immortal Samuel Pickwick.  I think
of Hare, in all he did, as the Meissonier of our stage.



{216}

X

ONE OTHER EMPTY CHAIR

  "If we really love those whom we lose,
  We never really lose those whom we love."


The time has come for me to offer my apology for this book.  In my
lonely, but not unhappy, old age, the most void of all the Empty
Chairs which now surround me is the one so long filled by my partner
for more than fifty years.

Let me begin by saying that the foundation of our fortunes was due,
solely, to her courage in gallantly deciding that danger was
preferable to dullness, and in producing _Society_, the first of the
Robertson comedies, against adverse advice and the fact that the
manuscript had been "turned down" by the leading London managers of
the day.  It may be that the brave decision was also pleasant to her
because at the time our mutual attachment was steadily ripening, and,
although the part she was willing to take was not prominent, the
character which would fall to my lot was a good one and likely to
advance my position, if I played it well.

{217}

[Sidenote: The return to Nature]

To the exceptional and startling success upon production of
Robertson's five delicate little comedies, and to the
frequently-recurring revivals of them, we owed much.  They appeared
just when they were wanted to revive interest in the drama.  Nature
was Robertson's goddess, and he looked upon the bright young manager
as the high-priestess of the natural school of acting.

When the prolific fountain ceased, through the early and untimely
death of Robertson, the choice of plays until the end of our career
was left to me.  I was honoured and helped by implicit confidence in
my judgment; no word of rebuke passed her lips for a mistake, no word
of praise was withheld when it was thought merited.  No spark of
professional jealousy was born to her; she always loved to act with
the ablest and best equipped of her comrades.  She had no place for
the more sordid side of life, and was as free from extravagance as
she was indifferent about money.  Her life from childhood was passed
in the service of the public until I thought the time had come for it
to be less strenuous.

It may be that for the early withdrawal from triumphant scenes of the
great gifts of so famous an actress I was to blame--if blame there
was.  I plead excuse in a painful {218} remembrance of pitiful words,
written by a powerful pen, on lingering too long upon the stage;
words which drew the sad picture of a much-loved servant of the
public clinging to the faded chaplet won as its idol in earlier days;
of clutching at the withered trophy after the time had come for its
graceful surrender to youth and promise, and before the admiration
once so showered upon her should be replaced by
indulgence--indulgence to be followed by compassion, compassion in
its turn by indifference.  Indulgence--compassion--indifference.  The
mere utterance of such words causes one pain.  Twilight in art--as in
nature--must be mournful: surely a sweeter picture is the splendid
sinking of an early autumnal sun.

It will mean happiness to me to lay a few flowers at her feet,
gathered in the gardens of those who knew and loved her.  So I have
asked three dear friends, a man of letters, a dramatist, and an
actor, to help me in that task.

[Sidenote: Macready and the child]

The first tribute is from the pen of W. L. Courtney:


"MY DEAR B,--

"I gladly avail myself of the opportunity you give me to pay a
tribute to the memory of Lady Bancroft.

"She herself has told us the sort of impression she made on those
around her when she was {219} a child; and because that early verdict
passed on her is singularly prescient, it is worth recalling.
Macready is the first witness.  Marie Wilton--to use her maiden name,
which was soon to be famous on the stage--acted the parts of the boy
Fleance and the apparition of a child in the caldron scene to
Macready's Macbeth at the close of his career, and was invited by the
great actor to visit him in his room.  'Well,' he said, 'I suppose
you hope to be a great actress some day.  And what do you intend to
play?'  The answer came at once: 'Lady Macbeth.'  'Oh, is that all!
Well, I like your ambition.  You are a strange little thing and have
such curious eyes.  But you must change them before you play Lady
Macbeth, or you will make your audience laugh instead of cry.'  The
story shows that Macready had quickly noticed two things about the
child.  Her eyes, which were not so much curious as unusual and
always alive, were laughing, merry, twinkling eyes, the eyes of one
who would never allow her outlook on the world to be other than
genial and good; who could bear misfortune with as much courage as
good fortune.  He had noticed also what was almost the first thing
that the spectator observed about Marie Bancroft's performance in
almost every one of her parts, and that was the inscrutable fashion
in which she at once established the best relations with her
audience.  It was in its way a little bit of {220} magic, the secret
of which she retained.  The effect was irresistible.  She came down
to the footlights, or stayed where she was, without movement, and
instantly flashes of mutual goodwill passed between her and the
audience, even before the musical tones of her voice were heard.
Sometimes, as with an actress like Eleonora Duse, time has to elapse
while she is, so to speak, making herself at home.  Marie Bancroft
had undoubtedly what I have called a little bit of magic.  Whatever
the part that she was to play, there was always the comfortable
feeling when she was on the stage that everything was going well, and
that success was practically assured.  In the series of her parts in
the Robertsonian drama she was, of course, helped by the author's
knowledge of her and of her temperament; but whether she was a
schoolgirl or supposed to be grown up; whether the part belonged to
the upper or the lower levels of society: in every case sympathy was
instantly linking her with the eager and attentive house.  She no
sooner came than she saw what was wanted, and she conquered with what
seemed consummate ease and economy of effort.  I have never seen an
actress who more rapidly and easily made her presence known on the
stage as a gracious, winsome, affectionate creature, filled with
human kindness, and always ready to believe the best of people and of
things.

[Sidenote: Dickens and the girl]

"And so the judgment of Charles Dickens is {221} established as
surely as that of Macready.  'I really wish,' said Dickens in a
letter to John Forster, 'I really wish you would go to see _The Maid
and the Magpie_ burlesque at the Strand Theatre.  There is the
strangest thing in it that I have ever seen on the stage.  The boy
Pippo, by Miss Marie Wilton, while it is astonishingly impudent--must
be or it could not be done at all--is so stupendously like a boy and
unlike a woman that it is perfectly free from offence.  I have never
seen such a curious thing; the manner, the appearance, the levity,
impulse and spirits of it are so exactly like a boy that you cannot
see anything like her sex in association with it.  I call her the
cleverest girl I have ever seen on the stage in my time, and the most
original.'  That is, of course, a tribute to her cleverness, which
made her the best of burlesque actresses.  If Macready's judgment
refers to the seriousness of her ambition, Charles Dickens calls
attention to her extraordinary versatility, her power of identifying
herself with any part she assumed, and the rapidity with which she
comprehended all that was implicit in it.  Of the burlesques of those
days Marie Wilton was the acknowledged queen, inspiring the whole of
the silly or serious business with her inimitable gaiety and amazing
ability.

"The more general the sympathy an actress possesses with human
nature, the wider will be her interpretation of a part.  We talk
{222} about building up a character.  It is only saying in other
words that the primary duty of the heroine in a play is to make us
understand, not only what she is in the play, but what she might be
under other conditions.  The extraordinary thing about Marie
Bancroft, when she left burlesque for modern comedy, is that from the
first she interpreted the character she was representing in the
largest, most sympathetic manner, as having an inner nature or
temperament of much more subtle value than came out in the actual
presentation.  Superficially, the characters of Polly Eccles and
Naomi Tighe--both great favourites with Marie Bancroft--can be easily
described.  They are bright, garrulous, happy creatures, full of fun,
quick in tongue, responsive to humour, and always amusing to watch.
But as we left the theatre, after seeing her act them, we were aware
that they are something more.  Behind the drolleries of Naomi Tighe
beats an extremely warm heart, a genuine comradeship, and an especial
love, of course, of her dear friend, Bella.  But in Polly Eccles
there was still more.  I was always surprised to think that Marie
Bancroft should have preferred the schoolgirl Naomi to the
high-hearted, devoted friend who was Polly Eccles, in whom we have
touches of a fuller personality than could be found either in Naomi
or in Mary Netley of _Ours_.

