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Title: The Sunny Side of the Street
Author: Wilder, Marshall Pinckney
Language: English
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The Sunny Side of the Street
[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPH BY MARCEAU, NEW YORK
_Merrily Yours_
_Marshall P. Wilder_]
THE SUNNY SIDE
OF THE STREET
BY
MARSHALL P. WILDER
_Author of “People I’ve Smiled With”_
WITH TEXT ILLUSTRATIONS BY BART HALEY
AND COVER DECORATION BY
CHARLES GRAHAM
[Illustration]
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON
1905
Copyright, 1905, by
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
[_Printed in the United States of America_]
Published, June, 1905
_Affectionately Dedicated To My Father_
PREFACE
In this little volume are offered recollections of the sunny side of many
people. I have plucked blossoms from the gardens of humor and pathos,
which lie side by side, and in weaving them into a garland, claim only as
my own the string that binds them together.
CONTENTS
I. SUNSHINE AND FUN 23
The Sunny Side of the Street.—Jests and Jesters.—The
Force of a Joke.—Lincoln’s Way.—Kings and
Their Joke-makers.—As They do It in Persia and
Ireland.—“Chestnuts.”—Few Modern Jesters but no End of
Jokers.—Entertainers and Their Ways.
II. SUNNY MEN OF SERIOUS PRESENCE 31
Richard Croker.—A Good Fellow and Not Hard to
Approach, if One is not in Politics.—Croker as a
Haymaker.—Does not Keep Opinions on Tap.—He and
Chauncey Depew on New York City Politics.—Croker
Bewilders a London Salesman.—His Greatest
Pride.—Recorder Goff.—Not as Severe as His
Acts.—Justice Tempered With Mercy.—Two Puzzling Cases.
III. AT THE WHITE HOUSE AND NEAR IT 41
My Prophecy to “Major” McKinley.—President McKinley
Becomes “One of the Boys” of My Audience; His
Attention to His Wife.—How He Won a Vermont City.—A
Story of the Spanish War.—My First Meeting with
President Harrison.—A Second and More Pleasing
One.—A Chance Which I Gladly Lost.—Some of President
Harrison’s Stories.—I Led a Parade Given in His
Honor.—Vice-Presidents Morton and Hobart.
IV. STORY-TELLING AS AN ART 57
Different Ways of Story-Telling.—The Slow
Story-Teller.—Lincoln’s Stories.—Bad Telling of Good
Stories.—The Right Way to Tell a Story.—The Humorous,
the Comic and the Witty Story.—Artemus Ward, Robert J.
Burdette and Mark Twain as Story-Tellers.
V. ACTORS’ JOKES 68
All of Them Full of Humor at All Times.—“Joe”
Jefferson.—J. K. Emmett.—Fay Templeton.—Willie
Collier.—An Actor’s Portrait on a Church Wall.—“Gus”
Thomas, the Playwright.—Stuart Robson.—Henry
Dixey.—Evans and Hoey.—Charles Hoyt.—Wilson
Barrett.—W. S. Gilbert.—Henry Irving.
VI. A SUNNY OLD CITY 81
Some Aspects of Philadelphia.—Fun in a Hospital.—“The
Cripple’s Palace.”—An Invalid’s Success in Making
Other Invalids Laugh.—Fights for the Fun of
Fighting.—My Rival Friends.—Boys Will Be Boys.—Cast
Out of Church.—A Startling Recognition.—Some Pleasures
of Attending Funerals.—How I Claimed the Protection of
the American Flag.
VII. MY FIRST TRIP TO LONDON 93
Large Hopes _vs._ Small Means.—At the Savage Club.—My
First Engagement.—Within an Ace of Losing It.—Alone
in a Crowd.—A Friendly Face to the Rescue.—The New
York Welcome to a Fine Fellow.—One English Way With
Jokes.—People Who are Slow to Laugh.—Disturbing
Elements.—Cold Audiences.—Following a Suicide.
VIII. EXPERIENCES IN LONDON 108
Customs and Climate Very Unlike Our Own.—No
Laughter in Restaurants.—Clever Cabbies.—Oddities
in Fire-Fighting.—The “Rogue’s Gallery.”—In
Scotland Yard.—“Petticoat Lane.”—A Cemetery for Pet
Dogs.—“Dogs Who Are Characters.”—The Professional
Toast-Master.—Solemn After-dinner Speakers.—An
Autograph Table-cloth.—American Brides of English
Husbands.
IX. “LUCK” IN STORY-TELLING 121
The Real Difference Between Good Luck and Bad.—Good
Luck with Stories Presupposes a Well-stored
Memory.—Men Who Always Have the Right Story Ready.—Mr.
Depew.—Bandmaster Sousa’s Darky Stories.—John
Wanamaker’s Sunday-School Stories.—General Horace
Porter’s Tales That go to the Spot.—The Difference
Between Parliament and Congress.
X. JOURNALISTS AND AUTHORS 133
Not all Journalists are Critics, Nor are all Critics
Fault-finders.—The Most Savage Newspapers not the Most
Influential.—The Critic’s Duty.—Horace Greeley.—Mark
Twain’s First Earnings.—A Great Publisher Approached
by Green Goods Men.—Henry Watterson.—Opie Reid.—Quimby
of the “Free Press.”—Laurence Hutton, Edwin Booth and
I in Danger Together.
XI. THE UNEXPECTED 146
Robert Hilliard and I and a Dog.—Hartford’s Actors
and Playwrights.—A Fit that Caused a Misfit.—A
Large Price to Hear a Small Man.—Jim Corbett and
I.—A Startled Audience.—Captain Williams and
“Red” Leary.—“Joe” Choate to the Rescue.—Bait
for a Dude.—Deadheads.—Within an Inch of Davy
Jones.—Perugini and Four Fair Adorers.—Scanlon and
Kernell.
XII. SUNSHINE IN SHADY PLACES 164
On Blackwell’s Island.—Snakes and Snake
Charmers.—Insane People as Audiences.—A Poorhouse
That was a Large House.—I am Well Known by Another
Profession.—Criminals are Not Fools.—Some Pathetic
Experiences.—The Largest Fee I Ever Received.
XIII. “BUFFALO BILL” 177
He Works Hard But Jokes Harder.—He and I Stir Up
a Section of Paris.—In Peril of a Mob.—My Indian
Friends in the Wild West Company.—Bartholdi and
Cody.—English Bewilderment Over the “Wild West”
People.—Major “Jack” Burke.—Cody as a Stage
Driver.—Some of His Western Stories.—When He Had the
Laugh on Me.
XIV. THE ART OF ENTERTAINING 190
Not as Easy as It Would Seem.—Scarcity of Good
Stories for the Purpose.—Drawing-room Audiences
are Fastidious.—Noted London Entertainers.—They
are Guests of the People Who Engage Them.—London
Methods and Fees.—Blunders of a Newly-wed Hostess
from America.—Humor Displaces Sentiment in the
Drawing-room.—My Own Material and Its Sources.
XV. IN THE SUNSHINE WITH GREAT PREACHERS 199
I am Nicknamed “The Theological Comedian.”—My Friend,
Henry Ward Beecher.—Our Trip Through Scotland and
Ireland.—His Quickness of Repartee.—He and Ingersoll
Exchange Words.—Ingersoll’s Own Sunshine.—DeWitt
Talmage on the Point of View.—He Could Even Laugh at
Caricatures of His Own Face.—Dr. Parkhurst on Strict
Denominationalism.
XVI. THE PRINCE OF WALES, NOW KING EDWARD VII 211
The Most Popular Sovereign in Europe.—How He Saved Me
From a Master of Ceremonies.—Promotion by Name.—He and
His Friends Delight Two American Girls.—His Sons and
Daughters.—An Attentive and Loving Father.—Untiring
at His Many Duties.—Before He Ascended the
Throne.—Unobtrusive Politically, Yet Influential.
XVII. SIR HENRY IRVING 222
A Model of Courtesy and Kindness.—An Early Friend
Surprised by the Nature of His Recognition.—His
Tender Regard for Members of His Company.—Hamlet’s
Ghost Forgets His Cue.—Quick to Aid the Needy.—Two
Luck Boys.—Irving as a Joker.—The Story He Never Told
Me.—Generous Offer to a Brother Actor-manager.—Why He
is Not Rich.
XVIII. LONDON THEATRES AND THEATRE-GOERS 236
Why English and American Plays Do Best at
Home.—The Intelligent Londoner Takes the Theatre
Seriously.—Play-going as a Duty.—The High-class
English Theatre a Costly Luxury.—American Comedies
too Rapid of Action to Please the English.—Bronson
Howard’s “Henrietta,” not Understood in London.—The
Late Clement Scott’s Influence and Personality.
XIX. TACT 247
An Important Factor of Success.—Better Than
Diplomacy.—Some Noted Possessors of Tact.—James G.
Blaine.—King Edward VII.—Queen Alexandra.—Henry
Ward Beecher.—Mme. Patti.—Mrs. Ronalds.—Mrs.
Cleveland.—Mrs. Langtry.—Colonel Ingersoll.—Mrs.
Kendall.—General Sherman.—Chauncey M. Depew.—Mrs.
James Brown Potter.—Mme. Nordica.
XX. ADELINA PATTI 263
Her Home in Wales.—Some of Her Pets.—An Ocean
Voyage With Her.—The Local Reception at Her
Home-coming.—Mistress of an Enormous Castle and a
Great Retinue of Servants.—Her Winter Garden and
Private Theatre.—A Most Hospitable and Charming
Hostess.—Her Local Charities are Continuous and Many.
XXI. SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE 278
Cornelius Vanderbilt.—Mrs. Mackey.—The
Rockefellers.—Jay Gould.—George Gould and Mary
Anderson.—Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske.—Augustin
Daly.—Nicola Tesla.—Cheiro.
XXII. HUMAN NATURE 292
Magnetism and Its Elements.—Every One Carries
the Marks of His Trade.—How Men Are “Sized Up”
at Hotels.—Facial Resemblance of Some People to
Animals.—What the Eye First Catches.—When Faces Are
Masked.—Bathing in Japan.—The Conventions of Every Day
Life That Hide Us From Our Fellows.—Genuineness is the
One Thing Needful.
XXIII. SUNNY STAGE PEOPLE 302
“Joe” Jefferson.—I Take His Life.—His
Absent-Mindedness.—Jefferson and General Grant.—Nat
Goodwin, and How He Helped Me Make Trouble.—Our
Bicycling Mishap.—Goodwin Pours Oil on Troubled
Dramatic Waters Abroad.—George Leslie.—Wilton
Lackaye.—Burr McIntosh.—Miss Ada Rehan.
XXIV. SUNSHINE IS IN DEMAND 313
Laughter Wanted Everywhere.—Dismal Efforts at
Fun.—English Humor.—The Difference Between Humor
and Wit.—Composite Merriment.—Carefully Studied
“Impromptus.”—National Types of Humor.—Some Queer
Substitutes for the Real Article.—Humor is Sometimes
“Knocked Out,” Yet Mirth is Medicine and Laughter
Lengthens Life.
XXV. “BILL” NYE 321
A Humorist of the Best Sort.—Not True to His Own
Description of Himself.—Everybody’s Friend.—His Dog
“Entomologist” and the Dog’s Companions.—A Man With
the Right Word for Every Occasion.—His Pen-name
was His Own.—Often Mistaken for a Distinguished
Clergyman.—Killed by a Published Falsehood.
XXVI. SOME SUNNY SOLDIERS 330
General Sherman.—His Dramatic Story of a
Trysting-place.—The Battle of Shiloh Fought
Anew.—Sherman and Barney Williams.—General Russell A.
Alger on War.—General Lew Wallace.—The Room in Which
He Wrote “Ben Hur.”—His Donkey Story.—General Nelson
A. Miles and Some of His Funny Stories.—A Father Who
Wished He Had Been a Priest.
XXVII. SOME FIRST EXPERIENCES 348
When I was a Boy.—One Christmas Frolic.—How I Got
on One Theatre’s Free List.—My First Experience
as a Manager.—Strange Sequel of a Modest Business
Effort.—My First Cigar and How It Undid Me.—The Only
“Drink” I Ever Took.—My First Horse in Central Park.—I
Volunteer as a Fifer in School Band, with Sad Results
to All Concerned.
The People, Stories About Whom Appear in “The Sunny Side of the Street”
Abbey, Henry E., 99
Abbot Sisters (Bessie and Jessie), 215, 216
Albert Victor, Prince, 217
Alexandra, Queen, 221-249
Alger, Gen. Russell A., 42, 339
Allen, Heron-, 289
Allen, Viola, 303
Anderson, Col., 336
Anderson, Mary, Miss, 282
Arkell, W. J., 47, 100
Bancroft, Sir Squire, 310
Bangs, Frank, 303
Barrett, Lawrence, 73
Barrett, Millie, 74
Barrett, Wilson, 78, 98, 261
Barrymore, Maurice, 153
Bartholdi, 182
Battenberg, Prince Henry of, 273
Baumeister, Caroline, 271
Beecher, Henry Ward, 46, 199, 201, 202, 250
Bell, Digby, 163
Bellew, Kyrle, 158
Bingham (Ventriloquist), 149
Blaine, James G., 248, 257
Bliss, Cornelius N., 42
Booth, Edwin, 143
Bowers, Arthur, 100
Brockway, Supt. (Elmira), 167
“Bronco Bill,” 182
Brough, Lionel, 222
Buntline, Ned, 177
Burdette, Robert J., 62
Burgess, Neil, 148
Burke, Major John, 186
Burnand, F. C., 118
Busbey, Georgia, 73
Byron, Oliver Dowd, Mr. and Mrs., 148
Cameron, Gov., 251
Carlyle, Francis, 147
Carr, Comyns, 310
Carte, D’Oyley, 191
Chanfrau, Mr. and Mrs. Frank, 148
“Cheiro” (Louis Warner), 288-291
Childs, Geo. W., 99
Choate, Joseph H., 151
Clarke, J. I. C., 99
Cleveland, Mr. and Mrs. Grover, 46, 69, 254, 255, 295
Coates, Foster, 99
Cockerill, John A., 331
Cody, Kit Carson, 177
Cody, Col. Wm. J. (“Buffalo Bill”), 100, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181,
186, 187, 188, 189
Collier, Wm. (“Willie”), 71
Corbett, James J., 150
Croker, Mr. and Mrs. Richard, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36
Croly, Mrs., 284
Dailey, Pete, 69
Dale, Musical, 147
Daly, Augustin, 99, 285
Davis, Richard Harding, 260
Depew, Chauncey M., 34, 99, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 137, 196, 214,
260, 290
Devonshire, Duke of, 214
Dewey, Gott, 84, 86, 88
Dickens, Charles, 118
Dillingham, C. B., 147
Dix, Rev. Morgan, 326
Dixey, Henry E., 75
Dockstader, Lew, 147
Dodson, J. E., 225
Doubleday, Frank N., 140
Dougherty, Daniel, 99
Drew, John, 303
Dunham, Geo., 303
Du Val, Harry, 99
Eames, Emma, Mme., 147
Edward the Seventh (King), 211-221, 249
Emmett, J. K., 69
Evans, Charles, 76, 77
Evarts, Wm. M., 295
Fawcett, George, 155
Fiske, Harrison Grey, 100
“Flat Iron,” 182, 183, 184
Florence, W. J., 100, 303
Frohman, Charles, 155
Frohman, Daniel, 99
Fuller, Loie, 288
Geary (P. M. Gen.), Mr. and Mrs., 42
George, Prince, 217
Gilbert, W. S., 78, 79, 118
Gildersleeve, Judge, 189
Gillette, Wm., 147
Glenny, Charles, 79
Goff, Recorder, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40
Goodwin, Nat, 156, 199, 307
Gould, Edith Kingdon, 282
Gould, George, 281, 282
Gould, Jay, 280
Grain, Corney, 191
Grant, Gen. Fred., 336
Grant, Mayor Hugh, 99
Grant, Gen. U. S., 32, 330
Greeley, Horace, 137
Griffen, Mrs., 283
Grossmith, Geo., 191
Gunn, Michael, 283
Halford, Leige, 46, 47
Handy, Moses P., 100, 286
Harris, Sir August, 245, 310
Harrison, Benj. F., 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52
Harrison, Russell, 46, 48
Hatton, Joseph, 100
Hilliard, Robert, 146
Hobart, Garrett A., 42, 54
Hoey, Bill (“Old Hoss”), 76, 77
Howard, Bronson, 239
Howard, Jos., Jr., 100
Howe, “Daddy,” 224
Hoyt, Charles, 78
Hutton, Laurence, 143
Ingersoll, Col. Robt. G., 99, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 257, 319
Irving, Sir Henry, 98, 222-235, 290
Jefferson, Charles, 303
Jefferson, Jos., 69, 303, 304, 305, 306
Jefferson, Jos., Jr., 303
Jefferson, Thomas, 303
Jefferson, Willie, 303
Jones, Henry Arthur, 310
Jones, Senator of Nevada, 154, 348
Keith, B. F., 212
Kendal, Mrs., 225, 252, 257
Kendall, Ezra, 59, 60
Kennet, Luther M., 337
Kent, Chas., 285
Kernell, Harry, 159, 161
Lackaye, Wilton, 153
Langtry, Mrs., 255, 256
Lawton, Frank, 147
Leary, “Red,” 151
Lee, Gen. Fitzhugh, 251
Lee, Gen. Robt. E., 251
Leslie, Mrs. Frank (Baroness de Bazus), 252
Leslie, George, 311
Levy, Jefferson, 34
Lewis, Marshall, 73
Lincoln, Abraham, 25, 57
Lombard, Elsie C. (Mrs. John T. Brush), 303
Lord, Chester A., 99
Loring, D. A., 42
Louise, Princess of Teck, 217
Lucy, Henry W., 117
Mackaye, Steele, 189, 206
Mackey, Mrs., 279, 311
Maddern, Minnie (Mrs. Fiske), 284
Mannering, Billy, 156
Mansfield, Richard, 79, 231
“Mark Twain,” 64, 65, 66, 67, 138, 147, 148, 316
Matthews, Father, 337
Maude, Princess, 217
McAllister, Ward, 196
McIntosh, Burr, 311
McIntyre, 227
McKelway, St. Clair, 99
McKinley, Abner, 44
McKinley, Mr. and Mrs. Wm., 41, 42, 43, 44, 45
Meade, “Tom,” 226
Merrill, Bradford, 99
Miles, Gen. Nelson A., 344
Mitchell, Maggie, Miss, 148
Morton, Levi P., 55
Nicolini, Signor, 264
Nordica, Madame, 262
Nye, Wm. Edgar (Bill), 100, 321
Ochiltree, Col. Thos. P., 100, 354
Paget, Lady, 261
Palmer, A. M., 99
Parkhurst, Rev. Charles H., 208, 295
Parry, John, 191
Patti, Adelina, 41, 252, 263
Paulding, Fred’k, 303
Perugini (John Chatterton), 157
Pettit, Harry, 310
Philip, Captain, 45
Philip, Mr., 44, 45
Pitou, Augustus, 156
Ponisi, Madame, 303
Porter, Gen. Horace, 130
Potter, Mrs. Brown, 261
Pryor, Roger A., 295
Quimby, W. E., 142
“Red Shirt,” 182, 183
Rehan, Ada, 312
Reid, Opie, 141
Reid, Whitelaw, 99
Riley, Jas. Whitcomb, 139, 159
Robertson, Forbes, 79
Robson, Stuart, 73
Rockefeller, John D., 279
Rogers, Claude, Miss, 162
Rogers, Cynthia, Miss, 160
Ronalds, Mrs., 252, 262
Rosser, Gen., 251
Rothschild, Baron de, 192
Russell, Lillian, 292
Sage, Russell, 290
Salsbury, Nate, 185
Sanger, Frank, 99
Saunders, Lucille Marie, 147
Scanlon, W. J., 159
Scott, Clement, 240, 241, 242, 243, 244, 245, 246
Scott, Margaret Clement, 244
Shah of Persia, 249
Sherman, Gen. W. T., 69, 99, 259, 260, 330
Shine, J. L., 240
Sims, George R., 245
Skinner, Otis, 147, 303
Smith, Ex-Gov., 251
Smyth, Recorder, 295
Snyder, Mr. and Mrs. Mat., 148, 149, 152
Sothern, Sam, 100
Sousa, John Philip, 126
Stevens, Mrs. Paran, 261
Stoddart, J. M., 99
Sutherland, Duke of, 112
Talmage, Rev. T. De Witt, 207
Teck, Duke and Duchess of, 217
Teck, Princess Mary of, 194
Templeton, Fay, 70, 292
Tesla, Dr. Nicola, 286
Thomas, Augustus, 72
Thomas, Brandon, 245
Toole, J. L., 214
Tree, Beerbohm, 117
Vanderbilt, Cornelius Harry, 164, 278
Vassar, Queenie (Mrs. Kernell), 162
Vaughn, Theresa, Miss, 148
Victoria, Princess, 217
Wallace, Lew, 334, 342
Wanamaker, John, 92, 128, 129
Ward, Artemus, 63
Washburn, U. S. Minister, 337
Watterson, Henry, 100, 141
Webb, Jas. Watson, 337
Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 315
Willard, E. S., 79, 99, 100, 233
Williams, Capt. Alexander, 151
Williams, “Barney,” 337
Wintersmith, Col. Dick, 141
Woodruff, Harry, 147
Wyndham, Charles, 307
Young, James, Jr., 151
Young, John Russell, 100
[Illustration]
I
SUNSHINE AND FUN
The Sunny Side of the Street.—Jests and Jesters.—The Force of a
Joke.—Lincoln’s Way.—Kings and Their Joke-Makers.—As they do it
in Persia and Ireland.—“Chestnuts.”—Few Modern Jesters but no
End of Jokers.—Entertainers and Their Ways.
I live on the sunny side of the street; shady folks live on the other. I
always preferred the sunshine, and have tried to put other people there,
if only for an hour or two at a time, even if I had to do it after sunset
from a platform under the gaslight, with my name billed at the door as
entertainer.
As birds of a feather flock together, it has been my good fortune to meet
thousands of other people on the sunny side of the street. In this volume
I shall endeavor to distribute some of the sunshine which these fine
fellows unloaded on me.
Nature has put up many effective brands of concentrated sunshine in small
packages; but the best of these, according to all men of all countries,
is the merry jest. As far back as history goes you will find the jest,
also the jester. The latter was so important that kings could not get
along without him. Some kings more powerful than any European sovereign
is to-day are remembered now only by what their jesters said.
All these jesters are said to have been little people. I am doubly
qualified to claim relationship with them, for I am only three and a half
feet high, and I have been jester to millions of sovereigns—that is, to
millions of the sovereign American people, as well as to some foreign
royalties.
The reason for little people taking naturally to sunshine and
good-natured joking is not hard to find, for it is a simple case of
Hobson’s choice. It is easier to knock a man out with a joke than with a
fist-blow, especially if you haven’t much height and weight behind your
fist. It is the better way, too, for the joke doesn’t hurt. Instead of
the other man’s going in search of an arnica bottle or a pistol or a
policeman, he generally hangs about with the hope of getting another blow
of the same sort. One needn’t be little to try it. Abraham Lincoln had
a fist almost as big as the hand of Providence, and as long a reach as
John L. Sullivan, but he always used a joke instead, so men who came to
growl remained to laugh. I’m not concerned about the size of my own hand,
for it has been big enough to get and keep everything that belonged to
me. As to reach, as long as my jests reach their mark I shan’t take the
trouble to measure arms with any one.
[Illustration: It is a Simple Case of Hobson’s Choice.]
There’s always something in a jest—for the man who hears it. How about
the jester? Well, he is easily satisfied. Most men want the earth, so
they get the bad as well as the good, but the best that the world affords
is good enough for the jester, so I shan’t try to break the record. It
is often said that the jester swims near the top. Why shouldn’t he?
Isn’t that where the cream is? And isn’t he generous enough to leave the
skimmed milk for the chaps dismal enough to prefer to swim at the bottom?
I am often moved to pride when I realize how ancient is my craft. Adam
did not have a jester; but he did not need one, for he was the only
man—except you and I—who married the only woman in the world. Neither
did old Noah have or need one, for he had the laugh on everybody else
when the floods fell and he found himself in out of the rain. But as soon
as the world dried out and got full enough of people to set up kings in
business, the jester appears in history, and the nations without jesters
to keep kings’ minds in good-working order dropped out of the procession.
The only one of them that survives is Persia, where John the Jester is,
as he always was, in high favor at court. When trouble is in the air he
merely winks at the Shah and gets off: “Oh, Pshaw!” or some other _bon
mot_ old enough to be sweet; then the monarch doubles up and laughs the
frown from his face, and the headsman sheathes his sword and takes a day
off.
Speaking of old saws that are always welcome reminds me to protest
against the unthinking persons who cry “Chestnut!” against every joke
that is not newly coined. In one way it is a compliment, for the
chestnut is the sweetest nut that grows; but it does not reach perfection
until it has had many soakings and frosts, and has been kicked about
under the dead leaves so many times that if it was anything except a
chestnut it would have been lost. Good stories are like good principles:
the older they are, the stronger their pull.
There is not a more popular tale in the world than that of Cinderella. It
is so good that nations have almost fought for the honor of originating
it. Yet a few years ago some antiquarians dug some inscribed clay tablets
from the ruins of an Asiatic city that was centuries old when Noah was
a boy. Some sharps at that sort of thing began to decipher them, and
suddenly they came upon the story of Cinderella—her golden slipper,
fairy godmother, princely lover and all. But do children say “Chestnut!”
if you give them this, and then tell them the story of Cinderella? Not
they!—unless you don’t know how to tell it. A story is like food: it
doesn’t matter how familiar it is, if you know how to serve it well.
Why, the story-teller, of the same old stories, too, is as busy in Persia
to-day as he was thousands of years ago, and one of the most important
of his duties is the passing of the hat. You will find him on the street
corners of the towns with a crowd about him. When he reaches the most
interesting part of the story he will stop, like the newspaper serial
with “To be continued in our next.” Then he passes his fez. The listeners
know well what the remainder of the story will be; but instead of
“Chestnut!” he hears the melodious clink of coppers.
Not only the Shah, but many a wealthy Persian keeps a jester for the sole
purpose of being made to laugh when he feels dull. Some of the antics of
these chaps would not seem funny to an American—such, for instance, as
going about on all fours, knocking people down and dressing in fantastic
attire—but there is no accounting for tastes, as the old woman said when
she kissed the cow. The Shah’s jester has a great swing—he has twelve
houses, and not a mortgage on one of them. He also has all the wives he
wants. Who says that talent is not properly appreciated in Persia?
If you will run over to Europe you will find the Irish prototype of the
Persian story-teller on the streets of Dublin and Limerick. Many a time
I have seen him on the street corner telling the thrilling story of how
O’Shamus was shot, or some similarly cheering tale—for fighting seems the
funniest of fun to an Irishman. And just before first blood is drawn, the
story-teller pauses to pass the hat, into which drop hard-earned pennies
that had been saved for something else. It is the old Persian act. The
manner is the same, though the coat and hat are different, so I should
not be surprised to learn that the Irish are direct descendants of the
ancient Persians.
[Illustration: The Irish Prototype of the Persian Story-Teller.]
It would be easy to follow the parallel and to show how from the ancient
jester was evolved the modern comedian; but of the “true-blue” jesters
of to-day—the men who evolve fun from their own inner consciousness—I
am compelled to quote: “There are only a few of us left.” Of these
“entertainers,” as they are called in modern parlance, I shall let out
a few of the secrets which admit them to the drawing-room of England
and America to put a frosting, as it were, on proceedings that otherwise
might be too sweet, perhaps too heavy. The modern jester comes to the
aid of the queen of the drawing-room just as the ancient one did to the
monarch of old, so he is still an honored guest at the table of royalty.
II
SUNNY MEN OF SERIOUS PRESENCE
Richard Croker.—A Good Fellow and Not Hard to Approach.—If
One is Not in Politics.—Croker as a Haymaker.—Does Not Keep
Opinions on Tap.—He and Chauncey Depew on New York City
Politics.—Croker Bewilders a London Salesman.—His Greatest
Pride.—Recorder Goff.—Not as Severe as His Acts.—Justice
Tempered With Mercy.—Two Puzzling Cases.
One of the privileges of a cheerful chap without any axes to grind is
that of seeing behind the mask that some men of affairs are compelled to
wear. Often men whom half of the world hates and the other half fears
are as companionable as a hearty boy, if they are approached by a man
who doesn’t want anything he shouldn’t have—wants nothing but a slice of
honest human nature.
Such a man is Richard Croker, for years the autocrat of Tammany Hall and
still believed, by many, to have the deciding word on any question of
Tammany’s policy. With most men it is a serious matter, requiring much
negotiation, to get a word with Mr. Croker, and they dare not expect more
than a word in return.
While at Richfield Springs, a few years ago, I drove out to call on Mr.
Croker at his farm. I met Mrs. Croker on the piazza and was told I would
probably find her husband in the hay-field; so I went around behind
the stables and found the leader of Tammany Hall in his shirt-sleeves
pitching hay upon a wagon. At that time an exciting political contest
was “on,” and New York politicians were continually telegraphing and
telephoning their supreme manager,—the only man who could untangle
all the hard knots,—yet from his fields Richard Croker conducted the
campaign, and with so little trouble to him that it did not keep him from
making sure of his hay-crop, by putting it in himself.
In later years I saw much more of Mr. Croker, for I was often his
guest at Wantage, his country home in England, and I could not help
studying him closely, for he was a most interesting man. In appearance
he suggested General Grant; he was of Grant’s stature and build, his
close-cropped beard and quiet but observant eyes recalled Grant, and his
face, like the great general’s, suggested bulldog courage and tenacity,
as well as the high sense of self-reliance that makes a man the leader
of his fellow men. Few of his closest associates know more of him than
his face expresses, for he is possessed of and by the rarest of all
human qualities—that of keeping his opinions to himself. Most political
leaders say things which bob up later to torment them, but Croker’s
political enemies never have the luck of giving him his own words to
eat. He can and does talk freely with men whom he likes and who are not
tale-bearers, but he never talks from the judgment seat. Even about
ordinary affairs he is too modest and sensible to play Sir Oracle. One
day he chanced to be off his guard and gave me a positive opinion on
a certain subject; when afterward I recalled it to him he exclaimed:
“Marshall, did I tell you that?” It amazed him that he had expressed an
opinion.
During one of my visits to Wantage Mr. Croker and I were together almost
continually for a week; he not only survived it, but was a most attentive
and companionable host. His son Bert was fond of getting up early in the
morning to hunt mushrooms, and in order to be awakened he would set an
alarm clock. “Early morning” in England and at that season of the year
was from three to four o’clock, for dawn comes much earlier than with us.
His father did not wish him to arise so early, so he would go softly into
Bert’s room and turn off the alarm, to assure a full night sleep for the
boy. The fact that he could not hear the alarm worried Bert so greatly
that he placed the clock directly over his head, hanging it to a string
from the ceiling. But even in this position Mr. Croker succeeded in
manipulating it, and he gleefully told me of it at the time.
One day, in London, Mr. Croker called for me and took me to see Mr.
Depew, who had recently arrived. We drove to the Savoy and found Mr.
Depew on the steps, just starting for Paris. He exclaimed:
“Hello? What are you two fellows doing together?—fixing up the election?”
This was just before Van Wyck was elected mayor; Mr. Strong’s enforcement
of the liquor law had been so vigorous as to enrage many bibulous voters.
As he bade us good-bye Mr. Depew found time to say to Mr. Croker,
“All your party will have to do will be to hold their hats and catch the
votes.”
At the time of the Queen’s Jubilee we were invited to view the procession
from Mr. Jefferson Levy’s apartment in Piccadilly, but Mr. Croker
declined; he told me afterward that he would have offended many Irish
voters in America had he appeared in any way to honor the Queen.
Before starting from London for Wantage one day, Mr. Croker asked me to
go to a furniture dealer’s with him; he had some purchases to make. As
we entered the place he said to me, “We’ve only half an hour in which to
catch the train”—but the way he bought furniture did not make him lose
the train. He would say, pointing to a dresser,
“How much is that?”
“Six guineas, sir.”
“Give me six of them.”
Pointing to another,
“How much is that one?”
“Five guineas, sir.”
“Well, seven of those”—and so on.
With such rapid fire, even though he expended more than a thousand
dollars, and not at haphazard either, there was ample time to catch
the train. The incident, though slight in itself, is indicative of his
quickness of decision; but it so utterly upset the dealers, accustomed to
English deliberation, that he begged permission to wait until next day to
prepare an itemized bill.
Mr. Croker’s quiet unobtrusive manner, which has so often deceived his
political enemies into believing that he was doing nothing, dates back a
great many years—as far back as his courtship. The future Mrs. Croker and
her sister were charming girls and their home was the social rendezvous
of all young people of the vicinity. Their father was a jolly good fellow
and as popular as his daughters; when the latter went to a dance he was
always their chaperon, and a most discreet one he was for he always went
up-stairs and slept until the time to go home. Mr. Croker was at the
house a great deal but was so quiet and devoted so much time to chat with
the father that no one suspected that one of the daughters was the real
attraction, but with the quiet persistence that had always characterized
him he “won out.”
Great soldiers delight in fighting their battles o’er and no one
begrudges them the pleasure. Mr. Croker has been in some desperate fights
and won some great victories. Hoping for a story or more about them I one
day asked him of what in his life he was most proud. His reply indicated
the key-note of his nature, for it was:
“That I have never gone back on my word.”
Another man who has kept many thousands of smart fellows uncomfortably
awake and in fear is Recorder Goff. When he conducted the inquiries of
the Lexow Committee he extracted so much startling testimony from men
whom no one believed could be made to confess anything, that a lot of
fairly discreet citizens were almost afraid to look him in the eye, for
fear he would ferret out all their private affairs. I had never seen
him, but I had mentally made a distinct picture of him as a tall, thin,
dark-browed, austere, cold character, rather on the order of a Grand
Inquisitor, as generally accepted. When we met it was at a dinner,
where I sat beside him and had to retouch almost every detail of my
picture, for, although tall and thin, he was blonde and rosy, of sanguine
temperament, with merry eyes, a genial smile and as talkative as every
good fellow ought to be.
The acquaintance begun at that dinner-table was continued most
pleasantly by many meetings in Central Park, which both of us frequented
on our bicycles. One day, while we were resting in the shadow of
Daniel Webster’s statue, I made bold to ask him how he came by his
marvelous power of extracting the truth from unwilling occupants of the
witness-box. He murmured something self-deprecatory, but told me the
following story in illustration of one of his indirect methods and also
of how truth will persist in muddling the wits of a liar.
“A man was brought before me accused of killing another man with a
bottle. He had a friend whose mother was on the witness stand and she
tried to save her son’s friend, though she perjured herself to do so. She
swore she had seen the murderer and could describe him. I was convinced
of the accused’s guilt and the woman’s perjury, and I determined to
surprise her into confession.
“I got seven men of varying appearance who were in the court-room to
stand up, which they did, though greatly mystified, for they were present
only as spectators. I asked the woman if the first man was the murderer.
She promptly answered ‘No,’ to his great relief.
“‘But,’ I said, ‘he resembles the murderer, doesn’t he? He is the same
height?’
“‘Oh, no,’ she answered, ‘he is much taller.’ Motioning the first man to
sit down, I pointed to No. 2, and asked:
“‘This man is the same height as the murderer, is he not?’
“‘Yes, exactly.’ I asked the man his height, and he said ‘five feet
seven.’ He was told to sit down, and No. 3, who had a head of most
uncompromising red hair, was brought forward.
“‘You said the murderer had red hair like this man, didn’t you?’
“‘Oh, no—brown, curly hair.’
“‘Were his eyes like this man’s?’
“‘No, they were brown.’
“Number four, who had fine teeth, was asked to open his mouth, greatly to
his embarrassment.
“‘Were the murderer’s teeth like this man’s?’
“‘No, he had two gold teeth, one on each side.’
“Number five was rather stout and the woman thought the murderer about
his size; he weighed one hundred and sixty. Six and seven were looked at
and sent back to their seats, nervous and perspiring. Then I said:
“‘We find from this woman’s testimony that the murderer was about five
feet seven in height, weighed one hundred and sixty, had dark curly
hair, brown eyes, two gold teeth and a habit of keeping his hands in his
pockets.’
“By this time the prisoner was white and shaking, for bit by bit the
witness had described him exactly. When the woman realized what she
had done she broke down and confessed that the prisoner was the real
criminal.”
It was charged that a man brought before Recorder Goff for theft was an
old offender and had served a term in states prison, but the accused
denied it and no amount of cross-questioning by the prosecution could
shake his denial. Mr. Goff noticed that he had lost a thumb; as prisoners
are generally given a name by their comrades, signifying some physical
peculiarity, the Recorder said:
“While in prison you were known as One-Thumbed Jack.” Taken off his
guard, the man asked:
“How did you know that?”
“Then you are an ex-convict?”
“Well, yes, sir, but I had honest reasons for not wanting it known and
I’d like to speak to you alone, sir.”
Mr. Goff granted the request and they retired to a small room where
the prisoner after telling his real name, related a touching story of
devotion to a young sister whom he brought up and educated with the
proceeds of his earlier crimes. While serving his prison term he had
written her letters which his pals posted for him in different parts of
the world to make her believe he was traveling so constantly that any
letters from her could not reach him. This sister was now married and had
two children and it would break her heart to find out that her brother
was a convict or had ever been one. So he wished to be sentenced under
another name. Mr. Goff said:
“I will suspend sentence.”
Later the man’s statements were investigated and found to be true. So his
request to be sentenced under an assumed name was granted. Farther, he
got but two years, although he would have been “sent up” for ten years
had it not been for his story—a fact which shows how in Recorder Goff,
the city’s greatest terror to evil-doers, justice is tempered with mercy.
[Illustration]
III
AT THE WHITE HOUSE AND NEAR IT
My Prophecy to “Major” McKinley.—President McKinley Becomes
“One of the Boys” of My Audience; His Attention to His
Wife.—How He Won a Vermont City.—A Story of the Spanish
War.—My First Meeting With President Harrison.—A Second and
More Pleasing One.—A Chance Which I Gladly Lost.—Some of
President Harrison’s Stories.—I Led a Parade Given in His
Honor.—Vice-Presidents Morton and Hobart.
It had been my good fortune to meet several presidents of the United
States, as well as some gentlemen who would have occupied the White
House had the president died, and I learned that, in spite of their many
torments and tormentors, they all liked to get into the sunshine and that
they had done it so much that the sunshine had returned the compliment
right heartily, as is its way “in such case made and provided.”
Some years ago while entering a New York hotel to call on Madame Patti
I chanced to meet in the corridor William McKinley, who was then
governor of Ohio, though his New York acquaintances still called him
“Major.” His was one of the big, broad natures that put all of a man’s
character in full view, and there was a great lot in McKinley’s face
that day,—thoughtfulness, self-reliance, strength, honesty, as well as
some qualities that seldom combine in one man—simplicity and shrewdness,
modesty and boldness, serious purpose and cheerfulness, that I became
quite happy in contemplation of him as a trusty all-around American. He
greeted me very cordially and as I was smiling broadly, he asked:
“What pleases you, Marshall?”
“The fact that I am shaking hands with the future president of the United
States,” I replied.
Some years afterward, when Mr. McKinley had fulfilled my prophecy, I was
the guest of D. A. Loring, at Lake Champlain, and the president and most
of his cabinet were at the same hotel. Besides Mr. and Mrs. McKinley
there were Vice-President and Mrs. Hobart, Secretary of War Alger and
Mrs. Alger, Postmaster General Geary and Mrs. Geary, Cornelius N. Bliss,
Secretary of the Interior, and others. Every one at the hotel treated
the distinguished guest with the greatest consideration, by letting him
entirely alone, so that he got the rest he sorely needed. He walked
much about the grounds, enjoying the bracing atmosphere and peaceful,
beautiful surroundings.
One day I went into the bowling alley to spend half an hour or more with
the boys who set up the pins; boys are always my friends, and I was going
to do some card and sleight-of-hand tricks for these little fellows. Just
as I had gathered them about me and started to amuse them, Mr. McKinley
came to the door and looked in, smiled, came over to us and asked what
was going on. I replied:
“Well, Mr. President, I was just doing some tricks to amuse the boys.”
“Then I’m one of the boys,” said the president of the United States. He
sat down in the circle and was one of my most attentive auditors. When I
had finished he walked apart with me and said:
“Marshall, do you remember meeting me in the Windsor Hotel, New York, and
saying you were shaking hands with the future president of the United
States?”
“I recall it very distinctly,” I replied.
“I have just been thinking,” he said, “of that—to me, strange prophecy.
You must be possessed of some clairvoyant power.” There are some things
you can’t tell a man to his face, so I didn’t explain to him that a man
with a character like his couldn’t help becoming president, when the
whole country had come to know him.
I shall never forget what I saw of his lover-like devotion to his
invalid wife, nor her evident gratitude for his every service, nor the
sweet solicitude and pride with which she regarded him. One day his
brother Abner arrived, went to the portion of the hotel reserved for the
president, met Mrs. McKinley and asked:
“Is William in?”
“Yes,” was the reply, “but I shall not let you see him for an hour. He is
resting.”
A little incident that was described to me by an eye-witness brought out
one of the qualities which endeared President McKinley to his fellow
countrymen. While on a brief visit across the lake, in Vermont, he was
driving through a small city, followed by a great procession of people
who had turned out in his honor. While passing through the main street he
noticed an old man seated on the piazza of a modest dwelling, and asked
the mayor, who was beside him in the carriage,
“Who is that old gentleman?”
“That is Mr. Philip, father of Captain Philip, of the battleship
_Texas_,” was the reply.
“I thought that must be he,” said the president. “Will you kindly stop
the carriage?”
