Wilberforce were staying at Birchington. The Bishop was gravely ill.
We had known him in the Engadine and at the Bel Alp, and had also
been to those musical parties in Great Cumberland Place, to which
Mrs. Ellicott and all her family were so passionately and unceasingly
devoted that they seemed to fill their lives. The Bishop was always
expected to be a listener. My wife drove to the bungalow where the
Bishop was, to ask after him, and, to her delight, was told he would
like to see her. She found the Archdeacon by his side, and as she
approached his chair the Bishop was thanking him for "kind and
comforting words," adding: "I hope, my dear friend, when it shall
please God to take me, He will graciously grant me a little
niche--and _not too near the music!_"
The Archdeacon's love of animals is well known. He adored his dogs,
and at a garden-party showed us the graves of little lost friends by
the Cloisters, dwelling in a {43} most interesting way on his belief
in their after-life. In support of this, I recall an incident told
by my old comrade, John Hare, when he had a seaside home at
Overstrand. The Archdeacon visited him one day: and Hare, who was
never without a dog, put a question to him.
"Do you really believe, Archdeacon," he asked, "in a hereafter for
our dogs?"
"Indeed I do."
"But do you mean that I shall meet my dog again?"
"Undoubtedly--if you are good enough!"
[Sidenote: Father Bernard Vaughan]
A friend whom it was always a pleasure to welcome or to meet was
Father Bernard Vaughan. We became acquainted many years ago at
Manchester, where my wife and I were acting. He was then the rector
of a church there, and would come and see us at our hotel, and tell
us Lancashire stories. From time to time he visited us in London,
and later on at our seaside home.
He never spoke a word to me on religious subjects, knowing, I
suppose, that I did not chance to belong to the beautiful faith which
he and his many brothers and sisters so devoutly served as priests
and nuns, beginning with the eminent Cardinal. Father Bernard
Vaughan attracted crowded congregations, {44} drawn from all degrees
of creed, to Farm Street, there to listen to his outspoken sermons on
the Sins of Society. They were both romantic and emotional, with
sentences to the effect that unless England fed the fires of religion
with the fuel of faith she might wake one day to the sound of a
passing bell tolling her soul's death.
The circumstances in which I first saw Dr. Boyd-Carpenter, then the
Bishop of Ripon, were comical, although the scene of them was a place
of worship. I have a predilection for a good sermon, and at one
period made a practice of hearing the best English preachers of the
day, no matter what their particular aspect of the Faith might be.
On a Saturday I read in _The Times_ that the Bishop of Ripon was to
preach at the Chapel Royal, Whitehall; so I determined to go and
listen.
The Chapel Royal, Whitehall, exists no more, but at that time it
occupied the first floor of the old banqueting hall (from one of the
windows of which King Charles I stepped forth to his execution),
since given over to the Royal United Services Institution. The hall
was not, from the clergy's point of view, well adapted to its sacred
purpose, for there was no vestry, or, at any rate, no separate
entrance for the officiating minister, who could only {45} enter the
chapel by the staircase in the same way as the general public.
[Sidenote: The verger's mistake]
Presenting myself on a wintry morning, some time before the appointed
hour, after fighting my way up the crowded staircase, I found the
chapel already full, when the verger, catching sight of and
recognising me, whispered that if I waited a moment he would find a
seat for me among the front rows. Just then I felt someone trying to
push past me, and looking down saw a small and energetic figure, the
head swathed in a large white muffler, eagerly struggling to make
towards the altar. The verger, prompt but polite, attempted to stop
the vigorous little man. "You really can't, sir; there isn't another
empty place."
What was the good man's surprise and confusion to receive the answer,
in a telling stage whisper: "But I've come to preach!"
The intruder was no other than the Bishop, then in the prime of life.
When at last he reached the pulpit, he preached so fine a sermon that
though my watch told me it lasted only five minutes short of an hour,
it seemed to occupy less than the half of one.
Another trenchant and dramatic sermon I recall was preached by
Boyd-Carpenter in the Abbey soon after the death of Tennyson, {46}
when the Bishop shattered an idea which had got abroad that the great
poet had no faith in an after-life. Who, I wonder, could have
attributed such thoughts to the man who wrote: "I hope to meet my
Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar"? The only time I saw
the Victorian Poet Laureate, a picturesque figure, was on board a
Channel steamer. He passed the time between Calais and Dover on the
bridge, talking with the captain and smoking a short clay pipe.