[Sidenote: The fulfilment]

"These, however, were, after all, the earlier {223} creations in
comedy of an artist destined to do much finer work.  Her full powers
were proved later on, especially in Peg Woffington.  The picture
showed traces of the same handiwork; and indeed the audience would
never have been satisfied if Marie Bancroft had not set her
unmistakeable seal on this character as on others.  There was
something in the pathos of the main situation, however; something,
too, in the exquisite sympathy between Peg and Triplet, which touched
the very source of tears.  What we saw here was the fulfilment of a
promise discerned in her earlier creations, an admirable example of
the many-sided presentment of a character, so that it becomes
something of daily experience.  The humorous eyes, the sensitive
mouth, the face ever ready to suggest laughter and fun, the
attractive little touches of temperament and feeling--those had come
together to form a beautiful presentment of a gracious and
affectionate being, who could help others in their distress, because
she herself had come through deep waters.

"There is one point which it would be wrong to pass over without
comment.  There is sometimes talk of jealousy between artists.  Of
the spirit of emulation, the spirit of ambition, the desire to do the
best possible under the given conditions--of these, which are part
and parcel of a noble nature, Marie Bancroft had her full share.  But
it was always noticed that {224} she had no touch of professional
jealousy.  She often sank her own importance as an actress,
cheerfully taking a small part.  Both she and you had made up your
minds not to allow consideration of your own parts to bias your
judgment in the refusal or acceptance of plays.  You judged the plays
on their merits--not on the ground that parts in them would or would
not suit either of you.  With the utmost readiness Marie Bancroft
played second parts to Madame Modjeska, to Mrs. John Wood, to Mrs.
Patrick Campbell, as well as to Mrs. Kendal and to Ellen Terry.
Self-abnegation of this kind is sufficiently rare to be worthy of
comment.  Its value, is, of course, obvious.  Without it some of your
most successful productions would never have been given.

"Many critics, especially young ones, are inclined to decry the value
of Robertson's plays; but the fact remains that, with those comedies
as your material, Marie Bancroft and you initiated a revolution in
English drama.  In those plays she rejoiced in characters exactly
suited to her genius, characters to which she could give all her
laughter and sense of fun, in creating personalities which will
always live in the memories of those who saw them.  She not only
acted; she possessed that constructive instinct which enabled her to
pass judgment on and vastly to improve the comedies submitted to her.
Of this, there is no better example than what happened with {225}
Charles Reade's play, _Masks and Faces_, when Reade, moved to tears
by her performance of the ending which at one rehearsal she
substituted for that which he had written, very wisely gave way to
the superior imaginative perception of Marie Bancroft, the actress of
Peg Woffington.

[Sidenote: Personality]

"In final retrospect, we come back to the 'curious eyes' and the
laughter-provoking face which Macready discovered.  In all arts we
have to recognise the personal element, which makes the work of one
man so different from that of another.  We do not mistake the
inimitable touch of a Millais or confuse it with that of a Sargent.
We do not read a page of Henry James and imagine that it could have
been written by George Meredith.  In the same way an actor portraying
a character puts into it so much of himself that we contrast his
representation with that of another actor--quite as good, perhaps,
but of a different quality.  This element of personality is called
'style,' and it is by style that an artist lives and betrays his or
her idiosyncrasy.  And no one had a more appealing style than Marie
Bancroft, who could do with our hearts what she pleased.  The roguish
eyes, the inimitable smile, the sense of humour, the joy of
living--all those were hers; and it was by some wonderful combination
of all dramatic gifts that she won her complete and perfect triumph.
Those (alas! now how few) who in old days {226} sat spellbound, as
they saw her winning the palms of victory in many a famous play, will
confess with unbounded gratitude how much of happy memory they owe to
the grace, the skill, the charm, the sympathy of Marie Bancroft.

  "Yours sincerely,
        "W. L. COURTNEY."


The second tribute is from Arthur Pinero:


"MY DEAR B.,

"It is my firm belief that the most ardent and persistent lover of
the drama, after a long life of playgoing, and when the footlights
illuminating his own private and personal drama are beginning to burn
low, can, if he be honest with himself, count his red-letter nights
in the theatre, at a liberal estimate, on the fingers of both hands.
Such is the case with me at any rate.  Many distinguished and moving
performances, memorable in their way, have I witnessed; but the real,
unmistakeable red-letter nights--heart and brain clutching--how few!
Some premieres at the old Lyceum, under the management of the
Batemans and, subsequently, of Irving himself, two or three
representations at the Théâtre Français--notably Mounet Sully's
acting, as it was thirty years ago, in _Œdipe Roi_--Duse's
earliest appearance in England in _La Dame aux {227} Camélias_; to
recall these things gives one a catch in the breath--these and the
first time I saw Marie Wilton as 'Polly Eccles.'

[Sidenote: A red-letter night]

"This particular red-letter night happened at the Standard Theatre in
Shoreditch in, I think, August, 1873.  (You, in whose honour a
University should create the degree of Master of Dates, so curious,
so infallible--occasionally, to the ladies, so disconcerting--is your
memory, will correct me if I am wrong as to the month or year.)  The
company of the dainty little Prince of Wales's Theatre had carried
their delicate art to that not too salubrious quarter of the town,
and were delighting the East-enders in Robertson's _Caste_.  Nowadays
it is the critical habit to sniff at Robertson and his simple, humane
comedies; but the work of a writer for the stage should be judged in
relation to the period which produced it, and, so judged, Robertson
was a man of vision and courage.  There is no dramatist now writing,
'advanced' or otherwise, who is not in a measure indebted to
Robertson.  But how lucky he was in the people who interpreted him!
Take _Caste_, for instance.  Lydia Foote--her appealing 'Esther
Eccles' was approached in later years only by Olga Brandon in a
revival of the piece at the Criterion--the highly capable Mrs. Leigh
Murray, the unctuous Honey, John Hare, most refined of miniaturists,
the fascinating Coghlan--who had succeeded Frederick Younge, whom I
never {228} saw, as 'George D'Alroy'---yourself as 'Hawtree'--a
monumental picture of Swelldom, unequalled, in its combination of
grotesqueness and good breeding, by any stage Swell of my time--even
Sothern's 'Dundreary' couldn't touch your 'Hawtree'--and, above and
beyond you all, the glorious actress who used to figure in the
playbills as 'Miss Marie Wilton (Mrs. Bancroft),' and was to become
Lady Bancroft; what a wonderful--what an unmatchable--troupe!