The carriage stopped and so did the mile or more of procession, while the
president jumped out, unassisted, ran up the steps, grasped the hand of
the astonished and delighted old man, and said:
“Mr. Philip, I want to congratulate you on having such a son as Captain
Philip, and I feel that the thanks of the nation are due you for having
given the world such a brave, patriotic man.”
The old man, tremulous with gratification, could scarcely find words with
which to thank the head of the nation for his appreciative attention, but
the president’s simple, friendly manner quickly put him at his ease and
the two men chatted freely for several minutes, the president evidently
enjoying it keenly. Then after a hearty invitation to visit him at the
White House, Mr. McKinley got into his carriage and the procession again
started.
Mention of the _Texas_ recalls a visit I made to her when she was at the
New York Navy Yard for repairs, after the fight with Cervera’s fleet, in
which the _Texas_ was the principal American sufferer. A young officer
took me about the ship, showed me her honorable wounds, repeated Captain
Philip’s historic remark, made after the battle,—“Don’t cheer, boys; the
poor fellows are dying,” and told me the following story:
One of our Irish sailors was very active in saving the Spaniards in the
water, throwing them ropes, boxes and everything floatable he could
find. But there was one Spaniard who missed everything that was thrown
him. Just before the battle we had had religious service and the altar
was still on deck, so our Irishman grabbed it, heaved it overboard and
yelled:
“There, ye haythen! If _that_ won’t save ye, nothin’ ever will.”
While Mr. Harrison was president I became pleasantly acquainted with
his son Russell, who, having read of President Cleveland’s very kind
treatment of me when I went to him with a letter of introduction from
Henry Ward Beecher, wanted me to meet his father and gave me a letter to
that effect. My visit to the White House was quite impressive—to me. Soon
after I reached Chamberlain’s, at Washington, a messenger arrived and
informed me that the President had received my letter of introduction and
desired me to call the next morning at ten o’clock, which I did.
After passing the sentinels at the door I was taken into the room of Mr.
Private Secretary “Lije” Halford, who greeted me cordially and said: “Mr.
Wilder, the president will see you.” I was ushered into Mr. Harrison’s
presence, and the following conversation ensued:
“Mr. President, this is Mr. Wilder.”
“How do you do, Mr. Wilder?”
“How do you do, Mr. President?”
A profound silence followed; it seemed to me to be several minutes long;
then I said:
“Good-day, Mr. President.”
“Good-day, Mr. Wilder.”
After leaving the room I turned to Mr. Halford, raised my coat-tails and
asked:
“Won’t you please kick me?”
Of course I had to refer to the incident in my monologue that season, for
it isn’t every day that a professional entertainer is invited to call at
the White House. But I did not care to tell exactly what occurred, so I
adopted an old minstrel joke and said:
“I called on the president the other day. I walked in, in a familiar way,
and said, ‘How do you do, Mr. President?’ He said, ‘Sir, I cannot place
you.’ ‘Well,’ I replied, ‘that’s what I’m here for.’”
I afterward heard that President Harrison was very cold and lacked
cordiality; still later I discovered, with my own eyes and ears, that he
had a kind heart and genial nature. One summer while I was at Saratoga
I was asked by Mr. W. J. Arkell to Mount McGregor, to meet President
Harrison at dinner and to become a member of a fishing party. The
occasion was the president’s birthday, and the invitation was the more
welcome when I learned that a list of the people at the Saratoga hotels
had been shown the president, who had himself selected the guests for
his birthday celebration. At Mount McGregor I found, as one always finds,
wherever the President of the United States is staying a few days, thirty
or forty newspaper correspondents, all of whom I knew and most of whom
professed to doubt my ability to make the president laugh. This did not
worry me, for I don’t love trouble enough to look ahead for it, and
dinner time, when the laughing was to begin, was a few hours distant.
We all went by carriage to a stream about five miles away and all helped
fill the president’s basket with fish,—for which he got full credit, in
the next day’s newspapers. My own contributions were few and small, for I
never was a good fisherman. So I was grateful when Russell Harrison took
me to a little pool where he was sure we would have great luck. But not
a bite did either of us get. Then I recalled something that a veteran
fisherman played on me when I was too young to be suspicious; it was
to beat the water to attract the attention of the fish. Russell kindly
assisted me at beating the water, but the fish beat us both by keeping
away.
When we got back to the hotel and to the banquet it was announced that
there were to be no speeches, but the president would make a few remarks
and I would be called on for a few stories. Consequently I had no mind
or appetite for dinner, for most of the guests were newspaper men who had
been surfeited with stories ever since they entered the business, and the
most important listener would be the president, who the boys had said I
couldn’t make laugh.
I was still mentally searching my repertoire, although I had already
selected a lot of richness, when the president arose and made some
general remarks. But it was impossible for him to forget that at this
same place—Mount McGregor, Ex-President Grant breathed his last, so
Mr. Harrison’s concluding remarks were on the line that any other
whole-hearted American would have struck in similar circumstances. As I
am a whole-hearted American myself, they struck me just where I live, and
I am not ashamed to confess that they knocked me out.
So, when I was called upon, I declined to respond. Several friends came
to my chair and whispered: “Go ahead, Marsh.” “Don’t lose the chance
of your life; don’t you know whatever is said at this dinner will be
telegraphed all over the United States?” But I held my tongue—or it held
itself. There is a place for every thing; a table at which the President
of the United States had just been talking most feelingly of the pathetic
passing of another president was no place for a joke—much less for a
budget of jokes, so instead of making the president laugh I allowed the
newspaper men to have the laugh on me. In the circumstances they were
welcome to it.
[Illustration: “I allowed the newspaper men to have a laugh on me.”]
Nevertheless I succeeded, for the president succeeded in breaking the
strain upon him, and later in the day at his own cottage he transfixed me
with a merry twinkle of his eye and said:
“Marshall, what’s this story you’ve been telling about your visit to the
White House?”
I saw I was in for it, so I repeated the minstrel joke, already recorded.
He laughed so heartily that there wasn’t enough unbroken ice between us
to hold up a dancing mosquito, so I made bold to tell him that some men
insisted that he did not appreciate humor. Then he laughed again; I wish
I could have photographed that laugh, for there was enough worldly wisdom
in it to lessen the number of cranks and office seekers at the White
House for years to come. But I hadn’t much time to think about it, for
we began swapping yarns and kept at it so long that I suddenly reminded
myself, with a sense of guilt, that I was robbing the ruler of the
greatest nation on earth of some of his invaluable time. Never mind about
my own stories that evening, but here is one that President Harrison told
me, to illustrate the skill of some men in talking their way out of a
tight place.
There was a man in Indiana who had a way of taking his own advice, though
he generally had to do things afterward to get even with himself. He was
a hog dealer, and one season he drove a lot of hogs to Indianapolis,
about a hundred miles distant, though he could get nearly as good a price
at a town much nearer home. Arrived at Indianapolis, he learned that
prices had gone down, so he held on for a rise, but when offered a good
price he stood out for more, and insisted that if he did not get it he
would drive the hogs back home, which he finally did, and sold them for
less than was offered him in the city. When one of his friends asked him
why he had acted so unwisely he replied:
“I wanted to get even with them city hog-buyers.”
“But did you?”
“Well, they didn’t get my hogs.”
“But what did you get out of the transaction?”
“Get? Why, bless your thick skull, I got the society of the hogs all the
way back home.”
I had long been puzzled as to the origin of the word “jay,” as applied to
“easy marks” among countrymen, and I told the president so. He modestly
admitted that I had come to the right shop for information; then he told
me this story:
“Winter was coming on and a blue jay made up his mind that he would
prepare for it. He found a vacant hut with a knot-hole in the roof, and
he said to himself, ‘Here’s a good place to store my winter supplies,’ so
he began to collect provender. His acquaintances who passed by saw what
he was doing; then they laughed and took a rest, for they knew how to get
in by the side door. Whenever he dropped a nut or a bit of meat through
the knot-hole they would hop in below and gobble it. So, Marshall, next
time you hear any one called a ‘jay’ I’m sure you’ll know what it means.”
The next morning, when we all met on the president’s special train en
route to Saratoga, my newspaper friends twitted me anew on not having
made the president laugh, but I said: “Now, boys, you wait.” Then I was
so impudent as to approach the president and say:
“Mr. President, I am very glad to have had you with me on this fishing
trip, and I hope whenever you want to go off on a similar affair you will
let me know it. At the foot of the mountain a band of music and escort
of troops are waiting for me, and in the hurry I may not be able to say
good-bye to you, so I say it now.” But not one eyelash of the president
quivered as he shook hands with me and replied: “Glad to have met you,
Mr. Wilder,” so the newspaper boys certainly did have the laugh on me.
But the day was still young. Arrived at the Saratoga depot, all hurried
into carriages. Waiting until all were seated and started in procession,
I found an open landau and gave the driver the name of my hotel. “All
right, Mr. Wilder,” was the reply, which did not startle me, for I am
pretty well known in Saratoga by the cabbies—and the police. I said:
“Make a short cut, get out of the crowd and get me to the hotel as soon
as possible, so I may avoid the parade.” He endeavored to get out, but
he got in; and in trying to extricate himself he succeeded in driving
through the band and past the troops and finally beside the carriages
of the president and his guests. I took advantage of the occasion; as
I passed the president I stood up (though it made little difference
whether I sat or stood, for not much of me was visible over the top of
the carriage door) and I bowed my prettiest. The president raised his
hat, as did the other guests, and I led that procession down Saratoga’s
Broadway, the sidewalks of which were crowded with New York and Brooklyn
people who knew me and to whom I bowed, right and left, to the end of the
route, where one of the newspaper men said:
“Marsh usually gets there.”
In Mr. McKinley’s first term I fell in conversation at a hotel with a
gentleman of manner so genial that I never forgot him. We exchanged a lot
of stories, at which I got more than I gave, but suddenly the gentleman
said:
“I can see, Mr. Wilder, that you don’t recognize me.”
“Well, really, I don’t,” I replied, with an apologetic laugh. “You must
pardon me; I meet so many. May I ask your name?”
“Certainly. It is Garret A. Hobart.”
“The Vice-president of the United States! Well, that isn’t anything
against you”—for I had to say something, to keep from collapsing. He
seemed greatly amused, and I could not help wondering if in any other
country of the world a high official of the government could be picked
up in a hotel corridor, be chatted with, then be compelled to introduce
himself, and throughout all conduct himself as if he were no one in
particular.
Levi P. Morton, ex-vice-president, has been out of politics for some
years, yet he is remembered as a man who could tell good stories to
illustrate his points. Here is one of them:
[Illustration: “The General doubled on his tracks.”]
“Not far from my country place is a farmer noted for his fine, large
cattle. People come from everywhere to look at his Durhams and Alderneys,
but they have to be careful how they venture into the pastures, for some
of the bulls are ferocious. A certain major-general, who was very proud
of his title, was visiting near by, and one day while walking he cut
across the fields to shorten distance. Before he knew of his danger
a big bull, bellowing and with tossing head, began to chase him. The
general was a swift runner, and made good time, but the animal too was
lively, so when the general reached a fence he dared not stop to climb
for the bull was near enough to—well, help him. The general doubled on
his tracks several times, but the bull kept dangerously near. Suddenly
a gate offered a chance to shut off pursuit. Near the gate stood the
farmer, who had been viewing the chase; the panting general turned on him
fiercely and asked, between gasps:
“‘Sir—sir—did you—see your bull chasing—me?’
“‘Ya-as,’ drawled the farmer.
“‘Is that all you have to say, sir? Do you know whom that bull was
chasing?’
“‘You, I guess.’
“‘But do you know who I am, sir? I am General Blank.’”
“‘Wa-all, why didn’t you tell that to the bull?’”
IV
STORY-TELLING AS AN ART
Different Ways of Story-telling.—The Slow
Story-teller.—Lincoln’s Stories.—Bad Telling of Good
Stories.—The Right Way to Tell a Story.—The Humorous, the Comic
and the Witty Story.—Artemus Ward, Robert J. Burdette and Mark
Twain as Story-tellers.
The ways of story-tellers differ almost as widely and strangely as the
ways of politicians—or women—yet every man’s way is the best and only
one to him. I know men who consume so much time in unloading a story
that they remind me of a ship-captain who had just taken a pilot and was
anxious to get into port. The pilot knew all the channels and shoals of
the vicinity, and being a cautious old chap he wasn’t going to take any
risks, so he backed and filled and crisscrossed so many times that the
captain growled: “Hang him! He needs the Whole Atlantic Ocean to turn
around in.”
Yet a lot of these long-winded story-tellers “get there”—and they
deserve to, not only because a hearty laugh follows, but because hard
work deserves its reward. As to that, Abraham Lincoln, long before he
became president, and when time was of no consequence, had some stories
almost as long as old-fashioned sermons; but nobody left his seat by the
stove at the country store, or his leaning place at the post-office, or
his chair on the hotel piazza until “Abe” had reached the point. But
there never was more than one Abraham Lincoln. To-day a long-winded
story-teller can disperse a crowd about as quickly as a man with a bad
case of smallpox.
But it isn’t always length that troubles the listener—the way in which a
tale is told is the thing, whether the tale itself be good or bad. It is
never safe for some people to repeat a good story they have heard, for
they may tell it in a fashion that is like being bitten to death by a
duck.
I do not claim originality for my own method and material. I simply tell
a story, using whatever material comes my way. Often a friend will tell
me of something he has seen or heard; I will reconstruct his narrative,
without tampering with the facts, yet so that the people of whom he told
it will not recognize it.
There is nothing, except advice, of which the world is more generous than
stories. Everybody tells them. They mean well; they want to make you
laugh, and they deserve credit for their intention. Yet when neighbor
Smith or Brown calls you aside, looks as if he was almost bursting with
something good, and then gets off a yarn that was funny when he heard
it, but in which you can’t discern the ghost of a laugh—why, you can’t
help wondering whether Smith’s or Brown’s funny-bone hasn’t dropped off
somewhere, without its owner’s knowledge; you also can’t help wishing
that he may find it before he buttonholes you again.
It seems to me that the supreme art of telling a story is to tell it
quickly and hide the nub so that the hearer’s wits must find it. But it
is possible for some people to tell it quickly at the expense of the
essential parts, either through forgetfulness or by not knowing them at
sight. For example, here is a tale I heard not long ago:
“The other night Ezra Kendall told about an Irishman who had a habit of
walking in a graveyard about twelve o’clock at night. Some boys of the
neighborhood planned to so dig and conceal a grave that the Irishman
would fall into it; another man was to drape himself in a sheet, to scare
Mike. The night arrived, the Irishman took his customary walk and fell
into the hole prepared for him. A boy in a white sheet arose, and said in
a sepulchral voice:
“‘What are you doing in my grave?’
“‘What are you doin’ out of it?’ Mike replied.”
Soon afterward an amateur gave me the story as follows:
“I heard a story the other day by a man named Kendall about a man who
went out in a graveyard at night to walk, about twelve o’clock. He fell
into a ditch, and another fellow happened along and said, ‘What are you
doing out of it?’—or something like that. I know I laughed like the deuce
when I heard it.”
[Illustration: “What are you doing in my grave?”]
But even when a story has been committed to memory or written in
shorthand on a shirt-cuff, to be read off without a word lost or
misplaced, much depends upon the teller. Some people’s voices are so
effective that they can tell a story in the dark and “make good”; others
can’t get through without calling all their features to help, with some
assistance from their arms and legs. One man will lead you with his eye
alone to the point of a story; another will drawl and stammer as if he
had nothing to say, yet startle you into a laugh a minute.
Of course a great deal depends on the story itself. People are too
grateful for a laugh to look backward and analyze the story that
compelled it; they generally believe that fun is fun, and that is about
as much as any one knows of it. The truth is that while there are all
kinds of stories there is only one kind of humor.
As a rule, humorous stories are of American origin, comic stories are
English, and witty stories are French. The humorous story depends upon
the incidents and the manner of telling; comic and witty stories depend
upon the matter. The humorous story may be spun out to any length; it
may wander about as it pleases, and arrive at nowhere in particular; but
the comic or witty story must be brief, and end in a sharp point. The
humorous story bubbles along continually; the other kinds burst. The
humorous tale is entirely a work of art, and only an artist can tell it;
while the witty or comic story—oh, any one who knows it can tell it.
The act of telling a humorous story—by word of mouth, understand, not in
print—was created in America, and has remained at home, in spite of many
earnest endeavors to domesticate it abroad, and even to counterfeit it.
It is generally told gravely, the teller doing his best to disguise his
attempt to inflict anything funny on his listeners; but the man with a
comic story generally tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest
things he ever heard, and he is the first one to laugh—when he reaches
the end.
One of the dreadfulest inflictions that suffering humanity ever endures
is the result of amateur efforts to transform the humorous into the
comic, or _vice versa_. It reminds one of Frank Stockton’s tearful tale
of what came of one of the best things in Pickwick by being translated
into classical Greek and then brought back into English.
The Rev. Robert J. Burdette, who used to write columns of capital humor
for _The Burlington Hawkeye_ and told scores of stories superbly, made
his first visit to New York about twenty years ago, and was at once
spirited to a notable club where he told stories leisurely until half
the hearers ached with laughter and the other half were threatened with
apoplexy. Every one present declared it the red letter night of the club,
and members who had missed it came around and demanded the stories at
second-hand. Some efforts were made to oblige them, but without avail,
for the tellers had twisted their recollections of the stories into comic
jokes; so they hunted the town for Burdette to help them out of their
muddle.
The late Artemus Ward, who a generation ago carried a tidal wave of humor
from Maine to California, with some generous overflows each side of its
course, had a long serious face and a drawling voice; so when he lectured
in churches, as he frequently did, a late-comer might have mistaken him
for a minister, though not for very long. He would drawl along without
giving the slightest indication of what was coming. When the joke was
unloaded and the audience got hold of it he would look up with seemingly
innocent wonder as to what people were laughing at. This expression of
his countenance always brought another laugh. He could get laughs out of
nothing, by mixing the absurd and the unexpected, and then backing the
combination with a solemn face and earnest manner. For instance, it was
worth a ten-mile walk after dark on a corduroy road to hear him say: “I
once knew a man in New Zealand who hadn’t a tooth in his head”—here he
would pause for some time, look reminiscent, and continue, “And yet he
could beat a base-drum better than any other man I ever knew.”
Mark Twain is another famous humorist who can use a serious countenance
and hesitating voice with wonderful effect in a story. His tale of “The
Golden Arm” was the best thing of its kind I ever heard—when told as he
himself told it—but everything depended on suddenness and unexpectedness
of climax. Here it is, as he gave it:—
“Once ’pon a time dey wuz a mons’us mean man, en’ he live ’way out in de
prairie all ’lone by himself, ’cep’n he had a wife. En’ bimeby she died,
en’ he took en’ toted her ’way out da’ in de prairie en’ buried her.
Well, she had a golden arm all solid gold, f’om de shoulder down. He wuz
pow’ful mean—pow’ful; en’ dat night he couldn’t sleep, ’coze he wanted
dat golden arm so bad.
“When it come midnight he couldn’t stan’ it no mo’, so he got up, he
did, en’ tuk his lantern en’ shoved out troo de storm en’ dug her up en’
got de golden arm; en’ he bent his head down ’gin de wind, en’ plowed
en’ plowed en’ plowed troo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop” (make
a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening
attitude) “en’ say:
“My lan’, what’s dat? En’ he listen, en’ listen, en’ de wind say” (set
your teeth together, and imitate the wailing and wheezing sing-song of
the wind): “‘Buzz-z-zzz!’ en’ den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he
hear a voice—he hear a voice all mix up in de win’—can’t hardly tell ’em
’part: ‘Bzzz-zzz—w-h-o—g-o-t—m-y g-o-l-d-e-n arm?”’ (You must begin to
shiver violently now.)
[Illustration: “She’ll fetch a dear little yelp—”]
“En’ he begin to shiver en’ shake, en’ say: ‘Oh, my! Oh, my lan’!’ En’ de
win’ blow de lantern out, en’ de snow en’ de sleet blow in his face en’
’most choke him, en’ he start a-plowin’ knee-deep toward home, mos’ dead,
he so sk’yeerd, en’ pooty soon he hear de voice again, en” (pause) “it
’us comin’ after him: ‘Buzzz-zzz—w-h-o—g-o-t m-y g-o-l-d-e-n—arm?’
“When he git to de pasture he hear it agin—closter, now, en’ a comin’
back dab in de dark en’ de storm” (repeat the wind and the voice). “When
he git to de house he rush up-stairs, en’ jump in de bed, en’ kiver up
head en’ years, en’ lay dah a-shiverin’ en’ a-shakin’, en’ den ’way out
dah he hear it agin, en’ a-comin’! En’ bimeby he hear” (pause—awed;
listening attitude) “—at—pat—pat—pat—hit’s a-comin’ up-stairs! Den he
hear de latch, en’ he knows it’s in de room.
“Den pooty soon he knows it’s—standin’ by de bed!” (Pause.) “Den he knows
it’s a-bendin’ down over him,—en’ he cain’t sca’cely git his breaf!
Den—den he seem to feel somethin’ c-o-l-d, right down neah agin’ his
head!” (Pause.)
“Den de voice say, right at his year: ‘W-h-o g-o-t m-y g-o-l-d-e-n arm?’”
You must wail it out plaintively and accusingly; then you stare steadily
and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor—a girl,
preferably—and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build itself in the
deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length, jump suddenly
toward that girl and yell: “‘_You’ve_ got it!’”
If you have got the pause right, she’ll fetch a dear little yelp and
spring right out of her shoes; but you must get the pause right, and you
will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you
ever undertook.
[Illustration]
V
ACTORS’ JOKES
All of Them Full of Humor at All Times.—“Joe” Jefferson.—J. K.
Emmett.—Fay Templeton.—Willie Collier.—An Actor’s Portrait on a
Church Wall.—“Gus” Thomas, the Playwright.—Stuart Robson.—Henry
Dixey.—Evans and Hoey.—Charles Hoyt.—Wilson Barrett.—W. S.
Gilbert.—Henry Irving.
Actors are the most incessant jokers alive. Whether rich or poor, obscure
or prominent, drunk or sober, prosperous or not knowing where the next
meal is to come from, or whether there will be any next meal, they have
always something funny at the tips of their tongues, and managers and
dramatic authors as a rule are full of humorous explosives that clear the
dull air and let in the sunshine. They are masters at repartee, yet as
willing to turn a joke on themselves as on one another, and they can work
a pun most brilliantly.
Joseph Jefferson one day called on President Cleveland with General
Sherman, and carried a small package with him. All his friends know that
dear old “Joe” is forgetful, so when the visitors were going the general
called attention to the package and asked: “Jefferson, isn’t this yours?”
“Great Cæsar, Sherman,” Jefferson replied, “you have saved my life!” The
“life” referred to was the manuscript of his then uncompleted biography.
Jefferson delights in telling of a new playmate of one of his sons, who
asked another boy who young Jefferson was, and was told:
“Oh, his father works in a theatre somewhere.”
“Pete” Dailey, while enjoying a short vacation, visited a New York
theatre when business was dull. Being asked afterward how large the
audience was, he replied: “I could lick all three of them.”
On meeting a friend who was “fleshing up,” he exclaimed: “You are getting
so stout that I thought some one was with you.”
J. K. Emmett tells of a heathenish old farmer and his wife who strayed
into a church and heard the minister say: “Jesus died for sinners.” The
old man nudged his wife, and whispered:
“Serves us right for not knowin’ it, Marthey. We hain’t took a newspaper
in thirty year.”
Fay Templeton tells of a colored girl, whose mother shouted: “Mandy, your
heel’s on fire!” and the girl replied: “Which one, mother?” The girl was
so untruthful that her discouraged mother said: “When you die, dey’s
going to say: ‘Here lies Mandy Hopkins, and de trufe never came out of
her when she was alive.’”
[Illustration: “Actors are the Most Incessant Jokers Alive.”]
I have been the subject of some actors’ jokes, and enjoyed the fun
as much as any one. May Irwin had two sons, who early in life were
susceptible to the seductive cigarette, against which she cautioned
them earnestly. I entered a restaurant one day where she and her sons
were dining, and she called me over and gave me an opportunity to become
acquainted with the little fellows. After I left them, one turned to his
mother and asked:
“What makes that little man so short?”
“Smoking cigarettes,” she replied. And they never smoked again.
[Illustration: He Smokes Cigarettes.]
Willie Collier invited me one summer to his beautiful home at St. James,
Long Island. He was out when I arrived, and when he returned, Mrs.
Collier said to him:
“You’re going to have Marshall P. Wilder for dinner,” and Willie replied:
“I’d rather have lamb.”
There is a colony of theatrical people near Collier, and they have a
small theatre in which a dazzling array of talent sometimes appears,
although the performances are impromptu affairs. On Sundays this theatre
serves as a church for the Catholics of the vicinity. At one side hangs
a large lithograph of Willie Collier, concerning which the following
conversation between the two Irishmen was overheard:
“I wint into the church this mornin’ airly, while it was pretty dark, an’
I see a picture hanging there, an’ thinkin’ it must be one av the saints
I wint down on me knees an’ said me prayers before it. When I opened me
eyes they’d got used to the dark, an’ if I didn’t see it was a picture av
that actor-man beyant that they call Willie Collier!”
“An’ what did’ you do?” asked the other Irishman.
“Sure, I tuk’ back as much av me prayers as I cud.”
Augustus Thomas, the playwright, who is always “Gus” except on the back
of an envelop or the bottom of his own check, was chairman of a Lambs’
Club dinner at which I was to speak. When I began, he joked me on my
shortness by saying:
“Mr. Wilder will please rise when making a speech.”
I was able to retort by saying: “I will; but you won’t believe it.”
When an acquaintance said to him after being wearied by a play: “That was
the slowest performance I ever saw. Strange, too, for it had a run of a
hundred nights in London!” Thomas replied:
“That’s the trouble. It’s exhausted its speed.”
He was standing behind the scenes one night with Miss Georgia Busbey, who
while waiting for her cue, said: “Tell me a story, Mr. Thomas, before I
go on.”
“It must be a quick witty one then, Miss Busbey.”
“I know it, but I’ve come to the right place for it.”
Stuart Robson was present at a Lambs’ Club dinner of which Mr. Thomas
was chairman; but he endeavored to hide when called on for a speech.
Thousands of successful appearances on the stage never cured him of his
constitutional bashfulness.
Thomas said: “Is Mr. Robson here? If he has not gone, we should like to
hear from him.”
Robson said: “Mr. Thomas, will you kindly consider that I have gone?”
Thomas replied: “While the drama lasts, Mr. Robson can never go.”
Robson had been a close neighbor and friend for many years to Lawrence
Barrett. His bosom friend Marshall Lewis fell in love with Barrett’s
charming daughter Millie, and Robson pretended to think it was the
greatest joke in the world.
“Why don’t you go in, and win and marry her, Marshall?” he used to say
in the squeaky voice which was not for the stage alone. “I’ll tell you
what I’ll do—the day you marry Millie Barrett I’ll give you five thousand
dollars.”
This went on for some time, until to Robson’s astonishment and chagrin
Miss Barrett accepted Lewis.
By the way, when Barrett learned of it he exclaimed: “My dear boy, you
don’t know what you’re doing. You are robbing me out of my only remaining
daughter.”
“Not at all,” Lewis replied, with a slap on the back of his father-in-law
elect. “I’m merely giving you another son.”
When the marriage day came Robson did not attend the ceremony; but he
sent his daughter Alicia in his place, and gave her a check for five
thousand dollars, drawn to Lewis’ order, but with emphatic orders not to
part from it until Lewis and Miss Barrett were pronounced man and wife.
When Alicia returned her father asked her if she had given Lewis the
check.
The girl replied: “Yes, father.”
“What did he do and say?” Robson inquired impatiently.
“Why, father, he was so overcome that he cried for a minute after I gave
it to him.”
“Egad!” squeaked Robson, “was that all? Why, I cried for an hour when I
wrote it.”
Henry Dixey is an adept at the leisurely tale, which is a word picture
from start to finish. Here is a sample:
In one of the country stores, where they sell everything from a silk
dress and a tub of butter to a hot drink and a cold meal, a lot of
farmers were sitting around the stove one cold winter day, when in came
Farmer Evans, who was greeted with:
“How d’do, Ezry?”
“How d’do boys?” After awhile he continued: “Wa-all, I’ve killed my hog.”
“That so? How much did he weigh?”
Farmer Evans stroked his chin whiskers meditatively and replied: “Wa-all,
guess.”
“’Bout three hundred,” said one farmer.
“No.”
“Two seventy-five?” ventured another.
“No.”
“I guess about three twenty-five,” said a third.
“No.”
Then all together demanded: “Well, how much did he weigh?”
“Dunno. Hain’t weighed him yet.”
Other men kept dropping in and hugging the stove, for the day was cold
and snowy outside. In came Cy Hopkins, wrapped in a big overcoat, yet
almost frozen to death; but there wasn’t room enough around that stove to
warm his little finger.
But he didn’t get mad about it; he just said to Bill Stebbins who kept
the store: “Bill, got any raw oysters?”
“Yes, Cy.”
“Well, just open a dozen and feed ’em to my hoss.”
Well, Stebbins never was scared by an order from a man whose credit was
good, as Cy’s was, so he opened the oysters an’ took them out, an’ the
whole crowd followed to see a horse eat oysters. Then Cy picked out the
best seat near the stove and dropped into it as if he had come to stay,
as he had.
Pretty soon the crowd came back, and the storekeeper said: “Why, Cy, your
hoss won’t eat them oysters.”
“Won’t he? Well, then, bring ’em here an’ I’ll eat ’em myself.”
When Charley Evans and Bill Hoey traveled together, they had no end of
good-natured banter between them.
Once when Hoey saw Evans mixing lemon juice and water for a gargle, he
asked: “What are you doing that for, Charley?”
“Oh, for my singing.”
“Suppose you put some in your ear; then maybe you’ll be able to find the
key.”
While they were crossing the ocean, Evans came on deck one day dressed in
the latest summer fashion—duck trousers, straw hat, etc.—and asked Hoey:
“How do you like me, Bill?”
“Well, all you need to do now is to have your ears pierced,” was the
reply.
At the ship’s table the waiter asked Hoey what he would have.
“Roast beef.”
“How shall I cut it, sir?”
“By the ship’s chart.”
Evans always carried the money for both, and the two men had a fancy for
wearing trousers of the same material, though of different sizes, for
Evans was slighter than his partner. One day Hoey fell on hard luck. He
had been to the Derby races, where a pickpocket relieved him of his watch
and his money too. They were to start for America next morning, and Evans
had plenty of money and return tickets also, yet Hoey was so cut up by
his losses that he went to bed early and tried to drop asleep. This did
not work, so after tossing for several hours, by which time Evans had
retired, he got up and began to dress himself. But to his horror his
figure seemed to have swelled in the night.
This was the last straw; he woke his partner and with tears in his eyes
and his voice too, he said: “Charley, beside all my hard luck to-day I’m
getting the dropsy.”
“Bill,” said Evans after a glance, “go into the other room and take off
my pants!”
A certain diamond broker called on the late Charles Hoyt with a large
bill.
While Hoyt was drawing a check the broker said: “Charley, a dear friend
of mine was robbed yesterday.”
“Is that so? Why, what did you sell him?”
The English stage is as full of jokers as ours. Wilson Barrett tells that
at a “First night” his play did not seem to suit the pit, so he came
before the curtain at the end of one act and asked what was the matter.
The “Gods” have great freedom in English theatres, so there was much talk
across the footlights between the stage and the audience; but it was
stopped abruptly by a voice that said:
“Oh, go on, Wilson! This ain’t no bloomin’ debatin’ society.”
W. S. Gilbert, although not an actor, is a playwright and extremely
critical. A London favorite had the best part in one of Gilbert’s pieces,
but the author thought him slow. Going behind the scenes after the
performance, Gilbert noted that the actor’s brow was perspiring, so he
said:
“Well, at all events, your skin has been acting.”
Gilbert can give evasive answers that cut like a knife. A player of the
title part of Hamlet asked Gilbert’s opinion of the performance.
“You are funny, without being vulgar,” was the reply.
Forbes Robertson, who essayed the same part, asked Gilbert: “What do you
think of Hamlet?”
Gilbert answered: “Wonderful play, old man; most wonderful play ever
written.”
E. S. Willard tells the following story of Charles Glenny, of Irving’s
Lyceum Company. “The Merchant of Venice” was in rehearsal, and Glenny
did not repeat the lines: “Take me to the gallows, not to the font” to
the liking of Irving, so the latter said in the kindly manner he always
maintained at rehearsals:
“No, no, Mr. Glenny; not that way. Walk over and touch me, and say: ‘Take
me to the gallows, not to the font.’” The line was rehearsed several
times, but unsuccessfully.
Finally Irving became discouraged and said: “Ah, well; touch me.”
Irving witnessed Richard Mansfield’s performance of “Richard III,”
in London, and by invitation went back to see the actor in his
dressing-room. Mansfield had been almost exhausted, and was fanning
himself, but Irving’s approach revived him, and natural anticipation of a
compliment from so exalted a source was absolutely stimulating.
But for the time being all Irving did was to slap Mansfield playfully on
the back and exclaim in the inimitable Irving tone: “Aha? You sweat!”
[Illustration: “Aha! You Sweat!”]
VI
A SUNNY OLD CITY
Some Aspects of Philadelphia.—Fun in a Hospital.—“The Cripple’s
Palace.”—An Invalid’s Success in Making Other Invalids
Laugh.—Fights for the Fun of Fighting.—My Rival Friends.—Boys
Will Be Boys.—Cast Out of Church.—A Startling Recognition.—Some
Pleasures of Attending Funerals.—How I Claimed the Protection
of the American Flag.
A hospital is not a place that any one would visit if he were in search
of jollity, yet some of the merriest hours of my life were spent, some
years ago, in the National Surgical Institute of Philadelphia. I was one
of about three hundred people, of all ages, sizes and dispositions, who
were under treatment for physical defects. Most of us were practically
crippled, a condition which is not generally regarded to be conductive
of hilarity, yet many of us had lots of fun, and all of it was made by
ourselves. I was one of the luckiest of the lot, for Mother Nature had
endowed me with a faculty for finding sunshine everywhere.
Yet part of my treatment was to lie in bed, locked in braces, for hours
every day, and each of these hours seemed to be several thousand minutes
long. So many other boys were under similar treatment that an attendant,
named Joe, was kept busy in merely taking off our appliances. These were
locked, for between pain and the restiveness peculiar to boys, we would
have removed them for ourselves or for one another. Joe was not a beauty,
yet I distinctly remember recalling his appearance was that of an angel
of light, for I best remember him in the act of loosening my braces.
Whenever the surgeon in charge was absent, we would beg Joe to unlock us
for “Just five minutes—just a minute”—and sometimes he would yield, after
making us promise solemnly not to tell the doctor. The result recalls the
story of the old darky who was seen to hammer his thumb at intervals.
When asked why he did it, he replied,
“Kase it feels so good when I stop!”
To keep from thinking of my pain and helplessness, I kept looking about
me for something to laugh at, and it was a rare day on which I failed to
find it. When there came such a day, I had only to close my eyes and look
backward a few months or years; I was sure to recall something funny.
Then I would laugh. Some other sufferer would ask what was amusing me,
and when I told him he would also laugh, some one would hear him and the
story would have to be repeated. Soon the word got about the building
that there was a little fellow in one of the rooms who was always
laughing to himself, or making others laugh, so all the boys insisted on
being “let in on the ground floor”—which in my case was the fourth floor.
I made no objection; was there ever a man so modest that he didn’t like
listeners when he had anything to say? So it soon became the custom of
all the boys who were not absolutely bound to their beds to congregate
in my room, which would have comfortably held, not more than a dozen.
Yet daily I had fifty or more around me; the earlier comers filled the
chairs, later arrivals sprawled or curled on my bed, still later ones sat
on the headboard and footboard, the floor accommodated others until it
was packed, and the belated ones stowed themselves in the hall, within
hearing distance.
’Twas a hard trip for some of them, poor fellows for there were not
enough attendants to carry them all, and three flights of stairs are a
hard climb for cripples. So, to prevent unnecessary pain while I was
outdoors taking the air, I hung a small American flag over the stair rail
opposite my door, whenever I was in; this could be seen from any of the
lower halls. I learned afterward that it was the custom of royalty and
other exalted personages to display a flag when they were “at home,” but
this did not frighten me; in memory of those hospital days, I always
display a flag at my window when I am able to see my friends.
Boys are as fond as Irishmen of fighting for the mere fun of it, so we
got a lot of laughing out of fist fights between some of the patients.
The most popular contestants were Gott Dewey from Elmira, N. Y., and a
son of Sheriff Wright of Philadelphia. Both were seriously afflicted,
though they seemed not to know it. Wright was a cross-eyed paralytic,
while Dewey had St. Vitus’s dance and was so badly paralyzed that he had
no control over his natural means of locomotion. He could not even talk
intelligibly, yet he had an intellect that impressed me deeply, even at
that early day. He could cope with the hardest mathematical problem that
any could offer; he read much and his taste in literature and everything
else was distinct and refined.
Yet, being still a boy, he enjoyed a fight, and as he and Wright were
naturally antipathetic by temperament, they were always ready for a
set-to. These affairs were entirely harmless, for neither could hit
straighter than a girl can throw a stone. The result of their efforts was
“the humor of the unexpected,” and it amused us so greatly that we never
noticed the pathetic side of it.
These two boys did me the honor to become very fond of me; why they did
it, I don’t know, unless because I never did anything in particular
for Wright, yet he was always teasing Dewey, who was quite proud and
self-reliant, and insisted upon doing everything for himself. That
he might serve himself at table, a little elevator was made for his
convenience, and I was mischievous enough to disarrange the machinery so
that food intended for his mouth should reach his ear. Yet he loved me
dearly and dashed at me affectionately though erratically whenever we
met. I was unable to get about without crutches, so I frequently fell;
if Dewey were in sight, he would hurry to my assistance, with disastrous
results to both of us; often Wright would offer assistance at the same
time and the two would fall over each other and me and attempt to “fight
it out,” while I would become helpless with laughter and the three of us
would lie in a heap, until some attendant would separate the warriors and
set me on my feet and crutches.
One rule of the Institute was that no patients were to leave the building
on Sunday—the day on which the physicians and attendants got most
liberty. To enforce this rule there was a doorkeeper named Smith. He was
a dwarf, hardly four feet high, who, on Sunday would curl up in a box
under his desk and wish he could have a mouthful or more of whiskey,
although a little of it would put him sound asleep and leave the door
unguarded against any one who cared to go out. How whiskey got into the
Institute to be used upon Smith, I don’t know.
I recall a Sunday when we three, Dewey, Wright and I, conceived the
idea of going to church. There was a church directly across the street,
so we started for it a few moments after throwing a sop of whiskey to
our Cerberus. We had several mishaps on the way, due to my friend’s
well-meant but misdirected efforts to assist me, but passers-by kindly
put us on our feet again. We got into church quite early, and passed
up the aisle and entered the front pew, under the very droppings of
the sanctuary. Soon after the service began a young lady at our left
compelled our attention by eyeing us intently; apparently she thought
us the newest thing in “The Three Graces” line. Something moved me to
nudge Dewey and tell him to stop flirting with that girl. Apparently he
thought I was trying to be funny, for he began laughing in his peculiar
laugh, which was a sputter, with which no one familiar with it could help
being amused, so Wright laughed too, after which it was impossible for
me to keep quiet. We really were reverent little chaps, so we tried hard
to suppress ourselves, but—boys will be boys. Suddenly we three exploded
as one; we could hear tittering around us, the minister stopped in the
middle of an eloquent period, raised his glasses, and I shall never
forget his pained expression of astonishment as he caught sight of us for
the first time. Suddenly there appeared a platoon of deacons, two of whom
attached themselves to each of us, and we were conducted down the aisle,
facing an array of hymn-books, behind which the congregation were trying
to hide their own laughter. The next day the church sent the Institute
a polite but earnest request that no more cripples be allowed to attend
service in that church.
[Illustration: “There appeared a Platoon of Deacons.”]
After leaving the Institute I lost sight of Dewey, though I never forgot
his hearty way of greeting me whenever he met me, a heartiness which
caused him to tumble all over me and compel me to put out my arm to save
him from falling. Five years ago on reaching a Philadelphia church whose
members I had been engaged to “entertain,” the committee of arrangements
met me and said they wished to prepare me for the unusual appearance of
their chairman. He had endowed the church, they told me, and was almost
idolized by the people for his many noble qualities of head and heart,
yet he was a paralytic and his visage was shocking at first sight.
Suddenly the chairman himself entered the room and I saw my old friend
Gott Dewey. At the same instant he recognized me; he dashed at me in his
old way; my arm instinctively caught him as it had done hundreds of times
before; the committee supposing I was frightened, endeavored to separate
us, but we weren’t easy to handle, so there was a close mix up, while, in
which, the dear old boy with tears streaming down his cheeks, endeavored
to explain that we were fast friends. Then he told me he had read my book
“People I’ve Smiled With,” and been so greatly amused by it that he had
suggested my engagement to entertain his church people, yet he had never
imagined I was the Wilder boy of “The Cripple’s Palace.”
It took him fifteen minutes to say all this and conquer his emotion;
then he wanted to go on the platform and tell his people about me and
what old friends we were. I realized that if he were to do it, I would
never reach the platform myself, so I persuaded him to let me tell them
the story. He consented, but insisted on accompanying me, and tearfully
confirming every thing I said, so with him beside me, for “local color,”
I got along so well that there was not a dry eye in the house. It was an
inexpressible relief to me to set everybody laughing afterward, for I
never needed a “bracing up” more than on that night.