Acquaintance with the Bishop soon followed the episode at the Chapel
Royal, and, I rejoice to add, warm friendship with my wife and myself
both in London and at our seaside home, which lasted until his death.
There is a story told of the Bishop--which may or may not be true--of
his being rudely interrupted at a public meeting by the query if he
believed Jonah was really swallowed by the whale. The Bishop said
that if he got to heaven he would try to find out. The man in the
crowd answered loudly: "But suppose he is not there?" The Bishop at
once replied: "Then you'll have to ask him." For my own part, I have
always thought that Jonah's condition was like that of a vulgar
tourist--he travelled much and saw little.
[Sidenote: Speaking and reading]
I remember well a happy week-end passed {47} with the Bishop at his
palace, and a delightful drive in the snow to Fountains Abbey. It
was then that he persuaded me to undertake the difficult task of
saying something at a forthcoming Church Congress on "The Art of
Speaking and Reading," and I devoted time and thought to so important
a subject.
I began by saying that it was customary for a clergyman to preface
his sermon by a text from the Bible, but that I, as an actor, would
begin my address with a quotation from Shakespeare to be found in the
comedy of _Much Ado About Nothing_: "Happy are they that hear their
detractions and can put them to mending."
This text, if I may so call it, led to some remarks on the affinity
between the words of Shakespeare and the pages of Holy Writ. The
same inspired truths so abound throughout them both as to prove that
the poet was a student of the Scriptures. There could be no firmer
bond between Church and Stage; it must, for all time, be the
strongest link, for both books are eternal.
I called to mind the care and cost lavished upon choral services in
our cathedrals, the pains taken to acquire the skill melodiously to
chant the Litany: why were not the same labour, the like devotion
bestowed upon the {48} teaching of young clergymen to speak audibly
and to control a congregation? One could not but be amazed at
glaring instances of false emphasis in the dull recital of the Order
for Morning Prayer: surely such a monument of learning and piety
should be spared such treatment.
I dared to add that I had heard the Bible read--now and then very
beautifully, often very vilely. That I had listened to such extracts
as tell of the death of Absalom, of the death of Jezebel, of Daniel
in the Den, of the Prodigal's Return, read as though the moving
stories were little more dramatic than so many stale problems in
Euclid; and had heard St. Paul's funeral chapter so droned as to make
the hallowed bones of the Apostle who bequeathed it to humanity turn
in their resting-place. On the other hand, I had heard the same
words read so truthfully by men who are living and men who are dead,
as to be a lasting memory.
[Sidenote: The actor and the bishop]
It was natural on my part to draw attention to the resemblance which
exists between the great preacher and the famous player, not only for
the mighty sermons he can preach, but because, when his work is done,
when he has for ever left the pulpit or the stage, the "divine spark"
is extinguished; his voice, {49} his fascination, his originality,
are soon but memories; while his renown too often rests upon the
imperfect records of tradition. The personality of John Knox must
remain a mystery; the tragic tones of Sarah Siddons can be heard no
more. What would the young parson not give to hear Martin Luther
preach? What would I not give to see David Garrick act? "Into the
night go one and all."
I reminded my listeners of the answer David Garrick gave to the
bishop who asked him this question: "Can you tell me, sir, why it is
that you players, who deal with romance, can yet profoundly move an
audience, while we preachers, who deal with reality, fail to do so?"
"Yes, my lord, I can. It is because we players act fiction as if it
were the truth; while you preachers too often speak of truth as
though it were but fiction."
Thackeray wrote: "There is an examiner of plays, and there ought to
be an examiner of sermons." I would go further, and urge that every
curate should pass an examination in the art of preaching before he
is allowed to mount a pulpit. A bad preacher will empty a church
more easily than a good preacher will fill one. It was well said,
also, by an eminent {50} minister in the Nonconformist Church, the
late Dr. Parker:
"To-day the man who would preach with true and lasting effect must be
sincere, intelligent, and sympathetic--in a word, he must be a man, a
teacher, a friend. Preaching is the most impertinent of all
impertinences if there is not behind it and round about it a sense of
authority other and better than human."
The best advice I can remember was once given by my wife, in a single
sentence, to a public speaker who consulted her on the subject; she
said simply: "Don't be afraid of opening your mouth, and don't forget
that the roof of it is Nature's sounding-board."