[Sidenote: "Enter Polly"]

"That red-letter night in unsavoury Shoreditch!  Outside the theatre,
the thick air of a warm evening, presently to be fouled by the fumes
of the naphtha lamps of the gutter tradesmen; the incessant bawling
of those gentry; the garish display of cheap wares in the
shop-windows; the jostling and shoving of the loiterers on the
pavement; and the sensation of complete happiness, almost choking in
its intensity, because one was going to the play!  And the fight for
a front seat in the pit; the contentment, after a terrific struggle
resulting in a torn jacket and the limpest of shirt-collars, at
finding oneself in possession of about eight inches of bare board;
and the settling down to enjoy the blended odours, peculiar to the
popular theatre of that day, of gas and stale orange-peel, than which
no more agreeable smell could greet the nostrils of a stage-struck
youth!  Then the tuning-up by the orchestra--joyful discord--and the
unheeded playing of a {229} 'selection'; and then the rising of the
curtain, the sudden hush of voices, and lo! there is the poor, shabby
room on the ground-floor of the lodging-house in Stangate!  George
appears, followed by Hawtree; they talk, and I wonder that their talk
should be so different from the talk I had heard in other plays; then
comes 'Papa Eccles,' who 'can tell a real gentleman with half a sov';
then, when Papa, the half-sovereign in his dirty fist, has shuffled
away to meet a friend round the corner, Esther steals in; and
then--oh, then!--'Enter Polly, D.R.H.,' as the stage direction says,
and in a moment the audience is enraptured by the brightest,
freshest, sweetest little woman that ever gladdened ears and eyes in
or out of a playhouse!

"Those, my dear B., who can remember Lady Bancroft in the plenitude
of her powers, the fulness of her witchery, are--I speak
feelingly--rapidly growing fewer and fewer; and it is with the aim, I
suppose, of conveying an impression of what she was at the time I
mention, and for at least a decade afterwards, to the theatre-lovers
of to-day--who saw her, if they saw her at all, when age had begun to
weigh upon her--and to the theatre-lovers of the future, that you are
inviting two or three men, old enough so to remember her, and who yet
linger more or less actively on the scene, to contribute to your
forthcoming book.  Phew!  A pretty difficult task, unless one employs
{230} language which in modern slang I understand is called 'mushy.'
In the first place, of course, she knew her business to her
finger-tips.  That a practitioner of any of the arts should have
known his or her business is frequently remarked in disparagement.
Great artists, however, will take care to include a knowledge of
their business--i.e. of the tricks of their trade--among other
accomplishments, one of the latter being the faculty for hiding those
tricks from the public.  Lady Bancroft knew her business--and other
people's; that is, though a born comedian, she could, if her physique
had allowed of it, have 'gone on,' in theatrical phrase, for Lady
Macbeth, or Juliet, or Ophelia, and have triumphed.  (In fact,
occasionally, she did 'go on' for parts for which she was hardly
physically suited, and perhaps it was a pity she didn't do so
oftener.  She would have been forgiven.)  And her experience,
commencing in babyhood, and her innate cleverness, had taught her
how, while keeping strictly within the picture-frame, to button-hole,
as it were, each individual member of the audience.  The man on the
farthest bench of the topmost gallery, as well as the man in the
stalls, was flattered by her skill into believing that she was acting
specially for him.  I myself have watched her act from the sixpenny
gallery of a large theatre--that same Standard in Shoreditch, the pit
being beyond my means for a second visit--and felt that she was so
{231} near to me that by stretching out my hand I could have grasped
hers.  As for her laugh, I won't--I daren't--attempt to describe it,
because I should have to say that at one moment it was like the trill
of a singing-bird, at another that it seemed not to be the music of
her throat, but to bubble up from her very soul; and that, though
gospel-truth, would be too terribly mushy.  Nor her speaking-voice,
because, again, I should have to say that it had something of the
quality of the note of the purest of silver bells; nor her eyes,
because in mirth they twinkled--thrice-hackneyed simile!--like twin
stars, and in expressing sorrow resembled the little rain-pools when
the sun has come out after a summer shower; and to say anything of
the sort, while it would be equally true, would also be mushy to an
insupportable degree.  But I will say, because it is just a trifle
less trite and banal, and because to do her justice it ought to be
said, that the secret and source of her genius lay not in her
artistry--which was consummate--but in _herself_.  She was a fine,
warm-hearted creature, and her acting was a reflection of the glow of
her innermost nature.

[Sidenote: The secret of genius]

"Patches of shadow becloud every career, however brilliant.  The
tragedy of Lady Bancroft's career was that after Robertson's death no
dramatist arose who could, or would, provide her with material worthy
of her talent.  For years, therefore, she retained her hold {232}
upon the public mainly by her 'Polly' in _Caste_, 'Naomi Tighe' in
_School_, and 'Mary Netley' in _Ours_.  From time to time she acted
in new pieces by other authors, which lacked the attraction of
Robertson at his best; and then, after giving us a captivating Lady
Teazle, and delighting us in revivals of some other old comedies, in
order to extend the repertory of the theatre she gallantly
subordinated herself, when policy demanded it, to playing parts of
minor importance.  Towards the end, spurred by a surviving ambition
into trying to make bricks without straw--and it must be confessed
that she made sounder bricks without straw than did many an actress
who was supplied with stacks of that commodity--she took to applying
her ready wit to 'writing up' the tiny parts she was condemned to
play, until at last her rare appearances became not so much those of
an actress engaged in impersonating a character as of a charming lady
determined at all costs to be amusing.

"But she had done enough long before then to win a place in stage
history with the most illustrious of the comic actresses of the past.
Margaret Woffington, Kitty Clive, Frances Abington and Dorothea
Jordan had a legitimate successor in Marie Wilton.

"Thank you for letting me join in your tribute to her.

"Devotedly yours, till my chair is empty,

"ARTHUR PINERO."


{233}

[Sidenote: Truth to nature]

The third tribute is from Johnston Forbes-Robertson:


"MY DEAR B,

"It is a great privilege to comply with your wish.  It was in 1878
that I first met Lady Bancroft.  She was then about to retire for a
holiday from the part of Zicka in _Diplomacy_.  A year later I had
the good fortune to meet her on the stage when you engaged me to act
in _Ours_.  In the following year I moved with the celebrated company
from the Prince of Wales's to the Haymarket Theatre, which had been
transformed by you into the most beautiful theatre in London.  Here I
was cast for a part in _School_: hence it is my proud boast that I
acted with Marie Bancroft in her prime, and was in personal touch
with Mary Netley and Naomi Tighe!

"Alas! it is not in me to convey to the present generation the powers
of this incomparable actress.  The winsomeness, the cajolery, the
sprightly vivacity, the joyousness, and the tenderness of it all!
Every note could she play upon, and never was any note forced.  The
means by which she attained these varied and subtle emotions were not
to be traced.  All appeared so simple, so illusive, that it came home
to one as being absolutely true to nature.  She was complete mistress
of all the resources of her art, and yet those resources were never
laid bare, never discoverable {234} by the onlooker.  Every movement
was simple, direct and natural; every intonation and inflection true;
every word that fell from her lips clean cut and distinct.  No matter
how rapidly a passage was delivered, she was heard even to the
farthest seat of the largest theatre.

"Polly Eccles!  Why, the very thought of the name makes my face
pucker with smiles, and it must be bordering on fifty years ago when
first she bewitched me in the part!  Yes, 'bewitching Marie Wilton'
was a phrase common amongst us in those days, and in truth the
witchery was there in full measure, and to overflowing.

"Still in my mind is the beautiful farewell to her on the day when
her mortal remains were laid to rest.  I was very proud at finding
myself one of the four intimate friends chosen to pay their last
respects at her burial; and when, towards the close of the memorial
service at St. Martin-in-the-Fields which immediately followed it,
that inspired man delivered the farewell address (quite the most
beautiful of the many I have heard), I was shaken with a deep emotion
even to tears.