Dewey had always longed to be a lawyer and I learned that he had
succeeded in gratifying this ambition, in spite of his heavy physical
handicap: he became so able as a counselor that he gained a large
practice and was specially skilful at preparing briefs for his partner
to take into court. He was held in high honor for his charitable work
and for many years led a successful, useful and happy life; but not long
after our unexpected meeting he was complained of as a public nuisance
and was actually arrested on this charge. His appearance and manner were
really terrifying to people that did not know him, for in trying to
avoid collision with passers-by his lack of control often caused him to
act as if about to strike. The magistrate, before whom he was arraigned
expressed extreme sympathy, but insisted that he keep out of the streets
except when in a carriage or when properly attended, and poor Dewey took
the affair so deeply to heart, that afterward he kept himself almost
secluded from the world.
Mention of Philadelphia almost always suggests graveyards to me, not
that the city prides itself on being “well laid-out,” but because I have
visited all its cemeteries many times. When I left the Surgical Institute
I boarded with a woman whose husband kept a large livery stable. I made
friends of the drivers, and, as I was still under treatment and could not
get about much, they would kindly give me an airing, whenever they were
engaged for funerals, which was almost daily. This often meant an all day
trip; my motherly landlady would put up a substantial lunch for me and
the drivers granted me special privileges; that is, I was generally taken
on the seat of the driver of the carriage which followed the hearse. The
one that “carried the criers,” to use the stable parlance. It would not
seem a cheerful way of spending a day, but I was always very much alive,
and the drivers were as cheerful as if going to a wedding, and, while the
ceremony at the grave was in progress, I ate my lunch with the hunger
sauce that a long drive always supplies, and in summer I could generally
find some flowers in the path to take home to my landlady. Besides, some
of the cemeteries were so well kept that they were as sightly as gardens,
which reminds me of a story that I once inflicted on the Clover Club of
Philadelphia, as follows:
“While dining at my hotel yesterday, I noticed that the water looked
muddy, so I complained to the waiter. He admitted that it looked bad, but
said it was really very good water.
[Illustration: “He Said it was Very Good Water.”]
“‘But,’ I continued, ‘they tell me that the water here passes through a
graveyard (Laurel Hill Cemetery) before reaching the people.’
“‘That’s right, sir,’ the waiter replied. ‘But it’s a first-class
graveyard; only the best people are buried there.’”
I have traveled much in foreign countries, but Philadelphia is the only
place in which I was compelled to beg the protection of the American
flag. I had been engaged by Mr. John Wanamaker to “say something” to
his great Sunday-school on two consecutive evenings. Being a New Yorker,
I did not care to spend the intervening hours in Philadelphia, so after
leaving the platform the first evening, I took the ten o’clock train for
home. As haste was necessary, I merely changed my evening coat and vest
for street clothes. In New York next day, I changed my black trousers for
gray, attended to so much business that I had to take a late afternoon
train, and did not realize until it was almost time to go on the
platform, in a “swallow-tail” coat that I had no black trousers. Worse
still my figure was such that I could not be fitted from any clothing
store in the city. For a moment my invention was at a standstill, but
the people were not, and the hall was filling rapidly. I consulted the
committee hastily, and though they were greatly amused by my suggestion,
they acted upon it promptly: they moved a table to the centre of the
platform, draped it with the stars and stripes, and all the people on
the platform arranged themselves, so that I could be unseen as I passed
behind them to the table, where only my coat and vest could be seen, the
objectionable trousers being hidden by my country’s flag.
Small wonder that I have a merry remembrance of Philadelphia.
VII
MY FIRST TRIP TO LONDON
Large Hopes vs. Small Means.—At the Savage Club.—My First
Engagement.—Within an Ace of Losing It.—Alone in a Crowd.—A
Friendly Face to the Rescue.—The New York Welcome to a Fine
Fellow.—One English Way With Jokes.—People Who are Slow to
Laugh.—Disturbing Elements.—Cold Audiences.—Following a Suicide.
When first I visited London I carried large hopes and a small purse and
the latter became so much smaller in the course of time, that I had to
live on next to nothing; to be exact, I restricted myself to fifty cents
a day. For seventy-five cents a week I had a little room in Tottenham
Court Road—a very narrow-minded room indeed, with furnishings to match.
Cold, damp weather was the only guest or companion I had, and the room’s
carpet served two purposes; it covered the floor by day and the bed at
night. From the tiny window there was a long vista of chimney-pots,
which, next to an array of ready-made coffins, offer as disquieting a
spectacle as a homesick boy can gaze upon. The boy Chatterton came to my
mind many times in those days, and although I hoped his fate would not
be mine, I nevertheless learned at times how annoying hunger may be when
it passes the point of anticipation of “a square meal.”
One treasure did much to sustain me; it was a card, given me by an
American friend before I left home, introducing me to the Savage Club,
which is similar to the Lotos Club of New York. I had the freedom of the
Savage at all times, and was allowed to have my letters addressed there—a
privilege which literally “saved my face,” for I would never have dared
to pose as an entertainer if my address had been Tottenham Court Road.
I had good clothes and I kept a stiff upper lip, so no member of the
club knew of my financial straits. I was careful to refrain from forcing
myself upon any of the club members who had been so kind as to notice
me, yet dinner invitations from some of these good fellows were all that
saved my slender bank balance from extinction.
Despite my own economy and the hospitality of others there came a day
when Melancholy—with a large M,—threatened to mark me for her own, for
my sole assets, excepting my clothing, were six dollars and my return
ticket; the latter I could not convert into cash without burning my
bridge behind me—and the Atlantic is too wide for a return trip by raft.
Just as this crisis had made me as miserable as any man could be, I
received the following dispatch from a club member who probably had been
present at some of the volunteer entertainments I had given at the Savage.
“What are your terms? Come to-night; No. 5 Princess Gate.”
I quickly wired back: “Will come. Terms ten guineas.”
For the remainder of the day I stayed away from the club, and tormented
myself with fears that I had named too high a price, though I had always
believed there was wisdom in Emerson’s advice—“Hitch your wagon to a
star.” I resolved to go that night to 5 Princess Gate; then, if they had
canceled the engagement, I could honestly say I had not received notice.
In the evening I made a careful toilet, using my last bit of clean linen,
and took a twopenny ’bus to my destination. The powdered footman who
opened the door said he would bring his Lordship’s secretary to see me.
The secretary came in, much embarrassed, and said he had wired me that
other arrangements had been made.
“I have been so busy all day,” I replied, “that I’ve not called at the
club; consequently I did not get your message. What was the trouble?—my
terms?”
“We have engaged a different entertainer,” he replied evasively.
“But, you see,” I said, with my heart in my mouth, which had need of
something more edible, “your telegram this morning told me to come, so my
evening is lost. As I am here, suppose I go up and do what I can. As to
my fee—oh, I’m quite willing to leave that to his lordship.”
[Illustration: “I told him many stories hoping he would not notice my
appetite.”]
Just then I heard his lordship’s voice saying, “Come in, Mr. Wilder.”
He seemed to have grasped the situation, and with the tact and courtesy
which is never lacking in English gentlemen, he quickly made me feel
entirely at ease. He also offered me refreshments, and as I had not
dined, I gladly accepted. That I might not be alone at table, he kindly
waited with me. I told him many stories, hoping he would not notice my
appetite, but I noticed it myself so persistently that I felt that his
every glance said distinctly:
“You poor little devil, how hungry you are!”
But I persisted; I was conscious of a need to be well fortified, for I
had heard all sorts of stories about entertaining at social functions in
England—stories of arrays of old ladies in low-necked gowns displaying
more bones than beauty,—of a subdued patter of gloved hands in place
of real applause—of “the stony British stare,” which, really, is never
encountered in society, so I felt like a soldier about to face fearful
odds. I was so wrought upon by my fears that when I did appear it seemed
to me that there was not in that great drawing-room a single sympathetic
face at which I might play; all appeared to wear an expression which said:
“Now, then;—make us laugh if you can.”
I began to feel as if I was looking into the rear end of an ice wagon,
but suddenly my eye found a man’s face which filled me with courage—a
face full of kindness, humor and sympathy. It seemed to say:
“My poor boy, you’re in hard luck, and I’m going to give you all the help
I can. If there’s an excuse for a laugh, you’re going to get it.”
My heart swelled and went out to him; although I had much to think of
at the moment, business being business and I about to put my wedge into
it for the first time in an English drawing-room, I mentally vowed that
if ever I met that man again he should know what a tower of strength he
had been to me. I “spread myself,” I “laid myself out,” and was told
afterward that I had succeeded. My own view-point of success was reached
next morning, when I received his lordship’s check.
Several weeks afterward, at a dinner given to Henry Irving, I saw again
the kind face that had been a world of encouragement to me. At the
earliest possible opportunity I went over to him and said:
“I want to thank you for helping me at a very trying moment.”
Through forgetfulness or modesty he appeared not to remember the
affair, so I detailed the circumstance to him. He expressed delight at
having been of any service to me, and confessed that he was a fellow
professional, and could therefore imagine my feelings when first face to
face with an English audience. I asked him what he was doing; he replied
that he was at the Princess Theatre with Mr. Wilson Barrett. I begged him
to let me knew his whereabouts whenever he came to the United States, so
that I might renew my expressions of gratitude and be of any possible
service to him. He promised, but just as I was taking leave of him it
occurred to me that I did not even know his name, so I asked for it. He
replied:
“My name is Willard—Edward S. Willard.”
We became quite close friends in the course of years, although Mr.
Willard did not come to America until 1891. Soon after his arrival I
gave a breakfast at Delmonico’s in his honor and ransacked the city
and vicinity for fine fellows to meet him. Among the guests were Gen.
W. T. Sherman, Col. Robert G. Ingersoll, George W. Childs, editor of
the Philadelphia _Ledger_; Whitelaw Reid, editor-in-chief of the New
York _Tribune_; Hugh J. Grant, Mayor of New York; Chauncey M. Depew,
president of the New York Central Railway Company and his secretary
Captain Henry Du Val; Hon. Daniel Dougherty, the most brilliant member
of the Philadelphia bar; theatre managers Augustin Daly, A. M. Palmer,
Frank Sanger, Henry E. Abbey, and Daniel Frohman; Joseph I. C. Clarke,
editor of the _Morning Journal_; Foster Coates, editor of the _Mail and
Express_; St. Clair McKelway, editor of the Brooklyn _Union_; J. M.
Stoddart, manager of _Lippincott’s Magazine_; Chester A. Lord, managing
editor of the New York _Sun_; Bradford Merrill, managing editor of the
New York _World_; Arthur Bowers managing editor of New York _Tribune_;
Joseph Howard, Jr., America’s most noted newspaper correspondent; Col.
T. P. Ochiltree, the world’s most effective impromptu story teller;
John Russell Young, editor, librarian of the congressional library and
ex-minister to China; Major Moses P. Handy, journalist, club president
and United States Commissioner to the Paris exposition; William Edgar
Nye (Bill Nye, the humorist); Sam Sothern, brother of E. H. Sothern the
actor; W. J. Arkell, manager of _Puck_ and _Leslie’s Weekly_; Harrison
Gray Fiske, editor _Dramatic Mirror_; Col. W. F. Cody (“Buffalo Bill”);
W. J. Florence, the comedian, Henry Watterson, editor of the Louisville
_Courier-Journal_ and also the most quoted editor in America, and Joseph
Hatton the noted English author.
Toward the end of the breakfast I said:
“Gentlemen, I should like to tell you the story of a poor boy and an
actor and the kindness the actor showed the poor boy.” I then related,
in the third person, the story of my first evening as an entertainer in
London, and concluded with:
“Gentleman, I am that poor boy, and the actor, whose kindness I can never
forget, is our guest, Mr. Edward S. Willard.” And straightway the entire
company rose and let Willard know what they thought of that sort of chap.
After I had broken the ice in London by Mr. Willard’s aid, as already
described, I got along quite swimmingly, and felt so at ease that I
imagined I never could find myself unable to capture whatever audience
I might face. But there is no accounting for audiences; occasionally
they take an entertainer right to their hearts, read his stories in
his face and have their applause ready for us the instant the point
appears. A day or two later the entertainer may appear before a lot of
men and women of intelligent appearance without eliciting a smile. These
unaccountable differences are not peculiar to either England or America.
Every summer when I revisit England, some old acquaintance is sure to
say, “Mr. Wilder, those stories you told last year are awfully funny.”
It has really taken him about a year to get at the points of the various
tales; he doesn’t lack appreciation of humor, but he is so accustomed
to having it served in only one way that he is puzzled when it appears
in a new form. One day I told an English audience about New York’s fire
department and its methods; great interest was manifested, so I ventured
to tell the old story of a fire in an India rubber factory. This factory
was a large, tall building, and when the alarm of fire was given one of
the employees found himself on the top floor, with burning stairs under
him. His only chance was to jump, but the pavement was so far below his
windows that death seemed inevitable. Suddenly he bethought himself of
the elastic properties of rubber, of which the room was full; could he
envelop himself with it he might jump and strike the sidewalk softly! So
he donned rubber coats, belts, diving suits and everything else he could
find, until he made the serious mistake of putting on too much, for when
he jumped he rebounded from the pavement again and again and continued to
do so, for five days, when a merciful police officer came along and shot
the poor fellow to save him from starving to death.
[Illustration: “A merciful police officer came along and shot the poor
fellow.”]
About half an hour after I told this veracious story one of my audience
came to me and asked:
“Mr. Wilder, do you think that police officer was justified?”
He was no worse than the person, to be found in both England and America,
who sees a joke so slowly that his laugh comes in when there is nothing
to laugh at. I recall a woman of this kind whose belated laugh was so
immense when it did arrive that I stopped and said:
“Madam, if you will kindly keep that laugh till a little later, it will
do me lots of good.”
Some people who have been of my audience meet me afterward and proceed
to “take the gilt off of the gingerbread” in an amusing fashion—if I
am sensible enough to take it that way. Once I encountered one of the
blundering old chaps who mean well, yet invariably make a break and he
said:
“Mr. Wilder, there was one very good thing among those stories you told.”
I was disconcerted for a moment, but recovering myself I said:
“Well, that’s better than missing the point of all of them.”
At one of my private entertainments I was “making good” and was keeping
my audience in continuous merriment, but my hostess begged me to cease
making them laugh and say something sad and pathetic, so that they might
catch their breath and rest their aching sides.
“My dear madam,” I replied, “I am never sad or pathetic—I mean, not
intentionally.”
With a properly developed sense of humor one can sometimes bring a laugh
out of disconcerting surroundings. While I was talking to an audience at
Flint, Mich., one night, the lights suddenly went out but I succeeded in
saying:
“That’s too bad. Now I’m afraid you won’t be able to see through my
jokes.”
One evening in the course of an engagement I was playing at the Orpheum
in Brooklyn; one of the boxes was occupied by a quartette who had
evidently been drinking “not wisely, but too well.” They were giving the
audience the benefit of their conversation and even sharing the honors of
the entertainment with the ladies and gentlemen on the bill, much to the
annoyance of these, for the disturbance was interfering seriously with
good work. I had been watching from the wings and determined I would not
submit to such distraction, so when I went on I said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is an oft-repeated remark that it takes
all kinds of people to make a world. Some people in an audience are
so sensitive that they are affected by any unusual conditions or
surroundings. For instance, if they find themselves among ladies and
gentlemen they are so elated by the fact that their conduct has every
appearance of intoxication—but it really is not intoxication, though it
may look that way.” My performance, which followed immediately, was not
disturbed, nor was that of any one who followed me.
Every entertainer knows what terrible up-hill work it is to stand before
a cold audience. Cold that affects the body is bliss in comparison with
the awful atmosphere that creeps chillingly into one’s soul and the very
marrow of his bones. How an audience can get into such a condition and
become so appalling an influence passes comprehension, for not all the
men and women present can have become dyspeptic on the same day, or had
their consciences awakened at the same hour, or simultaneously “gone
broke” or seen themselves as others saw them. Sometimes I’ve thought
it came of the actual atmosphere of the house, for there are theatres,
halls, churches and parlors that are never properly aired unless
hailstorms or hoodlums chance to break the windows.
But all such speculation is getting away from the audience, whereas that
is the one thing the entertainer daren’t do, much though he may wish to.
He is “stuck” for a given period, and he is reminded of trying to climb
slippery mountains of ice in the fairy tales of childhood’s sunny hour,
and the parallel continues, for the chill—the reserve, is more often
melted by some happy impromptu than by conscientious work.
I recall a time in Pittsburg when I struck the afore-mentioned Polar
current through no fault of my own or of the audience. It was the
custom of the house to begin the evening with a play and follow with a
vaudeville performance. The play on the occasion referred to was “Captain
Swift,” in which the hero was a charming rascal who always took an
audience by the heart, even when he ended the play by killing himself. It
was my misfortune to follow the play and find the audience in a very low
state of mind which, in turn, threw a wet blanket upon me and my work.
After laboring a few minutes I said:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve often followed a prayer, and sometimes
followed a hearse, but this is the first time I ever followed a suicide.”
This touch just tipped the balance—lifted the cloud, squeezed the water
out of the blanket, made the audience mine and kept it so while I held
the stage.
At the Orpheum in San Francisco I was received so kindly that my stay was
extended to three weeks. San Francisco audiences are very responsive,
except on Sunday evenings; then, for some Frisco reason undiscoverable
by the eastern man, they are usually cold and the entertainer has to
cut ice. On my last Sunday evening there a section of Greenland’s Icy
Mountains seemed to have come in collision with a cold-storage warehouse
just before I appeared, for the audience was as unresponsive as a cart
load of frozen clams. I worked over them a few moments as earnestly as
a life-saver over a person rescued from drowning, but to no avail, so I
stopped and said:
“Now I’ve got you nice and quiet, just have a good long sleep while I
go out and leave a call for you.” Then I tiptoed off of the stage so as
not to rouse the sleepers. This started a current of warm good nature;
they called me back and for the rest of the performance there was perfect
understanding and sympathy between them and me.
[Illustration]
VIII
EXPERIENCES IN LONDON
Customs and Climate Very Unlike Our Own.—No Laughter in
Restaurants.—Clever Cabbies.—Oddities in Fire-fighting.—The
“Rogues’ Gallery” in Scotland Yard.—“Petticoat Lane.”—A
Cemetery for Pet Dogs.—Dogs Who are Characters.—The
Professional Toast-master.—Solemn After-dinner Speakers.—An
Autograph Table-cloth.—American Brides of English Husbands.
So many London customs seem strange to an American that I venture to
mention a few experiences of my own by way of preparation, for no
American knows when he may be nominated for the presidency or get a
chance to go to Europe.
The first thing to impress a person from this side of the Atlantic is
the climate, which is generally depressing to any one accustomed to
the dazzling sunshine, brilliant skies and champagne quality of our
atmosphere. Everything seems heavy and solemn by comparison, and life
appears to be a serious matter to all whom one meets, although the truth
is that the English enjoy life heartily and give ten times as much
attention to sports and amusements as we do.
I went one day into a restaurant where a great many people were dining,
yet absolute silence prevailed, instead of the buzz of chatter and
laughter of a French or American restaurant. I asked a waiter,
“Doesn’t any one ever laugh here?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Sometimes we ’ave complaints, sir.”
But there is so much of interest in even the ordinary street sights that
a visitor soon forgets smoke, dampness and gloom. The first natives to
accost an American are the “cabbies,” and they are a never-failing source
of amusement to me. They abound in natural wit, and are past-masters of
sarcasm. One of the sharpest bits I ever heard was told about an old
cabby and one of his younger fellows. The former was a master of whip
and rein; he boasted that he knew every foot of London and declared that
although he had been in many tight places he had never failed to drive
out smoothly. One day, however, he lost control of his horse and ran into
a young cabby’s outfit. The younger man looked him over condescendingly,
contemptuously, and then asked,
“Well? An’ ’ow do _you_ like London?”
A friend of mine once took a cab drawn by an animal which was bony in the
extreme. The driver was hailed by the Jehu of a passing cab with,
“Oi saiy, Bill, I see yer goin’ to ’ave a new ’orse.”
“’Oo told yer so?”
“W’y, I see y’ve got the framework there.”
Not all the quick-tongued cabbies are professionals. At one time it was a
fad of young “bloods” in London to drive cabs, apparently for the purpose
of enriching their slang vocabulary by exchanging remarks with “regulars”
whom they could provoke into freedom of speech. Sometimes decently born
and fairly educated young men from the rural districts, who have handled
horses at home and know no one in London whom they would be ashamed to
face from a driver’s seat, try cab-driving as a business. They can hire
a horse and cab for five shillings a day; London fares are small and
some days they are few, but many men “tip” the drivers, especially those
who say smart things that appear to be impromptu, so amateur cabbies
sometimes make much more than a living.
London’s fire-fighting service interests an American by its differences
from our own. The fire-plugs do not resemble old-fashioned cannon, turned
upside down, as ours do; they are so unnoticeable that their whereabouts
must be indicated by lamp-post signs like this:—“Fire-plug four feet to
the right and three feet to the rear.” Instead of using whistles, the
London engines have a string of sleigh-bells on one of the horses, and
by way of further warning the men on the engine keep up a constant shout
of “Hoy! Hoy! Hoy!” The engines do not respond as quickly to an alarm as
ours; it generally takes them two minutes to get under way, though the
firemen are a “fit” looking lot. I was told they were selected entirely
from ex-sailors of the naval service. To assist the engines’ crews there
are many auxiliaries, who sleep and almost live in small red houses on
wheels; these portable houses are numerous in the more thickly populated
portions of the city, where fires are most likely to occur and extra
firemen be needed.
At convenient corners are kept, also on wheels, the portable
fire-escapes:—mere shafts or chutes of canvas on wooden framework. In
case of fire in the upper part of an inhabited building, the top of
the escape is pushed to a window, and the inmates are expected to save
themselves by going head first down the inclined chute, clinging to the
framework of the sides to keep from descending too rapidly. Of course
in a city of lofty apartment houses and “sky-scraper” office buildings
such a contrivance would be almost useless, but in London a house of
more than three stories is a rarity. “Running to fires” is as popular
with some Londoners as it was in New York before fire alarms reached the
dozen-a-day mark. The Duke of Sutherland enjoyed attending fires; he
would have his private carriage follow the engines, and frequently he was
accompanied by the Prince of Wales.
Scotland Yard, mentioned in every English detective story, is an
interesting place to visit; it is the London equivalent of our Police
Department’s “Central Office.” I was shown a “Rogues’ Gallery” there
which was quite as large and appalling as our own. In photographing a
criminal the London police make assurance doubly sure by placing a mirror
to catch his profile, which is taken, with his front face, by a single
snap. To be still more thorough they have the sitters spread his hands
on his chest, for hands, being hard to disguise, are useful tell-tales.
Thumb impressions complete a record which the criminal regards with far
more discomfort than his evil deeds ever give him.
Petticoat Lane is not a section of the police department, though
the officials wish it might be, for as it is a recognized “stand” of
hucksters, the thieves flock there to sell their ill-gotten wares, so one
may see “Fagins” and “Artful Dodgers” in plenty. Their best customers
are men of their own kind—thieves with enough business sense to know
where certain kinds of stolen property can be resold to advantage.
Jewelry is the principal stock-in-trade, and it is carried in small
boxes, resembling cigar-boxes, hung from the neck. When the coast is
clear of policemen, the thieves lift the lid long enough for a peep at
the contents. I was piloted through “the lane” by a special officer from
Scotland Yard and in an underground passage we came upon a score or more
of the light-fingered gentry. Unfortunately the officer was recognized,
word was passed down the line, everything that might have aroused
suspicion was secreted and the entire crowd gazed at us with an affected
innocence which was transparent enough to be laughable.
The legitimate trades in Petticoat Lane are more interesting to an
American, for they have some business ways which are amusing—even
startling. An orange-dealer will drop his fruit in hot water once in a
while; this makes it swell to almost twice its natural size and look
smooth and glossy. The next wagon to the orange man may be full of
second-hand clothing; the dealer will not allow a would-be purchaser to
“try on” a coat or vest, for fear he may run away with it, but he will
put the garment on his own wife for inspection; the result is often a
picture funny enough to print. Theatrical people often go there for
costumes for “character” parts; apparently some kinds of English clothing
last forever, for in Petticoat Lane may be seen fabrics and fashions and
trimmings that look antiquated enough to have come over with William the
Conqueror. Some of the hucksters’ carts are decorated with suggestive
signs, such as, “Oh, mother, how cheap these eggs are!”
In a corner of Hyde Park I chanced to see a little graveyard; everything
about it was little. The mounds were small, the headstones tiny, and
little children were decorating the graves with flowers. On inquiry I
learned that it was a dogs’ cemetery, but instead of laughing I was
touched by the mental picture of heavy-hearted boys and girls going there
with floral tributes to departed playfellows. A little girl who was
passing noted that one grave was bare, and I heard her say to her nurse:
“That must have been a bad doggie buried there.”
“Why?” the nurse inquired.
“Because he has no flowers on his grave.”
Almost every part of London has its homely “character.” Near St. Martin’s
Lane, off Charing Cross, can be seen every day a blind sailor who sits
knitting small fishing-nets. In front of him sits his Irish terrier with
a cup in his mouth, and passers-by amuse themselves by throwing pennies
for the dog to catch in his cup, as he always does. When he has caught
several he empties the cup into his owner’s hand and returns to business
at the old stand. This goes on till evening, when the dog guides his
owner home through the crowded streets.
One interesting London dog is called Nelson, because he accidentally lost
a leg at the base of the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square. He makes his
home in Seven Dials, where he begs for a living, and gets many pennies
from his admirers. Instead of giving the money to any one he hides it;
whenever he is hungry he goes to his treasury, gets a coin and takes it
to a butcher or baker; he knows, too, how much he should get in return
and he will not leave the shop till he has received full value for his
money.
The professional toast-master is a London institution that America has
not adopted. His services are required at the cost of a sovereign, at
every public dinner, and his qualifications are pomposity and a loud,
deep, resonant voice. Around his neck he wears a big silver chain from
which hangs a silver plate inscribed T. M., and when he exclaims, “We
will drink a bumper to ’Is Gracious Majesty the King,” it is with a
voice that suggests an earthquake announcing its exit from the bowels
of the earth. After the presiding officer has indulged in the usually
introductory and airy persiflage, it is the duty of the T. M. to
introduce the speaker, which he does with a sweep of his arm that is
expected to subdue any noisy applause by the guests.
[Illustration: “’Is Gracious Majesty the King!”]
English after-dinner speakers have little or no humor, but they are
extremely earnest in their remarks. They incline more to argument than
amusement. Occasionally one will indulge in a pun which has the sanctity
of long usage—a pun that an American could not get off without a blush,
and a turn of his face to the wall, but the hearers like it, so no one
else should complain. The English recognize and admit the American’s
superiority as an after-dinner speaker. I heard Mr. Beerbohm Tree say, in
the course of a speech at the Clover Club (Philadelphia),
“Englishmen can handle horses and Americans their tongues.”
But there are exceptions to every rule, even regarding dinners and
after-dinner speaking. London contains some men as clever and witty as
any in the world, and when these fine fellows dine together there is no
formality about the board nor any heavy talk.
Mr. Henry Lucy, who has been called the “Mark Twain of England,” recently
visited this country with Mrs. Lucy, renewing old friendships and forming
new ones. The Lucys give delightful dinners at their home in Ashley
Gardens, Victoria Street, as I have often had occasion to know, and the
guests they gather about them would be welcomed by the cleverest men
and women anywhere. For special occasions the Lucys use a table-cloth
profusely ornamented with the autographs of many brilliant men who have
dined with them, for it is only as a guest that one may write his name
on this sacred bit of linen. Many of the names are household words in
America, one of which held my eye for an entire evening; it was that
of Charles Dickens. It was over the Lucy table that Burnand, editor of
_Punch_, and W. S. Gilbert had their oft-quoted encounter:
“I suppose you often have good things sent in by outsiders?” said Gilbert.
“Frequently,” Burnand replied.
“Then why don’t you print them?”
A question frequently asked of late is whether the marriages of American
girls to English husbands result happily. My own observation has
satisfied me that they generally do. English girls are educated to be
good housewives and mothers, but their childhood and early girlhood is
usually spent in the nursery, without much association with adults, so
when they are thrust into society they are likely to be shy, if not
awkward, and have little or nothing to say. But the American girl is
“one of the family” from her infancy; she is as much a companion of her
father as her brother is, and she knows her brother’s friends as well as
those of her elder sister. She acquires quickness of thought and speech,
vivacity and cleverness, and can be companionable without overstepping
the bounds of strict propriety.
If an English gentleman longs for a wife who will also be his “chum,” who
will enjoy his sports with him and be a jolly good fellow, which is only
another name for companion—who is competent to amuse and entertain, he
cannot easily find her in England except in a class which would preclude
his offering her his name, but if he is so lucky as to marry an American
girl he has not only a model wife and housekeeper but a companion as well.
[Illustration: Mill put the garment on his wife.]
Just one more mention of London, for the sake of that touch of nature
that makes the whole world kin. Down by the East India dock is a hospital
on the wall of which appears the following request, “Will drivers please
walk their horses?” Although heavy traffic passes the building, much
noise is avoided if horses are not urged beyond a walk. The drivers are
a rather rough lot, like drivers anywhere, but they carefully comply
with the request; their knowledge of what it means is more effective than
a platoon of police could be. The gratitude of the hospital authorities
and patients is expressed by an inscription at the other end of the
building—“Thank you, drivers.”
“We cannot chain the eagle;
And we dare not chain the dove;
But every gate that’s barred by hate
Is opened wide by love.”
IX
“LUCK” IN STORY-TELLING
The Real Difference Between Good Luck and Bad.—Good Luck with
Stories Presupposes a Well-stored Memory.—Men Who Always Have
the Right Story Ready.—Mr. Depew.—Bandmaster Sousa’s Darky
Stories.—John Wanamaker’s Sunday-school Stories.—Gen. Horace
Porter’s Tales That go to the Spot.—The Difference Between
Parliament and Congress.
The difference between good luck and bad luck amounts generally to the
difference between the men who are said to have the one or the other.
Some men are always waiting for something to turn up: others make sure of
it by taking something—anything—from a spade to their wits, and digging
it up. Anywhere in the country one may see holding down chairs in the
store, or in the city lounging at tables in bar-rooms, a knot of men who
were born with average brains, yet they will drone dismally of successful
men whom they know or have heard of:
“Smith became a preacher at twelve thousand a year.”
“Jones dropped into a Supreme Court Judgeship.”
“Brown stumbled on a business chance that made him a millionaire.”
“Well, there’s nothing like luck”—and they go on sitting still waiting
for it, and can’t imagine why it never comes their way. I once chanced to
mention Chauncey Depew’s name in the hearing of a crowd of this kind, and
a voice replied:
“There’s a lucky man for you! Why, whenever he hears of anything, it is
just his luck to have a story that goes to the spot as quick as a bullet
from a gun.”
This sort of “luck,” like the other instances referred to, is the
inevitable outcome of the man and his ways. There are jokes for every
situation, as there are keys for every lock; but the man who lets a good
joke go in one ear and out of the other is like him who puts his keys
into a pocket with a hole in it, and then grumbles that he can’t unlock
his doors. Jokes are like dollars: when you have some that are not needed
at the time, it is better to stow them away for future use than to drop
them where they can’t be found in case of need.
I can recall from my own experience but one case of sheer luck in
story-telling. While dining at an Englishman’s magnificent place one
summer, some peaches were served. As the English climate is too cool to
ripen peaches, these had been grown on the side of a wall and under
glass. They were superb in size and color yet they had small stones and
little flavor. When my host told me of the care that had been lavished on
them—they must have cost him a dollar each—my mind went back to the peach
season at home, so I said to him:
“Peaches that would make your mouth water and send tears of joy chasing
one another down your cheeks are to-day piled high on barges beside the
wharves of New York and selling at a dollar a basket, with from one to
two hundred peaches in each basket.”
I made this truthful statement in a matter-of-fact way, which was all it
called for; but my host looked at me in amazement, then laughed heartily
and said:
“Well, you Americans have always been remarkable for the stories you
tell.”
To revert to Mr. Depew, he can tell a new story every day of the year,
and add two or three by way of good measure; but their newness is
generally in the patness of their application. He is so able at this sort
of thing that he can turn a story against the man who tells it. But he
confesses gleefully to having been caught once in the same manner. He was
billed to make a speech somewhere up the state, and when he arrived the
editor of the local paper called at his hotel to argue politics with
him. The editor quoted newspaper statements frequently to support his
arguments, but Depew replied:
“Oh, you can’t believe everything the newspapers say.”
[Illustration: “The editor of the local paper called at his hotel.”]
After the speech-making ended, the editor and Mr. Depew met again, in the
centre of a crowd of listeners.
“Well, my friend,” the genial Chauncey asked, “what did you think of my
speech?”
The editor hesitated a moment before he inquired solemnly: “Are you the
genuine Chauncey M. Depew?”
“Certainly! Do you doubt it?”
Again the editor hesitated. He regarded the speaker as if he was sizing
him up, and asked: “Are you the man all the newspapers have been saying
is the finest speaker, the greatest talker, the sharpest stumper and the
brightest wit before the public?”
Depew modestly blushed at this array of compliments; but replied: “I
guess I am he. But why do you ask?”
“Oh, because one can’t believe everything the newspapers say.”
And Depew made haste to shake hands with the editor and call it square.
Mr. Depew’s humorous speeches read so well that nobody misses one of
them if he can help it; but it is impossible for cold type to suggest
the inimitable manner with which they are given. A mature maiden woman
once called upon him at an hour when his time was worth about a dollar a
second and asked his advice about buying a certain bit of real estate. He
evasively answered that there were two things of which he knew absolutely
nothing: they were women and real estate.
This amused her so greatly that she lingered instead of going away, and
to prolong her stay she asked about a mutual acquaintance: “Where is Mr.
Blank, Mr. Depew?”
“He is still in the city.”
“Does he stammer as much as he did?”
“Oh, yes; worse, I believe.”
“Strange he never married.”
“No, it was not strange, my dear madam. Blank courted a lovely girl—he
told me of it years afterward—and this is the way he proposed.” Then
Mr. Depew looked soulfully at his visitor and stammered: “‘D-d-d-dear
a-a-angel, I l-l-l-love y-y-you!’ And the woman replied: ‘You need not
proceed further, Mr. Blank. I do not care to be wooed on the instalment
plan.’” But the visitor had fled too rapidly to get the benefit of the
joke.
Bandmaster Sousa is one of the “lucky” story-tellers, for he can
always cap an improbable story with a bigger one. After listening to
an extraordinary yarn about some man’s appetite, and another about
unquestioning confidence in another man’s directions, he “covered” both
with the following, which he attributed to a Southern negro:
“Down on our fahm we’ze got a man by de name o’ Jim. Now, Jim’s de
champion ham-eater of all de country roun. Unc’ Henry hed cha’ge o’
de fahm, an’ ev’ybody ’spected Unc’ Henry, an’ when Unc’ Henry tol’
any of us to do anythin’ we jus’ done it, ’ithout stoppin’ to ask any
questions, ’cause we had conf’dence in him. We knowed he wouldn’t ever
tell us to do anythin’ dat we hadn’t orter.
“But dat Jim—w’y, folks come f’om all de country roun’, jes’ to see Jim
eat ham, fo’ de way he could tuck ham away was amazin’; it suttinly was.
How you would laugh to see Jim a-settin’ by de fence one day, a-eatin’
one ham after another, like ez ef dey was cakes or biscuits! ’Twas ’ez
easy to him as pickin’ teeth, an’ he’d got down eight hams, an’ de ninth
was a follerin’, but I reckon it wuz f’om a middlin’ old hawg, for some
gris’le got in his throat, an’ choked him an’ stopped his breath, so we
wuz a-feared dat we wuz a-goin’ to lose Jim.
“But up got Unc’ Henry sort o’ easy-like, an’ he went over to de
fence—dey was a lot o’ slabs on top o’ de fence—and he tuk a slab, an’
he walk t’ward Jim, an’ he sez: ‘Jim, git down on all fours!’ Dat slab
looked mighty big, it did, an’ right in front o’ Jim was a big pile o’
stones; but Jim had conf’dence in Unc’ Henry, like ev’ybody did, so he
got down on all fours an’ waited, an’ de gris’le in his throat, why, dat
waited too. An’ Unc’ Henry pahted Jim’s coat-tails, an’ histed de slab,
an’ fetched it down wid a mighty swish, an’ give Jim a hit, an’ Jim went
head first onto dat pile o’ stones; but he had conf’dence in Unc’ Henry
so he knowed he wouldn’t be knocked through de stones, but would stop ez
soon ez he hit ’em—his conf’dence in Unc’ Henry was dat great. An’ when
he struck dem stones dat piece o’ gris’le ’lowed it had bizness somewhar
else. An’ Jim riz up an’ hollered ‘Gimme anudder ham!’”
[Illustration: Depew—Porter—Wilder—Sousa—Wanamaker]
It will amaze millions of John Wanamaker’s customers to know that the
man who is so busy that they can never get a glimpse of him unless they
attend his church is an industrious teller of stories and always has
the “luck”—though that is not his name for it—to have the right story
for any situation. That most of his yarns are spun in Sunday-school
does not make them any the less good. I wish Sunday-school teachers
had told stories when I was a boy, and I will bet Bibles to buttons
that if teachers were practically instructed in story-telling, all the
Sunday-school rooms would have to be enlarged to hold the increase of
attendants.
But I was speaking of John Wanamaker. While reproving some of his
Sunday-school pupils for laughing at a deaf boy’s wrong answers to
misunderstood questions, he said:
“Boys, it isn’t right to laugh at any one’s affliction. Besides, you
never know when your own words may be turned against you. I once knew
a deaf man—let us call him Brown—who was disposed to stinginess and to
getting every dollar he could out of everybody and everything. He never
married; but he was very fond of society, so one day he felt compelled to
give a banquet to the many ladies and gentlemen whose guest he had been.
“They were amazed that his purse-strings had been unloosed so far, and
they thought he deserved encouragement, so it was arranged that he should
be toasted. One of the most daring young men of the company was selected,
for it took a lot of nerve to frame and propose a toast to so unpopular
a man as Miser Brown. But the young man rose, and Brown, who had been
notified of what was to occur, fixed his face in the customary manner
of a man about to be toasted. And this was what was heard by every one
except Brown, who never heard anything that was not roared into his ear:
“‘Here’s to you, Miser Brown. You are no better than a tramp, and it is
suspected that you got most of your money dishonestly. We trust that you
may get your just deserts yet, and land in the penitentiary.’
“Visible evidences of applause made Brown smile with gratification. He
got upon his feet, raised his glass to his lips, and said: ‘The same to
you, sir.’”
General Horace Porter is another of the men whose stories always fit. It
is said that he accepted the post of American Ambassador to France for
the sole purpose of taking a rest from making after-dinner speeches. He
can even use a pun in a manner to compel admiration, in which respect he
differs from almost every one. On one occasion he said:
“New England speakers have said that the Puritans were always
missionaries among the people with whom they came in contact. I saw
recently a newspaper paragraph that indicated the disposition of the
Puritan to busy himself with the great hereafter, and to get as close to
it as possible. The paragraph announced that the _Puritan_ had collided
in Hell Gate. (The Puritan last-named was a steamboat.)
“But when the wooden Puritan—the New Englander, gets a man on the
perilous edge, so that one or other must topple over into the pit, he
takes care that he shall not be the unfortunate. He is as cautious in
this respect as was the night-cab driver in front of a house where there
had been a bibulous dinner party. A man emerged from the house, staggered
across the sidewalk, laying out more zigzags than did our patriot sires
at the siege of Yorktown, opened the door of the cab and threw himself on
the seat.
[Illustration: “Where will I go, Sor?”]
“The driver asked: ‘Where will I go, sor?’
“‘To hell!’ was the unexpected reply.
“The cabby drove about for some moments to take a think, for though he
had heard of many sure roads to the torrid destination mentioned he was
not ‘up’ on the conveniences at the entrance, and he didn’t want to
scorch the paint on his cab. Soon he asked again: ‘Where am I to take
you, sor?’
“‘To hell,’ was again the reply. Cabby scratched his head, studied the
situation, and asked: ‘Beg pardon, sor, but can I back up when I land
you?’”
To an interviewer who expected to get a good article on the difference
between the English Parliament and our Congress (this was at a time when
many Congressmen were tobacco-chewers) he said:
“In Parliament the men sit with their hats on and cough; in Congress they
sit with their hats off and spit.”
X
JOURNALISTS AND AUTHORS
Not All Journalists are Critics, nor are All Critics
Fault-finders.—The Most Savage Newspapers not the Most
Influential.—The Critic’s Duty.—Horace Greeley.—Mark Twain’s
First Earnings.—A Great Publisher “Approached” by Green
Goods Men.—Henry Watterson.—Opie Reid.—Quimby of the _Free
Press_.—Laurence Hutton, Edwin Booth and I in Danger Together.
When you say “journalist” to a man of my profession—or of any other that
devotes its time and wits to the task of amusing and entertaining people,
it is taken for granted that you mean “critic,” and that “critic” in turn
means faultfinder. This is extremely unfair to journalists in general and
to critics in particular, for not all journalists are critics, nor all
critics faultfinders. Run over the names of all the critics you’ve heard
of here or in London or Paris—critics, dramatic, musical and literary,
and you will discover, to your surprise, that those who are best known
and have most influence, are those who are quickest to praise and slowest
to find fault.
[Illustration: “Trying it on the dog” is the name for this sort of thing—]
As a proof of it, and how it strikes the men and women most concerned,
both in pocket and pride, is the following:—almost every new play,
concert and entertainment of any kind tries to give its first real
performance in New York. It may endeavor to get some money out of the
later rehearsals by giving a few performances out of town:—“Trying it
on the dog” is the name for this sort of thing, but New York is trusted
to set the pace, and this is what follows;—on the day on which New York
newspapers containing a report of the performance reaches any city or
town where the same attraction has been booked conditionally, or where
managers or entertainment committees have heard enough in advance about
it to want to hear more, there is a run on news-stands for certain
New York papers. I won’t indicate them closer than to say that they
are not those sheets which support the brilliant chaps who skilfully
ride hobbies of their own, or who are most skilled at vivisecting and
eviscerating a playwright and splitting each particular hair of an actor,
singer or entertainer. The papers for which there is general demand are
those which tell whether the performance was good of its kind, specify
the kind and tell how the audience regarded it. At the end of the third
act of a new play in New York a noted critic was buttonholed in the lobby
by a club-man who had a friend in the cast and asked for his opinion.