Bishop Boyd-Carpenter, as some may still recollect, was honoured with
the personal friendship of the late Empress Frederick of Germany. In
connection with that unhappy lady, the eldest daughter of Queen
Victoria, and our Princess Royal, he told me an interesting story,
the point of which was to be proved tragically true in later years.
The Bishop was summoned to Germany to give the Empress the
consolations of religion in a grave illness. The Prince of Wales,
who had hastened to the bedside of his favourite {51} sister, in the
kindness of his peace-loving heart was attempting to smooth over the
notorious differences between the suffering lady and her son, the
ex-Kaiser, who, as is well-known, had treated her with unfilial
harshness. But the Empress knew Wilhelm too well to hope for
reconciliation. She laid her hand on her brother's arm, saying sadly
and earnestly: "Bertie, your country has no greater enemy than my
son."
[Sidenote: A Mohammedan legend]
Among my papers I find a letter from Boyd-Carpenter, redeeming a
promise which he had made over the dinner-table to look up for me a
Mohammedan legend upon which he had preached a remarkable sermon:
"When God made the earth it shook to and fro till He put the
mountains on it to keep it firm.
"Then the angels asked: 'O God, is there anything in Thy creation
stronger than those mountains?'
"And God replied: 'Iron is stronger than the mountains, for it breaks
them.'
"'And is there anything in Thy creation stronger than iron?'
"'Yes, fire is stronger than iron, because it melts it.'
"'Is there anything stronger than fire?'
"'Yes, water, for it quenches fire.'
"'Is there anything stronger than water?'
{52}
"'Yes, wind, for it puts water in motion.'
"'O, our Sustainer, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than
wind?'
"'Yes, a good man giving alms: if he give with his right hand and
conceal it from his left he overcomes all things.'"
[Sidenote: The wrong train]
I may here relate an unaccountable blunder I committed when on my way
to do a little service for the Bishop at Bradford. At that time
there were two express trains to the North, one from Euston, the
other from King's Cross; both started at 1.30. Full of thought, I
drove to Euston instead of to King's Cross. When I asked for a
ticket there was some delay; at last it was given to me with the name
of my destination written upon it in ink. I thought it strange that
tickets for so important a place should be out of print, but took my
seat in the train; and it was only when well beyond Rugby that I
realised what I had done. Eventually, after hurried, anxious talk
with the authorities at Stafford, I got out at Stockport. There, in
great excitement, I ordered a special train and telegraphed home to
allay anxiety. Some difficulties about the special were overcome by
earnest appeals to disregard cost, as I was prepared to pay anything
demanded of me, for never in my life had I failed to keep an {53}
appointment with the public, and should have been doubly distressed
at breaking an engagement in which I was doing the work without any
question of a fee. Eventually I reached Bradford five minutes before
the time fixed for the entertainment. To add to my troubles, the
confusion had driven out of my head the name of the hall where I was
to appear. Fortunately, one of the flymen on the station rank
remembered it, and drove me quickly to its doors as the audience was
pouring in. After inquiry at an hotel hard by--the same hotel in
which a few years later Irving stumbled in the hall and then fell
dead--I found the Bishop. He had telegraphed to London for the cause
of my absence, and, receiving no explanation, had settled to fill my
place by giving his lecture on Dante; but on my appearance he drove
to the hall, asked for a short delay, explained the reason, and then
returned to fetch me. I dressed as if by magic, swallowed some soup,
and, appearing on the platform only fifteen minutes late, was greeted
with great warmth. I had never felt so pleased to face my audience.
The Bishop of Ripon, like myself, was born in the year 1841, and,
like myself, was proud to belong to that fine "vintage."
I am not likely to forget a dinner-party he {54} gave at his home in
the Abbey Cloisters in 1916 to a select band of "75's," or
"soixante-quinzes," as he called us.
The company included the Bishop of Chichester (Dr. Ridgeway),
Field-Marshal Lord Grenfell, Admiral Fisher, Lord Sanderson, Sir
Frank Lascelles, Sir Walter Parratt, Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace and
myself. The late Lord Cromer was invited, but was prevented by
illness from being present. Our host had not only prepared for us a
delightful evening, but had composed some appropriate verses for the
occasion, of which each guest was presented with a copy. This is how
they ran:
"1841-1916
"The Fairies stood and watched the years
'Till forth came Forty-one,
The Fairies smiled and then they gave
Their kiss to Forty-one.
The vintage ripened well and good,
That year must ever famous be,
Because it brought forth you and me,
The men of Forty-one.