  "Ever your affectionate friend,
      "J. FORBES-ROBERTSON."


I will restrict myself to writing of her in one play only, and will
choose W. S. Gilbert's dramatic contrast _Sweethearts_--which, by the
way, I had the good fortune to name.

{235}

[Sidenote: "Sweethearts"]

No play of its length has ever excited more attention than
_Sweethearts_.  Pages could be filled with the chorus of praise which
swelled from the press.  One leading critic wrote that Gilbert had
determined to test talent by a most difficult stage exercise; and
that my wife had been able to prove the studied grace and polished
elegance of her dramatic scholarship.  From the subject set to her,
called _Sweethearts_, she produced the poem of "Jenny."  The success
of the creation was complete.  No striking or unusually clever
writing, no wit, or epigram, or quaint expression of words, no
telling scene, or passionate speech, taken separately or in
combination, could account for the impression made by the actress.
The audience was fascinated by the detail of the portrait, as
charming in youth as it was beautiful in age.

An accomplished judge of acting, well acquainted with the European
stage, after our retirement from management, said of my wife: "In my
humble opinion, the gem of her repertoire is _Sweethearts_, next to
that, _Masks and Faces_ and _Caste_."  Ellen Terry has written that
her performance in _Sweethearts_ was unapproachable.

More perfect acting, I venture to say, has not been seen upon our
stage.  The _ars celare {236} artem_ was at its highest and best;
there were tones and touches, hints and suggestions, which were
marvellous in the wealth of meaning they conveyed.  Of her acting,
indeed, it might be said, as one of our old poets proclaimed of the
face of his mistress:

  "'Tis like the milky way i' the sky,
  A meeting of gentle lights without a name!"


I have seen all the finest acting available to me in the last seventy
years--since my boyhood--and still delight in the enjoyment of the
stage.  I can summon noble phantoms from the past, and dwell gladly
upon the experiences of more recent days.  After searching thought,
the most critical remembrance, I can recall no acting more perfect,
in my judgment, than my wife's performances in _Sweethearts_.  The
creatures of the different acts were, from the first line to the
last, absolutely distinct, but equally complete; the one, a portrait
of impetuous girlhood, the other of calm maturity.  There was not,
throughout, one movement of the body, one tone of the voice, one look
on the speaking face, to change or amend.  There was nothing, it
seemed to me, that could in any way be bettered.  There shone
throughout those gleams of genius which in all art are priceless.

{237}

[Sidenote: In peace and war]

The parts she played upon the stage were the sweet romance of life,
but she was ever ready to face its stern realities; and I was proud
of her record in the Great War.  In spite of advanced years and
broken health, she lived through it, with brief absences only, and
without a murmur, on the shore of the sea, with all its alarms and
risks; but, then, I have always known her to be brave, even when her
life was in danger.  She was unsparing in hospitality--I recall an
occasion when she had the pleasant company of General Sir Arthur
Sloggett and Edward Knoblock, who were hung up with their men for the
night at Folkestone--and untiring in organising and leading in
amusements, helped by her interest in those who were spared, and
those who were maimed and wounded, and by the remembrance of those
who rest in the grave-fields of Flanders and France, or lie deep down
under the sea.

By her own written request, the hour and place of her funeral were
kept secret, and were only known to immediate members of her family
and four friends who were chosen to represent the calling she had
loved and served.  These four friends were Arthur Pinero, Johnston
Forbes-Robertson, Arthur Chudleigh and Gerald du Maurier.

The funeral was conducted by her friend and {238} mine, the Reverend
W. H. Elliott, the Vicar of Holy Trinity, Folkestone, who delivered
the Address at the Memorial Service which, immediately afterwards,
was held at the Church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields by Canon Edgar
Sheppard.

[Sidenote: The spirit of the artist]

This was the address to which Forbes-Robertson refers in his tribute;
and I ask the reader, as a favour to myself, not to pass it by.


"We have come together to remember before God one who, having played
her part bravely and earnestly in this scene that men call life, is
now hidden from us by the curtain that men call death.  We do so in
the sure and certain hope that what we know of life here is only the
First Act in a great eternal drama, of the which the end is not yet.
So often we feel, as one by one our friends depart in this mystery of
death, that the curtain has fallen upon a tale that is only half
told, its problems unsolved, its meaning undisclosed, its virtues
unrewarded.  But the play is not done.  We wait as Christians for the
hour when, at the sounding of celestial trumpets, this great curtain
shall uproll once again and reveal to our amazed eyes that last
tremendous scene, in which all things shall be made new.  Such is
death.  It is a pause--that is all--and one that does but make more
wonderful the music of an endless life.

"I shall not do more than remind you of {239} those many gifts which
Lady Bancroft possessed, which the years in their passing seemed to
leave almost untouched, which she offered so freely for the public
good.  After all, the work and significance of any life depend not so
much upon its natural endowment as upon the spirit in which that
endowment is accepted and used.  It is the spirit of the artist that
matters, and it is of this in the lifetime of Lady Bancroft that you
are thinking, I know, at this hour.  Without that eager generous
spirit her influence could never have been what it was.  I have heard
her say more than once that in her youth she was not a very apt pupil
in the use of the voice, and indeed that she made very little effort
in regard to it, until one day her mother bade her think of the poor
man who, tired out with his day's work, spent a hard-earned sixpence
to see the play, and then went away disappointed, because he could
not hear.  From that moment everything for her was changed.  And the
thought of that man at the back of the gallery--what she could do for
him, to make him forget his cares and have his part in the sunshine
and merriment of life, to take away the frown and to win the
smile--was for her, I believe, the true motive and the abiding
inspiration of her art.  Such a task, one cannot but think, is very
much according to the mind of Him who gives the wayside flower a robe
that Solomon might envy, that we may see it and be glad.  And there
are few {240} things, I imagine, that bring so much comfort at the
last, when the time has come to retreat from the active work of the
world, and to reflect quietly in the gathering dusk upon what has
been and what is yet to be, as the thought that one has done
something to make others happy, that now and again one has managed to
light a lamp or to kindle a fire in a cold and darksome room, that
one has done what one could in one's own way to share the burdens of
humanity and to minister to its need.

"I need scarcely say that one of the secrets of such a work as this
is a heart which, in spite of all that time and circumstance can do,
keeps young.  The first test of all art is sincerity.  It is
impossible, I should suppose, to be in any true sense an interpreter
of emotions that one has ceased to feel.  To represent in any way the
vivacity, the buoyancy, the gaiety that belong to youth, its
irrepressible humour, its unquenchable hope, is a task that the years
make difficult enough for us all.  To attempt it successfully is only
for those who in themselves have never yet grown old.  Lady Bancroft
was a lover of young life.  She was beloved by all young people who
knew her.  And one felt in talking to her that, as her voice had kept
its magic, so her nature had preserved within a tired body something
of its youth.

[Sidenote: The secret of success]

"The world saw little of her during these latter years.  She lived
her life in quiet places, among the trees and flowers in which she
{241} delighted, within sight and sound of the ever-changing sea.
During these spring months her thoughts had dwelt much on that other
world and the mysteries that await us there.  She spoke of it often,
and expressed to me more than once what seemed rather a curious
wish--curious because one so rarely meets it--to sit at a table with
learned divines, as she called them, and to hear them discuss
together the great matters of God and man, life and death, things
present and things to come.  She had a most intense desire to know
better that Power that holds us and shapes our ends.  She wanted to
see His work more plainly that she might adore Him more perfectly.
She longed to discern His will that she might do it with a ready
heart.  And, as she talked of all this, deep reverence and great
wistfulness came into her voice.  She wished so much to understand.
Well, she has passed through the Valley now.  She has climbed above
the mists that hang so closely around human life.  She has come out
into the light--the light that never was on sea or land--before which
all the shadows flee away.