“It’s a success—a great success,” was the reply.
“Good! I’m so glad you like it.”
“Like it? My dear fellow, I never was worse bored in my life. I’d rather
have heard ‘Julius Cæsar’ done by a lot of high school boys. But that has
nothing to do with it. If pieces were written and played for me and my
kind, they’d have to charge ten dollars a ticket to get money enough to
pay for the gas and music. Plays are made for audiences; this audience
likes this play—likes it immensely, so other audiences will like it too,
and if I don’t say so in our newspaper to-morrow morning I deserve to be
bounced and have this week’s salary docked.”
Of course it is a critic’s business to see defects and call attention
to them. When he does so he confers a favor upon the performer, who
generally is so absorbed in what he is doing that he doesn’t know what
he is leaving undone or doing badly. But the faults of stage or platform
can’t be remedied with a sledge-hammer or a double bladed dagger—not
ever if you give the dagger a turn or two after you have jabbed it in. A
prominent critic said to me:
“I don’t criticise a play according to my own feelings and tastes.
Although I’ve a very good opinion of my own personal standard of
judgment, I don’t believe the people collectively would give a snap of
the finger for it. I simply try to ascertain the opinion of the audience
and express it for the benefit of the people of whom audiences are made.
I greatly dislike ⸺ and ⸺ (mentioning a popular actor and actress) but
who cares? It would not be fair to try to impress my dislikes upon
others, unless I chance upon some one who takes the stage seriously, and
there are only two classes who do this—conceited critics, and actors who
don’t get their pay. Fortunately I know very few professional people;
if I knew more I would become insane through trying to dissociate their
personality from their work. It is bad to know too much about anybody
or anything, if you don’t want to throw the world out of joint. Except
in matters of morals and manners, ‘where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly
to be wise.’ Did you ever hear how Horace Greeley once got cold feet?
A friend—one of the wise, observant, upsetting kind of friends called
on Greeley, one cold winter day, and found the great journalist with a
favorite book in his hand, a beatific smile on his face and his feet
over the register. The visitor had previously been through the building
and learned that the furnace had gone wrong and been removed, the cold
air flue could not be closed, and zero air was coming through all the
registers, so he said:
“‘Mr. Greeley, why do you keep your feet there? There is no heat—only
cold air is coming up!’
“Greeley tumbled out of his chair and in the childish whine that always
came to him when he was excited, replied,
“‘Why didn’t you let me alone? I was entirely comfortable; but now, I’m
near you, I’m frozen.’”
Mention of Greeley, who was too busy a man to think of being a humorist,
yet was one in spite of himself, recalls one of Mr. Depew’s stories about
him. A man who was in search of financial aid for some evangelistic
work got into Mr. Greeley’s sanctum one day, and found the great editor
writing, with his head held sideways and close to the desk, like a
schoolboy, as was his custom. He waved his hand, to signify that the man
should go away, but Greeley had the reputation of being an easy-mark,
financially, and the visitor’s mind was fixed on business, so he asked,
“Mr. Greeley, how much will you give to prevent your fellow men from
going to hell?”
[Illustration: The brilliant chaps who ride hobbies of their own—]
“Not a damn cent!” was the reply, as the great editor went on writing.
“Not enough of them go there now. I could name hundreds who ought to
have been there long ago——” all this in a whining drawl that carried
conviction with it.
Speaking of drawls, I wish all my readers could have heard Mark Twain’s
voice as he told me a tale of juvenile woe. I had asked him if he could
remember the first money he had ever earned.
“Yes,” he said. “It was at school. All boys had the habit of going to
school in those days, and they hadn’t any more respect for the desks
than they had for the teachers. There was a rule in our school that any
boy marring his desk, either with pencil or knife, would be chastised
publicly before the whole school or pay a fine of five dollars. Besides
the rule there was a ruler; I knew it because I had felt it; it was a
darned hard one, too.
“One day I had to tell my father that I had broken the rule, and had to
pay a fine or take a public whipping, and he said:
“‘Sam, it would be too bad to have the name of Clemens disgraced before
the whole school, so I’ll pay the fine. But I don’t want you to lose
anything, so come up-stairs.’ I went up-stairs with father and he was
for-_giving_ me. I came down-stairs with the feeling in one hand and the
five dollars in the other, and decided that as I’d been punished once,
and got used to it, I wouldn’t mind taking the other licking at school.
So I did, and I kept the five dollars. That was the first money I ever
earned.”
This unexpected shift of the moral point of view is peculiar to boys.
James Whitcomb Riley, author of no end of things, humorous and pathetic,
told me of a small boy who astonished his mother one night by saying his
prayers in German. When reproved, he said:
“Oh, that was a joke.”
“You must not joke with heaven,” said his mother severely.
“Oh, the joke isn’t on heaven; it’s on you,” was the reply.
Another small friend of Mr. Riley jumped quickly into bed one cold night.
His mother said:
“Johnny, haven’t you forgotten something?”
“No, mamma,” was the reply. “I’ve made up my mind not to say my prayers
to-night or to-morrow night or the night after, and then if I have luck I
won’t say them any more at all.”
My friend Frank Doubleday, a member of a publishing firm that all
authors regard admiringly, would rather get a laugh on some one than
get a record-breaking novel. He is a fine, tall, handsome fellow and
like many another handsome man who is really manly, he is careless of
his dress, looking more like a busy farmer than a successful publisher.
Going through Greenwich Street one day, near the ferries and steamboat
landings, his rural appearance and manner attracted the attention of one
of the “bunco” or “green goods” gentry, who accosted him with:
“Why, Mr. Brown, I’m very glad to see you.”
“But my name isn’t Brown,” said Doubleday, in his most innocent manner.
“What? Aren’t you Mr. Brown, of Paterson?”
“No, my name is Marshall P. Wilder.”
“Oh, you go to h⸺ll!” growled the bunco-man with a glare.
To get back to journalists, with whom I began, I believe I have said
elsewhere that Henry Watterson is the most quoted editor in the United
States. Yet a lot of his best things do not appear over his signature;
he says so many that only a phonograph could keep tally of them. One
evening at the Riggs House in Washington he found his friend Col. Dick
Wintersmith, the poet lobbyist, in a gastronomic quandary, for the
colonel longed for a dinner of beefsteak and onions but dreaded to carry
the perfume of onions in his breath. Watterson said:
“Colonel Dick, I’ll tell you how to avoid it.”
“Do!”
“Why, go to John Chamberlin’s for your beefsteak and onions; when you get
your bill it will take your breath entirely away.”
Opie Reid, editor and author, frequently appears on the platform, to
the delight of every one who listens to him. One night he was greatly
puzzled, for although his audience laughed heartily no one applauded. He
learned afterward that he had been engaged to entertain the inmates of
a home for disabled railway employees, and his audience was composed of
switchmen, each of whom had lost an arm, perhaps two. He got a laugh
even on one of the dreadful eating-houses peculiar to southern railroad
stations. Most of his fellow passengers were commercial travelers, and
knew by experience what to expect at such places, so they got off of the
train with sullen looks, as if sorry rather than glad that they were to
dine, and their complainings began before they reached the table. A negro
was walking to and fro on the station platform ringing a dinner-bell, and
near him was a small dog howling so piteously that the darky stopped and
exclaimed:
“What’s you hollerin’ for? _You_ don’t have to eat here.”
My friend Quimby of the Detroit _Free Press_ tells of “meeting up” with
two strangers who became so friendly that soon the three were introducing
themselves.
“I’m from Detroit,” said Quimby to one. “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” was the reply. The Bostonian turned enquiringly to the third,
who said:
“I’m from Pawtucket. Now, d⸺mn you, laugh!”
I am indebted to hundreds of critics and other journalists for kind
things they have printed about me. As to authors, one of them saved
my life a few years ago, and this is how it occurred:—I had rooms in
Thirty-fourth Street, in New York, next door to the late Laurence
Hutton, author of many well-known books. One night, on returning home
very late, I discovered that I had neglected to take my keys, so I was
practically locked out. I rang the bell, but no one responded. Suddenly
I noted that lights were still burning in Mr. Hutton’s house, and I
recalled that he had given a dinner that night to Mr. Edwin Booth, the
tragedian. Hutton was the most obliging neighbor any one could have had,
so I rang him up, told him of my trouble, and asked permission to go into
his yard and climb the division fence, after which I would get into my
own house through a rear window.
“All right, Marshall,” Hutton replied, “and I’ll go with you, and help
you over the fence.”
My only fear was of a lodger in my own house—a nervous man, apprehensive
of burglars, and who kept revolvers and a quick temper ready for use at
any moment he might be aroused. I said as much to Mr. Hutton, and the
affair immediately changed from a neighborly courtesy to an adventure
with a spice of danger to make it more attractive. Mr. Booth who had
overheard the conversation, announced that he wasn’t to be left out of
any fun in sight, so we three crept silently into Hutton’s back yard like
three burglars, or more like three schoolboys out for mischief. Finding
that he could not lift me over, as he had intended, Hutton got a chair,
stood upon it and helped me to the top of the fence, which was high. Even
there I was no better off, for the fence was as tall as I was not, so
like Mohammed’s coffin I was poised between heaven and earth and unable
to drop without breaking something. But Hutton was a man of expedients:
he stood on the extreme top of the chair-back, leaned over the fence and
held my cane, by its crook, as if it were a dangling rope, down which I
slid safely, thanks to a running fire of tragic stage-whispers, by Mr.
Booth, to the general effect, that it is always well to keep very tight
hold of a good thing, until you strike a better one.
I reached the ground safely and began the more dangerous part of my
enterprise, which was to open a window of the main floor without rousing
the lodger who was a light sleeper and kept pistols. A spectator, had
there been any excepting the blasé man in the moon, might have gazed at
an unusual scene—honest little me apparently burglarizing a house, while
a prominent author and the greatest living tragedian, both honorable
and law-abiding citizens, standing shakily on the highest back-bar of a
single chair, steadying themselves by leaning heavily on a fence-top and
giving me all the moral support that could be signified by heart-throbs
and irregular breathings. Suddenly Hutton whispered hoarsely,
“Look out, Marshall!”
But I looked up, and right into the business end of a revolver, and I did
not at all approve of what I saw. Had I looked toward the fence I would
have beheld two eminent Americans in the undignified act of “ducking.”
But I was too busily engaged in flattening myself against the window to
have eyes for anything but fragmentary visions of the world to come: I
shriveled so utterly that it seemed a million years before I had lungs
enough to shout.
“Don’t shoot! It’s Marshall!”
We never settled it to our mutual satisfaction—Hutton’s, and Booth’s and
mine, by which of us the world might have lost most had the revolver been
fired and hit one of us. Mr. Booth was the incarnation of modesty, Hutton
could eloquently praise any one but himself, while I—— But, as already
said, we never agreed as to which would have been the world’s greatest
loss.
XI
THE UNEXPECTED
Robert Hilliard and I and a Dog.—Hartford’s Actors and
Playwrights.—A Fit that Caused a Misfit.—A Large Price to Hear
a Small Man.—Jim Corbett and I.—A Startled Audience.—Captain
Williams and “Red” Leary.—“Joe” Choate to the Rescue.—Bait for
a Dude.—Deadheads.—Within an Inch of Davy Jones.—Perugini and
Four Fair Adorers.—Scanlon and Kernell.
In one respect personal experiences are like jokes—those least expected
cause the most lasting impression. I may be excused, therefore, for
recording some of both.
Some years ago a party of ladies and gentlemen, among whom were Mr.
Hilliard and myself visited David’s Island, an important military post on
Long Island Sound. We were handsomely entertained during the day, so at
night we endeavored to return the compliment. There was a large gathering
in the mess room, the post band gave a few selections and Mr. Hilliard
announced that he would recite “Christmas Night in the Workhouse.”
Instantly a large Newfoundland dog who had been quite conspicuous, looked
sad, dropped upon the floor and went to sleep. The joke was on Bob and
every one was obliged to laugh. But when my turn came and I announced
a few stories about camp life that dog arose, looked straight and
reproachfully into my eyes and walked out of the door. When the laughter
subsided I felt obliged to say:
“I don’t blame you, old chap.”
As I was a Hartford boy, I have always had a special liking for the men
and women whom that city has given to the stage and platform. They make
an imposing array, too—William Gillette, Mark Twain, Otis Skinner, Harry
Woodruff, Lew Dockstader, Francis Carlyle, Musical Dale, Frank Lawton, C.
B. Dillingham and Mesdames Lucille Saunders and Emma Eames.
I greatly admire Mr. Gillette’s plays; they contain so wonderful a
variety of characters that it seems to me he must have searched the whole
country for originals. One day he told me of a pleasant trip he had made
on the St. Lawrence River and said:
“I’m going to live up there.”
“Are you? Where?” I asked, supposing he would name a hotel where a large
lot of human nature could be studied, but he named a lonely part of the
Thousand Islands, and said he owned an island there, so I asked:
“Why do you go there? You will be all alone.”
“I want to be alone,” he replied.
“Will no one live there but yourself?”
“No one but a hen—a little bantam hen.”
“What do you mean by that? What do you want of a hen?”
“Well, I’ve always had great fondness and respect for hens, but have been
unable to get acquainted with them, but this is my chance.”
Mark Twain was once asked to write a testimonial for a map of the world,
and this is what he wrote:
“Before using your wonderful map, my family were afflicted with fits, but
since using it they have nothing but freckles.”
There was a time when I wished for Mark’s wonderful map, for I was
afflicted by a fit. It was at an entertainment at Long Branch given in
aid of the Monmouth Hospital. Many actors and actresses who were stopping
at “the Branch” gave their services, among them Neil Burgess, Mr. and
Mrs. Oliver Dowd Byron, Mr. and Mrs. Matt Snyder, Mr. and Mrs. Frank
Chanfrau, Miss Maggie Mitchell, Miss Theresa Vaughn and others. I was to
appear, and when I arrived, I saw Miss Vaughn and Mr. Snyder, who was
stage manager, holding an animated discussion. Snyder came over to me and
said:
“Miss Vaughn has been billed to follow you, but she doesn’t wish to. She
would like to precede you.”
“All right,” I replied, “I’m perfectly willing.”
She went out and made a great hit. Then my turn came, and I had just got
a recitation under way when a woman in the audience began to have a fit,
at the most critical part of my number. I had to stop as it was not a
duet, and go off of the stage. Mr. Snyder asked:
“What’s the matter, Marsh?”
“There’s a woman out there having a fit.”
“Oh, go back and do the best you can,” he replied.
“This is not where I fit,” I answered. But I went back and told my
pianist to play number seven of my repertoire, which was called “Poor
Thing!”
The audience saw the joke, and helped me out, but I wish my readers
could have been in my position if they do not believe that fit was an
affliction—one which Miss Vaughn was fortunate enough to escape.
A great many men have told me they greatly wanted to hear me recite,
and I am convinced that one in particular meant what he said. I refer
to Bingham the ventriloquist. He chanced to be in a town where I was to
appear before the Young Men’s Christian Association. He went to the hall
to reserve a good seat, but was told that no tickets would be sold; the
entertainment would be for members only.
“But I want to hear Mr. Wilder,” he said, “and this is my only chance
within sight. Is there no way of my getting in?”
“None: unless you join the Association.”
Incredible though it may seem, Bingham did join the Y. M. C. A. for
the sole purpose of listening to me. He never asked me to refund his
initiation fee on the ground that he didn’t get the worth of it, either,
though I’ve scrupulously avoided recalling the incident to his memory.
[Illustration: “There’s James J. Corbett!” “Which One?”]
Nothing is more unexpected by any one than to be mistaken for some one
else. One day while I was walking with James J. Corbett, the handsome
actor-pugilist, who is about twice as tall as I, two young ladies passed
us and one exclaimed:
“Why, there’s James J. Corbett.”
“Which one?” the other asked.
Light-weight though I am, there was a time when I got Corbett badly
rattled. He was living at Asbury Park, training for one of his fights,
and I, while in a railway car with him, got out some friends—a pack of
cards—and did some tricks for Jim. Soon I got him so puzzled that he
exclaimed:
“Hold on there, Marsh! These tricks get me nutty.”
It was the unexpected that brought James Young, the actor, a roar of
laughter one evening when he addressed as follows an audience composed
entirely of his own acquaintances:
“My friends—I cannot call you ladies and gentlemen, for I know you all.”
It was the unexpected, too, that only severely jarred Capt. Alex.
Williams, a noted ex-police official in New York. A woman fainted in
the street, the captain caught her by one arm, and “Red” Leary, a noted
criminal by the other.
“Cap’n,” said “Red” politely, “this is the first time you and me have
‘worked’ together.”
Minister Choate—“Joe” Choate, has a reserve fund of the unexpected. Some
American dishes were served up at a breakfast party in England, one being
ham and eggs. A young lady at the minister’s right was ignorant of the
slippery ways of fried eggs on a dish, so she accidentally spilled the
contents of her plate.
“Oh, Mr. Choate!” she exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do, for I’ve
dropped an egg on the floor,” and Choate replied:
“If I were you, I’d cackle.”
[Illustration: “Ignorant of the Slippery Ways of Fried Eggs.”]
Matt Snyder, the actor, found at his table one night a young man so
elaborately dressed as to be a startling dude, so he asked his daughter:
“What did you bait your hook with to catch that?” but he was floored by
the sweet reply:
“Cake, papa.”
Sometimes the unexpected will cause a man to be grievously wounded in the
house of his friends. Here is an illustration, clipped from a New York
newspaper:
“Marshall P. Wilder, the professional humorist, was in the Lambs’ Club,
surrounded by some spirits, yesterday evening. He looked at his watch and
remarked wearily, ‘I’ve got to run away, for I’ve got to go up-town to be
funny. It’s an awful bore.’
“Wilton Lackaye, who has been taking up the rôle of smart cynicism left
by poor Maurice Barrymore, drawled, in his most irritating manner: ‘I
wouldn’t do it, then. Why don’t you give your usual entertainment?’
“‘Cruel boy,’ chirped Wilder, as he made for the door.”
Lackaye is also the man who gravely suggested to a patriotic Scotchman
that the reason the bagpipes were put in the rear of a regiment in battle
was that the men would be so anxious to get away from the music that they
would run toward the enemy.
One of the greatest nuisances of the entertainment business, the theatre
and all other “shows,” is the persistent “deadhead.” Every good fellow
in the profession likes so much to have his friends see his performance
that he provides free tickets to the extent of his ability, often paying
cash for them. But people who are not friends—some who are not even
acquaintances, are the most determined deadheads; to have heard about
their deceased mother-in-law is reason enough—to them, for a demand
for a free ticket. Yet a man on the stage or platform is sometimes
startled by seeing close personal friends in the line, cash in hand, at
the box-office, and is reminded of the story Senator Jones of Nevada
tells about crossing a river out west. He reached the ferry but no boat
was there. He saw a man across the stream chopping wood, so he shouted,
“Hello, there! Where’s the boat?”
[Illustration: The Passengers Consisted of Three Men and a Half.]
“No boat, wade across,” was the man’s answer, “and I will direct you.
Walk ten feet to the right,—five feet to the left. Look out—there’s a d⸺
big hole there! Now three feet to the right.” Arriving on the other side
of the stream, the senator asked, “What shall I pay you?”
“Wa-all,” said the man, “there’s been a dozen men across this ferry, and
you are the first that ever offered to pay anything, so I guess I’ll let
you dead-head it.”
Occasionally the unexpected is delightful in the extreme.
Before Charles Frohman became the busiest man and Napoleon of the
dramatic stage, he used to affiliate frequently with the Lambs’ Club,
of which he was a member. One day the Lambs gave what they call their
“washing,” otherwise their summer treat or picnic, at an island in the
sound owned by Lester Wallack. At high tide boats could land passengers
on the island, and in the morning the Lambs were safely landed. But at
night the steamer which brought us was anchored out about a half mile
from the shore. When the entertainment was at an end, the members had
to be rowed in small boats to the steamer. The oarsman of the boat I
was in was a large, corpulent chap. The passengers consisted of Charles
Frohman, also a heavy weight, George Fawcett and myself, making three men
and a half. This weighed the boat down to almost within an inch of the
water, and coupled with the fact that neither Mr. Frohman, Mr. Fawcett
nor myself could swim, I fully expected it would be our last sail, but
we reached the steamer in safety. One little false move on the part of
either of us would have caused the head of the Dramatic Syndicate, an
excellent actor and “Merrily Yours” to be busy—for a moment or two, in
“Davy Jones’s Locker.”
Augustus Pitou tells a suggestive story of the unexpected. Late at night
he asked for a barber at a hotel. It was “after hours,” but after much
delay one appeared and asked as a favor of Mr. Pitou if he would kindly
lie on the lounge and let him shave him in a horizontal position. Mr.
Pitou consented. The touch was so gentle he fell asleep. When he awoke
and felt of his chin he said:
“That’s the gentlest shave I have ever had.”
“Well, sir, you are the first live man I have ever shaved.”
The man was an undertaker’s barber!
Nat Goodwin tells how Billy Mannering, a brilliant old time negro
comedian, sprang the unexpected on a hotel proprietor. The company was
having hard luck on one night stands. Country hotels were as bad in those
days as now—even worse. The boys were eating breakfast one morning when
Bill came down late and said:
“Boys, how is it? About the same as all the rest of the hotels?”
“Yes, Billy.”
In came the proprietor and said: “Good-morning, gentlemen.”
Billy asked: “Who are you?”
“I’m the proprietor, sir.”
“So you’re the proprietor! Do you know you are a brave man? If I were
you, I would live out in the woods, and not come near the hotel. I would
be afraid to face my boarders.”
“How’s that? Are not the beds all right?”
“Yes, but we can’t eat our beds. Still, you have two things here that
can’t be improved on.”
“What are they?” asked the proprietor, filling out his chest.
“Why, your pepper and salt.”
I played the unexpected on several people aboard a certain ocean
steamship, on which my friend Perugini was a passenger. Several of the
ladies on board became enamored of “Handsome Jack,” and were very anxious
to be introduced to him. They made me their confidant, but Perry was not
much of a “masher” and did not care to meet them. At this time, he had
an affliction of which I am glad to say he has been cured; he was deaf.
One morning I rapped on his stateroom door, and getting no response, I
concluded I would run the risk and go in. There he lay, sound asleep. His
valet had preceded me, and everything looked as neat and cozy as could
be. Perry did not hear me, no matter what noise I made. I went on deck,
found four of the young ladies and said:
“Now’s your chance to meet Perugini; just follow me.” They accompanied me
and all four looked in at the door, but were afraid to go in.
“Oh, don’t he look lovely,” said one.
“Isn’t he charming—I could just hug him!” said another. I went in; as he
did not hear me they took courage and one by one they stole in and got
near to Perugini. I slipped toward the door and quickly closed it. The
girls were too frightened even to cry out. Then I took hold of Jack and
gave him a shake that awakened him. Poor Jack! He was more frightened
than the four girls put together. All I got out of him when he and I got
on deck was,
“Oh, Marsh! How could you?”
Kyrle Bellew was a passenger on the same steamer. My acquaintance with
Mr. Bellew is a most pleasant one, so I know he will forgive me if I
detail this little joke, which, like all my jokes, was played in good
nature.
On the ship he wore a yachting cap and a full yachting costume, including
a big cord around his neck, to which was attached a telescope. In the
evening he would walk up to the side of the steamer, pull out this
glass full-length, gaze out on the ocean at some distant ship, close it
and again walk down the deck, posing in an effective manner, seemingly
unconscious of the amusement he afforded the other passengers. In a
burlesque spirit I arranged, as best I could, an imitation of him. I
got a seaman’s trousers, blouse and hat, and extemporized a sort of wig
as like to my friend’s as possible; to a piece of rope about my neck I
attached a Belfast beer bottle. At a safe distance I walked up and down
the deck and gave the passengers the benefit of my burlesque. I don’t
believe Bellew ever saw me. If he had, I fear it would have been my
finish; still, I think he would have enjoyed the practical joke afterward.
Even a book-canvasser can be floored by the unexpected. James Whitcomb
Riley tells of an insinuating member of this profession who rang the bell
of a handsome residence and when a specially aggressive looking servant
opened the door he asked politely:
“Is the lady in?”
“What do ye mane?” the girl asked. “I’d have ye know we’re all ladies in
this house!”
In another part of this book I have referred to entertainments I gave at
an insane asylum—a place where the unexpected should be the rule, to the
performer. But at the Bloomingdale Asylum I once saw it work the other
way, and to an extent that was pathetic all round. Among the inmates were
Scanlon and Kernell—two men who had thousands of times delighted great
audiences with song and joke. I knew of their presence but how they
would look or feel I had no means of imagining.
One of my assistants for the occasion was Miss Cynthia Rogers of Toledo,
Ohio. The programme was not printed, nor arranged in detail, so we were
in ignorance as to what songs had been selected. Miss Rogers “went on”
dressed as an Irish lad, beginning in a copy of Scanlon’s familiar
make-up, the most popular song of his own composition, “Mollie O.”
Everybody looked at Scanlon. His face was suddenly aglow with interest.
His lips followed, word by word, the course of the melody. He raised
one hand and motioned as if he were directing the music. At the close
of the first verse, when the building shook with applause, he smiled
happily. He was living his triumphs over at that minute, oblivious to his
surroundings. He was impatient for the next verse; he followed the words
intently; his face was flushed, the old inspiration showed in his eyes,
and when the applause broke forth again he laughed and bowed his head.
“Did you see that man?” Miss Rogers asked me a second later. “Did you
ever see such an expression? Who is he—that young man yonder, with his
head bowed?”
“Why, I thought you must have known,” I replied. “That’s Scanlon.”
“Scanlon the actor?”
“Yes. The author of your song.”
Miss Rogers was tearfully uncertain, as she went on to respond to an
encore, whether she had done right or wrong. She sang “In It” and the
“Latch Key in the Door.” Then Scanlon was brought back to us and Miss
Rogers was introduced to him.
“I want to thank you,” he said simply. “I felt as I used to, you know.
Some day I will sing it again. You are very pretty and you sing well.”
If there was one man in the audience blind to the pathos of the scene
which had just occurred it was Harry Kernell, the comedian. He had looked
on quietly, his face impassive, his hands clasped loosely over one knee.
He smiled when Scanlon came back to the seat just in front of him; then
his face became fixed and vacant as before.
Kernell raised his face again as his wife who had been sitting beside
him, left her seat. He seemed to have forgotten her, and to be hearing
nothing and seeing nothing, when I announced the next number on the
programme.
“We have a pleasant surprise for you,” I said, smiling in anticipation.
“Mrs. Kernell is here; she came up to see her husband, my old friend, and
we wouldn’t let her refuse to sing for you.”
But Kernell did not look up until his wife, Queenie Vassar, began
singing. The little woman watched him tenderly. The poor fellow
understood. After that, no lover could have been more appreciative than
he was. It was the one voice in all the world that could move him.
Scanlon turned and whispered to him, but Kernell’s soul was in the song.
Quickly he looked ten years younger than he does ordinarily. He seemed
grateful for the applause, and eager for another song, and another, so
Mrs. Kernell sang “Peggy Cline,” “Sligo” and “The Bowery.”
After that Kernell sat still and gloomy. The spell was broken that had
made him young. The deep lines came back on his face, his shoulders
stooped and he was an old man again, listless and helpless. One could
hardly imagine him the man that scattered sunshine so royally, laughing
his way to fame, building his triumphs on the happiness he gave to others.
Miss Claude Rogers played a mandolin solo of her own composing with
“Il Trovatore” for an encore. Later she played again, and was encored
repeatedly. As for me, I had as difficult an audience as ever confronted
a humorist, or any other sort of speaker, but the success was complete
and the fun was contagious. It was curious to see how an audience, of so
many different states of mind, could be affected by humor and music. I
have had far less appreciative audiences among sane people, and have been
at my wits’ end to rouse them. Here is a story that tells how Digby Bell
once roused a cold audience without giving offense; it proved the biggest
hit of his act. He recently had to deal with a particularly frigid
audience, and the best of his jokes met with but indifferent success.
There happened to be a little flag fastened on one side of the stage,
and the humorist, after delivering his last joke ineffectually, ran
over, gravely pulled the banner down to half-mast and made his exit. The
audience appreciated the sarcastic proceeding, and applauded him till he
was obliged to give them a little additional entertainment, and this time
he had no need to complain of their appreciation.
XII
SUNSHINE IN SHADY PLACES
On Blackwell’s Island.—Snakes and Snake Charmers.—Insane People
as Audiences.—A Poorhouse That was a Large House.—I am Well
Known by Another Profession.—Criminals are not Fools.—Some
Pathetic Experiences.—The Largest Fee I Ever Received.
For many years the late Cornelius Vanderbilt paid me a regular salary to
visit a lot of charitable institutions,—the Almshouse, the Penitentiary,
the Newsboys’ Lodging House and a number of other places, where laughter
was not part of the regular daily exercises and was therefore valued
most highly. One of the places frequently visited was the Insane Asylum
on Blackwell’s Island, and I was often invited to lunch with the
Superintendent. A harmless patient, who was employed as waiter, was at
times quite amusing through her faculty for seeing people where none
existed. She would often stop and argue indignantly with some one whom
she imagined was in her way, and to see how with a tray of dishes in
her hands she scolded the empty air, was first very funny and afterward
creepingly uncanny. Once she imagined that one of these annoying people
had climbed upon the table, and she attacked him so savagely with a broom
that we had to have a new set of dishes and goblets.
One night a severe storm compelled me to remain at the Asylum. My friend
the house-surgeon gave me a comfortable room, near the wing where the
more violent patients were confined. In the middle of the night, one of
these began to rave and scream; his appeals for help were pitiful. I put
my head out of my door and asked an attendant what was the matter.
[Illustration: “For God’s Sake Come! There’s a Woman in my Room.”]
“He’s seeing snakes,” was the reply, “but he’ll be all right in a
few minutes.” Just then the man informed the neighborhood of a new
misfortune, by shouting,
“For God’s sake come to me quick. There’s a woman in my room!” Again he
became quiet and the attendant said,
“It’s all right now.”
“Yes,” I replied: “she must have been a snake charmer.”
I always found insane audiences very appreciative. Probably the majority
of them were “out of their head” on one subject only. Certainly their
enjoyment of song and pantomime was very keen, and their interest in
my exhibitions of ventriloquism was quite pathetic. Whenever I threw
my voice in a certain direction, some of them would look under chairs
and tables, in search of the supposed person who was talking. The poor
creatures took such hold of my sympathies that I exerted myself to amuse
them optically, for the eye is the surest route to the wits. I would,
while on the platform, make quickly different articles of colored paper
and give them to the patients, whose pleasure was as childlike as it was
sincere.
On one of my visits I was startled by coming face to face with a notice
which read “Almshouse wagon reserved for Marshall P. Wilder and party
from 12 to 4.” On inquiry I learned that this wagon was a Pooh Bah among
vehicles, serving by turns as patrol wagon, ambulance and hearse, so it
took some jollying of myself to ward off gruesome imaginings and keep my
risibilities in working order.
At one of the Almshouse entertainments at which the room was packed, I
said, “This is the first time I ever knew a poor house to be such a large
house,” and the audience “caught on” as quick as a flash.
The only painful experience of my years as an entertainer among the
public institutions was at the Home for Consumptives, at Fordham. The
patients were cheerful and spirited, as consumptives always are, and
they seemed to enjoy my jokes mightily, but laughter usually brought
on violent fits of coughing, so I would have to wait from five to ten
minutes after a joke, before I dared venture another.
I always recall with pleasure a visit to Elmira, where I had the
brightest and most responsive audience of my whole career. It was at the
State Reformatory, and there were three or four thousand prisoners in the
audience. Mr. Brockway, the Superintendent, said he would like me to talk
about ten minutes, and asked kindly if that would be too long to talk
continuously. Before I appeared he said to the boys,
“We have with us this evening Mr. Marshall P. Wilder. How many of you
know him?”
Fully three-quarters of that great assemblage raised their hands. It
was quite flattering to be so well known in a “profession” as cautious
and exclusive as theirs. I found my audience so quick, appreciative and
responsive that instead of restricting myself to ten minutes, I learned
afterward that I had talked an hour and thirty-five minutes!
[Illustration: Laughter was not Part of the Daily Exercises.]
It may be argued by some skeptics that these boys and young men,
being prisoners, were grateful for any entertainment that would break
the monotony of their daily routine, but I prefer to believe their
appreciation was due entirely to their native cleverness. It takes brains
to place and accomplish anything, whether legal or illegal, and prisoners
of the class that is sent to the Reformatory have proved their ability
to think, or they would not be there. There are thousands of clever men
who are good, and of good men who are stupid, but among criminals the
rule is not reversible, for I have yet to see a criminal who is a fool.
I met many interesting and pathetic personalities while engaged in
the institutions. One old man in the Home for Incurables was so badly
paralyzed, that he could move only his hands, and these but a few inches.
He would lie all day on his back, with his hands on his chest, holding
a little switch broken from a peach-tree, with which he would gently
scratch his face and head. This was his only occupation and pleasure;
it was also the limit of his ability to move. Yet this pitiable old
man was always smiling and happy; he would have repelled the idea that
he was unfortunate, for he was constantly recounting his blessings and
comforts—his bed, his food, his kindly attention, and not the least of
all, his little peach-twig.
Another interesting case in the same Home was a feeble minded boy—almost
an imbecile. His physical development was perfect; he was healthy and
very strong, yet his vacant eyes, dropped jaw and frontal expression of
head indicated plainly a sad lack of wits. He was gentle and tractable
and devoted to the matron, who by demonstration had taught him how to
be useful in many ways. His strength was utilized in moving helpless
patients from bed to chairs, or vice versa, and he had been taught to
change the beds and do other work in the men’s ward as neatly as a woman.
[Illustration: It Takes Brains to Accomplish Anything.]
But his chief duty, and one at which he excelled, was to act as baker
for the institution. The matron had taught him, and he had followed her
method so faithfully that every day he dropped a little flour on the
floor and then wiped it up; the matron had chanced to this “aside” in the
first lesson, so it was impossible to convince the boy that this was not
a necessary detail of bread-making. His bread was delicious too; he made
thirty-six loaves every day in a triple oven holding three pans of twelve
loaves each, and never had a failure. Being exact in every way, his
success was always assured.
One old woman, who might have been admitted to this admirable home,
refused to enter it; she said she preferred the Almshouse. She had been
wealthy in her youth but, through unbridled extravagance, had been
reduced to poverty so dire, that for years she had eked out a miserable
existence by selling newspapers. When she became too ill and feeble
to do even this, it was suggested that she should enter the Home for
Incurables, but she refused, saying that she would go to no private
institution, but to the poorhouse, which, when she was rich, she had
helped to maintain. A charitable gentleman who would have helped her, and
to whom she expressed her desire, assured her that she should have her
choice in the matter, foolish though it was. She asked him if instead
of being conveyed in the almshouse wagon, she might be moved in some
other way; her would-be benefactor assured her she should go in his own
carriage, and he himself would be her escort. He invited me to accompany
them, I having already met the old woman and been interested in her. At
the appointed time we called for her and as she stepped into the carriage
she was visibly elated by the thought of once more going through the
streets in a manner like that of her wealthy days. She had dressed for
the occasion in style truly wonderful. Her bonnet, though of startling
construction, commanded attention by its antiquity; a rag of a camel’s
hair shawl was pinned tightly across her narrow chest; a black silk
reticule hung from one thin arm, which was encased in a long suede glove,
boasting the special advantage of leaving her fingers free while her
other hand was covered with a lace mitt of antique fashion.
[Illustration: She had Dressed in a Style Truly Wonderful.]
During the drive she sat stiffly erect, gazed with scorn at people who
were merely walking, and occasionally dropped a stiff, formal speech,
after the manner of polite conversation in her youthful days. When we had
almost reached our destination, she said to my friend her escort:
“For your extreme kindness to me, I should like to bestow upon you a
slight remembrance, something saved from the beautiful things I once
owned.” She put her hand into her reticule and we expected to see a
trinket such as women prize, but she pulled out a pistol and apparently
leveled it at my friend. We gasped, instantly convinced that she had lost
the tiny bit of sanity that was left to her, but in a second we saw that
she was presenting it to, not at, him. It was a pretty toy with a pearl
handle and inlaid with silver, but, like herself, rusty and dilapidated.
It was her last bit of elegance and all the poor creature had to offer in
token of her gratitude.
A touching feature of this Home was the manner of furnishing the rooms
for the pay patients. When the wing for this class of inmates was built
it was believed that a long time would elapse before there would be
money enough in the treasury to furnish the rooms. A kind hearted woman
who visited the house weekly with donations of snuff, tobacco and candy
conceived a clever plan. She had just lost her mother, in whose name she
presented the entire furnishings of her mother’s room to the Home. Word
of this got abroad; other people followed her example and in a short time
the entire wing was furnished in similar manner; so now the visitor
to the home sees a wing of four stories, the halls lined with doors on
each of which is a brass plate engraved with the name of the person who
furnished the room in memory of parent, brother, sister or child.
This is an appropriate place in my story to tell of the largest fee I
ever received for entertaining, for although the giver was not heartily
interested in a public institution, he was _en route_ for one.
I was traveling in the West and looking about the railway car for a
friend, an acquaintance or even some one with whom I might scrape
acquaintance, for I don’t enjoy being alone a long time, when I saw, in
one end of the car, an officer with a prisoner. It did not take long
to see that the prisoner was handcuffed, his feet were shackled to the
bottom of the seat, and behind him were two guards with revolvers in
hand. Evidently the prisoner was of some consequence, although he looked
like a mere boy. He sat with bowed head and a hopeless look on his white
face. His eyes, which in so young a man ought to have been bright and
merry, were downcast and full of gloom.
I ventured over to the party and soon recognized one of the guards, as a
man I had seen in a similar capacity at the Elmira Reformatory. In reply
to my questions about the prisoner, he told me that the youth had been
brought on extradition proceedings from England, after evading capture a
long time. His crime had been peculiarly atrocious and he was now being
taken to Kansas City for trial.
I was sorry for the officer and guards, as well as for the prisoner,
for there can’t be much that’s cheery in hunting down and manacling a
fellow man, no matter how bad he may be. Besides, they looked about as
uncomfortable as the prisoner, so I got off a joke or two to brace them
up. Soon the prisoner raised his head and manifested a trace of interest.
Then I asked if I might try some card tricks on them. Of course I might;
it’s hard to find a man so troubled, that he won’t forget his misery a
moment or two over a card trick.
All the men in the car were soon looking on, but I kept my eye and heart
on the prisoner; no matter what he deserved, it was plain to see what he
needed. The poor wretch became thoroughly aroused from his dejection,
so I sandwiched tricks and stories and saw him “pick up” a little more
after each one. I “played at him,” and him alone, as actors sometimes
do at one man in a theatre audience. It was a big contract, and I was a
small man, but I was bound to see it through. It took two hours of hard
work, but at the end of that time the prisoner was an entirely different
man in appearance. His eyes were bright, the color had come back to his
cheeks, his whole manner had changed; he had forgotten his past and for
the moment he was a man again. When we were near Kansas City, he asked me
if I wouldn’t shake hands with him, and he said that I could never know
what my kindness in the past two hours had been to him. The look he gave
me, as I clasped his manacled hand, was the biggest pay I ever got in my
life.
XIII
“BUFFALO BILL”
He Works Hard but Jokes Harder.—He and I Stir up a Section
of Paris.—In Peril of a Mob.—My Indian Friends in the Wild
West Company.—Bartholdi and Cody.—English Bewilderment
Over the “Wild West” People.—Major “Jack” Burke.—Cody as a
Stage-driver.—Some of His Western Stories.—When He Had the
Laugh on Me.
My acquaintance with Col. William F. Cody—“Buffalo Bill”—dates back to a
time when I was a boy at Hartford and he was an actor in Ned Buntline’s
play “The Prairie Waif.” His life had been strenuous in the extreme ever
since he was thirteen years of age, but neither hardship nor danger had
ever suppressed his inherent merriment and his longing to get a joke out
of something or on somebody.
Our acquaintance was renewed at Rochester, where I had for schoolmate
his only son, Kit Carson Cody, named for a famous scout of fifty years
ago. The death of this boy was a great and lasting grief to his father,
and his memory became more and more a link to bind the Colonel and me
together, so in time we formed a close and lasting friendship. Whenever
we chanced to be in the same city we were together so much that we became
nicknamed “The Corsican Brothers.”
When the “Wild West” Company first went to Paris I was one of Buffalo
Bill’s guests for several weeks. The Paris shopkeepers and theatre
managers had heard of the enormous success of the “Wild West” in England
and some of them, who feared it might divert money which otherwise would
find its way into their pockets, arranged for a powerful “clacque” on the
opening day, not to applaud but to disturb the performance and discourage
Cody, so that he would leave the city. They did not know their man, so
they had only their expense for their pains. Besides, even a Paris mob,
which is said to be the meanest in the world, would think twice before
“demonstrating” much in the face of an arena full of Indians and crack
shots. The performance went on with little or no annoyance, but after
it ended a great crowd burst into the ring and almost caused a riot.
Suddenly another French peculiarity was manifested; a single gendarme
worked his way to the centre of the crowd and fired a bullet from his
pistol; in an instant the multitude dispersed. The worst of the French
people respect the majesty of the law—when it is backed by firearms.
I soon duplicated, as well as I could, the Colonel’s plains costume,
which he always wore in the streets as an advertisement. I too appeared
in buckskin trousers, fringed leggings, pistol belt and broad sombrero
hat. I must have looked like an animated mushroom, but the Parisians were
quick to note the resemblance and to dub me “le petit Buffalo Bill.” Cody
himself generally called me his “stove-in-pard.”