"So we think of her, so we give thanks for her to-day.  Men differ
much in their ideas of success.  For myself, there is one definition
that I like very much: 'He has achieved success who has lived long,
laughed often, and loved much; who has gained the respect of
intelligent men and the affection of little children; who has filled
his niche and {242} accomplished his task; who has left the world a
little better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy or by a
perfect poem or by a saintly soul; who was looking always for the
best in others, and was trying always to give the best he had.' So
much of that is true of her whom we commemorate.  And we follow her
now with our earnest prayers into that state of life into which it
has pleased God to call her."


After the end many treasured letters came to me about her.  One was
written by the Queen, and sent to me by hand; my wife for many years
had been given the honour of writing direct to Her Majesty.

From all the letters I will only quote a few words written by a
friend:


"Your loss is indeed great, and the world is poorer by the loss of a
brilliant personality.  Nobody has ever given greater pleasure to
thousands and thousands than she did.  Let me tell you a little
incident.  The first time you and Lady Bancroft came to us in
Belgrave Square was one day when my mother was alive; she died forty
years ago, so you will not recollect it.  At the time she was very
ill, very depressed, and scarcely ever smiled.  After you and your
wife left, my mother turned to me and said: 'What a wonderful woman!
She has made my sad heart like a bright garden.'"

{243}

[Sidenote: "Mary's Place"]

I will end by telling of an episode which occurred on the day the old
Prince of Wales's Theatre was launched on its eventful career, which,
as it happily chanced, was a success from start to finish.  The
incidents may have interest for the superstitious and afford
amusement to the sceptic.  My wife's mother was too nervous to attend
the first performance, and a married daughter took her for a country
drive to distract her anxious thoughts.  They followed the road
leading to Willesden, then quite rural.  All kinds of subjects were
begun, to no purpose; the mother's mind was in the little theatre.
"Mary"--my wife was christened Marie, but Mrs. Wilton called her
Mary--"has always been so fortunate; she seems to have lived a
charmed life, but her luck may desert her now, and I am always
wondering and dreaming, Emma, what may be the end of this brave but
dangerous enterprise."  As the words left the mother's lips a corner
in the road was reached, and suddenly their eyes encountered a little
block of stone with an inscription upon it let into the wall of a row
of humble houses facing them.  The inscription was: "Mary's Place,
Fortune Gate."  It seemed like an answer, a prophecy, and it
comforted Mrs. Wilton's anxious wonderings.

{244}

Later on, we often drove in that direction, to look at what became
known to us as "The Stone of Destiny," and when, more than twenty
years afterwards, the story appeared in print, we received a letter
informing us that the little row was about to be pulled down to make
room for larger and better houses to be built in their place.  The
letter came from one interested in the property--a Mr. Bennett--who
kindly asked if we would accept the "talisman"; and he afterwards
left it at our door.  The stone was taken by us from one home to
another; it is now let into the wall of the mausoleum I built for my
wife in Brompton Cemetery, where all that is left of her in this
world is at rest and where there is room for me.



{245}

INDEX

NDX Abbey, Edwin, pictures, 84

Actors' Benevolent Fund, 65, 212

Adelphi Theatre, 195

Aidé, Hamilton, 24

Ainger, Canon, Master of the Temple, 92, 122

Ainley, Henry, 60

Alabama Conference, 61

Albery, James, _Two Roses_, 181

Alcester, Lord, nickname, 124; bombardment of Alexandria, 124

Alexander, George, 198; manager of St. James's Theatre, 202

Alexandra, H.M. Queen, 1; at Sandringham, 12; compliment from Lord
Fisher, 123

Alexandria, bombardment of, 124

Alfred, King, statue of, 90

Alverstone, Lord, Lord Chief Justice, 64, 174; interest in the drama,
65

Anglesey, Lord, 67

_Arabia_, the, 130

Arthur, Sir George, biography of Lord Wolseley, 127

Ascot, 120

Ashbourne, Lord, Lord Chancellor of Ireland, 133

Asquith, Rt. Hon. H. H., 136



Balfour, Earl, 91, 121

Ballantine, Serjeant, 70; criminal cases, 71

Bancroft, George, 112, 183

Bancroft, Marie, Lady, character of her acting, 29, 30, 162, 169;
testimonial to Sarah Bernhardt, 23; letter from Ouida, 33; voice, 60;
letter from Lord Esher, 66; recites in Italian, 93; opens the Scala
Theatre, 108; description of _The Passing of the Third Floor Back_,
115; character, 217; tribute from W. L. Courtney, 218-226; from A.
Pinero, 226-232; from Sir J. Forbes-Robertson, 233; acting in
_Sweethearts_, 234-236; work in the War, 237; funeral 237.  _See_
Wilton

Bancroft, Sir Squire, date of his birth, 1; attends the Thanksgiving
Service at St. Paul's, 5; at Marlborough House, 7; presentation to
King Edward VII, 8; meeting with him, 9; at Monte Carlo, 11; readings
for hospitals, 12, 62; at Sandringham, 12; knighthood conferred, 13;
at Marienbad, 14, 16; predilection for a good sermon, 44; "The Art of
Speaking and Reading," 47-50; journey to Bradford, 52; views on
cremation, 68; member of the Garrick Club, 78; speech at the Royal
Academy Banquet, 80; portrait, 94; retires from the Haymarket
Theatre, 118,178; member of the M.C.C., 120; compliment on his age,
124; entertains Sir H. Irving, 183-185; address at the Tercentenary
of Shakespeare, 207-210

Barrett, Wilson, 194; _The Sign of the Cross_, 194

Barrie, Sir James M., _The Professor's Love Story_, 198

Bartet, Madame, 163

Bathe, Sir Henry de, 130

Bathe, Lady de, 130

Bayard, T. F., 147

Beaconsfield, Earl of, 97

Beaufort, Duke of, 117

Bellew, Rev. J. M., 38, 172

Bennett, Mr., 244

Benson, Sir Frank, knighthood conferred, 207

Beresford, Lord Charles, 124

Bernhardt, Sarah, 21, 30; acting of _Fedora_, 22; letter from, 23;
testimonial to, 23; character of her acting, 24

Birchington, 75

Bird, Dr. George, 139

Boehm, Sir Edgar, statues, 88; death, 89

Booth, Edwin, character of his acting, 166; letter from, 167

Borthwick Sir Algernon, 133.  _See_ Glenesk

Boucicault, Dion, 106, 132, 146, 168; _London Assurance_, 169, 171;
Irish plays, 169; _The Trial of Effie Deans_, 170; _How She Loves
Him_, 170; letters from 171, 172; epitaph, 172

Boyd-Carpenter, A., letter from, 55

Boyd-Carpenter, Dr., Bishop of Ripon, 44; sermons, 45, 51; story of,
46; friendship with the Empress Frederick, 50; date of his birth, 53;
entertains the "75's," 54; verses, 54; death, 55

Braddon, Miss, 31; _Lady Audley's Secret_, 34; number of her novels,
34; method of working, 35.  _See_ Maxwell Bradford, 53

Brampton, Lord, 71.  _See_ Hawkins

Bridge, Sir Frederick, 41, 96

Brompton Cemetery, 244

Brooke, G. V., 157, 160

Brookfield, Canon, 177

Brookfield, Charles, 177; stories of, 177; joint Examiner of Plays,
178; letter from, 178

Brooks, Shirley, editor of _Punch_, 111

Brough, Lionel, 7

Brougham, Lord, 58

Browning, Oscar, 142

Browning, Robert, 98

Buller, General Sir Redvers, 129

Buller, Lady Audrey, 129

Burdett-Coutts, Baroness, 40

Burghclere, Lord, 68.  _See_ Gardner

Burnand, Sir Frank C., 73, 110; editor of _Punch_, 111; humour, 111

Burnham, Lord, 12, 134.  _See_ Lawson

Burnham, Lady, 130

Burton, Lady, 138

Burton, Sir Richard, 138; portrait of, 78

Butt, Clara, 41

Byron, H. J., 7; _Our Boys_, 153



Cadenabbia, 140

Calthrop, Dion, 174

Calthrop, Donald, 174

Calthrop, John Clayton, character of his acting, 174.  _See_ Clayton

Cambon, M. Paul, 33

Cambridge, H.R.H. Duke of, memorial service, 130

Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, 203, 205, 214

Carlyle, Thomas, statue of, 88

Carr, Comyns, 143; Director of Grosvenor Gallery, 143; witty sayings,
144

Carson, Lord, 133

Carton, Claude, 202; _Liberty Hall_, 204

Caruso, Signor, 20

Cecil, Arthur, 7, 93; story of, 175

Chambers, Haddon, 202

Chambers, Montagu, 73

Chapel Royal, Whitehall, 44

Chaplin, Lord, 2, 106

Charles I, King, 16

Chelsea Hospital, parade of old pensioners, 6

Choate, J. H., 147; story of, 148

Chorley, Henry Fothergill, 59

Chudleigh, Arthur, at the funeral of Lady Bancroft, 237

Cibber, Colley, 30

Clarence, H.R.H. Duke of, death, 10

Claretie, Jules, director of the _Théâtre français_, 163

Clarke, Sir Edward, 121

Clay, Cecil, _A Pantomime Rehearsal_, 144, 197

Clay, Frederic, 94, 96

Clayton, John, 7; character of his acting, 174.  _See_ Calthrop
Clemenceau, M., 162

Cockburn, Lord Chief Justice, 59; voice, 59; knowledge of languages,
60; president of the Alabama Conference, 61; death, 61

Coghlan, Charles, 7; character of his acting, 173; death, 174

Cohen, Arthur, 70

Collins, Wilkie, 34, 103

Cooper, Miss Gladys, 203

Coquelin, Alexandre, 161, 163

Coquelin, Constant, 22, 161; _Cyrano_, 135; letter from, 162; tribute
to, 163

Corry, Montagu, 121.  _See_ Rowton

_Corsican Brothers, The_, 155, 183, 186

County Fire Office, demolition, 198

Court Theatre, 195

Courtney, W. L., tribute to the memory of Lady Bancroft, 218-226

Coyne, Stirling, 196

Critchett, Sir Anderson, 61

Critchett, George, 104, 182

Criterion Theatre, 211

Cromer, Earl of, 54

Curzon, George, Marquess, 142



Daudet, Alphonse, 22

Davis, Mr., 148

_Dead Heart, The_, 162, 186-187

Derby, the, 106, 120

Desclée, Aimée, 24; character of her acting, 25; death, 25

Devonshire House, fancy-dress ball at, 122

Dickens, Charles, 34, 35, 156; _Christmas Carols_, 12; _Household
Words_, 73; opinion of Marie Wilton's acting, 221

Dickens, "Mamie," 59

Dilke, Sir Charles, 68

_Diplomacy_, 111, 173, 175, 214, 233

Doyle, Dicky, 59

Drury Lane Theatre, 157, 207

Dumas, Alexandre, 22, 25

Duse, Eleanora, 22, 167, 203, 220



Edward VII, H.M. King, date of his birth, 1; at the Prince of Wales's
Theatre, 2; illness, 5; attends a Thanksgiving Service, 5; at Chelsea
Hospital, 6; entertains actors, 7; stories of, 8-11, 13-16; presented
with a cigar box, 8; acts of kindness, 11; at Marienbad, 13, 16;
characteristics, 14-16; death, 16

Elgar, Edward, 27

Eliot, George, 34, 35

Ellicott, Bishop, story of, 42

Ellicott, Mrs., 42

Elliott, Rev. W. H., address at the Memorial Service to Lady
Bancroft, 238-242

Emery, Winifred, 200, 204

Esher, Lord, Master of the Rolls, 65; letter to Lady Bancroft, 63

Esher, Lady, 66

Eze, 11



Falkland, Lord, 68

Farquhar, Gilbert, 118

Farquhar, Horace, 118

Fechter, Charles, character of his acting, 154-156; death, 156; bust,
156

Fergusson, Sir William, 104

Fife, Earl of, 119

Fildes, Luke, 77

Fisher, Viscount, 54, 122; date of his birth, 16; religious views,
123; compliment to Queen Alexandra, 123

Fisher, Lady, 122

Forbes-Robertson, Sir Johnston, 60; tribute to the memory of Lady
Bancroft, 233; at her funeral, 237

Ford, Onslow, 89

Fountains Abbey, 47

Francis Joseph, Emperor of Austria, 14

Frederick, Empress, illness, 50; relations with her son, 61

Frith, W. P., 84; pictures, 85

Frohman, Charles, 102

_Fun_, 108



Gardner, Herbert, 68.  _See_ Burghclere

Garrick Club, 78, 102, 103, 154, 156, 184

Garrick, David, 164

Garrick Theatre, 107, 199

Gemmaert, Émile, _Carillon_, 27

Geneva, 61

George V, H.M. King, 17; at Sandringham, 13

Gilbert, Sir W. S., 94, 107, 168; _Bab Ballads_, 108; plays, 108;
comic operas, 108; humorous sayings, 108-111; _Sweethearts_, 234-236

Gill, Charles, 75

Gleichen, Count, 90

Glenesk, Lord, 132.  _See_ Borthwick

Goldschmidt, Otto, 18

Gordon, General, statue of, 90

Goschen, Sir Edward, 14

Got, Edmond, 22, 161; letter from, 161

Gounod, 96

Grace, W. G., 120; testimonial to, 110

Grain, Corney, 196

Granville, Such, 108

Graves, Charles, lines from, 146

Green, Paddy, 71

Grenfell, Field-Marshal Lord, 54

Grisi, Madame, 20

Grossmith, George, 7, 196

Grossmith, Weedon, 197



Hading, Jane, 30, 203

Hall, Sir Charles, at Sandringham, 12

Hannen, Lord, 66; President of the Divorce Court, 67

Hare, Sir John, 7, 8, 43, 67, 107, 119, 213; portrait, 79; character
of his acting, 213-215