One morning the Colonel went out to be shaved and asked me to accompany
him. As both were dressed in wild west costume, to which the colonel
had added a pair of pistols and a knife, a large crowd followed on and
lingered about the shop we entered. A Parisian shopkeeper generally has
his wife with him, to act as cashier and general manager, and the barber
to whom we had gone had a chic and attractive wife, regarding whom Cody
and I exchanged admiring remarks in English, at the risk of the barber
understanding us and becoming disagreeable. Then Cody seated himself and
asked the barber:
“Do you speak English?”
“Non, m’sieur,”—with apologetic eyebrows and shoulders. The colonel
thrust his hands into his long brown curls and said:
“I want you to put a little oil on my hair and rub it in; compre?”
“Oui, oui, m’sieur.”
Then Bill asked: “Marsh, what is French for shave?”
My French was as limited as his, so I replied:
“‘Razoo,’ I guess.”
“And I want you to razoo my face, compre?”
“Oui, oui, m’sieur.”
The barber shaved his customer, but he had mistaken the sign language of
Cody’s first order, for he raised a pair of shears to clip the Colonel’s
long hair—one of his most treasured possessions and features; in fact,
like Samson of Biblical fame, his hair was the secret of his strength.
Just as the barber lifted a lock and posed the shears for the first snip
Bill saw the situation in a mirror. With a cowboy yell that would have
made a Comanche Indian green with envy he sprang from the chair to save
his hair. The barber, who had been working with bated breath, appalled by
the savage appearance of his customer, dropped his shears and his knees
shook, as, with chattering teeth, he begged for mercy. The wife’s screams
added to the confusion, the lingering crowd pressed in and was reinforced
by a gendarme who began a rapid fire of questions in excited French. No
explanations that were offered in either tongue were comprehended by the
parties who spoke the other language and, as the barber seemed consumed
with a desire to get rid of us, we hurried away in a cab, the barber’s
wife following us with a torrent of imprecations—and she so pretty, too!
One day, while the show was at Paris, we saw a distinguished looking man
pressing against the rope stretched around Colonel Cody’s tent. When he
found opportunity he said, in excellent English:
[Illustration: “We hurried away.”]
“Pardon me, Colonel Cody, but I should like to speak to you. I have
many friends in your great country—a country for which I have a sincere
admiration.”
“I am very glad to see you,” the colonel replied wearily; he had heard
this same speech so often. “May I ask your name?”
“My name is Bartholdi,” modestly replied the sculptor whose magnificent
statue, “Liberty Enlightening the World,” has endeared him to Americans.
From the moment he made himself known to Cody he “owned the show.”
Indians generally manifest extreme suspicion of white men, but while I
was Colonel Cody’s guest I made friends of some of the chiefs and braves,
especially Red Shirt and Flat Iron. The former, a famous scout and
warrior, has been called “The Red Napoleon” for his knowledge of military
tactics, his commanding dignity and reserve. He has a fine physique, and
a noble head, while his bearing is absolutely regal. He has always been
friendly to the whites, and was a valuable ally of Buffalo Bill in many
raids against his unruly brethren.
I knew Red Shirt was fond of me, but no one else would have imagined it
from his manner toward me, for your Indian friend does not slap you on
the back or buttonhole you with a joke, after the manner of white men.
Later I learned of the earnestness of his regard through a story told
me by Bronco Bill, the Wild West Company’s interpreter. It seems that,
after Red Shirt had left the company for a few months and returned to his
reservation, he found an old illustrated paper in which was a portrait
he thought was mine. He could not verify it, for he was unable to read.
Although the winter had set in and snow was deep on the ground he rode
twenty miles to the home of Bronco Bill to ask if the face was mine.
Being assured that it really was a picture of his friend, he took it back
home and fastened it to the wall of his cabin—an unusual proceeding, for
an Indian regards it beneath his dignity to indicate emotion, even among
his own people.
When the Wild West was last at Madison Square Garden, I again met
Red Shirt and Flat Iron. The former was very glad to see me, so the
interpreter told me, and I had reason to believe it, but no bystander
would have imagined it from his reserved manner and impassive face. Flat
Iron, who is an exception to almost all Indians in having a twinkling
eye and vivacious manner, rapidly asked me many questions: was I
stronger?—had I a squaw?—etc. The fact that I was unmarried had worried
him so greatly in the earlier days of our friendship that he offered to
select me a charming squaw from among his own grandchildren.
[Illustration: “He offered to select me a charming squaw.”]
Flat Iron is a shrewd financier, with a money getting system peculiarly
his own, which he had worked successfully on many whites. In New York, he
sometimes walked alone, in a street full of people, muttering to himself
and staring at the sky. When he saw that he had excited curiosity—and
an Indian can see out of the back of his head as well as out of both
sides of it, he would stop, place several nickels,—never pennies, on the
sidewalk, and make solemn “passes” over them, as if doing an incantation
act. Occasionally he would look aside, and indicate by signs that the
observers should add to the number of nickels. These additions he would
arrange in geometric figures, which always lacked some point or line.
Bystanders would supply the deficiency, the coins would be rearranged,
still with missing parts, and the mysterious passes would continue,
accompanied by solemn gazes heavenward. This pantomime would continue
until the crowd had parted with all its nickels; then suddenly the old
man would pick up the entire collection, stow it in his pocket and stalk
off as jauntily as a broker who has succeeded in unloading a lot of
wild-cat stocks on a confiding public.
While the Wild West was at Manchester I had my hundredth laugh—perhaps
it was my thousandth, at the density of intelligent Englishmen’s
ignorance regarding American people and ways. Colonel Cody, his partner
and business manager, “Nate Salsbury,” were standing together, when an
Englishman approached and asked for Mr. Salsbury. Nate asked what he
could do for him and the man replied:
“I’m the Greffic.”
“The wha-at?”
“The Greffic—the London Greffic. I make sketches, don’cher know?”
“Oh! The London _Graphic_? All right. Sail right in. You might begin with
Cody.”
“And who is Cody?” the artist asked.
“Why, Cody is Buffalo Bill!”—Salsbury almost screamed, he was so amazed.
“And does he speak English?”
It may be admitted, in explanation, that some artists are as ignorant as
idiots of anything but their own profession. But list to a tale of an
American lady and an English clergyman who was an Oxford graduate and a
great reader. He was also of charming manner and conversed brilliantly.
The lady was the first American he had ever met, and he confessed to
her that he was startled by her complexion, for he had supposed that
all inhabitants of this country were copper-colored! When she spoke of
driving near her own home the clergyman said:
“Er—may I ask if you drive the native animals?”
“‘The native animals?’” the mystified lady echoed.
“Yes;—the elk, and moose, and buffalo, you know.”
A notable “character” of the Wild West organization was Major Burke.
He was so witty and genial that every one liked him at first sight.
The Indians almost worshiped him and his authority over them was
unquestioned. He had been made a member of one tribe by the “blood
brotherhood” ceremony, but it had not needed this to make him regarded
as “big medicine” by all the others. He had been associated with Buffalo
Bill ever since “The Prairie Waif” days, and, though his nominal
position with the Wild West was that of press-agent, he was an all-round
and indispensable part of the management. His quick wits have served on
many occasions to put an end to difficulties which less able men would
have endured. For instance, on one occasion a number of women were
standing on the front benches and obstructing the view of a hundred or
more people behind them. Burke shouted,—though his voice was smooth and
exquisitely modulated,—
“Will the beautiful young lady in front please sit down?” And
twenty-eight women dropped as one.
Long before he went on the stage Colonel Cody had earned several
desirable reputations in the West. One was as a stage-driver, in which
capacity he was so much talked of that several Englishmen who went West
insisted on riding in his coach. They made so much fuss about it, even in
anticipation, that Bill resolved to give them a ride they would remember
as long as they lived. His only special preparation was to fill his
pockets with pebbles. The four mules started at a good pace, at which the
passengers expressed delight. At the first down-grade, the driver pelted
the mules furiously with the pebbles; their rough hides would have been
insensible to the whip. Soon the pace became terrific, for the shower of
pebbles continued; Cody looked back, saw the Englishmen huddled on the
front seat, and shouted:
“Sit on the back seat!”
“It’s no use, old chap,” one of the frightened tourists replied. “We’ve
just left there.”
When Cody is not acting or riding or fighting Indians or ranching or
asleep he is likely to be telling stories, and he has so many that it
is hard for him to tell any story twice, unless by special request. One
that has been frequently called for is of an Eastern man who was employed
by Colonel Cody out West. The man had not been out long enough to know
the illusive tricks of the clear atmosphere of the plains and hills.
A picturesque mountain, that seemed only a mile away, interested him
so greatly that he started early one morning to visit it and return by
breakfast time. He didn’t return for three days. A few days later the
colonel saw him beside an irrigating ditch, and asked him what he was
going to do, for the man was taking off his clothes.
“I’m goin’ to swim across this river,” was the reply.
“Swim? Why don’t you jump it? It’s only three feet wide.”
“Ye-es; I know it looks that way, but I ain’t goin’ to be fooled again.”
One evening, at the Hoffman House, he told this story to two or three
friends with whom he was spending the evenings while he was General
Sheridan’s chief of scouts. There was “a little affair” in camp at which
every one present got drunk but Cody; he had determined to keep sober,
and succeeded. Toward morning he went to the cottage where he lived,
rapped on the window, and made himself known, and his wife, who refused
to open the door, said:
“Go away, whoever you are. Colonel Cody isn’t home yet.” At this point of
the story Cody laughed and continued:
“Boys, I’d gone home sober, and my wife didn’t know me! I went back to
the camp, got as full as any one else, returned to my house, approached
the door unsteadily, fumbled the latch, and my wife’s voice greeted me,
saying:
“‘Is that you, Willie?’”
When this story ended, we started from the Hoffman House for the Lambs’
Club, which was then in Twenty-sixth Street. With Cody and me were Steele
Mackaye and Judge Gildersleeve, both of whom were tall, strong men. As we
neared the club we met a crowd of very tough-looking men, and stood aside
to let them pass, which they did, to my great relief. Then my companions
got the laugh on me, for I remarked with earnest confidence:
“I’d like to see any four men get away with _us_!”
XIV
THE ART OF ENTERTAINING
Not as Easy as it Would Seem.—Scarcity of Good Stories for
the Purpose.—Drawing-room Audiences are Fastidious.—Noted
London Entertainers.—They are Guests of the People Who Engage
Them.—London Methods and Fees.—Blunders of a Newly-wed Hostess
from America.—Humor Displaces Sentiment in the Drawing-room.—My
Own Material and Its Sources.
An entertainer always leaves a pleasant impression on other men;
otherwise he is not an entertainer. Sometimes his gestures and manner are
more effective than his words. Yet he is not necessarily an actor. He is
a sort of half-brother of the man on the stage, for, like the actor, he
must endeavor to please his entire audience. The humorous paper or book,
if it is not to the reader’s taste, may be dropped in an instant, but in
a crowded hall or drawing-room one must listen, unless he is deaf.
So the entertainer must be very careful in selecting his material.
Hundreds of jokes that are good in themselves and decent enough to tell
to one’s wife and children are called vulgar by some people who aren’t
noted for refinement in other ways. Other stories that are all right
to try on your minister when you invite him to dinner, are shockingly
irreverent to some folks who never go to church. Every man knows of
honest hearty jokes that he wouldn’t venture when ladies are present, but
entertainers know of some stories told by good women that would make all
the men in a drawing-room face toward the wall. Selecting stories for
society is almost as dangerous as umpiring a baseball game.
John Parry was the original entertainer in England, a country so loyal to
whoever amuses it that it honors its favorites, even after they have lost
the power of pleasing. He wrote many sketches for use in drawing-rooms
and became very popular and successful. The entertainers most in vogue in
England, until recently, were Corney Grain, a six-footer, who died about
three years ago and George Grossmith, whom many Americans remember and
who was quite prominent in connection with D’Oyley Carte productions of
the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. These gentlemen, both of fine appearance
and manner, had their fill of engagements throughout the London season,
going from one drawing-room to another and always hailed with delight.
Their monologues never wearied, no matter how oft-repeated, for it is an
amiable characteristic of the Englishman, that he can never get too much
of a good thing. The American goes so far to the other extreme that he
will stand something awfully bad if it is only new.
In England, the jester’s arrangements are made with great ease and
simplicity. There are no annoying business details. His terms of
fifteen or twenty pounds an evening are already known, so money is not
mentioned by him or his host and there is no attempt at “beating down,”
such as sometimes occurs in bargaining America. He goes to the house
and the table as a guest and is treated as an equal by the hostess and
her company, when he is making his adieus, which he does soon after
completing his monologue, a sealed envelope is handed him, or the money
reaches him at his hotel in the morning, and let me say right here for
this custom, that in my own hundreds of English engagements I never lost
a penny through bad pay.
Some of the more wealthy people do not limit themselves to the customary
prices. For instance, Baron de Rothschild often pays sixty pounds for an
entertainment not lasting more than ten minutes—a little matter of thirty
dollars a minute, and by a strange coincidence, he never fails to get the
entertainer he wants; some hosts do.
Most of my own London engagements are in May and June, up to July when
the Goodwood races end the season. They are made some time in advance,
the only preliminary on my part being a batch of letters I send off
when my steamer reaches Queenstown. The fast mail reaches London before
me, so by the time I reach my hotel, some replies are awaiting me. The
receptions usually begin at ten in the evening. The hostess does not
announce me formally, as if she owned me, body, soul and breeches, but
asks graciously if Mr. Wilder will not kindly favor the company with some
of his interesting experiences or reflections. Then I mount the piano,
or a chair, if the affair is a dinner party, and the other guests listen
politely, instead of all beginning to talk on their own account.
Entertainers almost never are subjected to snubs or other rudeness; when
such unpleasantnesses occur they are promptly resented. An American woman
who had “married into the nobility” invited me to come to her house
at half past nine in the evening. I naturally assumed that this meant
dinner. When I arrived, the flunkey took me into the parlor and left me
there, saying Lady So-and-so and her guests were at dinner. I waited
some moments, but as no one came to relieve me of my embarrassment, I
rang the bell, requested the flunkey to take my card to his mistress and
say I had been invited at that hour and had arrived. Word came back that
“my lady” would be up in a few minutes. Then the ladies came into the
drawing-room, leaving the gentlemen to their wine and cigars; those who
knew me, the Princess Mary of Teck was one of them, greeted me kindly,
but my hostess and countrywoman did not seem to think me worthy of notice.
Then my American spirit rose to boiling point. I called my cab and was
bowling down the street when a panting servant overtook me and gasped:
[Illustration: “My cab was bowling down the Street.”]
“Lady Blank would like to see you a moment, sir.”
“Oh, would she?” I replied. When I returned I found the fair American
in great distress. She wanted to know why I had deserted her at the
critical moment, and when I told her bluntly that I was not in the habit
of going to houses where I was not welcomed as a guest, she assured
me her rudeness was unintentional, it was due to her ignorance of the
custom, etc., etc., and she begged me not to leave her in the lurch. Of
course, I pretended to be pacified, but the story got around London and
did me much good, which is more than it did for her ladyship.
A peculiar thing about the English sense of humor is that although it is
there and of full size, one must sometimes search hard to find it. Some
types of American joking are utterly wasted on the Englishman.
The English greatly prefer burlesques on American characteristics to
those on their own ways. I can’t call this a peculiarity, although
Americans specially like to see themselves and their own people “hit
off,” even if some one is hit hard. I am glad to say that although I am
given to personalities, and exaggeration, I try never to cast ridicule
on the people of whom I talk and I have never knowingly hurt any one’s
feelings by my character sketches.
In London the theatres are almost countless and are steadily increasing
in number, and comedy, burlesque and farce are the rule—all because of
the demand for fun. The English enjoy eating and sleeping more than any
other people on earth, but English chops and sleep without some fun
between, are as sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal, for dyspepsia will
knock out the chops and insomnia will knock out sleep. But fun takes
dyspepsia on one knee and insomnia on the other and bounces both into
forgetfulness.
Since the days when Ward McAllister came into style, there has been a
marked change in the work of the American jester. Time was, when here, as
in England, any old thing would do for parlor entertainments, no matter
how often it had been heard before. It did not even have to be funny,
either; who can exaggerate the number of times he heard “Curfew Shall Not
Ring To-night,” in those good old times? Now, however, the entertainer
must continually supply something new, or he will fall by the wayside.
It must be something funny too; people used to crowd lecture rooms, and
enjoy serious talks by great men—the greatest in the land, but whoever
hears a lecture-course now? Fun—fun—fun, is the demand everywhere, so
every entertainer is a joker.
In fact, to speak with my customary modesty, this demand for amusement
places Mr. Depew and me on the same footing. Often I get letters from
people who say they expect my friend the Senator, but, if he cannot come,
will want me to fill the gap. Not long ago Mr. Depew cheated me out of
a famous dinner at Delmonico’s, so I grumbled a bit when I met him. He
got off the big, hearty laugh, on which he has a life patent, with no
possible infringement in sight, and replied,
“Why, Marsh, why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known it, I wouldn’t have
gone.”
[Illustration: “Enjoying serious talks by great men.”]
Ha, ha, pretty good, wasn’t it?
Where do I get the material for my own sketches? From the originals every
time. I pick it up in the streets, in the cars and restaurants, get it
from the newsboys, from men of all sorts on the curb-stone, from almost
everywhere, but never from books or newspapers, for the world is full of
fun if one only has the ear to hear it.
When I get hold of a new thing that seems to be good, I always “try it on
the dog”—that is, on my friends. I take it down to the Lambs’ Club and
work it off on some of the good fellows there. If I escape alive with it,
I inveigle a couple of newsboys into a dark corner and have them sample
it. If it “goes” with them, I am pretty sure it is good, so I add it to
my repertoire; but if it fails there, I never disagree with my critics;
it is damned—absolutely, no matter who may think it might be made to work.
Few Americans are busier than the successful entertainer. His hands
are full of the work of brightening up the heavy parts of the social
affairs that crowd the long winter afternoon and evenings, so with
hurrying between New York, Boston and Chicago, with occasional moves to
Philadelphia and Baltimore, he is kept “on the jump.” Yet the public
hears little of his work, for it is not advertised. Why, not long ago I
went to a large party at a house only three blocks from my apartments,
and I am sure thirty or forty of the guests had never heard my name
before.
Such is fame.
XV
IN THE SUNSHINE WITH GREAT PREACHERS
I am Nicknamed “The Theological Comedian.”—My Friend, Henry
Ward Beecher.—Our Trip Through Scotland and Ireland.—His
Quickness of Repartee.—He and Ingersoll Exchange
Words.—Ingersoll’s Own Sunshine.—De Witt Talmage on the
Point of View.—He Could Even Laugh at Caricatures of His Own
Face.—Dr. Parkhurst on Strict Denominationalism.
Nat Goodwin once nicknamed me “The Theological Comedian,” because many of
my entertainments were given in churches. On such occasions a minister
would generally preface the proceedings with prayer—whether that I, or
the people, might be strengthened for the ordeal I never was able to
discover. But the ministers always laughed at every joke I cracked, so
there is a very warm spot in my heart for them.
One of the first of the profession I ever met was Henry Ward Beecher.
I became well acquainted with him and—of far more consequence, he was
always friendly, fatherly and merry when I met him. I had the pleasure
of traveling through Scotland and Ireland with him, and no man could
have been better company. Yet he was not traveling merely for pleasure.
Wherever he went and was known the people welcomed him effusively,
insisted on hearing from him, so whenever he spoke in a church or
Sunday-school he had a crowded house.
[Illustration: “Getting Properly Dismal for Sunday.”]
We spent one Sunday together in Glasgow, and the depression of that city
on the holy day cannot be imagined. I have heard that some Scotchmen
get full of bad whiskey on Saturday night for the sole purpose of being
properly dismal on Sunday, but perhaps that is not true. But the street
cars do not run; there is no sign of animation; the very houses look as
dull as if they were untenanted; to a person accustomed to the cheer and
bright faces of Americans on Sunday the town seemed enveloped in the
gloom of death.
In the morning I awoke very early; I veritably believe that the appalling
silence disturbed my slumbers. I felt so lonely and dismal that I
instinctively went over to Mr. Beecher’s room; better a drowsy American
than a whole city full of wide-awake Scotchmen—on a Scotch Sunday. Mr.
Beecher was also awake, though in bed, and in spite of the morning being
quite chilly he lay with one toe uncovered. I said:
“Mr. Beecher, aren’t you afraid of catching cold?”
“Oh, no,” he replied, “I always sleep that way.” I was greatly mystified
at this, and asked him the reason. He laughed—and what a laugh he had! It
was as big and solid and enduring as the Berkshire hills amid which he
was born. Then he replied:
“Marshall, that toe is the key to the situation.”
In Ireland we went about a good deal together in jaunting cars and
extracted a lot of high-grade Hibernian wit from the drivers. Although
Mr. Beecher was one of the sensible souls who could discern the
difference between poverty and misery, he had an American’s innate soft
spot in his heart for a man in rags, so he overpaid our drivers so
enormously that Mrs. Beecher, who was with us, begged that she might be
allowed to do the disbursing.
One day we were driven to our hotel in Belfast through a drizzling rain.
When I paid the driver I said:
“Are you wet, Pat?” With a merry twinkle of his eye he replied:
“Sure, your honor, if I was as wet outside as I am inside, I’d be as dry
as a bone.”
Mr. Beecher’s quickness at repartee, of which Americans knew well, was
entirely equal to Irish demands upon it. One day in Ireland, after he had
made an address to a Sunday-school, a bewitching young colleen came up to
where we stood chatting and said:
“Mr. Beecher, you have won my heart.”
“Well,” replied the great man quickly, with a sunburst of a smile, “you
can’t get along without a heart, so suppose you take mine?”
Which reminds me of the day when he and Col. “Bob” Ingersoll were on the
platform together at a public meeting and Beecher went over and shook
hands heartily with the great agnostic, though he knew that the act would
bring a storm of criticism from people with narrow-gauge souls. Then
Ingersoll brought up one of his daughters and introduced her, saying:
“Mr. Beecher, here is a girl who never read the Bible.” Bob delighted in
shocking ministers, but he missed his fun that time, for Beecher quickly
replied:
“If all heathen were so charming I am sure we should all become
missionaries.”
Ingersoll himself was as quick as the quickest at repartee. One day a
malignant believer in an awful time for the wicked after death asked him:
“Are you trying to abolish hell?”
[Illustration: “If all Heathen were as Charming.”]
“Yes,” said Ingersoll.
“Well, you can’t do it.”
“You’ll be sorry if I don’t,” the Colonel replied.
Agnostic though he was, Ingersoll is frequently quoted by preachers,
for in one respect he was very like the best of them; he never wearied
of urging men to right living, not through fear of eternal punishment,
but because goodness is its own excuse for being. No pastor was ever
more severe than he in condemnation of everything mean and wicked in
human life, so he was worthy of place among the great teachers of
ethics. Personally he was as kind, sympathetic and helpful as some
ministers are not; whatever he thought of systematic theology, he was
practically a teacher of the brotherhood of man as defined by the founder
of Christianity. In his lighter moments he was one of the merriest
companions that any one could meet; no matter what he had to say, he
would always illustrate it with a story. One day he was talking of people
who have a knack of saying the right thing at the wrong time, and told
the following, as a sample:
A well-to-do merchant out west lived in a town not remarkable for much
but malaria and funerals. His wives had a way of dying, and whenever he
lost one he went into another county and married again. A loquacious lady
in the healthy county kindly assisted him in finding young women who were
willing to marry him and take the chances. About six months after burying
his fourth wife he appeared again in the healthy county, called on his
friend and was greeted with:
“How’s your wife, Mr. Thompson?”
“She’s dead,” he replied sadly.
“What? Dead again?” the woman cried.
Ingersoll was full of stories hinging on the place he believed did not
exist. Here is one of them:
[Illustration: “His Wives had a Way of Dying.”]
A man who wanted to visit hell was advised to buy an excursion ticket. He
did so, and when the train stopped at a place full of beautiful trees,
warbling birds and bright sunshine he did not get off. The conductor said:
“I thought you wanted hell?”
“Is this hell?” the passenger asked; “I didn’t think it looked like
this.” Then he walked about and met a man to whom he said:
“I am surprised to find hell such a beautiful place.”
“Well,” the man replied, “you must remember that there have been a
great many clever people here for many years, so the place has greatly
improved. You ought to have seen it when I came here.”
“Indeed? And who are you?”
“I am Voltaire.”
“I am very glad to meet you, Voltaire, and I wish you would do me a
favor.”
“With pleasure. What is it?”
“Get some one to buy my return ticket, please.”
Colonel Ingersoll arrived late one evening at a Clover Club dinner
in Philadelphia, to which he had been invited, and while looking for
his seat he regarded the decorations so admiringly that Governor Bunn
exclaimed:
“You’ve found heaven at last, Colonel, and a place waiting for you.”
At a Lambs’ Club dinner in New York, of which the late Steele MacKaye was
chairman, Ingersoll was formally introduced and made a speech, in the
course of which he made so unfortunate a remark about Deity that he sat
down amid silence so profound as to be painful. MacKaye arose and with
admirable tact brought the Club and the speaker en rapport by saying:
“Gentlemen, we all know that Colonel Ingersoll dare not believe in God,
but those of us who know Colonel Ingersoll and do believe in God know
that _God_ believes in _him_.”
The late T. DeWitt Talmage never lost a chance to emphasize a point with
a good story. As I knew him to be a good man and a first-rate fellow, I
used to be indignant at newspaper abuse of him, and particularly with
some caricatures that were made of his expressive features. I took
occasion to tell him of this, but he replied:
“Marshall, I’m as thick-skinned as a rhinoceros, and I never mind what is
said about me. Some of the caricatures annoy me, but only because they
pain people I love—my wife and family. You see, my boy, it doesn’t pay to
be too sensitive, for it breaks a man up, and that’s the worst thing that
can happen to him if he has any duties in the world. Besides, everything
depends on the point of view. Once a German family emigrated to America
and settled in Milwaukee. The oldest son, in his teens, concluded he
would start out for himself. He ‘fetched up’ in New York, and without
any money, so he wrote home, ‘Dear father, I am sick and lonely and
without a single cent. Send me some money quick. Your son John.’ The old
man couldn’t read, so he took the letter to a friend—a great strapping
butcher with a loud gruff voice and an arrogant manner of reading. When
the letter was read to him the father was furious and declared he would
not send his son a cent—not even to keep him from starving. But on his
way home he kept thinking about the letter and wanting to hear it again,
so he took it to another friend—a consumptive undertaker who had a gentle
voice with an appealing inflection in it. When this man read the letter
the father burst into tears and exclaimed, ‘My poor boy! I shall send him
all the money he wants.’ You see, the same thing viewed from a different
point takes on a different color.”
After the Rev. Dr. Parkhurst visited some notorious New York “dives” and
preached his famous sermon on New York politics he was the sensation of
the day and also one of the best abused men in the land. He was besieged
by reporters until he had scarcely time to say his prayers and came to
hate the sight of a newspaper man. About that time I was making a trip to
Rochester and saw Dr. Parkhurst enter the car I was in. I said to some
friends:
“That is Dr. Parkhurst. Now watch me; I’m going to have some fun with
him.”
His chair was at the other end of the car and he was having a good
time with newspapers and magazines and far away, as he supposed, from
reporters. I passed and repassed him two or three times; then, assuming
as well as I could the manner of a newspaper man I stopped and said:
“Dr. Parkhurst, I believe?”
He looked up with a savage frown, and I saw that he took me for
one of the tormenting fraternity. I continued in an insinuating,
tooth-drawing manner until he became so chilling that I could hear the
thermometer falling with heavy thuds. When I felt that I had made him as
uncomfortable as I could I said,
“Pardon me, Doctor, but evidently you don’t remember me.” Then I handed
him my card. His manner changed like a cloudy day when the sun breaks
through, and he said cordially:
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Wilder. I mistook you for a reporter.”
“I thought, you would,” I replied, “for that’s what I was trying to make
you believe.”
We laughed together and for the remainder of the trip we were
close companions. He is a delightful talker, full of anecdotes and
reminiscences. I never met a keener lover of good stories than he, and,
beside being an appreciative listener, he is so good a raconteur himself
that a listener is willing that he should do all the story telling. He
has no patience with narrow, hide-bound denominationalists; he defined
them by telling me a story of a minister who preached a sermon so
touching that all his hearers were melted to tears—all but one man. When
asked how he had succeeded in keeping his eyes dry the man replied:
“Well, you see, this isn’t my church.”
XVI
THE PRINCE OF WALES
(_Now King Edward VII_)
The Most Popular Sovereign in Europe.—How He Saved Me From a
Master of Ceremonies.—Promotion by Name.—He and His Friends
Delight two American Girls.—His Sons and Daughters.—An
Attentive and Loving Father.—Untiring at His Many Duties
Before He Ascended the Throne.—Unobtrusive Politically, yet
Influential.
If all kings were as competent as the genial and tactful gentleman who
recently ascended the British throne, it would be a thankless job to
start a new republic anywhere. Personally, I have strong grounds for
this opinion, for I had the pleasure of meeting His Majesty many times
while he was Prince of Wales, and these meetings were due entirely to his
kindness of nature and generally were of his own initiative.
I don’t imagine he knew it, but the Prince of Wales once lifted me out
of as uncomfortable a fix as I ever got into in London. The Ancient
and Honorable Artillery, Boston’s swell military organization, visited
England in 1896, as guests of the Ancients and Honorables of London, who
entertained them handsomely and had them presented to Her Majesty the
queen. The Boston company in turn, gave a great dinner to their hosts.
Some Americans then in the city were invited, and I had the good fortune
to be of the number, through the kindness of Mr. B. F. Keith, who was one
of the Boston Ancient and Honorables.
The spectacle was brilliant in the extreme, nine out of every ten men
present being in full dress uniform. The entire assemblage was gathered
informally in two long, glittering rows, awaiting the Prince of Wales,
who was always the soul of punctuality. I had many acquaintances in the
two uniformed bodies, as well as among the non-military guests, and was
moving about from one to another. I was in conventional evening dress,
and had a tiny American flag pinned to the lapel of my coat.
The Master of Ceremonies, whose manner was more consequential than
that of any distinguished person in the room, seemed annoyed that any
civilians were present, and he did his utmost to separate them from the
soldiers. I had the misfortune to become his _bête noire_; whenever he
found me among the military men he gently but persistently pressed me
away, but no sooner did he eject me in one direction than I reappeared
from another and between two pairs of gaily-appareled soldiers’ legs, so
I made the poor fellow nervous and fussy to the verge of distraction.
[Illustration: “I had the misfortune to become his _bête noire_.”]
Exactly at eight o’clock the Prince of Wales was announced and every
one came to attention. He entered with the genial smile which was an
inseparable part of him and shook hands with the American minister and
other dignitaries. Soon he spied me, came across the room, greeted me
very kindly, and said:
“How are you, little chap?”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” I replied.
“I am to hear you to-morrow night at the Duke of Devonshire’s, I
understand,” he continued. “Won’t you give us that mother-in-law
pantomime of yours?”
“Certainly, sir,” I answered; as the Prince left me and ascended the
stairs I saw that the Master of Ceremonies, who had witnessed the
meeting, was visibly disturbed. Soon he literally hovered about me and
displayed a fixed and conciliatory smile. The guests began to follow the
Prince, and as they passed up the stairs many of them greeted me. Senator
Depew remarked:
“Hello, Marshall, how are you?”
That dear old gentleman and English idol, John L. Toole, passed, blinked
merrily at me and said:
“Glad to see you again, Marshall. How are you?”
Presently the Master of Ceremonies turned nervously to an English officer
and asked, with an aggrieved tone in his voice:
“Who is this little chap, anyway? Everybody seems to know him.”
The officer did not chance to know me, but an English Sergeant who was of
the attendant guard and was willing to impart information said:
“He belongs to the American Army. He’s a marshal.” The great functionary
immediately regarded me with profound respect, not unmixed with
wonder at the modesty of great American soldiers, for an officer of my
supposedly exalted rank was entitled to follow close behind His Royal
Highness.
[Illustration: “They regarded me with profound respect.”]
At the Duke of Devonshire’s on the following evening I was assisted by
two young Americans—twin sisters, the Misses Jessie and Bessie Abbot.
Miss Bessie had a wonderful voice, and has since achieved a great success
in Paris in the title part of the opera “Juliet.” Both girls were clever
and charming and we three maintained a friendship which was delightful to
me and which they, too, seemed to enjoy. At that time they were living
in London with their mother, and taking part in private entertainments,
but the evening at the Duke of Devonshire’s was their first appearance
before the Prince of Wales or any of the Royal family. They charmed the
audience and were loaded with compliments, some of which were expressed
by the Princess of Wales in person.
While the Princess was conversing with the sisters she mentioned the
Prince, upon which Miss Jessie said:
“I have not yet met the Prince, but I wish to very much.”
“Oh, have you not?” the Princess exclaimed, as she smilingly regarded
the pretty girl who was unconscious that she had committed a breach of
etiquette. “Then I shall arrange it.” Immediately she walked the entire
length of the long picture gallery in which the entertainment had been
given, found the Prince, came back on his arm, and Miss Jessie’s request
was granted. The Prince, noting the resemblance of the sisters to each
other, asked if they were really twins.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Jessie replied, and then turning to me she continued,
“Aren’t we, Marshall? Her ingenuous manner compelled the Prince to laugh,
after which he said to me:
“You seemed to be posted, little chap.”
Among royal children whom I have had the honor to entertain, none are
more widely known, through their portraits and also by common report,
than the sons and daughters of the present King and Queen of England.
The first time I ever appeared before them was at an exhibition given for
the benefit of the Gordon home for boys. It was a social affair of great
prominence, the audience being composed principally of the royal family
and the nobility. The Prince and Princess of Wales were accompanied
by their children—Prince Albert Victor, who has since died but was
then heir-apparent, Prince George, who is now Prince of Wales, and the
Princesses Louise, Victoria and Maude. Other members of the royal family
in the audience were the Duke of Connaught (brother to the Prince), the
Duke and Duchess of Teck and the Princess Louise of Teck.
I suppose I ought to do the conventional thing by likening King Edward’s
daughters to Washington Irving’s “Three Beautiful Princesses,” but my
first impression of them has remained clear that I frequently revert to
the day I received it—three wholesome, pretty, dainty English little
girls of demure manner, with exquisite complexions, and whose blonde
hair was very long and their simple white frocks rather short. They had
many points of resemblance to one another, but their brothers were quite
dissimilar in one respect, Victor being slight and delicate while George
was sturdy and robust. All seemed to enjoy the entertainment, but did not
forget and lose control of themselves, as well-bred American children
sometimes do in public. Princess Louise of Teck, who is considered the
handsomest of the princesses, was at that time a very beautiful and
attractive child.
I afterward met them all at the Duke of Devonshire’s and found that in
conversation with their elders their manner was marked by the simplicity,
thoughtfulness and kindness inseparable from good breeding. They
frequently rode or drove in the park, accompanied by a lady-in-waiting or
a gentleman of the Queen’s household. The universal respect manifested
for them did not turn their heads in the least; in acknowledgment of
the bared heads about them they did not bow haughtily, but graciously
and kindly, as if grateful for the attention bestowed upon them. It
seemed impossible, to any one who had observed the condescending and
even arrogant manner in public of so many English children whose dress
and equipage indicated parental wealth and station, that the Prince
of Wales’s children could be what they really were—scions of the most
firmly-rooted royal stock in all Europe and that from among them would in
time come an occupant of the only throne whose influence is felt entirely
around the world.
But the key to the mystery was not far to find; one had but to go
back to the parents of these model children—to the Prince of Wales
and his consort, the daughter of a king whose tact and sense are
universally recognized and admired and who to this day, although past
his eighty-sixth birthday, is a model for rulers everywhere. The Prince
of Wales was, as under his new title of King Edward he still is, as
affectionate and attentive a father as can be found in the world. Despite
common report, founded on his affable and leisurely manner in public, he
has for many years been a close student of affairs and a very busy man,
yet there never was a time when his children had not free access to him,
nor when he was not his children’s industrious teacher and mentor. For
years he has been known as the most tactful man in England, and without
a superior in this respect in the world. Speaking literally, royalty is
his life business; it is also to be the life-business of his children,
so he has made it a matter of sense as well as of duty that his sons
and daughters should be prepared to so comport themselves as to make
their royalty secure and themselves safe. History has taught him that
neither great armies nor well-filled coffers can maintain a family on the
throne, and that the only security of a ruler is found in the respect and
affection of the people. While his mother was on the throne he probably
heard thousands of times—indirectly, of course, the common prediction
of “advanced” politicians that he never would succeed her. Probably this
prediction never caused him to lose a single hour of sleep, for he never
allowed himself to neglect one of the thousands of duties that devolved
upon him as his mother’s personal representative. Never obtrusive
politically, he nevertheless became a positive influence in national
politics; he appeared at all public functions that asked royal sanction,
always said and did the right thing, made himself approachable, always
was affable though never lacking in dignity, and gave to every man, great
or simple, the full measure of attention and respect that was due him,
seasoning the same so thoroughly with courtesy as to make a lifelong
admirer of the receiver. He imparted his manner to his sons and daughters
and his consort added to his influence by motherly training similar to
his own. No breath of scandal has ever touched one of these children; in
this respect the family is almost unique, for black sheep are prominent
in almost all royal families of Europe, and one such character is enough
to inflict a lasting smirch on the entire house.
The Prince of Wales whom I met is now King of England and his children
are men and women. His official presence is overshadowing his unofficial
past, almost to the extent of forgetfulness. But no thoughtful observer
will forget that King Edward and his children as they now appear date
back to many years of His Majesty’s life when he was Prince of Wales and
in apparent likelihood of being outlived by his mother.
XVII
SIR HENRY IRVING
A Model of Courtesy and Kindness.—An Early Friend Surprised by
the Nature of His Recognition.—His Tender Regard for Members of
His Company.—Hamlet’s Ghost Forgets His Cue.—Quick to Aid the
Needy.—Two Lucky Boys.—Irving as a Joker.—The Story He Never
Told Me.—Generous Offer to a Brother Actor-manager.—Why He is
Not Rich.
The American people at large know Henry Irving as a great actor,
scores of Americans and hundreds of Englishmen of his own and related
professions know him as one of the most friendly and great-hearted men
alive. Many volumes could be written about his thoughtful kindnesses, and
at least one of them could be filled with mention of his goodness to me,
for, in my many visits to England, he never failed to “look me up” and
show me every kindness in his power—and his power is great. If I were
to go into details regarding myself, I should offend him, for, like any
other genuine man, he does not like his left hand know what his right
hand does, but it shouldn’t hurt for me to tell some open secrets about
his kindness to others.
Lionel Brough often talks of the time when he and Irving, both of
them young men, were members of a company in Manchester. In those days
Irving was a dreamer of dreams and had a fondness for being his own only
company, so his associates made him the butt of many jokes that did not
seem to disturb his self-absorption. He had no intimates in the company,
although he was of lovable nature. Near the theatre was an upholstery
shop, the owner of which became acquainted with Irving, understood him
and loved him, as did the family; they called the young actor “Our
Henry,” always had room and a hearty welcome for him, and in many ways
served as balm to his sensitive nature.
When Irving went to London he did not forget his Manchester friends—not
even after he became a successful and very busy manager. He sent them
frequent evidences of his regard, though he had no time to make visits.
On coming into possession of the Lyceum Theatre he determined to
reupholster every part of it. A large London firm desired the contract
and made estimates but Mr. Irving sent to Manchester for his old friend,
and, as the Irving company was leaving England for a long American tour,
gave the upholsterer _carte blanche_.
On Irving’s return from America be inspected his theatre, was delighted
with the renovation, and asked the upholsterer for the bill. After
looking it over he sent for the London firm that had offered plans and
estimates, and asked them what they would have charged to do what had
been done. They named a sum five times as large as the Manchester man
had charged; Irving discovered later that his old friend had charged
only for materials, the work being “thrown in” for old affection’s sake.
But Irving disregarded the bill entirely and drew a check for twice the
amount of the London firm’s estimate.
But it does not require memories of past kindnesses to open Mr.
Irving’s purse, for he is almost as susceptible to the influence of
old association. He has always maintained a far larger company than
his productions demanded, and retained old members long after their
services would have been dispensed with by a manager at all careful of
his pennies. Many Americans have pleasant remembrances of old “Daddy”
Howe, who died in Cincinnati some years ago while a member of the
Irving company on tour. At a memorable dinner given Mr. Irving by his
professional admirers in America, Mr. Howe arose and told of his offering
to retire when the company was preparing to come to this country, and
how his suggestion was received. Although he was eighty years old at
the time, he had been a member of but three companies, one of which was
Mr. Irving’s. He knew that the expenses of the American tour would be
enormous, and that the small parts for which he was usually cast would
be well played here for far less than his own salary, so his conscience
compelled him to write Mr. Irving saying that he comprehended the
situation and would either retire or accept less pay. As he received no
reply, he repeated his suggestion in person to Mr. Irving.
“Dear me!—Ah! yes!—Well, I’ll let you know presently,” was the evasive
answer from which Howe assumed that he would be retired, so it was with
trembling hands that he opened a note from the manager the next day. He
read:
“Of course I expect you to go to America, and I hope the increase of your
salary will indicate my appreciation and good wishes.”
As Howe told this story his eyes filled and overflowed, but Irving, when
all eyes were turned toward him, looked as if he did not see that there
was anything in the incident to justify the old actor’s emotion or the
applause of every one around the tables.
I am indebted to my friend, Mr. J. E. Dodson, who came over with Mrs.