Harrison, Frederick, 200

Hawkins, Henry, 71.  _See_ Brampton

Hawtrey, Sir Charles, 14, 212

Haymarket Theatre, 8, 117, 199

Healy, Father, story of, 70

Herkomer, Sir Hubert, 85; _The Last Muster_, 6, 86

Herschell, Baron, Lord Chancellor, 70

Hesse, Prince Louis of, illness, 10

Hicks, Seymour, 195

His Majesty's Theatre, 199

Hodson, Henrietta (Mrs. Labouchere), 139

Holker, Lord Justice, 69

Hood, Tom, 168

Hope, Anthony, 202

Houghton, Lord, 100.  _See_ Milnes

Huddleston, Baron, 67; funeral, 68



Ibsen, H., _Hedda Gabler_, 205

_Incubus, The_, 191

Inglefield, Admiral Sir Edward, 124

Inglefield, Lady, 125

Irving, Elizabeth, 192

Irving, Sir Henry, 7, 180; banquet to, 64; portraits, 79, 90, 187,
188; statue, 89; at a fancy-dress ball, 122; in Paris, 181; acting in
_The Bells_, 182; entertained at the Garrick Club, 184; gift from Sir
S. Bancroft, 187; spends Christmas Day with him, 183; hospitality,
188; tribute to, 189; sons, 190

Irving, H. B., 190

Irving, Laurence, 190; character of his acting, 191

Irving, Laurence (son of H. B. Irving), 192

Isaacs, Sir Rufus, 65



James, David, 7

James, Henry, 101, 203; Order of Merit conferred, 102; death, 102

James, Lord, of Hereford, 67, 68

Jefferson, Joseph, character of his acting, 165; pictures, 165

Jerrold, Douglas, 160; tribute to Shakespeare, 210

Jeune, Francis, 65, 69.  _See_ St. Helier

Joachim, J., 60

Johnson, Dr., 87

Jones, Henry Arthur, 109, 202; plays, 198; comedies, 211



Karsavina, 27

Kean, Charles, 74, 156, 160

Keeley, Louise, marriage, 74.  _See_ Williams

Keeley, Mrs., 74

Keeley, Robert, 74

Kelvin, Lord, 122

Kemble, Henry, stories of, 176; death, 177

Kendal, Madge, 29, 108, 201, 203.  _See_ Robertson

Kendal, William, 7, 153, 198, 201; character of his acting, 202

Key, Philip Barton, 146

Kitchener, Field-Marshal Earl, 126; tribute to, 126

Knobloch, Edward, 237

Knollys, Lord, 7



Labouchere, Henry, 68, 139; stories of, 140; "Letters of a Besieged
Resident," 140; Privy Councillor, 141

Langtry, Mrs. portrait, 79

Lascelles, Sir Frank, 54, 55; Ambassador in Berlin, 137

Lawson, Edward, 134.  _See_ Burnham

Legault, Maria, 22

Leighton, Lord, President of the Royal Academy, 2; death, 77;
remarkable gifts, 77; _The Slinger_, 78

Lemon, Mark, editor of _Punch_, 111

Lever, Charles, 102

Lewis, Sir George, 63, 68; tribute to, 64

Lincolnshire, Lord, 7

Lind, Jenny, 18; story of, 18-20; medallion, 20

Lindsay, Sir Coutts, President of the Grosvenor Gallery, 143

Linley, Elizabeth, 125

Lockwood, Sir Frank, 72, 188

Löhr, Marie, 87

Londesborough, Lord, 119; member of the Coaching Club, 120

Londesborough, Lady, 10, 119

London, blizzard, 9; fog, 140

Longfellow, Henry W., story of, 99

Lonsdale, Frederick, 76

_Lord Dundreary_, 167

Lowell, J. R., 147

Lucas, E. V., 191

Lucy, Sir Henry, 114; appearance, 115

Lucy, Lady, 114

Lyceum Theatre, 149, 166, 182

Lyttelton, Hon. Alfred, 135

Lytton, Bulwer, 32, 34; _Money_, 66, 173, 212



Macduff, Viscount, 118

Mackenzie, Sir Morell, 202

Macready, General Sir Nevil, 160

Macready, Jonathan, 160

Macready, Major, 160

Macready, W. C., opinion of Salvini's acting, 159; of Marie Wilton's,
219

Malibran, Maria, 20

Marienbad, 13, 16

Mario, G., 20

Marks, Henry Stacey, 86

Marlborough Club, 7

Marlborough House, dinner at, 7

Marshall, Robert, plays, 113

Mary, H.M. Queen, 117, 242; at Sandringham, 13

Mathew, Lord Justice, 70

Mathews, Charles, Public Prosecutor, 75

Mathews, Charles, 149; speech at a banquet, 150; letter from, 151;
opinion of _Our Boys_, 153; character of his acting, 153

Mathews, William, 67, 75

Maude, Cyril, 200

Maurice, Sir Frederick, biography of Lord Wolseley, 127

Maurier, George du, Trilby, 86, 92; drawings in Punch, 91

Maurier, Sir Gerald du, 153; at the funeral of Lady Bancroft, 237

Maxwell, Mrs., 31.  _See_ Braddon

Maxwell, W. B., 35

May, Phil, 185

McConnell, W. R., 168

McDonnell, Schomberg or "Pom," 137

Melba, Dame Nellie, 20; story of, 128

Meredith, George, _Diana of the Crossways_, 125

Merewether, Mr., 67

Meyerbeer, G., 20

Millais, Sir John Everett, 67; President of the Royal Academy, 78;
pictures, 78, 79; portraits, 79, 187; landscapes, 79

Milnes, Monckton, 100.  _See_ Houghton

Modjeska, Helena, character of her acting, 27

Mohammedan legend, sermon on, 51

Monckton, Lionel, 195

Montague, Henry, character of his acting, 172; death, 173

Monte Carlo, 11, 90

Morley, Rt. Hon. Arnold, Postmaster-General, 68

Morley, Viscount, 68

Morris, Clara, 30

Mounet-Sully, M., 162



Nevill, Lady Dorothy, 35; reminiscences, 36

Nevill, Ralph, 36

Neville, Henry, 7

Nijinsky, 27

Norton, Mrs., 125



O'Connor, Rt. Hon. T. P., 142

Ohnet, Georges, 22

_Olivia_, 214

Onslow, Lord, 120

Orchardson, Sir W. Q., pictures, 84

Orton, Arthur, claimant in the Tichborne trial, 71

"Ouida," 31; novels, 32; views on female suffrage, 32; letter from,
33.  _See_ Ramée

Oxford and Cambridge cricket match, 135



Paderewski, I. J., 20

Page, Dr. W. H., 147

Paris, siege of, 173

Parker, Dr. Joseph, 50

Parker, Louis N., 203

Parnell Commission, 67

Parratt, Sir Walter, 54, 55, 96

Parry, John, 196

Parry, Serjeant, 71

Partridge, Bernard, 186

_Passing of the Third Floor Back, The_, 115

Patti, Adelina, 20

Peel, Sir Robert, conversion to Free Trade, 125

Pellegrini, Carlo, caricatures, 2, 93; death, 94

Phelps, Mr., 147

Phelps, Samuel, 155, 160

Phillips, Stephen, 203

Piatti, 60

Pickersgill, the engraver, 87

Pierson, Blanche, 22

Pigott, Edward, Reader of Plays, 22

Pinero, Sir Arthur W., 14, 202; _Lords and Commons_, 177; _The
Profligate_, 199; knighthood conferred, 200; _The Second Mrs.
Tanqueray_, 203-207; _The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_, 214; _The Gay
Lord Quex_, 214; tribute to the memory of Lady Bancroft, 226-232; at
her funeral, 237