Kendall’s company, for these stories illustrating Mr. Irving’s manner on
the stage in circumstances which would make almost any manager star drop
into rage and profanity. Here is one of them:
“Old Tom Meade, beloved by all English players, and the best stock ghost
any company ever had, was much given to reading in the dressing-room
between his cues. “Hamlet” was on one night, and after his first
appearance as the murdered king, Meade went to his room for the long
“wait” before the closet scene. With his heels on the table, a black clay
pipe in his mouth and silver spectacles astride his nose he was soon in
the profoundest depths of a philosophical work. The call boy gave him
notice of his cue.
“Uh-yes,” was the reply, but Meade went on reading. Several minutes later
there was feverish excitement in the wings and messengers from the stage
manager poured into Meade’s room; the lights had been lowered, the stage
was enveloped in blue haze, but there was no ghost! Dropping his book,
Meade hurried to the stage, but in his excitement he entered on the wrong
side, and almost behind Hamlet. It was too late to go around to the other
side, so Meade whispered huskily to Mr. Irving:
“Here, sir, here—just behind you!”
About this time the man who managed the calcium light succeeded in
locating the dilatory ghost and in throwing the blue haze upon him, as
Hamlet exclaimed:
“See where he goes e’en now, out at the portal!”
Poor Meade was in agony until he was able to speak to Mr. Irving.
“Gov’n’r,” he faltered, “reading in my dressing-room—heard call, but
forgot. Rushed to wrong side of stage, sir. Never happened before—never
will again, sir. And after all, it didn’t go so bad, sir.” For a moment
Mr. Irving looked him through and through, after which he said icily:
“Yes, Tom—but I like it better the other way.”
One day Mr. Irving chanced to meet McIntyre, with whom he had played in
the provinces in his own struggling days. The two men had not met in
years, and Irving’s eyes—marvelous eyes they are, beamed with delight, as
they always do when they see an old companion.
“Well, well, McIntyre!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”—and he
led the way into Haxell’s, where they might have a quiet chat over cigars
and brandy and soda.
“Nothing,” was the comprehensive reply.
“Have you settled on anything?”
McIntyre admitted that he was expecting to play in something at the
Holborn. Before they parted Irving said: “You must come down and have
seats in the house, so you can tell me what you think of us.” Next day he
sent to the Holborn a most cordial letter containing tickets for the two
best seats in the lyceum and an urgent request for another chat. Merely
as an afterthought was this postscript:
“Forgive me for handing you a ten-pound note as a loan at your
convenience. You may need to get something new for the play.” McIntyre’s
feelings may be imagined when I repeat his confession that at that moment
he did not know where his next meal was coming from.
Mr. Irving is very fond of children and—as does not always follow in
other men’s fondness of the same nature, he is very attentive to them.
When he produced “Olivia,” the juvenile part was played by a nine year
old boy who kept himself very clean and tidy, but his street clothes were
so old that extreme poverty was evident. One night Mr. Irving asked:
“Where do you live, my lad?”
“Beyond Hammersmith, sir”—a London section some miles from the theatre.
“And how do you get home?”
“I walk, sir,” the boy replied, surprised by the inquiry.
“Yes, yes. But after this you must ride”—and Mr. Irving ordered that
the boy should be supplied with bus fares thereafter. Later Mr. Irving
noticed that the boy had a troubled look on his face. Asked if he didn’t
enjoy riding, he confessed that he had been walking to save his ’bus
fares, for his mother was ill and his father out of work. An order was
given that the boy’s salary should be raised; throughout the summer,
though the company was not playing, the child continued to receive his
salary, at Irving’s personal order.
Still more significant of his cherishing regard for children is a
story of how he squandered time—more carefully guarded on the stage
than anything else,—to make a boy happy. It occurred in a one-act
piece—“Cramond Brig,” in which there is a supper-scene in a cottage, a
steaming sheep’s head and an oat-cake are brought in and the cottar’s
little son is supposed to do boyish justice to the feast. The little
chap who played the part did not look as if he had eaten more than his
allowance, which was not to be wondered at; stage feasts are not prepared
by chefs, and the sheep’s head was indifferently cooked, the only stage
demand being that it should send up a cloud of steam and look piping hot.
One night, when the meat chanced to be well cooked, Mr. Irving noted that
the boy entered into the spirit of the scene with extreme realism, so
with a smile at the youngster’s energy he asked:
“Like it, me boy? Ah, yes; I thought so. Boys are always hungry.”
No sooner was that hungry boy out of hearing than Mr. Irving ordered
that the sheep’s head and oat-cake should in future be properly seasoned
and carefully cooked; still more, he informed the players that the
supper-scene was not to be hurried, but was to be governed by the boy’s
appetite. And how that boy did enjoy the change!—though Mr. Irving seemed
to get as much pleasure out of the feast as he.
“Old John,” Irving’s personal servant and dressing-room valet, used to
go on a spree about once a year. With the fatality peculiar to such men,
his weakness took possession of him on a night of “The Lyon’s Mail”—a
play in which the leading character must make so rapid a change that
quick and sober hands must assist him. Just as the change was impending
poor John stole into the theatre and stood in the wings with comb, brush
and other necessary articles hugged to his breast, though he was plainly
incompetent to use them. He cut a ludicrous figure, though the time was
not one for fun—not for the star. Mr. Irving grasped the situation;
almost any other actor in similar circumstances would have grasped the
valet also and shaken the life out of him. Irving merely said mildly—very
mildly:
“John, you’re tired. Go home.”
Almost any man possessing a sense of humor has one and only one way of
manifesting it, but in humor as on the stage Mr. Irving is protean. In
the course of a long chat which he and Richard Mansfield had one night
at the Garrick Club, Mansfield spoke of his noted Jekyll-and-Hyde part,
which was very long yet called for but two notes of his voice—a severe
physical strain, and he said:
[Illustration: “John, you’re tired.”]
“You know, Mr. Irving, it is longer than your great speech in Macbeth. I
have been advised by our New York physicians not to do it.”
Irving looked thoughtful for a moment or two, which is a long period of
silence for an eloquent man. Then he asked:
“My boy, why _do_ you do it?”
Members of the Dramatists’ Club (New York) still recall with delight a
story he once told them and which promised a brilliant climax that they
could distinctly foresee. The end was quite as effective as they had
imagined, yet it was entirely different and consisted of but two words.
Irving can turn even his peculiarities to account in story-telling.
Like any other man of affairs he had sudden and long periods of
absent-mindedness—which means that his mind is for the time being not
only not absent but on the contrary is entirely present and working at
the rate of an hour a minute. One day while we were driving together he
turned to me and said:
“Marshall, I have a story you can add to your repertoire—a very quaint
one.” Then he went into deep thought and we had gone fully a block before
he spoke again; then he said:
“And you know——”
Then we went another block, then farther, but suddenly he asked:
“Now wasn’t that droll?” It certainly was, no matter what it was, if
he said so, but he still owes me the story, for he had told it only to
himself.
Such details of Irving’s thoughtfulness—almost fatherly solicitude, for
other members of his profession, as have become generally known are but
a small fraction of what might be told had not the beneficiaries been
begged to hold their tongues. But here is one that was made public by
my friend, E. S. Willard, an English actor already referred to and very
popular in America. To realize its significance, one must imagine himself
an American manager with an appreciative eye for Lyceum successes. At a
dinner given at Delmonico’s by Willard to Irving, Mr. Willard said:
“When he heard of my first venture into the United States, Mr. Irving,
without telling me of it, wrote a lot of friends over here that I was
not a bad sort of chap, and they might look after me a bit. He gathered
around me the night before I left London, a lot of his friends whom he
knew I would like to meet. When I was about to leave the room he took me
aside and said:
“‘If you find when you get to the other side that your plays don’t carry,
or that the American people don’t take to them, just cable me one word.
Here is my new play at the Lyceum, a beautiful success, and you shall
have it—words, music and all, as soon as the steamer can get it to you.’”
[Illustration: “My boy, why _do_ you do it?”]
It is not generally known that before being knighted Sir Henry Irving had
twice refused a title, and accepted only after he had been convinced,
by men prominent in other professions, that his “elevation,” as the
English call it, would redound to the benefit of the profession at large.
Personally the rank could have placed him no higher socially than he
already was, for ever since he became known he has been surrounded by an
aristocracy of brains. He will not and cannot be patronized, and, through
the lasting respect which he has earned, he has done wonders for the
dignity of the actors’ calling. His title has not changed his manner in
any way. His great dinners on the stage of the Lyceum and his lunches at
the Beefsteak Club are matters of history. His social engagements are as
numerous as ever; often he does not retire until three or four o’clock
in the morning, generally to arise in time to conduct a rehearsal at
ten, so his duties require an executive genius equal in degree to his
artistic endowment.
It is strange to many people that a man of Mr. Irving’s business ability
and personal popularity should be in comparatively poor circumstances
instead of having acquired a fortune. He lives plainly, in hired
rooms, not indulging in the luxury of a house of his own, with horses,
carriages, etc. He spends money freely for books, and professionally for
anything that may enhance the effect of his art and that of his theatre.
But the few incidents cited above, are illustrations of the manner in
which thousands of pounds have leaked from his pockets and show that it
is bigness of heart that keeps Henry Irving from being a rich man.
XVIII
LONDON THEATRES AND THEATRE-GOERS
Why English and American Plays do Best at Home.—The Intelligent
Londoner Takes the Theatre Seriously.—Play-going as a Duty.—The
High-class English Theatre a Costly Luxury.—American Comedies
Too Rapid of Action to Please the English.—Bronson Howard’s
“Henrietta” Not Understood in London.—The Late Clement Scott’s
Influence and Personality.
I believe I can explain why most English plays have failed to please
American audiences, and that I have discovered the reason of the
appalling apathy with which Londoners usually receive an American play.
When I say “Londoners” I refer to the better class. The common people
flock to the comedies, farces and burlesques, of which London is full;
they laugh at whatever is placed before them and demand a lot more of
the same kind. But the educated, well-bred Englishman makes a serious
matter of theatre-going. He goes to the play with the same face that he
displays in “the city,” as the business section of London is called. He
changes his clothes, for it is bad form not to be in evening dress when
one goes to a London theatre of the better class. But he does not change
his face. Play-going is as much a duty with him, as business is, and I am
inclined to believe it is quite as much of a bore. However that may be,
it is a matter of his serious daily routine. He goes to the theatre to
think; goes as solemnly as an American on his way to church.
Indeed, the talk one overhears in the lobby and stalls of a high class
English theatre recall some church experiences to an American. The play
is analyzed; so are its parts, as if the whole thing were a matter of
conscience or morals, as occasionally it is. A “problem” play which would
drive Americans out of a theatre, unless in Boston, where they would doze
through the performance, trusting to the morning papers for points enough
to talk about, will make its way to the profoundest depths of the English
heart and head.
It must not be inferred that English gentlemen and ladies do not enjoy
good comedies. They are grateful for anything that is humorous and witty,
but they regard such performances as mere relishes or dessert; the _pièce
de rêsistance_ must be solid.
The best London audiences are drawn from the fashionable set—the “smart
set,” all members of which attend the theatre whenever their evenings are
unoccupied by social duties. There are no matinées—by name; the English
say “morning performance,” which means the same thing; and of course
“morning” means afternoon, for the fashionable set turn night into day so
successfully, that the old fashioned morning is gone before they get out
of bed.
[Illustration: “He reads what the papers say about it.”]
Only a man of good income can afford steady theatre-going on the English
plan. His seat costs him about $2.75, and his program twenty-five cents
more; to these expenses must be added cab fares both ways, for your
Londoner won’t walk more than a block after dark, if he can help it.
After he has seen and heard the performance he talks a lot about it,
and thinks it over, and next day reads what the papers say about it, and
these say as much and say it as seriously as if the playhouses were of as
much importance as the House of Parliament. Only recently have American
literary weeklies taken up the theatres, but the Englishman has seen
solemn critiques of plays in the _Athenæum_ and _Academy_ ever since he
began to read those papers.
The well-to-do American wants change, relaxation and fun when he goes to
the theatre. He is fully as intellectual as his English cousin and has
quite as keen comprehension of the best dramatic work; this is proved by
his enthusiastic support of all productions of Shakespeare. But a coldly
correct drama with a sad end does not appeal to him, no matter how good
the acting.
American plays are usually too compact and too rapid of action to succeed
on the English stage. Bronson Howard’s brilliant “Henrietta” was highly
praised by the London press and Londoners loyally try to like whatever
their newspaper tells them to. Yet “The Henrietta” did not quite suit.
The audience simply could not understand the character of “Bertie” the
millionaire’s indolent, cheery, stupid son who pretended to be a devil of
a fellow at his club, but really had no head for liquor and tobacco nor
any heart for the society of chorus girls. London society has many young
men with some one of Bertie’s peculiarities, but the combination—why, as
one Londoner said: “No chap can be so many things, don’t you know.”
Even Mr. J. L. Shine, the accomplished actor who played the part, did
not seem to understand it. Another mistake was with “The little English
Lord,” as he was called in the play—a lordling whom a rich American girl
had married. Here he was a fussy little fellow, an undersized dude—a
caricature, in fact, and made no end of fun, but on the London stage he
was the real thing, and taken seriously. The management seemed to be
afraid to travesty so sacred a personage as a noble lord. I imagine this
was a mistake, for at least a portion of the British people had been so
far emancipated as to appreciate fun poked at the “hupper classes.”
I have mentioned London’s respect for dramatic criticism. Let us admit
for a moment that London is the centre of the universe—the great wheel
that sets all the rest in motion, and that what is successful there ought
to succeed everywhere else—even if it doesn’t. Then, in logical sequence,
let us understand that the greatest critic of the metropolis can make or
break any “attraction,” and that this commanding position was held by the
late Clement Scott,—poet, _littérateur_ and playwright, for more than a
quarter of a century and have we not practically admitted that Mr. Scott
was theatrical dictator of the universe?
Even logic is sometimes at fault. I remember being taught at school
that dry bread was better than heaven, because dry bread is better than
nothing and nothing is better than heaven—see? This is not cited to imply
that what I have said of Clement Scott is wrong, but to convince the
skeptical that all men cannot be expected to reason alike.
There was no doubt of the greatness of the London _Daily Telegraph’s_
critic, for nothing was easier of comprehension. He was a master of
word-painting; the grace and truthfulness of his word-pictures were
evident to the most careless reader. There was nothing vulgar or flippant
in anything he wrote, and irrelevant witticisms, such as many would-be
critics indulge in, were entirely lacking in his work. Slow to condemn,
when he corrected a player the work was done with gracious gentleness,
although his satire, when needed, was biting and deep. In the righting of
wrongs he proved himself utterly fearless, and regardless of consequences
to himself. By this course he made many friends and more enemies. Indeed,
one of his peculiarities was his readiness to make an enemy, if by so
doing he could win a friend.
Mr. Scott was truly a friend to the friendless, a helper of the helpless
and a clever adviser to all. Both he and his wife were very active in
charitable work, but his greatest energies seemed to have been exerted in
securing employment for needy actors and aiding aspiring ones by word and
deed, for he did so much for both classes that his friends wondered how
he found time for anything else. His kindness knew no bounds of nation
or tongue, and the antagonism supposed to exist between Englishmen and
Americans found no echo in his big heart.
In appearance Mr. Scott resembled a rugged oak-tree that has grown so
vigorously in all directions that any part seems fully as strong as any
other. He was rather tall, with broad shoulders that drooped slightly,
and was quite fleshy although not obese. His ears were set far back on
his head and his face, though intellectual, was largely modeled—high
forehead, heavy eyebrows, kind and thoughtful gray eyes, a large nose and
mouth and in his later years a white moustache. His hands, though large,
were so shapely as to command attention.
In manner he was emphatic but never dogmatic, as some members of his
profession are. His prominence was greater than can be imagined in the
United States, where the people seldom know the names of the dramatic
critics whose work they most admire, yet he was as modest and unaffected
as any of his admirers. There was nothing of the _ergo ego_ about him,
nor anything pretentious. Yet there lurked behind his mild, quiet manner
an enthusiasm for work and a scholarly application to work, that were
absolutely remarkable. At the theatre he was the last man whom a stranger
would suspect of being a critic, for the bored look and the feigned
weariness that some of the dramatic reviewers affect were entirely
lacking in him. He did not even make notes on his programme. Men like
Scott do not have to affect wisdom or the resigned look that is supposed
to result from it. I know a young whipper-snapper with a nice, fast-black
bored look that cost years of effort to cultivate. He is said to wrap it
in a silk handkerchief and keep it in a bureau drawer when not in use,
but he never forgets to dust it and have it properly adjusted when he
calls on a lady or attends the theatre.
Clement Scott was not that kind of man. He had some little peculiarities,
like all men of genius but they were neither affected nor obtrusive. The
most noticeable of these was a habit of saying “yes, yes,” and “what?”
continually. Some of his gestures were a bit odd and he had an amusing
way of belittling his own work. He said to me one day,
“I make no money from my books. It is all I can do to give them away.”
[Illustration: “A nice fast-black bored look that cost years of effort to
cultivate.”]
He had the coziest possible little home at 15 Woburn Square, London,
and a wife who would reflect honor on any mansion in the land. Her
portrait hangs before me while I write—the face of an intelligent,
refined, charming English lady, and on its margin is written “Yours in
all faith, Margaret Clement Scott.” That describes her perfectly—“in all
faith” she was the best possible helper to her husband, aiding him in
his correspondence, taking proper care of his memoranda, writing at his
dictation and assisting him in many other ways.
In Mr. Scott’s study were many hundred valuable books, some of which
are very rare, and a great collection of curios. One of the walls was
hung with old prints of noted theatrical people of earlier generations;
another with fine china. The room was richly furnished and had an air
of oriental luxury which, combined with picturesque disorder, was more
than charming—it was bewilderingly bewitching. In one corner was an
interesting souvenir in a frame; his first letter of credential as
dramatic critic, and was given by the _Sunday Times_, with which he was
first connected; he went to the _Telegraph_ in 1872.
Mr. Scott was playwright as well as critic and had several plays
successfully produced—“Tears, Idle Tears,” an adaptation from Marcel;
“Peril,” taken from Sardou’s “Nos Intimes,” “Diplomacy,” written in
collaboration with B. C. Stephenson; “Sister Mary,” of which Wilson
Barrett was part author; “Jack in the Box” (with George R. Sims); “The
Cape Mail,” “Serge Panine,” adapted from Georges Ohnet for Mrs. Langtry,
“The Swordsman’s Daughter,” in which Brandon Thomas had a hand and
“Denise,” in collaboration with Sir Augustus Harris. Among his published
books are “Round About the Islands”; “Poppyland”; “Pictures of the
World”; “Among the Apple Orchards”; “Over the Hills and Far away”; “The
Land of Flowers”; “Thirty Years at the Play”; “Dramatic Table Talk”; “The
Wheel of Life”; “Lays of a Londoner”; “Lays and Lyrics”; “Theatrical
Addresses” and his famous “Patriot Songs.”
XIX
TACT
An Important Factor of Success.—Better than Diplomacy.—Some
Noted Possessors of Tact.—James G. Blaine.—King Edward
VII.—Queen Alexandra.—Henry Ward Beecher.—Mme. Patti.—Mrs.
Ronalds.—Mrs. Cleveland—Mrs. Langtry.—Colonel Ingersoll.—Mrs.
Kendall.—General Sherman.—Chauncey M. Depew.—Mrs. James Brown
Potter.—Mme. Nordica.
I have had the good fortune to meet a great many distinguished people,
and the misfortune of hearing many of these talked of afterward as
if human greatness was merely a machine, which had some peculiar
secret of motion. I don’t like to listen to analyses of my friends and
acquaintances; it is too much like vivisection; it is unkind to the
subject and hardens whoever conducts the operation.
Besides, I have a theory of my own as to greatness. It is that tact is
generally the secret. Almost all famous men and women admit that certain
other people are superior to them at their own special work. They will
attribute some of their success to luck and some to accident, but the
close observer can usually see that tact has had far more influence than
either, for success depends largely on getting along well with other
people, and nothing but tact can assure this.
Diplomacy alone cannot take the place of tact, for it comes only from
the head; tact is from the heart. The prominent people to whom I refer
did not lack great qualities of head; they would have failed without
them, but these alone would have been insufficient without the softer
sense—“The inmost one,” as Hawthorne named it; the quality to which
Oliver Wendell Holmes referred when he said—“I am getting in by the side
door.” Diplomacy, as distinguished from tact, is something with a string
to it: or playing for a place; tact is a subtle, timely touch from the
heart.
A few years ago I returned from Europe on the steamer with Mr. James G.
Blaine. Every one on board wanted to talk with him and learn of things
which taste and prudence forbade his mentioning. Yet Mr. Blaine was so
tactful throughout this ordeal, that no one suffered a rebuff and every
one became his friend. He went further by discovering the good but
shrinking people who in a great ship became isolated, and bringing them
into the general company and conversation. Yet all the while he was a
model to many other married men on board by his constant and knightly
courtesy to his own wife.
I have referred elsewhere to the tact of King Edward VII of Great
Britain, the most popular sovereign in Europe. This quality is not
restricted to public purposes; his acquaintances know that it is
untiringly exercised for the benefit of Queen Alexandra, of whose
deafness he is never unmindful. Often, when I had the honor to entertain
the royal family and their friends, it was my duty to face the King (then
Prince of Wales). Sometimes this placed me—embarrassingly too, with my
back to the greater part of the audience. But the Prince was regardless
of custom and his own royal prerogative, when his consort’s enjoyment was
endangered; on one occasion when he saw that the Princess was not hearing
me distinctly, he said softly to me, “Mr. Wilder, kindly turn your face
toward the Princess!”
And Her Royal Highness is as tactful as he. The audience at a special
entertainment given the Shah of Persia in London included the most
distinguished and wealthy people in the city. I was among those
engaged to entertain the Shah, beside whom sat the Princess (now Queen
Alexandra). As His Persian Majesty was ignorant of the English language
it was not strange that he held his programme upside down. This might
have occasioned a laugh and caused the Shah some mortification had not
the Princess deftly turned her own programme upside down and kept it so
during the performance.
[Illustration: “The Shah held His Program Upside Down.”]
One of the “nerviest” illustrations of tact is to the credit of Henry
Ward Beecher. After the war, he made a lecture tour of the South and
appeared at Mozart Hall, Richmond, with an address entitled, “The
North and The South.” He was rather doubtful as to the reception he
would have but he knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. No
applause welcomed him as he appeared on the platform, but a few hisses
were heard in the gallery. In the better rows of seats were some grim
ex-Confederates—General Fitzhugh Lee, General Rosser, ex-Governor Smith,
Governor Cameron and others. Beecher fixed his eye directly on Lee and
said—(I quote a newspaper report of the incident):
“I have seen pictures of General Fitzhugh Lee, sir, and I assume you are
the man. Am I right?”
The General, slightly taken back by this direct address, nodded stiffly,
while the audience bent forward, breathless with curiosity as to what was
going to follow.
“Then,” said Mr. Beecher, his face lighting up, “I want to offer you
this right hand, which, in its own way, fought against you and yours,
years ago, but which I would now willingly sacrifice to make the sunny
South prosperous and happy. Will you take it, General?” There was a
moment’s hesitation, a moment of deathlike stillness in the hall, and
then Fitzhugh Lee was on his feet, his hand was extended across the
footlights and was quickly met by the warm grasp of the preacher’s. At
first there was a murmur, half of surprise and half of doubtfulness
from the audience, then there was a hesitating clapping of hands, and
before Beecher had unloosed the hand of Robert E. Lee’s nephew, there
were cheers such as were never before heard in old Mozart, though it had
been the scene of many a war and political meeting. But this was only
the beginning of the enthusiasm. When the noise subsided, Mr. Beecher
continued,
“When I go back home, I shall proudly tell that I have grasped the hand
of the nephew of the great Southern Chieftain; I shall tell my people
that I went to the Confederate capital with a heart full of love for the
people whom my principles once obliged me to oppose and that I was met
half-way by the brave Southerners, who can forgive as well as they can
fight.”
Five minutes of applause followed, and then, Mr. Beecher, having gained
the hearts of his audience, began his lecture and was applauded to the
echo. That night, he entered his carriage and drove to his hotel amid
shouts such as have never greeted a Northern man in Richmond since the
war.
Women who are prominent as hostesses are always remarkable for tact.
No matter how they may differ in years, beauty, tastes, nationality,
attainments and means, they are classed together by their tact, in the
minds of men who know them and know also how arduous are the duties of a
successful hostess. I know many such women,—Madame Patti, Mrs. Ronalds,
who is one of the most distinguished Americans in London, Mrs. John
A. Mackey, the Baroness de Bazus (Mrs. Frank Leslie), Mrs. Kendal—but
I could fill a chapter with names. The power of these women in the
drawing-room is simply marvelous. Their consummate tact is something for
civilization in general to be proud of. It matters not if they are not
in their best health and spirits and mood; everything uncongenial in
themselves is hidden by their gracious welcome, like Hamlet’s father’s
ghost by the rising sun. In a large company there is likely to be a
social knot or tangle that would appal a well meaning novice in the rôle
of hostess, but the woman who is fit for the position knows what to
ignore and what to illumine.
[Illustration: “There is Apt to Be a Social Tangle.”]
And cleverness at introductions in a large company—what a world of tact
it requires! Small wonder that introductions are few at most fashionable
affairs. But the tactful hostess keeps untoward spirits apart and welds
congenial souls together; some of the world’s closest friendships have
come of able hostesses’ introductions of people who otherwise would never
have met.
But what keen watchfulness and knowledge this presupposes, of the
jealousies, petty or large, whether in politics, literature, art, the
drama, of a large assemblage of representative people! It requires
nothing less than genius to peep into the nooks and crannies of the
hearts about them, throbbing with varied purposes and passions, but these
women possess it. Hence they are centres in themselves, about which
antipathetic souls may gather with a common good-will and cordial good
word. It takes all these qualities to be a leader in society: many women
possess them, but compared with all who should, how few they are!
I know one woman who possesses them all supremely. She is a wonder,
even among Americans. Her name is Mrs. Grover Cleveland. Think of that
schoolgirl passing from books to White House receptions and diplomatic
balls, from the quick but embarrassed flush of eighteen years, to the
sustained, well-poised position of first lady of the land “all in a
twinkling” and, more’s the wonder, all in a triumph! She went through
her ordeal at Washington, for it was an ordeal, without having an enemy
in that Babel of bickerings, cunning social plots and desperate plunges
after prestige. The platform of the politicians was tariff reform,
the people’s was Mr. Cleveland, little Ruth, furnishing the “Bye Baby
Bunting” plank.
The way this remarkable woman earned love and respect, was illustrated
by a little scene, that came under my eye at Lakewood. The parlor of the
hotel is so large that men can stand at one end of it with their hats
on and escape criticism. But one day, when Mrs. Cleveland, unattended,
entered at the other end, with girlish haste and captivating naturalness,
all heads were uncovered in an instant. She merely wished to find a
friend who was dining at the time, so she walked to the table of her
friend. All eyes were upon her, but she manifested no consciousness.
She with her friend slipped out of the room and into the elevator, and
probably up-stairs for a cozy chat. She was not thinking of the admiring
glances of hundreds, but only in a great-hearted, every-day way of her
friend. Such is the woman. She has won her crown, woven from the blossoms
of the people’s love, and she wears it gracefully.
No woman of my acquaintance has more tact than Mrs. Langtry. I will
guarantee, that her use of it will win any man who may meet her. When
she was last in New York a certain newspaper man was “cutting” her
savagely. Did she horsewhip him after the manner of some indignant
actress? Nay, nay! First she learned who he was, then she determined
to meet him. Her manager invited the young man to dine with him at
Delmonico’s, and the invitation was accepted. While at dinner the manager
accidentally (?) saw Mrs. Langtry, at another table, in the same great
dining-room and exclaimed,
“By Jove! There’s Mrs. Langtry! Would you like to meet her?” The scribe
hesitated; then consented. “First, let me ask her permission,” adroitly
continued the manager.
“I shall be delighted to meet him,” was the lady’s reply. Two moments
later the scribe and the actress were in close conversation; the young
man was invited to Langtry’s hotel; he walked down Broadway with her to
the Hoffman House, and he knew a thousand men saw him and envied him. In
the following week, his paper contained a beautiful article on Langtry.
The question may be asked, “Was this tact or diplomacy?” But every one
ought to know that mere diplomacy could never make a dramatic critic
change his tone so startlingly.
But tact is not confined to incidents in the world’s eye. Several years
ago, when that clever and beautiful young woman Mrs. James G. Blaine,
Jr. (now Mrs. Dr. Bull), was greatly afflicted with rheumatism, her
friend, Mrs. Kendal, the well known English actress, advised massage.
Mrs. Blaine objected, she disliked the idea, but Mrs. Kendal won her over
by calling every day and massaging the sufferer with her own hands.
Men can do the tactful thing as well as women, and it is to their credit
that they often do it when they can’t imagine that any one will ever know
of it but the beneficiary. One rainy day at Broadway and Twenty-third
Street, an ill-clad, shivering fellow stood, probably he had nowhere
in particular to go, and would rather look at people than think of
himself and his condition. I saw a tall, stout man with an intellectual,
kind face stop, hold his umbrella over the tramp, and engage him in
conversation; it was a mean place to stand, too, for crowds were hurrying
past the big policeman standing at the crossing. I dashed in front of the
chap the instant the tall man left him.
“See what that man gave me!” he said, showing me a two dollar bill.
“It’s no wonder,” I replied; “that was Colonel Bob Ingersoll!”
“Hully gee!” the man exclaimed. “I’ve heard o’ him. And here’s what else
he gave me—listen.” The Colonel had told him the story of “Nobody’s
Dog,” as follows:—
“A poor brute of a dog entered a hotel with three travelers. ‘Walk in,
gents,’ said the host heartily. ‘Fine dog, that; is he yours, sir?’
“‘No,’ said one of the men, and ‘No,’ ‘No,’ repeated the others.
[Illustration: “I Saw Him Hold His Umbrella Over a Tramp.”]
“‘Then he’s nobody’s dog,’ said the host, as he kicked the cur into the
street.
“You’re nobody’s dog, but here you are,” said the Colonel in conclusion,
pressing the money into his hand and hurrying away.
I have myself been the gainer by the tact of some men, who would
have been excusable for having their minds full of some one of more
importance, so I am correspondingly grateful. Dear General Sherman was
one of these; his tact was as effective in civil life as his armies had
been on the battle-field. In the fall of 1899, just after I had published
my book—“The People I Have Smiled With,” I received the following written
by the General’s private secretary.
“MY DEAR SIR:
“I beg you to accept my hearty thanks for a copy of your book,
the same which, I assure you, will give me much pleasure in
perusing.
“With best wishes, as always, I am,
“Your friend,
(Signed) “W. T. SHERMAN, General.”
Evidently the General thought a moment after signing the above, for
he wrote at the bottom of the sheet “Over,” where he added in his own
handwriting:
“Pardon me for this seemingly formal answer to your bright
and cheery volume, which, as yet, I have merely glanced at,
but contemplate much pleasure and profit in reading. The
‘Introduction,’ by our mutual friend ‘Cockerill,’ is so
touching that it calls for the sympathetic tear, rather than
a smile; so are your opening words in the first chapter about
your acquaintance with Beecher, etc., etc. But more in the
hereafter.
“I am glad you enroll me in your list of friends, and will be
only too happy to smile with you in person over your types, as
occasion may require.
“Your sincere friend,
“W. T. SHERMAN.”
I might also call attention to the above as an illustration of the
occasional opaqueness of the private secretary as a medium between great
men and their personal friends, however humble.
I was at Chicago’s famous hotel, “The Auditorium” during the dedicatory
exercises of the Columbian Exposition, more popularly known as “Chicago’s
World’s Fair.” A great dinner had been given the evening before to men
distinguished throughout the world. The affair was under the direction of
the Fellowship Club, prominent in which was Editor Scott of the Chicago
_Herald_, and such a gathering of famous men I had never seen before.
Richard Harding Davis described it graphically in _Harper’s Weekly_.
Next morning quite naturally, the atmosphere of the hotel was hazy
and dazy. Such of us as dropped into the café for breakfast were not
especially “noticing.”
I sat alone at the end of the room. In came Chauncey M. Depew with
a handsome young lady. Before long his quick eye discerned me in my
isolation. He arose, walked the entire length of that great room, leaned
over me and said,
“Marsh, most through your breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Then come over and be introduced to my niece. She wants to meet the
celebrities of the day.” Continuing he was kind enough to say that some
of my recently delivered jokes were new, and he must have been right,
for I heard afterward that he used them himself. But many men of less
importance would have sent a waiter for me instead of coming in person;
many more would have succeeded in not seeing me at all.
When Mrs. James Brown Potter first visited London, she was chaperoned
by Mrs. Paran Stevens, whose daughter, Lady Paget, was a member of the
Prince’s set, and had full entrée to all social circles. On one occasion
Mr. Wilson Barrett set aside a box for Mrs. Stevens, Mrs. Potter, and
their friends, I being among the number invited to see “Clito” performed.
In London it is the pleasant custom for the actor-manager to send up
refreshments, ices, etc., between the acts, and invite his guests down
into his dressing-room. Eccentric Mrs. Stevens hesitated when asked to
join us all in going down-stairs to visit Mr. Barrett between the acts.
It may have been that she did not wish to incur a social obligation, but
whatever the reason, Mrs. Potter, with infinite tact, assumed the rôle
of charmed and charming guest, allowing Mrs. Stevens to remain quietly
unobserved and free from any future embarrassment.
Mme. Nordica displayed her charming tactfulness one Sunday at a musicale
given by Mrs. Ronalds in London. It was when peace was declared between
England and the Boers. The news arrived about 4 P. M. Instantly Mme.
Nordica sprang to her feet, and sang “God Save the King.” It was most
inspiring, coming just as it did, and those who were present will never
forget how the people stood about clapping their hands and rejoicing over
this great event, which was announced by an American.
XX
ADELINA PATTI
Her home in Wales.—Some of Her Pets.—An Ocean Voyage With
Her.—The Local Reception at Her Home-Coming.—Mistress of an
Enormous Castle and a Great Retinue of Servants.—Her Winter
Garden and Private Theatre.—A Most Hospitable and Charming
Hostess.—Her Local Charities Are Continuous and Many.
Craig-y-Nos (Craig-of-the-Night) in the Swansea Valley, Ystradgnlais,
South Wales, by river and meadow and mountain, is the home of Madame
Patti.
Among madame’s pets at her castle is one Jumbo, an American parrot, who
carried with him to Wales his country’s admiration for his mistress. For
when she goes forth into the great world, he puts on a dejected bearing,
and in a voice touched with tears keeps calling, “Where is Patti? Where
is Patti?” But the parrot only gives word to what is felt by all the good
folks of Swansea Valley; for the pets and the people, of high and low
degree, miss this wonderful little woman when she is away, and she in
turn longs for her pets and her peasants, her country roads and princely
retreat, with that whole-hearted longing which doubtless gives much to
the depth of feeling the world knows in her rendition of “Home, Sweet
Home.” This little song, that makes the whole world kin, bears to the
difficult song work of Patti some such relation as does her life of
artlessness to her life of art. Her nature undisguised is childlike and
spontaneous.
When I took ship on the _City of New York_ in May, 1892, in the same
party with Madame Patti, and her husband, Signor Nicolini, she was full
of greetings, and words of parting to those coming and going just before
we sailed.
Nicolini’s devotion to his wife was the remark of the ship. He was ever
thoughtful of her, and his services were continual, from his first one in
the morning, that of delivering her mail to her.
Previous to sailing, a Boston lady friend had sent aboard seven or
eight letters, with the direction that one should each morning be
delivered to Madame Patti. What a merrymaking there was when the usual,
or rather, unusual letter bobbed up every morning! A fresh-cheeked
young country girl could not have been more demonstrative. But such is
her single-mindedness: her heart is young, and that is no doubt one of
the great causes of the depth of her beauty. An ocean voyage generally
washes out the skin-deep variety, but when I saw Patti every day, rich
Spanish beauty turned up with her every time. She was the pet of the
people without seeming to be conscious of it, and went along through the
days like other folks, speaking to friend after friend in the language
of their preference, for it makes no difference to her—German, French,
Spanish, Italian or English; and with all her naïvete, she is an adroit
and charming diplomat.
“You must visit me,” she said one day on the steamer to me. “I will not
take no for an answer. I will follow you all over England with telegrams,
if you do not.”
[Illustration: “I will follow you all over England with telegrams.”]
I went.
At Paddington station I found that my hostess was truly a royal one, for
there was the private car of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales,
awaiting her. The interior was banked with flowers, from end to end, and
snatching up bunches here and there, Patti would be all in a glee over
them. As the train moved, three beautiful young girls ran down the length
of the station to get a last glimpse of Patti. Two of them threw up their
hands, their faces flushed with the race; but the third sped to the end
of the platform. It was a pretty picture.
In our party were Madame and Monsieur Nicolini, madame’s companion and
two maids, Nicolini’s attendant and valet. I completed the group, and
with reason was congratulating myself, knowing the scarcity and luxury of
the private car in England. As we swept by Neath, the former home of my
hostess, then the seat of Henry M. Stanley, her eyes sparkled, for home
meant so much to her, and she was almost there. What a lark there was
too on our short run, with Patti singing “On the Bowery,” and snatches
from other “fad” airs, Nicolini joining in, and now breaking away on his
own account into “Annie Rooney” with the refrain, “Adelina Patti is my
sweetheart.”
We were met at the station by a corps of servants, a big drag, and
equipages for guests, and were driven in handsome style around the
frowning brow of the great craig, into full view of the castle, spreading
out its arms as if in gladness at the happy home-coming of its queen.
As we neared the great gate all the household gathered to meet us, from
the head man Heck, to the stable boys. It seemed to me that I had been
assigned to the choice of the eighty rooms of the castle, so luxurious
were all the appointments about me.
[Illustration: “The clever bird surprised me by ejaculating Pity Patti.”]
I spoke of the pets. There were twenty-five or thirty varieties of birds,
besides donkeys, ponies and rare dogs, of which Patti is very fond,
always having numbers of them accompany her in her walks. Ten of these
birds were parrots. Each one of these birds had acquired that peculiar
style of eloquence best suited to his disposition and temperament.
For example, one day when Patti got a trifling hurt, the clever bird
surprised me by ejaculating, “Pity Patti!” This gushing bird has ever
since maintained a steady sympathy, spending most of his verbally unhappy
life saying “Pity Patti! Pity Patti!” As you go up to each parrot, he
thus, with some different speech unburdens his mind to you. They are
sociable birds, spending most of their time together, and when, new and
then, a sewing-society notion strikes them all at once, it might be
called a unanimous change of subject.
From the moment of arrival, a valet is put at the service of the guest,
and orders are taken by him at night, for the following morning’s
breakfast. There is no rising time. While Patti is an early riser, she
makes no such demands upon her guests. The valet appears at the hour
ordered, prepares the bath, and serves breakfast at any time desired.
Patti after her regular morning bath, takes her breakfast, and reads her
daily mail before going out for the day. The guest is absolutely free to
do as he wishes until half-past twelve. During my morning strolls I often
met Patti sauntering through the grounds with her well-beloved dogs.
At half-past twelve all meet at luncheon, and all must be prompt. At this
little _déjeuner_, which is by no means a light meal, Patti is a gale of
joyous chat and greeting. The trivial incident is touched into color by
her vitality.
Then comes the famous afternoon drive. As a rule the homes of the
neighborhood are connected by telephone with the castle, and invitations
come and go. One afternoon we drove to a farmhouse of a neighbor, where
we saw a contest between three sheep dogs. There were three sheep to each
dog, and that one was proclaimed winner who most quickly drove his three
sheep through one opening into a corral. It was an intensely interesting
illustration of the instinctive sheep-driving skill of the dogs. Then
again we would go for a long spin over the hills through the keen
mountain air.
A light English tea at five, after which we had until half-past seven
to rest and dress before appearing at dinner, the great event of the
day. All, of course, wear full dress, gathering in the boudoir where
one sees pictures and autographs of famous people the world over. Among
the photographs I noticed those of Mrs. Cleveland, Christine Nilsson,
Nieman, Albani, Scalchi, Hans Richter, Verdi, and the King and Queen of
Italy. A full length portrait of Mrs. Cleveland appears beside that of
the Princess of Wales. The coloring, hangings, and wall coverings are all
suggestive of restfulness in their richness.
The first announcement one has of dinner is a melody of silver bells. The
notes seem to cling to the bells until they are fairly shaken off like
bubbles into the air; then there seem to be two melodies, one the tender
musical shadow of the other.
Nicolini would go in front of madame, who quickly took his arm and
they would lead the way into the great conservatory or winter garden,
where flowers are rushing into bloom the year round. The fragrant air
is musical with singing birds, and the effect is magical under the
effulgence of the electroliers. The windows command a magnificent view of
the country around, mountain and valley and winding river, spread just at
the feet of the castle; salmon brooks, stretches of thousands of acres,
and hunting grounds covering nearly ten miles of fine shooting. With her
own fingers Patti puts a boutonnière on guests here and there, and then
we intrust ourselves to the mercy of one of Britain’s greatest chefs.
Just here I am reminded of Norris, the Irish butler, whose sense of humor
almost broke up his self-possession. At the table while I was telling
stories he would hold down his upper lip with his teeth, like the side of
a tent, afraid to let it go, lest it might be blown away by a breeze of
laughter. As it was, the lip kept wrinkling. Both Madame Patti and I saw
it, but concealed our knowledge from Norris, for the poor conventional
soul’s heart would have been broken, had he suspected that we knew of
his having lost the icy calm of a properly conducted butler. He would
“list” his head over to one side, cough, fly around in unnecessary ways,
and altogether expend a great deal of energy in keeping down the humorous
side of his nature.
The attachment of Patti’s servants to her is as constant as that of
her friends and her pets. Norris had been with her thirteen years; one
servant had been with her five years; another, her Swedish valet, for
nine years; then there were the driver, Joe; George, her courier; and
the general manager, a man of varied accomplishments and great executive
ability, Guillaume Heck.