Planché, J. R., _The King of the Peacocks_, 149

Plat, Sir Charles du, at Sandringham, 12

Plunket, David, 132.  _See_ Rathmore

Poe, Edgar Allan, lines from, 74

Pontresina, 95

Poynter, Sir Edward, 188; President of the Royal Academy, 80;
pictures, 81

Prince of Wales's Theatre, 2, 101, 117, 213, 227, 243

Prince's, 110

Princess's Theatre, 194

Prinsep, Anthony, 87

Prinsep, Val, 77, 86

Probyn, Sir Dighton, 7, 12

_Punch_, 59, 91, 110, 145; editors, 111



Queen's Theatre, 139



Ramée, Louise de la, 31.  _See_ Ouida

Rathmore, Lord, 132. _See_ Plunket

Reade, Charles, 172; _The Cloister and the Hearth_, 102;
characteristics, 103; _Masks and Faces_, 225

Regnier, M., 162

Rehan, Ada, 28, 30

Réjane, Madame, character of her acting, 26

Ridge, W. Pett, 75

Ridgeway, Dr., Bishop of Chichester, 54

Ristori, Madame, 157

Rivière, Briton, pictures, 86

Roberts, Field-Marshal Earl, 126

Robertson, Madge, 108, 201.  _See_ Kendal

Robertson, T. W., 104; comedies, 1, 101, 105, 217, 224, 227; _Ours_,
8, 222, 233; _Caste_, 105, 119, 139, 227; _School_, 138, 164, 233;
_Society_, 216; death, 217

Robins, Elizabeth, 205

Roebuck, Captain Disney, 73

Rogers, Rev. William, 63

Rothschild, Alfred de, 137

Rowe, Mrs. Jopling, portrait, 79

Rowton, Lord, 121.  _See_ Corry

Russell, Charles, Lord Chief Justice, personality, 62; tribute to Sir
G. Lewis, 63; story of, 64

Russell, Sir William Howard, 132



St. Helier, Lord, President of the Divorce Court, 69

St. Helier, Lady, 69

St. James's Theatre, 202

St. Paul's Cathedral, Thanksgiving Service, 5

Sala, George Augustus, 106

Salvini, T., character of his acting, 156-159; letter from, 158

Sambourne, Linley, drawings in _Punch_, 92

Sanderson, Lord, 64

Sandringham, 8, 12; fire at, 10

Sardou, V., _Fédora_, 22; _Odette_, 26, 177

Sargent, J. S., portraits, 79, 83, 188

Savoy Theatre, 77, 196

Scala Theatre, 108

_School for Scandal_, 85, 87, 173

Schumann, Madame, 60

Scott, Clement, 134, 155

Seaman, Sir Owen, editor of _Punch_, 111

Seymour, Admiral Sir Beauchamp, 124.  _See_ Alcester

Shakespeare, W., _Hamlet_, 155, 158; _Othello_, 157, 166; _Macbeth_,
160; _Merry Wives of Windsor_, 174; Tercentenary, 207; address,
207-210; tribute to, 208

Shaw, Bernard, 194

Sheppard, Canon Edgar, 40, 238

Sheppard, Mrs., 40

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 125; _School for Scandal_, 85, 87, 173;
_The Rivals_, 165

"Sickles Tragedy, The," at Washington, 145-147

Sims, G. R., 205

Sloggett, General Sir Arthur, 237

Somerleyton, Lady, 130

Sothern, Edward Askew, 167; accident, 168; practical jokes, 168;
_Birds of a Feather_, 169

Sothern, Sam, 169

Stanford, Charles, 96

Stanley, Dean, tomb, 88

Stanley, Sir H. M., 138

Stanley, Lady, 138

Stanley, Mrs. John, 69.  _See_ St. Helier

Stone, Marcus, 77, 87

Straight, Sir Douglas, 74; popularity, 75

Strettell, Miss, 143

Sullivan, Herbert, 11

Sullivan, Sir Arthur, 59, 94, 108; illness, 11; portrait, 79;
personality, 95; funeral, 95

Sutherland, Sir Thomas, Chairman of the P. & O. Co., 137

Sutro, Alfred, 202; compliment to Sir S. Bancroft, 124



Tadema, Alma, 82

Taylor, Tom, editor of _Punch_, 111

Teck, Duchess of, 6, 117

Teck, Prince Francis of, 116; death, 117

Tennant, Laura, 135

Tenniel, Sir John, cartoons in _Punch_, 91

Tennyson, Lord, death, 45; _Becket_, 96

Terriss, William, 214; career, 194; stabbed, 195

Terry, Ellen, 28, 29, 30, 60, 156, 202, 214, 235; on the
characteristics of Charles Reade, 102

Terry, Fred, 212

Terry, Kate, 156

Thackeray, W. M., 34, 103; _Vanity Fair_, 107

Thompson, Sir Henry, 68, 135, 136; portrait, 79

Thornton, C. I., 120

Tichborne trial, 59, 71

Toole, J. L., 7; story of, 192

Tree, Sir Herbert Beerbohm, 14, 119, 198; manager of the Haymarket,
199; characteristics, 200; knighthood conferred, 200

Trollope, Anthony, 102



Vanbrugh, Irene, 169, 214

Vaudeville Theatre, 153

Vaughan, Father Bernard, 43

Vestris, Madame, 149

Vezin, Hermann, 7

Victoria, H.M. Queen, attends a Thanksgiving Service, 5; Jubilee, 5;
gift to Sir S. Bancroft, 13; voice, 60; Empress of India, 87



Wace, Dr., Dean of Canterbury, 66

Wace, Mrs., 56

Wales, Oliver, 8

Wallace, Sir Donald Mackenzie, 54, 55

Waller, Lewis, 198, 199

Ward, Barbara, 94

Ward, Leslie, 94

Washington, "The Sickles Tragedy" at, 145

Webb, Sir Aston, President of the Royal Academy, 82

Webster, Richard, 64.  _See_ Alverstone

Wellington, Duke of, statue, 88

Wertheimer, Mr., portrait, 79

Westminster Abbey, Jubilee Thanksgiving, 5

Wharncliffe, Lord, 11

Whistler, James McNeill, 90

White, Field-Marshal Sir George, Governor of Gibraltar, 130

White, Lady, 130

White, Rev. Henry, Chaplain of the Chapel Royal, 39

Wigan, Alfred, 73

Wilberforce, Archdeacon, 41; love of animals, 42

Wilberforce, Mrs., 41

Wilde, Oscar, 203; plays, 112

Willard, E. S., 198

William II, ex-German Emperor, treatment of his mother, 51

William IV, King, 15

Williams, Louise, 74.  _See_ Keeley

Williams, Montagu, 72; career, 73; _The Isle of St. Tropez_, 73;
criminal cases, 73; marriage, 74

Wilson, Sir Rivers, 137

Wilton, Marie, 219.  _See_ Bancroft

Wilton, Mrs., story of, 243

Wolseley, Field-Marshal Viscount, 126; career, 127; story of, 128

Wood, Field-Marshal Sir Evelyn, 129

Wood, Mrs. John, 29, 174

Wyndham, Sir Charles, 7, 153, 177, 210; character of his acting, 211;
President of the Actors' Benevolent Fund, 212

Wyndham, Lady, 212



Yates, Edmund, 103, 106, 172; death, 107 ENDX




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