Among all those about her, none is so close as is Caroline Baumeister, an
Austrian woman, her companion, who has been with her nearly forty years.
Constantly at her side with her council and care, Caroline is Patti’s
friend in every sense of the word. Of excellent family, robust in mind
and body, of that well-balanced, soothing and serene temperament which
has finally made Patti a child in her dependence upon it. Caroline has a
Mexican girl, Padro, as her assistant.
After dinner we pass into the billiard rooms, of which there are two,
with French and English and American tables. At the end of one of these
rooms is a monster orchestrion, which cost thirty thousand dollars, and
which furnishes music during the games. Anything may be played on it,
from Wagner to the latest popular air, by simply inserting a roll. These
rolls, by the way, cost one hundred dollars each; in truth golden music.
During these little after-dinner billiard games the sincerity and
simplicity of Patti is seen to great advantage. For instance, imagine
the picture of the great diva catching up a billiard cue, and marching
around the room, followed by all the guests, to the tune of the Turkish
March played on the orchestrion. Often during the course of the evening,
when she could stand the buoyant effect of the music no longer, she would
break into song, trilling as naturally as a bird, and as spontaneously.
After a certain time spent in the billiard rooms, we would wander through
a continuation of the winter garden, into one of the most cherished
possessions of Patti, her private theatre. This theatre was erected at
a great cost, and with a care for detail which may be imagined, when
it is known that Mr. Irving sent down his head carpenter from London,
to see that perfection was reached at every point. Mr. Irving has said
several times that it was the most perfect thing of its kind he had ever
seen. Every property is complete; there are the traps, the thunder and
lightning, everything metropolitan, even the floor, which is adjustable
either for inclined auditorium purposes or for the level of a ball-room
floor. There are six dressing-rooms, and the stage, built for sixty
people, has a “run” of eighty feet, while the auditorium will accommodate
three hundred and fifty and the gallery eighty people. During the little
evenings, the gallery is generally filled by domestics and peasants.
Programmes are prepared with elegance for each entertainment. I have one
now—the operatic matinée in honor of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of
Battenberg, and party:
Overture “Martha,” orchestra. Vocal concert (artists, Madame Adelina
Patti-Nicolini, Madame Giulia Valda, Signor Vovara), “Faust” Act III,
Garden Scene, in which Signor Nicolini, as Faust, took part. The
conductor was Signor Arditi. The programme is richly embellished in
purple and scarlet and gold.
One of the ornaments on the walls of this beautiful little theatre is
the armor worn by Patti in her creation, at the age of nineteen, of the
character of Joan of Arc. She also appears in a splendid painting on the
curtain, as “Semiramis” in her triumphal car.
During my stay the idea struck Patti of having a little entertainment
in my honor. So George, the courier, was posted off to Swansea to
get an orchestra, and other parts of the equipment needed for this
hasty-pudding matinée, for there was only one day in which to get ready.
It took place June 15th, 1892. The programme was filled by Patti and four
or five friends, including myself in the humorous number. Patti’s voice
can never be heard to such advantage as under the shadow of her mountains
in this peaceful valley; here she sings from very gladness because she is
free. She is out of the cage (for Patti is never so caged as when before
the public) in her own home where song is not an article of merchandise,
but the gratuitous offering of nature. So it is that her trills are more
brilliant and spontaneous than the same flights for which she receives
five thousand dollars a night.
Every Christmas a thousand children are entertained, and a charity
concert is given, when presents are distributed by her to the poor of
Swansea and Neath districts, being handed out by her personally.
Her good offices to the poor are done in numberless ways, the greater
part unknown. I heard during my visit this story: there was a poor
child born just inside the big gate one evening. The quivering peasant
mother, homeless and alone, turned instinctively in her agony to the good
mistress of the valley, and had crawled within the friendly shelter of
the lady’s wall. Patti, returning from a drive found them and took them
to her home and had them cared for. She named the little tot Craig-y-Nos.
When all was well, the woman offered to work out the debt, but “No,” said
her hostess, “you are my guests.”
There is a standing rule that no poor shall be turned away from the
castle. Each one, no matter how deserving, is given bread and beer, and
they come in continually from miles around.
“Lady of the Castle,” she is affectionately called by the plain folk of
that country. Can one wonder then that when she drives out all greet
her with grateful deference, and the little children curtsey as if to a
queen. Whenever I drove out with her I saw the same demonstration.
Patti has a retinue of sixty domestics while she is at home, and leaves
twenty-five to look after things when she is away. There is a complete
electric plant with a power-house so far away as to avoid the noise of
the machinery; also a gas plant, if this light is preferred; a telephone
and telegraph service connect the castle with the outside world. Let me
not forget the dairy, the steam laundry, and the refrigerating facilities
for the meats. The stables are elegantly constructed and equipped, there
being seven pairs of carriage horses beside the riding horses, ponies and
donkeys.
One of the ponies had been pensioned after long and faithful service,
and spent most of his time browsing in the paddock with Jenny, the little
pet donkey of the place. The two were uncommonly knowing and the fastest
of friends, one running in front of a person trying to catch the other.
This manœuvre they could successfully carry out, until the one trying to
catch either of them would retire in disgust, to the great satisfaction
of Tom and Jenny, who would peacefully resume their tête-à-tête meal.
With all the paraphernalia of comfort and convenience, it remains only
for the personality of Patti to convert the castle into home. What
a hostess! During my stay everything seemed to be done with special
reference to me. Even the American flag was hoisted on the castle in
honor of my nationality. Thus special guests are always flatteringly
recognized by the sight of their own country’s flag. The individual
tastes of the guests are studied to the minutest degree by all. For
instance, I have always been very fond of ice. Imagine this trifling
taste of mine being detected without my knowledge. I found out that
it had been in this way. When I left I found my lunch providently and
daintily put up, and among the delicacies I discovered a piece of ice!
It had been frozen into a small block specially for me, and I enjoyed it
very much, all the trip.
Then again, I had expressed an interest in her jewels, so during my stay
she decked herself every night with different ones, all in my honor, as
she assured me.
Do what she will, this woman, worshiped of all nations, is the willing
slave of a loving heart. Her old parents, whom she loved and revered when
they were living, she loves and honors now that they are dead, and not a
day passes, without some fond reference to them.
A friend of Patti’s, a French lady, met with distressing financial
losses. In her need Patti said to her, “Come and live with me!” and she
did, for many happy years after that.
When Joe was driving me to Penwyllt I thought of it all as the road
lengthened between me and my friends. I remembered that Patti had told me
that of all American cities, Richmond and Syracuse were her favorites,
but I feel sure she is the favorite of all our cities.
The world has been made glad by her song, but not more glad than the
mountain district by her presence. There she lives a queen, crowned by
the love of all about her.
XXI
SOME NOTABLE PEOPLE
Cornelius Vanderbilt.—Mrs. Mackey.—The Rockefellers.—Jay
Gould.—George Gould and Mrs. Edith Kingdom Gould.—Mary
Anderson.—Mrs. Minnie Maddern Fiske.—Augustin Daly.—Nicola
Tesla.—Cheiro.
The mass of the people envy most the men and women who have most money;
my own envy goes out hungrily to those who are happiest, though I have
sometimes inclined strongly toward the majority. One day in London,
while my mind was full of the good that a great lot of money would do
me, I learned that Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was still suffering
from the effects of a paralytic stroke, was at a hotel in Piccadilly.
Besides being one of the best men in the world, he had been one of my
best friends, so I called on him, hoping I might cheer his heart in some
way and make him forget his trouble. It was hard to get at him, for his
secretary had been ordered by the physician to admit no one, but I got
my card to him, and he was kind enough to express a wish to see me and a
belief that my visit would do him good.
From Mr. Vanderbilt’s hotel I went to the home of Mrs. John A. Mackey,
whose son Willie had recently lost his life by being thrown from his
horse. I had no desire to intrude upon grief, but Willie and I had been
merry friends together, and I believed remembrance of our acquaintance
would make Mrs. Mackey willing to see me. Here again I had great
difficulty; the butler had received positive order, and it took me twenty
minutes to persuade him that Mrs. Mackey would not refuse to receive
my card. I was right, for she was very glad to see me. Her house was
a veritable palace, containing everything valuable and artistic that
money would buy, yet amid all these evidences of wealth the bereaved
mother sat in deep black, mourning the loss of her beloved son and, like
Rachel, “would not be comforted.” So my visits to these two good friends
convinced me that money could not do everything.
Probably the most envied man in America is John D. Rockefeller, for his
income alone is believed to exceed half a million dollars a day. There
are many men and women near Owego, N. Y., who attended school with John
Rockefeller, in the little schoolhouse on the old river road. They did
not regard him as a prospective millionaire: he was merely “one of the
Rockefeller boys,” yet they knew him from the first as the leader of boys
of his age. He was the first to suggest a game of sport, and those who
remember him best assert that unless John had his own way he would not
play. He did not fly into a rage when opposed and overruled, but he would
watch the play without taking part in it. And such has been his business
policy; it is a matter of record that he has embarked in no business
ventures not of his own suggestion, nor in any of which he had not full
control.
Like another great financier, Jay Gould, his personality dominated every
undertaking in which he was interested; neither he nor Gould allowed
any one to think for them. Both men were alike in another respect;
they brought up their sons in the same self-reliant manner, instead of
allowing them to drop into luxury and self-indulgence, after the manner
of most millionaires’ sons.
Young Mr. Rockefeller is a man of simple and regular habits, but not
at all afraid to enter the field of labor in competition with great
brain-workers. He is a creditable exponent of his father’s business creed.
Jay Gould once wrote as follows, in a letter to a personal friend:
“Man seems to be so constituted that he cannot comprehend his own
situation. To-day he lends his ear to the charming words of the deceiver
and is led to believe himself a god; to-morrow he is hissed and laughed
at for some fancied fault, and, rejected and broken-hearted, he retires
to his chamber to spend a night in tears. These are certainly unwarranted
positions: the first to ingratiate himself or obtain your notice, and
therefore his delusion of greatness is unwarranted, while the latter is
the voice of the envious—those who look with a war-like spirit upon the
tide of your prosperity, since they deem themselves equally meritorious.
And this last assumption, over which you have shed your tears, is the
true voice of your praise!”
[Illustration: “Luxury and self-indulgence after the manner of most
millionaire sons.”]
Only the man who had thus accurately gauged the world’s estimate of
wealthy men could have been the example and inspiration of George Gould,
upon whose shoulders was laid a burden of almost incalculable weight,
which he has borne successfully and without making a public show of
himself and his millions. He is a genuine man, and has a worthy companion
in his wife, who as a bride went from the stage to the home of one of
the wealthiest young men in the land, yet whose admirable womanhood
has never been marred by consciousness of great riches. She has never
forgotten her old professional associates whom she liked, nor, indeed,
any mere acquaintance. Not long ago she happened to see me in the studio
of Marceau, the photographer. Leaving some friends with whom she had been
conversing she came over to me, greeted me cordially, and congratulated
me heartily on my marriage, yet with the unstudied simplicity and
directness for which she is noted.
Early in life I became an autograph hunter and an admirer of stage
deities of both sexes, and one of the first autographs I ever got was
that of Mary Anderson, who gave it very graciously. Since then she
has favored me with others, but that first one is among my dearest
treasures. The American people were in accord with me in admiration of
Miss Anderson. She was lovingly referred to as “Our Mary” and her success
in this country was regarded as a guarantee of an enthusiastic reception
abroad.
But the English public is hard to approach; to please on this side of
the water is not an assurance of success over there, and Miss Anderson’s
appearance did not make an exception to the rule. For sometimes she
had poor audiences at the Lyceum (London). Efforts were made to have
the Prince of Wales attend a performance, but for a time they were
unsuccessful. One night he entered the theatre and was so much pleased
that after the first act he sent word to the stage that he wished to see
Miss Anderson. The lady’s mother, Mrs. Griffen, who received his message,
requested that he would defer the meeting until the end of the play, as
she feared the honor might “upset” her daughter and mar the performance.
The Prince replied: “Certainly,” like the considerate gentleman he always
is.
Meanwhile Michael Gunn, the manager of the theatre, with characteristic
managerial shrewdness, saw a great chance for advertising, so he rushed
off by a cable to America a message which read:
“Mary Anderson refuses to see the Prince of Wales without the Princess.”
The difference in time—five hours, between the two countries gave him
the advantage he wanted. The New York papers got it barely in time for
their last editions. Next day they cabled London papers for particulars,
but the day of a great American morning paper does not begin until
noon or later, by which time, say 6 P. M. on the other side of the
Atlantic, all London is at dinner or getting ready for it and must not be
disturbed. Besides, the English papers do not exhibit American taste and
enterprise in nosing out news. So they published the story as a fact, and
without comment. It was too small a matter for either of the parties to
formally deny in print, but it was large enough to make no end of talk
and of interest in the American actress. From that bit of advertising
shrewdness—some Englishmen gave it a ruder name, dated Miss Anderson’s
success in London.
Mention of Miss Anderson recalls a reception in her honor which I
attended, at the home of Mrs. Croly (“Jennie June”). Among the guests was
a young actress who was just coming into notice—Miss Minnie Maddern, now
Mrs. Fiske. Her beautiful, expressive eyes followed the guest of honor so
wistfully that I said:
“I see you are observing Miss Anderson intently.”
“Yes,” she replied. “What a beautiful woman she is! And what an actress!
What wouldn’t I give to be able to act as she can!”
Such modesty has its reward. Mrs. Fiske has not only reached the plane of
Mary Anderson’s ability, but has gone far above it, and stands to-day
upon a pinnacle of art that no other American actress has ever climbed.
One night, at a performance of “Hedda Gabler,” I asked my friend Charles
Kent, whose high rank as an actor is admitted by every one, if Mrs. Fiske
was not our greatest actress. He replied:
“Mrs. Fiske is more than our greatest actress She is the greatest
personality in the profession. She is the Henry Irving of America.”
One of the greatest losses the American stage ever sustained was through
the death of Augustin Daly. I have heard some of his most determined
rivals call him the greatest stage manager in America, and since his
death they have expressed doubt that his equal would ever appear. I was
his neighbor for quite a while; I saw him often and chatted much with
him, but I never knew a man less given to “talking shop.” Apparently
he had no thought for anything but his two sons, both of whom were
then living, and on Sunday mornings it was a great pleasure to me to
see him walking with his boys to the Catholic Church, of which he was
a devout member. But he lost both sons in a single week, one dying,
broken-hearted, after the death of the other. The double loss was one
from which Mr. Daly never recovered, though he sought relief in hard
work. I often met him after midnight on the old green car that passed
through Thirty-fourth Street, yet next morning saw him leave the house
as early as eight o’clock. Busy though he was, he never forgot his
friends; he was so kind as to keep them under continual obligations. I
recall a complimentary dinner which Major Handy wished to give Mr. Daly,
but when he approached the prospective guest, Daly said:
“Oh, you invite your friends, and I’ll give the dinner.”
New York managers are seldom visible in the front of the house during a
performance, but Mr. Daly’s eyes seemed to be there as well as on the
stage. At the hundredth performance of “The Taming of the Shrew” the
house was packed; after endeavoring in vain to buy a seat I stood at the
railing, where Mr. Daly saw me and said:
“Come with me, Marsh.”
We went up-stairs to the balcony where he got a camp-stool from somewhere
and placed it for me in the middle aisle, whispering me at the same time
to fold it at the end of the performance and bring it down to him, as
he was breaking one of the ordinances regarding fires in theatres by
allowing me to sit in the aisle.
Dr. Nicola Tesla, the great electrician, is an oft-seen figure, yet his
retiring disposition and his distaste for society make him personally
unknown. Any one who has visited the Waldorf in the evening must have
seen this interesting man sitting alone at a table in a corner of the
winter garden, for there he is, night after night, after his solitary
dinner, wrapped in his thoughts. He has told me that here, in an
atmosphere of bustle and chatter, he can think better than anywhere
else: he is oblivious to the people who stare curiously at him, for his
mind is absorbed in the details of some wonderful invention. He lives
at the Waldorf; once he thought of leaving, so he packed his trunks.
His departure was postponed from day to day, so his trunks remained
unopened: rather than unpack them he purchased new things from time to
time according to his necessities. Finally he decided to remain at the
Waldorf, but for all I know to the contrary the trunks still remain
unpacked.
I have the honor of being numbered among Dr. Tesla’s friends, so I have
often stopped at his table for a chat, but never without his invitation.
Most sensitive natures are so self-absorbed as to be utterly selfish, but
Dr. Tesla, although sensitive in the extreme, is always considerate of
the feelings of others. I know of many occasions on which he displayed
this rare quality, and I may be pardoned for mentioning one which
concerned myself. I sent Dr. Tesla a copy of my book “People I’ve Smiled
With” and received a polite acknowledgment, which was followed almost
immediately by a long letter, as if he feared I had been hurt by the
shortness of the earlier communication.
[Illustration: “He was reading a lady’s palm.”]
Several of my friends were at the Victoria Hotel in London while I was
also stopping there, and among them was Miss Loie Fuller, who usually
held an informal reception after theatre hours—the Thespian’s only
“recess.” One evening, on returning from an entertainment I had given,
I went into Miss Fuller’s parlor and found the hostess and her friends
clustered about a gentleman whom I did not know. He had dark hair and
eyes and was extremely good looking—a perfect type of Irish manhood.
He was reading a lady’s palm, and the others were listening with great
interest. Soon Miss Fuller said:
“I want you to read Marshall’s palm.”
“Oh, yes,” said the others; “let’s hear what Marshall’s luck will be.”
We were introduced; his name was Louis Warner, and on looking at my hand
he began to tell my characteristics with an accuracy which was startling.
I had no opportunity for conversation with him that evening, so I invited
him to lunch with me the next day. He came and we had a very interesting
chat about palmistry. I asked him if he made a business of it and he said
he did not—he was an actor, and playing at the Princess Theatre.
“Do you ever think of taking up palmistry as a business?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, “but I may some day.”
I told him I thought there was a great deal of money in it, to which
he assented. During the conversation he kept calling me Mr. Marshall;
when I corrected his mistake and told him what my name was, he was much
surprised, and asked my pardon for making the mistake. I told him I was
glad he had, for it showed me more clearly the truth of his palmistry.
“Of course I know you by reputation,” he said. “You did a great deal for
Heron-Allen in America, helping him to get acquainted there.”
“Yes,” I replied, “and if you ever come over there I’ll do what I can to
introduce you.”
A year later I was walking through the corridor of the Imperial Hotel
(New York) when I was stopped by a gentleman, who said:
“You don’t remember me, do you, Mr. Wilder?”
“Yes,” I answered, “you are Louis Warner of London.” He laughed and said:
“You have a very good memory, Mr. Wilder, but I have taken another name.
I wish to be known as Cheiro. I have chosen that name as it is the Greek
word for ‘hand,’ and while appropriate it is also an attractive one for
professional work. You see, I have followed your advice, and taken up
palmistry as a business.”
I introduced him to a great many of my friends, and he was most
successful in reading their palms correctly. A little later, a lady
called upon me, asking me to give her topics for newspaper work. I gave
her some letters to friends of mine,—well known men, asking them to let
her take an impression of their hands. She visited, among others, Mr.
Russell Sage, Mr. Chauncey Depew and Sir Henry Irving, who was in town,
taking impressions of their hands on paper with printer’s ink. She also
entered the Tombs and obtained the impression of the hand of a notorious
forger. These she took to Cheiro, and without knowing whose hands they
were he read each and every one correctly. Among them was an impression
of my own hand. He picked it up, and said immediately:
“This is the hand of my friend, Marshall Wilder.” To my mind, this was
the greatest test of his powers.
The story was written up, readily sold to a newspaper, and was copied
many times, widely read and commented upon. Since then Cheiro’s work has
become known all over the world.
XXII
HUMAN NATURE
Magnetism and Its Elements.—Every one Carries the Marks of His
Trade.—How Men are “Sized Up” at Hotels.—Facial Resemblance of
Some People to Animals.—What the Eye First Catches.—When Faces
are Masked.—Bathing in Japan.—The Conventions in Every-Day Life
that Hide Us from Our Fellows.—Genuineness is the One Thing
Needful.
The oftener a man—any man, from the beginner at vaudeville to the great
actor or orator—appears before audiences, the more he is impressed
by the many varieties of human nature and the many ways there are of
comprehending it.
A few people who have to meet large numbers of their fellow-beings have
no trouble on this score, for they possess something that for lack of
a better name is called magnetism. Some actors who are full of faults
succeed by means of this quality; twenty times as many who are more
intelligent and thorough fail through lack of it. The same may be said of
Congressmen, lawyers, preachers and presidents. Magnetism seems to be a
combination of sensitiveness, affection, impulse and passion, so it is
not strange that only a few people of any profession possess it.
For instance, go into Weber & Fields when both Lillian Russell and Fay
Templeton are on the bill. The former delights the eye and ear, for
she is beautiful with a charming voice. Yet Miss Templeton gets beyond
the eye and ear to the heart; she takes possession of the company as
well as of the audience; even the “chorus”—and the chorus is noted for
paying no attention to anything or anybody but itself and its personal
friends—loves Fay Templeton and manifests close interest in her work.
But one need not be on the stage to study human nature. Wherever there is
a successful business organization, there you will find close observers
of human nature. Go into a great hotel—the Astoria for instance—and even
the bell-boys are adepts to it. Walk down the lobby, supposing yourself
unobserved, and you are “sized up” at once. If you are a reporter, the
whole house from the bell-boys to the head clerk know that you are not
of a class that can be “pigeon-holed.” The Southern man, with his family
on a pleasure jaunt, is accurately “tabbed” at once. So is the public
man—not always by his clothes, but by his manner. The “drummer” signifies
his business by a side-to-side movement, something like a wheat-hopper in
an elevator. The prominent man betrays himself by using his legs as if
they were intended solely to hold up his body, which, no matter how well
off he may be, is almost sure to have an empty buttonhole somewhere. The
needy man is likely to be carefully clad, but his trousers are out of
season, a trifle short and pieced out with gaiters. The hotel clerk takes
in all these signs at a glance, and gives answers and rooms accordingly.
[Illustration: “The needy man is likely to be carefully clad.”]
I believe many men size up people by resemblances to animals; I know
I do, and with uniform success—when I select the right animal; so my
mind contains a menagerie of acquaintances and a few strangers not yet
identified. It is almost impossible to see a man with a fox-face without
finding him foxy. Then there are monkey faces, with eyes close together
and shifty—eyes that seem to look into each other. Beware of them! I have
heard good housekeepers say that they prefer servants with eyes wide
apart, for the other kind have invariably been connected with missing
silver and other portable property. Nearly every criminal whose portrait
appears in the “Rogues’ Gallery” has monkey eyes; the criminal class is
recruited from this type.
The bulldog face may be seen every day among the never-give-up men in
every business. The late William M. Evarts’ face suggested the eagle,
and he made some great fights side by side with our national bird. What
is the matter with Joseph H. Choate as the owl, the late Recorder Smyth
as the hawk, Dr. Parkhurst as the wary tabby on watch for the mouse?
We have some orators who look like pug-dogs; preachers who resemble
fashionably sheared poodles, and I know one unmistakable Dachshund of
the pulpit. Strong combinations are occasionally seen; Roger A. Pryor
suggests a clean-cut greyhound with the face of a mastiff. Other men
resemble great-hearted St. Bernards, with intelligent eyes and a reserve
force that is never squandered on trifles or bickerings. Daily, one may
see a man in a carriage with his dog, and the two look so alike that you
hesitate to say which dog is driving.
The first thing apt to be noticed about a man is his hat; then his shoes,
collar and clothes in the order named; the face is generally left to the
last, though it should be the first. Nothing is so significant to me as
the eye, especially if it won’t look straight at me. Some men of great
mental vitality carry so much strength focalized in the eye that they
absolutely absorb. After an earnest conversation with such a person one
feels as if he had done a day’s work.
[Illustration: “You hesitate to say which dog is driving.”]
Men often suggest their business occupations by their walk. A dentist
displays the gait and bearing he has when he is coming to the side of
your chair to draw a tooth. A printer carries his arm forward, as if
feeling for the “case.” The preacher you can almost hear saying “Now we
will hear from Brother Hawkins.” The rôles of stage people stick to them
on the outside; the tragedian I rarely mistake; the “leading man” can’t
get rid of his descriptive look. The villain and the comedian you will
know apart, although, strange to say, their real characters are generally
diametrically opposite to the parts they play.
Faces are like looking-glasses; they generally reflect the treatment
they receive. Driving in the park, the wealthy lady wants Mrs. Jones to
know she is on deck—footman, mountings, dog-chairs and all. You can tell
her by the “Oh-have-I-to-go-through-with-this-again?” sort of look. The
young Wall Street plunger’s face says, “You thought I wouldn’t be here,
eh? well, here I am.” One man’s face tells you he is driving with his
sweetheart; the simple soft quietude of one woman’s face tells you that
she is beyond all else a mother.
As a rule, however,—and more’s the pity—a man’s real nature is obscured
when he is in pursuit of gain—absorbed in business, of any kind. You
would no more know him then, than you would your own house-cat when the
Mr. Hyde side of his nature crops out on your garden fence late at night.
Two boys were selling newspapers on a car; the larger in his eagerness
for business, pushed the other off. The little fellow fell, dropped
and scattered his papers and began to cry. Instantly the big boy was a
different being; he lost all thought of business, hurried to his disabled
rival, put the little chap on his feet and got his papers together for
him.
Some people have a magnetic manner that is both instant and quelling
in its effect. A certain woman enters a parlor, and for some subtle,
indefinable reason all eyes are fixed upon her. She may not be brilliant
yet she holds the winning hand; she bears on her face “a royal flush,”
yet let her go out and some inferior will say, “now that she’s gone, we
can talk about her.” Her quality is generally called instinctive, but
probably it was slowly acquired, for lives are like lead-pencils—it takes
long experience to sharpen them so they will leave a clear, keen line.
Sometimes this line appears in the profile, which I have often believed a
sure indication of character; so did Talleyrand.
Human expression is much affected by geographical location and custom.
An American in Japan asked his host’s servants for a bath, and was soon
informed it was ready. As he saw nothing to indicate its whereabouts, he
asked,
“Where?”
“Look out into the garden, sir.” He looked and saw his hostess and host,
the latter being governor of the town, awaiting him, beside an artificial
pool, and entirely nude. He was told that according to Japanese custom
the first plunge is the right of the guest, so there was no time to lose,
for the good people were shivering while they waited. The guest went out
looking like Adam before the downfall, and much embarrassed besides.
Stepping into the water he found it too hot and begged for cold water;
the Japanese take only warm baths, but at once the pool was emptied
and cold water was turned in. Meanwhile the lord and lady stood as
unadorned as Greek statues, this being Japanese custom while waiting at
a bath. Such a performance in New York would cause even Tammany to rally
around Dr. Parkhurst, but in Japan it “goes.” This gentle, courteous,
considerate family also expressed wonder at the straightness of their
guest’s legs, their own being bent through the habit of sitting on them
in tailor-fashion;—Japanese custom again.
When men do not act in accordance with their looks, some tradition or
custom of their ancestors or associates will account for it; a man is
generally a Democrat because his father was one, though it doesn’t
invariably follow that because “the governor” is a total abstainer the
“Martigny” is unknown to his son. Men unconsciously initiate other men
and their ways, because other men have done it. We dress in black when
some one dear to us dies.
Why, oh men of Athens, do we do these things? Should any dear relative of
mine die, I think I would go to the theatre that night,—if I felt like
it. I believe, with Mr. Beecher, in rose-colored funerals; not in those
which are gray and ghostly with ashes. There is too much convention about
these things. Why do we have all the formal funerals, when the only real
sentiment is attended to by the hearts of the bereaved? When the body is
dead it should be put away quietly, kindly, reverently, but without any
display of tears—and without the cards and flowers. They are the style,
you know, but—why cards? Why shouldn’t we send flowers anonymously, so as
to spare the real mourners the pains of writing an acknowledgment? Let us
steer clear of conventional sorrow when we can, for there is enough of
the real article to go round. If the night must come, sprinkle it with
stars; if there be the winding sheet of snow, tinkle sleigh bells over
it. The living want your love far more than the dead want your tears.
But, after all that can and must be said against it, human nature is
kind. Deceit, love of gain, suspicion and even violence are often mere
means of defense. Get through the joints of any one’s every-day armor and
reach the heart and the same sweet response of sympathy rings out, the
world over, in tones as mellow as old Trinity’s chimes on New Year’s eve,
and self-disguised people become genuine. For illustration, let an old
man or old woman enter a streetcar crowded with men whose faces are hard
with business cares; why every seat is at their disposal; there is the
genuineness of the people.
Yet if we were all and always genuine there would be no human nature to
study, for “Truth is simple, requiring neither study nor art.”
XXIII
SUNNY STAGE PEOPLE
“Joe” Jefferson.—I Take His Life.—His
Absent-Mindedness.—Jefferson and General Grant.—Nat Goodwin and
How He Helped Me Make Trouble.—Our Bicycling Mishap.—Goodwin
Pours Oil on Troubled Dramatic Waters Abroad.—George
Leslie.—Wilton Lackaye.—Burr McIntosh.—Miss Ada Rehan.
Every class of people on earth contains a pleasing number of cheery folk,
but far the greatest proportion is found in the theatrical profession.
Get together, if you can, all the companionable, hospitable souls of all
other classes and the stage people by themselves can make almost as good
a showing. When talking of them I never know where to begin or how to
stop, for they have loaded me with kindnesses, and began it when I was on
the extreme outer edge of a profession which they regarded as a mere side
show to their own.
Years ago when I was on the lecture platform I used to have some cloudy
hours, in spite of my efforts to be sunny, for, unlike theatrical people,
lecturers are usually their own only traveling companions, the railway
runs are long, the engagements are what the dramatic agents call “one
night stands,” so the stops are so short that the lecturer has no chance
to adapt his digestive apparatus to the surprises that unknown chefs
of unknown hotels delight in springing upon him. Years ago—as I said a
moment ago, I was thinking of all these miseries, as I left a train at
Utica on a snowy, stormy afternoon of the Christmas holidays, when I
specially longed to be with some friends in New York. I had four blank
hours before me, for I was not to appear on the platform until evening,
and it was one of the days when I was too tired to study or read and too
shaken up to sleep. Suddenly a negro porter in drawing-room car uniform
accosted me with:
“Mr. Wilder, Mr. Jefferson would like to see you.”
He pointed to the right, and there in the window of a parlor car,
sidetracked for the day only, stood “Joe” Jefferson. When I got into
the car and looked about me I saw the great “all-star” cast of “The
Rivals”—dear Mme. Ponisi, Mr. John Drew, Viola Allen, W. J. Florence,
Otis Skinner, Frederic Paulding, Frank Bangs, George Dunham, Elsie C.
Lombard (now Mrs. John T. Brush), and Mr. Jefferson’s sons, Tom, Charlie,
Joe, Jr., and Willie.
These good people were all seated around the dining-table of the special
car that I entered, and the cordial greeting I received, combined with
the contrast with “all-outdoors” and all else that had been depressing
me, made me the happiest man on the continent. I remained there two
or three hours, partly because, when manners suggested I should go, I
was forcibly detained. I told stories whenever I could, but I was more
entertained than entertaining. The time came when I was really obliged to
go and I said:
“Mr. Jefferson, I am booked here to-night at a church, and I must begin
my hour-long entertainment at seven o’clock.”
“Well, Marshall,” was the reply, “that will give you a chance to see our
performance, so we’ll reserve a box for you.”
I thanked him, seized my bag, hurried to a hotel and prepared for my
work. The church in which I appeared was crowded—packed, in fact; I
afterward learned that, although I was well and properly paid, there had
been no charge for admission. When I reached the theatre the house was
only half full, but the performance of “The Rivals” was of full size.
After the curtain fell I went to my hotel, packed my bag and hurried to
the station; I had almost two hours to spare, but there are times when
the station is more interesting than the hotel. Soon Charlie Jefferson
stumbled over me and took me back to the company’s car, where I had
supper with the entire cast.
My train was due about an hour after midnight and as I rose to make my
adieux, Mr. Jefferson looked kindly down on me, took me by the ear and
said, in his own inimitable plaintive manner,
[Illustration: “I Seized My Bag and Hurried to a Hotel.”]
“Friends, I want you to look at this little scoundrel. He comes up here
from New York; we entertain him; we dine him for three hours, he queers
our house, yet gets a big fee for his own work. We again entertain him
for hours by giving a “Rival” show, and yet he is not satisfied without
taking my life”—with this he handed me a beautifully bound book, “Memoirs
of Joseph Jefferson,” with the inscription in the fly-leaf, “Presented
to my little friend, Marshall P. Wilder.”
Everybody tells stories of Jefferson’s absent-mindedness, and he
sometimes tells them himself. I can venture to repeat two which he
himself has told. A friend of young Joe was making a long visit at Mr.
Jefferson’s house, so the comedian saw him at the table every day for a
fortnight. One evening young Joe took his friend to the Player’s Club,
in New York. The elder Jefferson was there, and on being reminded of the
young man’s presence he said cordially,
“My boy, I’m very glad to meet you. Why don’t you come up and see us? Do
come and make me a visit.”
But here is Jefferson’s star story against himself.
“I was in a down-town office building in New York, a few years ago, and
when I entered the elevator a short stout gentleman with a cigar in his
fingers spoke to me, saying,
“‘How do you do, Mr. Jefferson?’
“‘I am very glad to see you,’ I replied. He continued,
“‘You don’t know me, do you, Mr. Jefferson?’
“‘Well, really, you must pardon me, but your face is quite familiar but
your name has escaped my memory.’
“‘My name is Grant,’ he said quietly, with a twinkle in his eye. I got
out at the next floor; I was so afraid I might ask him if he had been in
the war.”
But there is no accounting for absent-mindedness. Charles Wyndham, the
English comedian, tells of an enthusiastic hunter, a man who thought of
nothing else. One morning his wife saw him leaving the house and asked:
“Where are you going?”
“Hunting,” was the reply.
“But where is your gun?”
“Bless me! I was sure I had left something behind.”
Regarding sunny-hearted actors, it is well to remember that they too
have troubles peculiarly their own, and one of the worst is to have an
impulse where only solemnity is in order. Nat Goodwin who has been making
audiences laugh for the last thirty years and I “took” a certain degree
of masonry together, and as all masons know, the proceedings were quite
as solemn as a church ceremony. Taking the degree with us was a worthy
German, whose hold on the English language was both weak and spasmodic,
as was manifested when it became our duty to repeat certain obligations,
sentence or sentences after an officer of the lodge. Both Goodwin and I
were fully impressed by the gravity of the occasion, yet we could not
help hearing that German; he had a dialectic utterance that would have
driven a Philadelphia vaudeville audience wild with delight and although
he caught the sense of all the responses required of us, he unconsciously
repeated many of them backward according to the constructive forms of the
German language.
Goodwin and I knew it would be an unpardonable breach of decorum, as
bad as laughing aloud in church in prayer time, if we gave way to our
feelings. I bit my lips till they bled. Nat, less conventional, tried
to stow his entire handkerchief in one side of his mouth, while he
voiced the responses from the other. We had almost got full control of
ourselves; the beautiful and impressive service was almost over, but
when the oath was required, that engaging German repeated it backward. I
yelled; Goodwin had a spasm—almost a fit.
To square ourselves, required a dinner for the entire lodge, and Goodwin
and I were the hosts.
This was not the only scrape I was in with Nat Goodwin. During the
bicycle craze of a few years ago, when wheels were as numerous at any
good road-house as free-ticket beggars at a theatre, Nat and I met at
the Casino, in McGowan’s Pass, Central Park, and he asked me to wait for
him, so that we might ride home together. We found many acquaintances
about the tables, remained till after dark and then started homeward
on bicycles without lamps. We had not expected to be out after sunset.
At that time the law was very stringent and rightly so, about lights on
bicycles, so I urged haste. Luckily I had many friends among the Park
Police; they knew I was not a “scorcher” and that I had proper respect
for my own life, so they kindly looked aside as we passed. But Nat—well
they probably had seen him on the stage again and again and been the
better for it, but actors don’t wear their stage clothes and wigs and
paint when they go bicycling, so none of the officers recognized him. At
a turn of the road we came upon a policeman who didn’t know me either,
and he shouted—“Here you fellows—stop!” I don’t believe I am a slippery
chap, but I slipped past that officer before he could touch my wheel, but
alas for poor Nat! he didn’t. I did not remain to hear the conversation,
for I knew I could not make any useful addition to it. Goodwin was to
play the next night in Boston, so I expected to see a “scare head”
story in the morning paper about his arrest. But fortunately while he
was reasoning with the policeman, a friend came along in a carriage and
succeeded in rescuing Nat and his bicycle from the clutches of the law.
I wish the carriage had been mine for Nat Goodwin has come to my
rescue more than once. I recall one of the (London) Green-room Club’s
annual dinners, which Nat and I attended. It was given at the Crystal
Palace; Mr. Bancroft—“Squire” Bancroft, “Squire” being his name and not
a title—Mr. Bancroft was in the chair. About the middle of the evening
a four cornered discussion between Sir Augustus Harris, Henry Arthur
Jones, Henry Pettit and Comyns-Carr, all good fellows, became so heated
that something had to be done to restore quiet, so Chairman Bancroft in a
suave, diplomatic manner of which he has a mastery, arose and said,
[Illustration: “I Slipped Past, But Alas for Poor Nat, He Didn’t!”]
“Gentlemen, we’re here to-night for a good time. Let’s quarrel
to-morrow. I take great pleasure in calling upon our American friend, Mr.
Marshall P. Wilder.”
I arose, but the excitement had got all around the tables; my job was too
big for me, and I could not raise a laugh.
As I dropped into my chair, the chairman called upon Mr. Goodwin. Nat got
up; he began gently to spray oil on the troubled waters; then he drizzled
it; showered it and finally poured it on by the tub full until he got the
entire assemblage laughing and saved the day. I mean the night.
Some actors produce sunshine, that is, laughter, by direct means, others
indirectly and by inversion. George Leslie and Wilton Lackaye are to
the point, for Leslie is an optimist and “jollier,” while Lackaye is
sarcastic. One day Lackaye said to Leslie: “The only difference between
you and me is that you bless people and things and I damn them—and
neither of us is on the level.”
At a dinner at the Lambs’ Club, Lackaye bet Burr McIntosh that Burr would
“make a break” nine times out of ten in whatever he did, and he added,
“McIntosh, I’ll let you select the times.” It was amusing to hear Lackaye
say, at the beginning of every dinner,—“Burr, that bet still goes.” I
believe it has not yet been decided.
But Lackaye is best when telling a joke against himself. While he was a
member of the Daly Company, he said:
“Miss Ada Rehan is a charming lady, and I’ve always considered her a
great comedienne—a creative one. At rehearsal one day we were standing
aside and chatting, the scene not being ours and I asked off-hand,
[Illustration: “How Long Would it Take You to Like Me?”]
“‘Are you a quick study?’
“‘Oh, yes, very,’ she replied. I looked at her doubtingly and asked,
“‘How long do you think it would take you to like me?’
“‘Present?—or absent?’ she asked. That floored me.”
XXIV
SUNSHINE IS IN DEMAND
Laughter Wanted Everywhere.—Dismal Efforts at Fun.—English
Humor.—The Difference Between Humor and Wit.— Composite
Merriment.—Carefully Studied “Impromptus.”—National Types of
Humor.—Some Queer Substitutes for the Real Article.—Humor is
Sometimes “Knocked Out,” Yet Mirth is Medicine and Laughter
Lengthens Life.
Perhaps the reason that the true jester is always sunny of heart and
manner is that his output is always in demand. Busy though his wits and
tongue may be, the demand always exceeds the supply. Laughter, like gold,
is never a drug on the market, and, as is true regarding gold, people
will endure some frightful substitutes rather than go without it. In
countries that have no real fun in them—and there are such countries,
the people insist on having laughter provided for them, even if they
must depend on the public executioner to do it. It is said that in some
Asiatic countries the people become wildly mirthful at the contortions of
a criminal’s body from which the head has just been severed; as to that,
there are solemn Americans—men who would think it sinful to smile at a
comedy, who almost split their sides with laughter over the floppings of
a beheaded chicken.
[Illustration: “Split their sides with laughter over the flapping of a
beheaded chicken.”]
As to that, I assert on my honor that I have seen Englishmen laugh over
the pages of _Punch_ and Frenchmen roused gleefully by a copy of _Le
Petit Journal Pour Rire_, though both papers seem as dismal, to the
average American, as an old-fashioned German on the doom of the finally
impenitent. According to competent judges the best thing that ever
appeared in _Punch_ was a poem on the death of Abraham Lincoln, which
was not exactly a laughing matter. Yet the English are a good-natured
people, and full of laughter. Sometimes it takes them a lot of time
to get off a laugh, but, when the climax is really reached, the sound
resembles an Indian war-whoop tangled up in a thunder-storm. They don’t
take their pleasure sadly, for there are no more cheery-faced people
in the world, but their joke-makers are not successful when at work on
serious subjects. _Punch_ was never more popular than during the recent
war in South Africa, when the greatest and best nation in Europe was
being humiliated in plain sight of all the world by a few thousand Boers,
not one in ten of whom ever fired a shot. It made me almost wish I could
be an Englishman, just to see where the fun came in, for it was plain to
see that it came.
But, to get back to my subject, every healthy man likes to laugh;
therefore he likes whoever will make him laugh. Ella Wheeler Wilcox
voiced a great truth when she wrote “Laugh, and the world laughs with
you.” Men are so fond of laughing that they will endure nine wormy
chestnuts, badly served, if the tenth effort produces the genuine thing.
Much of the best fun comes by accident; that is, from incongruity. Two of
the few immortal figures of humorous literature—Don Quixote and Sancho
Panza, owe their existence to this double motif; in the knight, by
idealized chivalry being put down among pigs and kitchen wenches; while
the persistent coarseness and vulgarity of his squire are thrown into
juxtaposition with the chivalry and splendor of lords and ladies.
Every soul, man and woman, as well as many who are not, tries to provoke
smiles, but not one in a thousand succeeds; as for those who actually
create new humor, their name may be called on the fingers of two hands.
Almost all humorists, whether amateur or professional, get no further
than to evolve variations of old forms and climaxes, but what does it
matter so long as they compel a laugh? At this sort of thing Americans
beat the world. A cook who can serve a dozen different soups from one
kettle is a bungler when compared with the American joker.
Mark Twain says there are only seven original jokes in existence and he
ought to know, yet out of them has come an output that is incomparable,
in proportion, except to the evolution of the entire English language, by
varying the changes on the twenty-six letters of the alphabet.
The demand for laugh-making gives employment to many who might otherwise
be in far worse business. These men are the founts of inspiration for the
newspapers and the stage. The press and the footlights are ever clamoring
for new fun and numberless are the attempts to supply the demand and
incidentally utilize it in the form of cold cash. This stimulus has
produced the humorist pure and simple, the paragrapher, the comic
versifier, the compounder of burlesque and the maker of witty dialogue
to spice the works of serious playwrights. There is also the humorous
artist; when there isn’t, there can always be found half a dozen tipsters
who can’t draw a line unless they have a yardstick to help them but who
have enough funny concepts on tap (and for sale) to make fame and money
for all the artists in the land.
The clever impromptu you hear in a vaudeville sketch, the delicious eight
line dialogue you chuckle over in the morning paper, the flashing contest
of wit you enjoy in a society drama often represent the labor, not of one
but of a half dozen intellects trained to the elaboration of humorous
conceits.
If all the humor which appears daily in print and on the stage could
be clipped and put into scrap-books, it would fill forty large volumes
in a year, yet nine-tenths of it—yes nine hundred and ninety-nine one
thousandth would consist of variations of old facts, personalities,
situations and plays upon words.
[Illustration: “The latest _jeux d’esprit_ of Chinatown.”]
Besides all these clever fellows and their works, there are specialists
in many other lines. Even a language serious enough in itself, may be so
twisted as to make people laugh, especially if the twist can be nicknamed
“dialect”; so we have the purveyor of German humor (so called) the
manufacturer of Irish “bulls,” the sedlac of French jokes, the broker in
Italian bon-mots, and a few days ago I heard of a cosmopolitan individual
with a high sounding Celt-Iberian name, who offered to supply a prominent
comedian with the latest humor of Portugal and Brazil. I don’t doubt
that before long some enterprising Mongolian will be trotting around
among vaudeville managers with a stock of the latest _jeux d’esprit_ of
Chinatown, Canton, and Hong-kong, or that some one will put them in good
enough shape to make people laugh. Good luck to them, for after all, the
laugh is the thing. No one joke will be equally amusing to everybody,
for each person has his own ideas of fun. For instance on a sunny Sunday
afternoon in the country, a lot of good healthy minded folks will munch
red winter apples and gather round the piano and sing “Happy Day,” and
other Sunday-school songs, and look as full of fun as any comedian’s
audience. And the grab-bag at the church fair! Around it there is more
fun visible in human faces, than some great men get out of the cleverest
jokes ever cracked. There is no end to fun, no more than there is to the
melodies that keep rising, like birds from the eight keyed home of song,
that octave that reaches from “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay” to “Tannhäuser.”
And there is no need of it all, for “mirth is medicine and laughter
lengthens life.” That is what my good friend Colonel Robert Ingersoll
wrote under his picture which adorns my wall. The Colonel was one of
us entertainers, though not professionally. Our merry champion he! The
spirit of his tender epigram seems to haunt the dim twilight ways of men,
looking with cheery solicitude for those who are weary, to take them by
the hand and tell them tales full of dawn and breaking day, and rush
of rosy life in rising sun. It stands on the side of light and love
along the paths where flowers bloom and birds are glad in song. And it
is needed, for from the start, there has been a fight between merriment
and misery and the latter has its stout advocates. The gloomster and the
jester have ever been sparring for paints and sometimes the jester has
gone down under swinging right-handers; then, something that its enemies
call Puritanism, probably because it hates all purity not of its own
peculiar brand, has clapped its hands, all smeared with brimstone, until
you could see the blue flames of the place that Ingersoll said didn’t
exist.
XXV
“BILL” NYE
A Humorist of the Best Sort.—Not True to His Own Description
of Himself.—Everybody’s Friend.—His Dog “Entomologist” and
the Dog’s Companions.—A Man With the Right Word for Every
Occasion.—His Pen-Name was His Own.—Often Mistaken for a
Distinguished Clergyman.—Killed by a Published Falsehood.
In one respect entertainers closely resemble preachers;—they greatly
enjoy listening to the greater members of their own profession.
Consequently, I never lost a chance to listen to Bill Nye, and I worship
the memory of him as he was—a gentle yet sturdy and persistent humorist
of so good a sort, that he never could help being humorous, no matter how
uncongenial the surroundings. Although he saw hundreds and thousands of
chances of hitting other men so hard that the hurt would last forever, he
dropped every one of them and trampled them so hard that they never dared
show their faces again. He was an apostle of the Golden Rule, which he
exemplified in himself, so there never was a sting in his jokes; gentle
raillery was the sweetest thing he ever attempted, and even this he did
with so genial a smile and so merry an eye, that a word of his friendly
chaffing was worth more than a cart-load of formal praise.
I speak what I do know, for he and I were close friends for many years
before his untimely death, and he was so solicitous for my welfare and
comfort, that after he had played father and mother to me successfully,
he couldn’t help going on till he had become my grandfather and
grandmother, as well as a number of sisters and cousins and aunts.
I don’t believe he ever had an enemy but himself, and he injured himself
only by his peculiarities of self-description. Any one reading his
humorous articles would imagine him an undersized scrawny backwoods
invalid with an irritable disposition and an unquenchable thirst for
something else than water. In reality he was a tall, broad-shouldered,
deep-chested, healthy, genial chap so in love with the mere fact of
living, that he took scrupulous care of himself in every way. He was as
abstemious as any clergyman who is not a total abstainer, and he never
lost his temper except when some deliberate scoundrelism was inflicted
upon him. He would go out of his way—a whole day’s journey out of his
way, with all the railway fares and other discomforts in such cases made
and provided,—to help a friend out of a sick bed or other trouble, and he
endured all the torments of a busy entertainer’s season on the road as
cheerfully, as if he were perpetual holder of the record for patience.
People often wondered how he could go on year after year digging the
same kind of fun out the same old vein, but the secret was that he lived
right in the centre of that vein and was merely digging his way out of
it. He had a full assortment of polite commonplaces, and carried them
as gracefully as he did his full-dress clothes, but as soon as he got
well acquainted with a man—and it didn’t take him long to get inside of
any decent fellow’s waistcoat—he would talk in his characteristic droll
manner all day and seven days a week, and as much longer as they two
traveled together.
As seriously as if he were talking of audiences or hotel tables or
railway nuisances, he told me a story of a dog he had owned. It was a
Dachshund, and Nye described him as two and a-half dogs long by one dog
high. He had named the animal “Entomologist,” because it was a collector
of insects. In fact, the dog lived up to his name so strenuously that
something had to be done. A friend suggested soaking the dog in kerosene,
saying,
“If it doesn’t rid the dog of fleas, it will rid you of the dog.”
So kerosene was tried and the dog passed away. After all was over
Bill felt so bad that he went out for a walk, which did him no good.
Returning home with dejected spirits and a sorrowing soul, he was smitten
afresh with remorse when he realized that there would be no little dog
awaiting him. But yes, surely there was something on the steps. Looking
closer he saw seven hundred fleas sitting there, and they all looked up
into his face as if to say,
[Illustration: “He has named the animal ‘Entomologist.’”]
“When are you going to get us another dog?”
Few of the great world’s great dispatches contained so much wisdom in so
few words as Nye’s historic wire from Washington—
“My friends and money gave out at 3 A. M.”
He had an enviable faculty for suppressing annoyances in the course of
an entertainment—something more dreaded by any entertainer than a thin
house. In the course of one of his lectures in Minneapolis a late-comer
had some difficulty about his seat, and lingered inside the inner door
to voice some loud protestations. Of course every head in the audience
turned toward the door;—anything for a change, no matter how good a thing
has been provided.
[Illustration: Lingered inside the inner door to voice some loud
protestations.]
Nye endured the disturbance for some time; then he said politely but
icily,
“This is a large auditorium, and a difficult one in which to hear, but
fortunately we are provided with a speaker at each end of the house.” It
is needless to say which speaker received attention after that.
Mr. Nye was engaged to speak at Columbus, Ohio, in a newly-finished
church with which the minister and his flock were as well pleased as a
small boy with his first pair of trousers. So, in a short preliminary
and self-congratulatory address the minister referred to the church
edifice, called attention to its many details of architectural beauty and
convenience, and laid special stress on its new and improved system of
exits.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” drawled Nye a moment later, “I have appeared in a
great many cities, but this is the first time I have been preceded by any
one instructing the audience how to get out.”
Every man has his special trouble, but Nye had two; one was the
reluctance of the public to believe that his pen name was his real name,
and the other was the persistency of some people at mistaking for another
fine fellow in a somewhat different public position—The Rev. Morgan Dix,
D. D., LL. D., Rector of Trinity Parish, New York. Mr. Dix’s stories are
as good as his sermons, which is saying a great deal, and Nye’s face when
in repose suggested a man who could preach a strong sermon of his own.
Nevertheless, it is awkward to be mistaken for any one but yourself. As
to his name, every one who heard of Bill Nye associated him mentally
with the oft-quoted person of the same name who first appeared in Bret
Harte’s poem “The Heathen Chinee,” and assumed that the humorist’s
professional name was assumed. The poor chap explained at length, through
a popular magazine, that he came honestly by his name, having been
christened Edgar William Nye and nicknamed “Bill” from his cradle, but to
his latest days he was besieged by autograph-hunters who asked for his
signature—“your real name, too, please.”
This genial man of cleanly life and good habits was brutally slaughtered
by the public to whom for years he had given laughter and sunshine.
People throughout the country turned against him when they heard the
first breath of calumny. Without waiting to hear whether the story told
of him was true or false, “The Dear Public” treated him so meanly that it
crushed his spirit, sturdy, honest man though he was, broke his heart,
and caused his death within a year.
It came about at Paterson, New Jersey, where he had been engaged to
deliver a lecture. He had been suffering greatly from insomnia, for which
expert medical direction he had taken a certain anodyne (non-alcoholic).
Before his evening nap preceding the lecture he may have taken an
overdose, or it may have worked slower than usual. Whatever the medical
cause—for he had taken nothing else, he was drowsy and slow of speech
on the platform. To make matters worse from the start, he tumbled over
a loose edge of carpet as he came before the audience; although very
near sighted, he had good professional precedents for disliking to wear
glasses on the platform, otherwise his eyes might have saved his feet.
But the succession of accident and manner impressed the audience wrongly.
When the lecture was over some rough characters who had been in the
audience followed Nye’s carriage to the railway, throwing eggs at it and
whooping like demons.
Next morning almost all the New York papers published the report that Mr.
Nye had appeared before an audience the night before in an outrageously
intoxicated condition, and had been egged off the platform! Newspapers
are entirely at the mercy of the men whom they employ to collect news for
them; some which used the Paterson story were honest enough to publish
corrections afterward, but no correction is ever strong and swift enough
to catch up with a lie. What I have said regarding the causeless cause of
the untimely death of a humorist who can never be replaced is of my own
knowledge; I was very close to Mr. Nye in the last year of his life and
know what he thought and said.
I also had a strange reminder of the night on which the story started.
Some of the audience had complained to the lecture committee that they
had not received their money’s worth, so it was decided to give another
lecture without charge, to make amends for the disappointment. I chanced
to be the man chosen to give the entertainment which was to apply salve
to the wounded pockets of that audience, though I did not know it at
the time. I did notice however, that the committee seemed to be “in a
state of mind” and urged me to do my best. It also seemed to me that,
metaphorically speaking, the entire audience had a chip on its shoulder;
still, I succeeded in pleasing it.
After I had finished I learned that I had been selected to pacify the
very people whose ignorance, stupidity and folly had caused the death of
a good man who had been my friend. By a sad coincidence, it was on that
very day that dear Bill Nye was buried!
XXVI
SOME SUNNY SOLDIERS
General Sherman.—His Dramatic Story of a Trysting-place.—The
Battle of Shiloh Fought Anew.—Sherman and Barney
Williams.—General Russell A. Alger On War.—General Lew
Wallace.—The Room in Which He Wrote “Ben Hur.”—His Donkey
Story.—General Nelson A. Miles and Some of His Funny Stories.—A
Father Who Wished He Had Been a Priest.
Soldiers are popularly supposed to be the grimmest men in the world,
but I have found them a jolly lot, and the more prominent they were the
greater the assortment of fun in them.
The first of the military profession whom I came to know well was General
Sherman, and I never had a kindlier or cheerier friend. He had no end of
good stories at his tongue’s end, and no one cared if they were funny
or serious when Sherman told them, for his manner was so earnest and
animated that it was a treat to listen to him and look at him. Besides
having a fluent tongue and a voice with no end of modulation, he talked
also with his eyes and all his features, his head, hands and shoulders.
It used to seem to me that a deaf man could understand all that Sherman
was saying. He was one of the few talkers who could interest all sorts
and conditions of hearers, from wise men and women, to simple boys and
girls. Speaking of girls, reminds me of a story that General Sherman told
one day at a dinner I attended with my friend Col. John A. Cockerill:
“When I was driving one day with General Grant, I asked him what he
was going to have as a hobby, now that the war was over. He answered
promptly, ‘Horses,’ and continued,
“‘What’s to be yours, Sherman?’ and I replied,
“‘Oh, I’ll take the girls!’ My fondness for the fair sex seems to be
pretty well known, but I’m not ashamed of it; on the contrary, I’m very
proud of it, for I don’t know of any better company than nice girls of
all ages—say from a hundred minutes to a hundred years. My fondness for
them began early; why, when I was a mere boy I had a little sweetheart
down South of whom I was very fond. We used to take long walks in the
scented pine woods, and ride down the white ‘pikes’; but our favorite
spot—it became almost a trysting-place,—was a little hill on her father’s
plantation. No matter where we rode or walked, we were pretty sure to
find our way to that spot, for it commanded a view of all the country
round, yet it could scarcely be seen from the lower ground, for some
pine-trees screened it.
“But this love idyl of mine came to naught, like many other boyish
affairs. I went to West Point, the girl married another fellow and the
next time I found myself in that part of the country was on the day of a
desperate battle. The enemy was pressing us closely, we were contesting
every step, yet losing ground, for lack of a good position for our
batteries. Trees were so numerous that it seemed impossible to find a
clearing or elevation from which the guns could be served to advantage.
“Suddenly, in spite of a head full of business and trouble, for my aides
and other men’s aides were bringing me dismal reports, and things were
looking very dark, I realized where I was and remembered our beloved
knoll. My mind’s eye informed me that a more perfect position for field
artillery could not have been designed, for it commanded the surrounding
country to the full range of our guns. Yet for a moment I hesitated. It
seemed desecration, for I had absolute reverence for the ground which
that dear girl’s feet had often pressed. But—yes, war _is_ hell—my duty
at the moment was to the nation, so I turned to an aide, described the
knoll and told how the artillery could reach it. The batteries were soon
in position there, and, as most of the enemy were in the open beyond the
trees, they were quickly checked by a deadly fire, and we were saved.”
This story was told as simply as I have repeated it, yet the manner of
telling affected all the listeners noticeably. Colonel Cockerill leaned
over me and whispered,
“I’m going to write that story up some day, Marshall, so you be careful
to let it alone, and leave it to me.”
I promised, but Cockerill’s untimely death prevented him doing it.
Besides, I have not attempted to “write it up.”
Sherman’s pen was quite as descriptive as his tongue, as the following
letters to me will attest. One is on a subject on which he was very
sore—the oft repeated story that on the first day of the battle of
Pittsburg Landing, or Shiloh, our army was surprised and defeated.
“_No. 75 West 71st St., New York, Jan. 1., 1890._
“DEAR MARSHALL:—
“I thank you for sending me the printed paper containing the
observations and experiences of our friend Cockerill about the
battle of Shiloh or Pittsburg Landing, April 6 or 7, 1862.
Having leisure this New Year’s day, I have read every word of
it, and from his standpoint as a boy, four miles from the war,
where the hard fighting was done, his account was literally
true. His father (a noble gentleman) and I were fighting for
_time_ because our enemy for the moment outnumbered us, and we
had good reason to expect momentarily Lew Wallace’s division,
only six miles off, and Buell’s whole army, only twenty miles
away. By contesting every foot of ground, the enemy was checked
till night. Our reinforcements came on the 7th. We swept our
front and pursued a retreating enemy ten miles, and afterward
followed up to Corinth, Memphis, Vicksburg, etc., etc., to
the end. That bloody battle was fought April 6 and 7, 1862.
After we had actually driven our assailants back to Corinth,
twenty-six miles, we received the St. Louis, Cincinnati and
Louisville papers, that we were ‘surprised,’ bayonetted in our
beds (blankets on the ground) and disgracefully routed.
“These reports we heard at the river bank, and from steamboats
under high pressure to get well away. And such is history.
“In the van of every battle is a train of fugitives. We had at
the time 32,000 men, of which, say five or six thousand were at
the steamboat landing, but what of the others? A braver, finer
set of men never existed on earth. The reporters dwelt on the
fugitives, because they were of them, but who is to stand up
for the brave men at the front?
“We had no reporters with us. Like sensible men they preferred
a steamboat bound for Paducah and Cincinnati, where they could
describe the battle better than we, who were without pen and
ink.
“This to me, is straw already threshed, for we had fought this
battle on paper several times—a much more agreeable task than
to fight with bullets.
“When in England some years ago, I was gratified to listen to
old veterans fighting Waterloo and Sebastopol over again. So,
I infer, our children will continue the fight of Shiloh long
after we are dead and gone.
“Wishing you a Happy New Year, I am,
“Sincerely yours,
“W. T. SHERMAN.”
[Illustration: “Preferred a Steamboat Bound for Paducah.”]
“_75 W. 71st St., New York, Sept. 20, 1889._
“_Marshall P. Wilder, Esq., The Alpine, New York City._
“MY DEAR MARSHALL:—
“I have now completed the first reading of the volume entitled,
‘The People I’ve Smiled With,’ and according to promise, write
to assure you that it has afforded me unusual pleasure. I
feel the better at having smiled with you, with enjoying many
a happy laugh, and moved by its pathos; and as I infer you
will have occasion to amend and add other volumes in the same
strain, I venture to suggest, as to myself, page 211 should
read, ‘some years ago, down at the little village of Paducah,
Ky., the Seventieth Ohio reported to me. Cockerill was a
drummer boy in the regiment. His father was _the_ colonel, and
had got his education in Virginia, but was true to the nation.
That regiment was with me at Shiloh, where we stood a heavy
fire, and that is what made us staunch friends. He went ahead
right straight along, as he has been doing ever since. As the
sins of the father go down to the fourth generation, as the
Bible says, it is a comfort to realize that the virtues go down
_one_.’
“The stereotype plate can easily be changed to this, and it
would be more accurate and satisfactory to military readers.
“Your anecdotes of after-dinner speakers, actors, actresses,
etc., etc., are most interesting, and soon may become historic.
I venture to add one which you can ‘stow away’ and use, or
_not_ according to your pleasure.
“In January, 1872, I was with my two aides, Colonel Anderson
and Fred Grant, at the hotel Chauerain, Nice, when the servant
brought me a card ‘B. F. Williams, New York.’ I answered
‘show him up.’ He soon entered my room, where I had a fire
on the hearth, and for some minutes we talked about the
weather, New York, etc.,—when he remarked: ‘General Sherman,
I don’t believe you recognize me. Possibly if I say I am
_Barney_ Williams, you will know me better.’ Of course I did,
and my greeting then was as hearty as he could have wished.
He had called to invite me to a dinner party at his villa,
which compliment I accepted for the next Sunday, and agreed
upon the guests, including our minister, Mr. Washburn, then
at Nice, James Watson Webb, Luther M. Kennet of St. Louis,
and others, and a more distinguished or congenial company
never assembled than did at that dinner. I must not, and
will not attempt descriptions, even as to our witty genial
host Barney Williams; all told stories of their personal
experiences, and the veteran, James Watson Webb, in his
grand and inimitable way, recounted his adventures when, in
1824, he was a lieutenant at Fort Dearborn (now Chicago). He
traveled by night with a Sergeant of his Company, concealing
himself by day, to Rock Island, to notify the Garrison that
the Sioux and Foxes contemplated a surprise on their stockade
on an occasion of a ball play, in which the Indians intended
to massacre the whole garrison, which was prevented by this
notice. But I now come to the real anecdote of Barney Williams.
He narrated in his best style, his own early life as an
actor: that in Dublin he was very poor, and took his meals
at a cheap restaurant along with some fellows. Habitually
they were waited on by a servant, most prompt and obliging,
but who would periodically get on a bad spree. This occurred
about the time when the Catholic priest, Father Matthews, was
preaching the crusade against intemperance. These young actors
conspired to cure this servant, and laid their plot. Paddy
was absent several days, and their meals were served badly.
At last he made his appearance, eyes bunged, face flushed,
and the well-known symptoms of a big drunk. Whilst arranging
the table for breakfast, Barney Williams read from the
morning paper—‘Horrible! Most Horrible! Last night as Terence
O’Flanagan was lying on his bed, near which he had brought his
candle, which he tried to blow out, the flames followed the
fumes of the alcohol to his throat, and he died in terrible
agony, etc., etc.’
“‘What is that, sor? Please read it again,’ said Paddy. It
was read again with increased accent and additions. ‘Please
send for the Bible, mark on it the cross, and I will take the
pledge.’ The Bible was sent for and on it was marked the cross,
when Paddy placed his hand on the book, and pronounced the
pledge.
“Never as long as he lived, when on a drunk, would he attempt
to blow out a candle. How far short of the reality seems the
effect of words spoken or written. Therein comes the part of
the drama, not the thing itself, but the nearest possible.
“I have seen Dioramas, Cycloramas, Dramas, Plays, etc., of war
and its thousands of incidents. All fall short of the real
thing; but I wish to be understood as not discouraging any
honest effort to record the past, draw from it the lessons
which make us wise and better, and still more, to give such as
you, who make men, women and children happy and cheerful, when
otherwise they might be moping and unhappy. God bless you!
“Sincerely your friend,
“W. T. SHERMAN.”
A battle story seems natural to follow any mention of General Sherman,
so here is one, given me one day, by General Russell A. Alger, Secretary
of War in President McKinley’s cabinet and also one of the best
story-tellers in the Union. I have always been as curious as any other
civilian regarding the feelings of a soldier going into battle and while
he is fighting. General Alger told me one day that he could not describe
it better than by repeating a little story. He said:
During a religious conference at Detroit four ministers were my guests.
They, too, had wondered much about the sensations of the soldier in
battle, and one of them asked me if I did not think the glory in taking
part in great deeds, was a powerful stimulus causing soldiers to emulate
the great heroes of history. I replied:
“Not at all.”
Then they wanted to know what was the sentiment that took possession of
the soldier when he was actually fighting. I replied that three words,
only three, were frequently uttered by all classes of soldiers in the
thick of a fight, and these words fully indicate the soldier’s dominant
sentiment.
In my division was a captain who was noted for religious life and extreme
orthodoxy in belief and conduct. He was a strong Sabbatarian and had
never been known to utter an oath, or even a mild word of the “cuss”
variety. I regarded him as a Miss Nancy sort of man and feared he would
be of no use in a battle, unless a quick and successful retreat might be
necessary. But one day, while a big battle was going on, I saw right in
the thickest of the fight, my mild mannered Captain waving his sword and
urging his men on in such splendid style that I could not help admiring
him! I rode up to compliment him, but when I got near him his language
made me smile.
“Give ’em hell! Give ’em hell, boys!” he would yell after each volley—and
he did not vary his remarks. I couldn’t resist saying,
“Captain, I’m really surprised at such language from you,—you, our most
religious soldier.”
“Well, General,” he replied, “I’m saying just what I feel, and just what
I mean. Excuse me, but—business is business.” Then he waved his sword
again and repeated, “Give ’em hell, boys, give ’em hell—— Give ’em hell——
Give ’em hell,” and gentlemen, those three words express the entire
sentiment of a soldier while he is in battle! And, religious though they
were, those three ministers looked as if they felt compelled to believe
me.
One evening I stood at the landing of the grand staircase of General
Alger’s handsome residence at Detroit, looking down on a great social
gathering on the floor below. Great men and charming women, elegant
attires and animated faces combined to make a picture that I would not
have missed for anything, but somehow my thoughts persisted in running
in a contemplative groove, so I was not astonished when the general
tapped me on the shoulder and rallied me on standing apart and being very
quiet and serious. I replied, there were times when a professional funny
man found it hard to live up to his reputation when he chanced to find
himself alone and in a reflective mood. He not only understood me, but
spoke most sympathetically of the necessary fluctuations of a mercurial
temperament, and of the tendency of quicksilver to fall as quickly as it
mounts.
Most truthfully did John G. Saxe, the humorous poet, write, “It’s a very
serious thing to be a funny man.” Real fun must be spontaneous. The
hostess who pounces upon me suddenly when the guests begin to yawn and
exclaims imploringly, “Oh, Mr. Wilder! _Do_ say something funny!” does
not realize that she sends the mercury down with a rush.
Several times I have had the pleasure of meeting General Lew Wallace,
the distinguished soldier, author and diplomat. He served his country
gallantly in the Mexican War, when he was but twenty-one years of age,
and afterward did inestimable service in the Civil War; he has been
Governor of New Mexico, and American minister to Turkey, yet it is as the
author of “Ben Hur” that he is most widely known and loved by his own
country, as well as by Christian people of all nations, for his book has
been translated into almost every European tongue.
When I was in New Mexico I visited the Spanish Palace at Santa Fé, which
was General Wallace’s residence during his governorship. The building was
erected in 1598, long before the Pilgrim Fathers and Captain John Smith
ever set foot on the Western Hemisphere, so it is one of the show places
of the American Continent, yet the greatest interest of every visitor is
the room in which “Ben Hur” was written.
Like every other real man of affairs, General Wallace has a large sunny
side to his nature, and a gift for story-telling. I have listened to him
with huge delight. To repeat all his stories good enough to print would
crowd everything else out of my book, but here is one that I have often
recalled, and with a hearty laugh each time:
In Stamboul, Turkey, lived a well-to-do native, named Ismail Hassan. He
did not have the imagination of Rider Haggard or the eloquence of some
Americans I could name, but he had a ready oriental wit that could always
be trusted to get him out of a tight place. A neighbor called on him one
day and wanted to borrow his donkey. Ismail made a low salaam and replied:
“Neighbor, I am very sorry, but my boy started on the donkey an hour ago
for Scutari. By this time he is gaily trotting over the hills, far from
the sacred precincts of Stamboul.”
Just as Ismail finished speaking a loud bray was heard from the stable,
which was under the same roof as the house. The neighbor exclaimed:
“How now, friend Ismail? I heard your donkey bray.”
Ismail protested that the neighbor’s ear had been deceived, and that the
noise was not a donkey’s bray. But the donkey, who was supposed to be
trotting toward Scutari, brayed again, brayed twice, and loudly, so the
neighbor cried,
“Surely that is your donkey, Ismail. Allah be praised, I can now borrow
him.” But Ismail replied angrily,
“Which do you believe is lying, the donkey or I?”
The neighbor could not set up the word of a donkey against that of Ismail
Hassan, so he had to depart on foot.
[Illustration: “Who Is Lying, the Donkey or I?”]
Although it has been my rare luck to meet many great and prominent men,
I am frequently surprised anew that my first impression is of their
simplicity of manner and their lack of affectation.
General Nelson A. Miles, until recently General-in-Chief of our Army,
was always of distinguished appearance. In his earlier days he was known
among the ladies in army circles as “Beauty Miles,” and his photograph
was in wild demand by young women at every military post in the west;
yet he was always as modest and approachable as any ordinary mortal, and
I am sure no American ever was more grateful for it than I, for I never
outgrew my boyhood’s adoration for soldiers.
I gratefully remember Miles calling on me once when I was in Washington.
I ought to have been overcome by the honor, which certainly it was, but
he disarmed embarrassment by “droppin’ in” informally, head of the army
though he was, in ordinary civilian costume and with an old soft hat
on his head. On another occasion, when he chanced to be in New York,
he saw me standing in front of “The Alpine,” where I lived many years,
stopped and chatted with me for a full half hour. As we were on Broadway,
scores of men passed us every minute, and it was plain to see that many
of them knew who he was and gazed at him respectfully and admiringly,
yet no crowd collected and no one “rung in”; he was as little disturbed
as if we had been in the middle of a ten acre lot. I was so delighted
with the incident, with his manner and that of the people, that I asked
him in what other country of the world the head of the army could be so
unconventional and democratic.
“Well, Marsh,” he replied, with a big smile of content, “that’s the
beauty of this country of ours—a man doesn’t have to be anything but
himself, or more than he wishes to be.”
General Miles is loaded to the muzzle with good stories; he has so many
that he tells them in as few words as possible, so as to have time to
tell a lot of them. Here are some that he gave me one day in quick
succession.
One Irishman bet another that he could drink a bottle of whiskey and not
stagger. The other Irishman covered the bet, and the first one won, by
going to bed and drinking the whiskey there.
A darky approached a fish stand kept by another darky and asked:
“Got any fresh fish?”
“’Cose I has. What you tink I’ze sellin’? Shoes?”
“Oh, I knows you’s sellin’ fish, but is dey fresh?”
“’Cose dey’s fresh. Hyah!—quit smellin’ o’ dem fish!”
“I ain’t smellin’ ’em.”
“What you doin’, den?”
“I’ze jus’ whisperin’ to ’em: dat’s all.”
“An’ what you whisperin’ to dem fish?”
“Oh, I’ze jus’ askin’ ’em how’s all dey’re relations dat dey lef’ in de
ocean.”
“An’ what dey say?”
“Dey say it’s so long since day seen ’em dat dey forgits.”
An Irishman said: “Last night at two o’clock in the marnin’ whin I was
walkin’ up and down the flure wid me bare feet on the oil-cloth wid a
cryin’ child on aich arm, I cuddent help rememberin’ that me father
wanted me to be a priest. But I thought I knew better than he did!”
XXVII
SOME FIRST EXPERIENCES
When I was a Boy.—One Christmas Frolic.—How I Got on One
Theatre’s Free List.—My First Experience as a Manager.—Strange
Sequel of a Modest Business Effort.—My First Cigar and How
It Undid Me.—The Only “Drink” I Ever Took.—My First Horse in
Central Park.—I Volunteer as a Fifer in School Band, with Sad
Results to All Concerned.
Senator Jones of Nevada, whose stories have greater influence than some
other Senator’s speeches, tells of a professional “repeater” who on
election day voted early and late and often for the candidate of the
party which had employed him, but who, just before the polls closed,
begged permission to vote once the other ticket, which was that of his
own party. With similar spirit I, who have been filling a book with
mention of other people, want to record a few of my occasional doings. If
some of these seem insignificant, I can only explain, in Shakespeare’s
words, “A poor thing, but mine own.”
My memory goes back to the day I was baptized, but the first Christmas I
can recall—and Christmas is the small boy’s largest day, dawned when I
was seven years old. My father and I had lived together as bachelors,
so two aunts were the only mothers I ever knew. They lived at Wolcott,
New York; together they owned a full dozen of children, and every boy and
girl was healthy and full of fun. I always spent Christmas with them,
and the first of these holidays I recall is still vivid in my mind,
for I upset the whole town. My cousins and I exhausted our collective
repertoires of mischief on the day before Christmas; children are usually
“too serious.” Suddenly I conceived the idea of disguising myself and
discovering how it would feel to be somebody else.
So I blacked my face and in other ways hid my identity until even the
family dog failed to recognize me. Then I practiced on several neighbors,
not one of whom succeeded in seeing more than skin-deep. Thus encouraged,
I called on a young lady of whom I was very fond—and let me remind my
readers that a seven-year old boy’s adoration is more whole-hearted,
unselfish and intense than that of chaps who are from ten to twenty years
older.
Well, I knocked at her door, after dark, intending to ask for something
to eat. She herself opened the door, holding a lamp aloft, to see who the
caller might be. Forgetting my disguise, I sprang toward her, after the
manner of seven-year old lovers. She shrieked, dropped the lamp—which
fortunately went out, and fled down several steps to the kitchen. Her
cry of alarm startled a large bulldog, whose existence I had forgotten,
but whose voice I recognized as he said distinctly, in dog lingo, “I’m
after you.” I took to my heels and ran homeward; he was handicapped by a
door that had to be opened for him but I had barely got within my room
door when he struck it with the impact of a cart-load of rocks and a roar
which I can recall whenever I least want to.
[Illustration: “Struck it with the impact of a cart-load of rocks.”]
In my fright I confessed all and was sent to bed in disgrace. But I
remained awake, for it was Christmas eve, and I had resolved to learn
whether Santa Claus was the real thing. I got up at four o’clock,
went down-stairs, but not a thing did I find. So I went back to bed,
overslept, missed the prologue, and the others had the laugh on me. But
I was round in time for the distribution of gifts, and as it was a case
of twelve to one, all the cousins giving me presents, I felt that but for
the dog incident I had got even with this first Christmas I can recall.
While I was a schoolboy at Rochester I was very fond of the theatre and
used to “take in” every show that came to town. Generally this cost me
nothing, although I was not on the manager’s complimentary list. I would
assist Janitor William Halloway light up old Corinthian Hall, where
almost all attractions appeared; then after making a pretense of going
home, I would conceal myself in the darkest part of the house I could
find. This was easy to do, for I was very short; when the performance was
about to begin I would bob up serenely, and no one would question me.
My first public appearance on any stage was back of our old house on
North Fitzhugh Street, in a barn which my father never used. So some of
my schoolmates and I turned the loft into a theatre. We rigged a stage
with scenery and arranged for the lighting by making an opening in the
roof. Pins were the only kind of currency accepted at the box-office, and
I “in my time played many parts”; I would sell tickets at the lower door,
keep children waiting to make them believe a great crowd was up-stairs,
then I would hurry to the upper door, take the tickets and seat the
holders wherever they would see best, if girls, where they would look
best. My duties did not end here, for I was stage manager and appeared
at every performance in various characters, so I honestly believe the
audience got its money’s worth.
My first business venture was in the peddling line; most boys have
longings in that direction, but I was one of the few that persisted
in spite of all opposition at home and elsewhere. I went from house
to house with a basket of things which I was sure would be desired by
housekeepers. The results were not as satisfactory as I had expected,
housekeepers didn’t really know how much they needed the articles I
displayed and explained, yet I got some lessons that have made me a
lifelong sympathizer with venders, book agents, canvassers, etc., for I
recall distinctly the sensation of having doors closed in my face with
some such remark as “Oh, get out of here; we don’t want any.”
On one occasion I rang the bell of a house on Thirty-fourth Street,
near Park Avenue, New York. When the maid opened the door two lovely
little girls peeped from the fold of her dress and exchanged wondering
remarks about “the funny little man.” I offered my wares; the maid said
she would see the mistress. The little girls remained, we began to “make
friends” and had reached the degree of confidence at which names and ages
are compared. The maid returned to say that the mistress did not care to
buy, but was sorry for me and had sent me a nickel. Being proud as well
as poor, my impulse was to refuse the coin, but I put it in my pocket,
saying I would keep it for luck (which it seemed to bring me). Years
afterward at a Lambs’ Club dinner a prominent judge said to me, “Mr.
Wilder, I want you to meet my wife and daughters. Will you dine with us
next Wednesday evening?”
I accepted, but when I climbed the steps of the house something compelled
my memory to run backward and when I entered the drawing-room and was
presented to the wife and charming daughters of my host it became clear
to me that these were the kind-hearted people of long ago—the two little
girls who had made friends with “the funny little man,” and the good lady
who was sorry for me and sent me a nickel.
I am not a smoker, but I did try a cigar once, and this first cigar
is one of my lifelong memories. I encountered this cigar at a dinner
given at the Hotel Astoria by the Aborigines Club. The decorations were
appropriate in the extreme, the walls being hung with Indian blankets,
war bonnets, bows and arrows and many other reminders of the noble red
man. The central ornament of the large round table was a small Indian
tepee, or tent, in which I, in the full regalia of an Indian brave,
was stored before the guests arrived. At a signal given by Col. Tom
Ochiltree, after the club and its guests were seated, I lighted a cigar;
it was necessary for artistic verisimilitude that smoke could issue from
the top of the tepee, and it would not be proper at the beginning of a
dinner, for the smoke to be from anything not fragrant. Well, I never
hesitated to try anything new, so the smoke went up, but soon afterward
I went down—and out. The tepee began to dance; I felt smothered, and
without waiting for the signal for my formal and stately appearance I
threw open the flap, staggered about the table and saw the forty diners
multiply into a hundred and fifty, all of whom engaged in erratic and
fantastic gyrations. General Miles who was one of the guests, caught me
as I was about to fall from the table. I was carried to another room
and put to bed in a dejected state of mind and with a wet towel about
my head. It was literally a case of “Lo, the poor Indian.” Such is the
history of my first, and—heaven help me—my last cigar.
[Illustration: “I threw open the flap and staggered about the table.”]
Although a total abstainer from spirituous liquors—for I can get as
lively on cold water as any other man can on whiskey, I have to my credit
or discredit, one single “drink.” It was on a railway train, going from
Liverpool to London, that I was tempted; unlike Adam and many drunkards,
I cannot say “the woman tempted me,” for it was a party of good fellows
with whom I was traveling. As is generally known, European sleeping cars
are divided into compartments—one for men and the other for women. Toward
bedtime a flask of something stronger than water was passed—they called
it “a nightcap”; all but I drank from it; I declined when invited, but
when some one “dared” me to take a drink it was too much for my pride,
so I yielded. There is a story of an Irishman who said to another,
“Have a drink, Moike?”
“No, Oi’ve just had wan.”
“Well, have another. Ye can’t fly wid wan wing.”
I believed this assertion, for I was so exhausted by what I had swallowed
that I soon made flying leaps from one berth to another and in other
ways so conducted myself as to elicit shouts of laughter from the other
men; our party became so noisy that the ladies in the next compartment
got into a state of extreme indignation, rapped angrily on the wall, and
sent the guard to us with frenzied appeals for silence. The effect of my
physical condition was not so disastrous as that of my first cigar, but
I caused as much disturbance as a man with a “load” which he should have
made two trips for, and I was so grateful that matters were no worse that
I resolved that my first drink should also be my last.
My first horse was another man’s. On the site of Hammerstein’s Theatre
of Varieties used to be a stable, whose proprietor was so kind to me,
when I was a New York schoolboy, that I used to spend much of my spare
time there. He owned a little black mare which he allowed me to ride in
Central Park. Her age and pedigree were unknown; some men said she had
been in the Civil War; others dated her back to the Mexican War; she
ought to have been in both for she was full of fighting blood, indicated
by defiant waves of a little flag-like tail. I could not possibly fall
off, for her back sloped into a natural cradle; her hips and shoulders
would have made fine vantage points for wireless telegraphy. Her manner
was distinguished by severe dignity, and her walk was slow and stately;
nothing could urge her out of it, but occasionally of her own free will
she would break into a decorous trot for two or three minutes. She was a
capital illustration of Milton’s idea of the female will:—
“When she will, she will, you may depend on’t:
And when she won’t she won’t, and there’s the end on’t.”
When she thought she had gone far enough she would calmly disregard any
opinion I might have on the subject and return to the stable. I was much
like the Irishman who drove a mule up and down a street, backward and
forward, until a friend asked:
“I say, Moike, where are ye goin’?”
“How should I know? Ask the mule.”
I must have been the cause of much amusement to beholders as I nestled in
the depression of that animal’s back. A facetious Park policeman once
hailed me with,
“Say, young fellow? Why don’t you get off and get inside?”
My first appearance as a musician was while I was in a primary school
“annex” in the basement of a church which stood where the New Amsterdam
Theatre now is. The teachers were so indulgent to me that I gave loose
rein to my inclination toward practical joking, and I became an element
of mischief which kept that school in a wild but constant ferment. One
of the teachers planned a juvenile fife-and-drum corps and requested all
boys who could perform on either instrument to step forward. I improved
the opportunity to join the fifers, although I could not play a note. In
time we made a creditable band; I stood next a boy who played well, and
followed his motions industrially, though “faking” all the while. This
went on a long time, to the huge delight of the boys who were in the
secret; the teacher did not suspect me.
But the end came one day, in the presence of distinguished visitors.
The fifers were few; the one I had imitated had remained at home, so I
shook in my shoes when the corps was called on for music. The teacher,
who was at the piano, missed the customary volume of sound, and looked
searchingly at me. When she told me to stand beside her I knew my doom
was sealed; I had never professed to be a soloist anyhow. But before I
became officially dead I would have some more fun, and play the joke to
the end. My short stature brought my instrument about to the level of
the teacher’s ear, from which position I let off at intervals a piercing
blast which made that poor woman jump as if a wasp had stung her. I
knew what was coming, after the visitors went, so beside having fun I
was getting my revenge in advance. It is said that when Nemesis catches
up with a man he feels her hand on his shoulder, but it was not on my
shoulder that the hand of fate, represented by that teacher, was felt,
for those were the good old days of corporal punishment in the public
schools—the days when an offended teacher could flog a pupil as long as
her strength lasted.
If these recollections do not please, at least I am at a safe distance,
like the man who sent a poem in to Eugene Field, entitled, “Why Do I
Live?” Field replied, “Because you sent your poem by mail.”
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