"The Fairies watch where kisses go
In hope that they survive;
Lo! great in arms by land[1] and sea[2]
Their sons in valour thrive;
{55}
In Russian lore[3], in minstrelsy[4],
In mock[5] and true[6] diplomacy,
Till brave in toil they came to be
The men of Seventy-five.
"Great William said 'Ripeness is all,'
And we are Seventy-five,
Old dogs are more than lions dead,
And we are still alive!
We need not fear age or mischance,
In good we may and will advance,
Like _soixante-quinzes_ in war-tossed France
Our guns are good at Seventy-five."
[1] Lord Grenfell.
[2] Lord Fisher.
[3] Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace.
[4] Sir Walter Parratt.
[5] Sir Squire Bancroft.
[6] Sir Frank Lascelles.
The good Bishop did not live to see the return of Peace which
followed the triumphant victory of the _soixante-quinzes_ and their
Allies. In the month before the Armistice was declared, he was laid
in his grave. But he had not forgotten the happy gathering of 1916,
as is proved by the following treasured letter, which I received from
his son, Major Boyd-Carpenter:
"6 LITTLE CLOISTERS,
"WESTMINSTER,
"_October_ 26, 1918.
"DEAR SIR SQUIRE BANCROFT,
"Shortly before my father's death he asked that 'a message of
greeting be sent to all the 77's.' As you were one of those {56} who
joined him at the gathering he always remembered with such pleasure,
I am sending you this, his message.
"Believe me,
"Yours sincerely,
"A. BOYD-CARPENTER."
More recently we lost another honoured friend in that remarkable and
distinguished man, Dr. Wace, the Dean of Canterbury. When we had a
home by Folkestone he was often our guest, while we have enjoyed the
hospitality of himself and Mrs. Wace at the Deanery. Their kindness
at all times to my wife is a happy remembrance. The Dean loved a
good story: he told many and was an appreciative listener.
I always read the powerful letters which he wrote to _The Times_, and
could not but admire the strenuous blows he dealt with dauntless
courage on matters which were too profound for the likes of me.
Shortly before his lamented death I met the Dean at the Athenæum and,
during our talk, had more than one proof of the undiminished power of
his great memory.
[Sidenote: A disreputable trio]
As an end to this chapter I quote the most startling words I ever
heard from a pulpit, uttered by a prominent dignitary of the Church,
{57} in referring to the first chapter of Genesis, which had been the
lesson of the day: "Adam was a cad; Eve, I am afraid, was no better
than she should be; and for my part, I have long since regarded the
silent serpent as the most respectable of a disreputable trio."
{58}
IV
THE LAW
"For pity is the virtue of the law,
And none but tyrants use it cruelly."
There is a sort of affinity between the bar and the stage: actors are
attached to lawyers because lawyers are attached to actors; at least
that has been my experience--my wife and I were rich in their
friendship from very early days.
I have often thought there is a strong link between our callings.
The feelings of the distinguished counsel when he goes into court,
with all the anxious weight upon his mind, with all his grave
responsibility, cannot be unlike the feelings of the great actor on a
"first night," when his fame may be in peril.
I was once, when a child, taken to the House of Lords by my
grandfather; he pointed out to me the venerable Lord Brougham, who
was sitting in judgment with other Law Lords. I remember that he
wore shepherd's plaid trousers, also his nose, the famous nose which
{59} was immortalised by Dicky Doyle on the mask which is being
dragged along the lower part of the title page of _Punch_.
[Sidenote: Cockburn, L. C. J.]
Lord Chief Justice Cockburn was the first great man we knew; our
meeting was at dinner, when we were young, at the house of Henry
Fothergill Chorley, a worshipper of Dickens and a prominent musical
critic of those days; two of the guests were "Mamie" Dickens, the
elder daughter of the great novelist, and Arthur Sullivan, then quite
young and a protégé of our host.
I have never forgotten the feeling of awe which came over me when the
butler announced, "The Lord Chief Justice of England." I always
thought he looked less like a lawyer than an admiral, or the skipper
of his own beloved yacht, the _Sybil_. My wife had the good fortune
to be placed next to the Lord Chief. She had the gift of manners,
and was at home in any surroundings. He took a great fancy to her,
and we enjoyed the charm of his friendship for about ten years, until
the end of his career. In those days I thought his was the most
attractive male voice I ever listened to, whether on the Bench or in
a room--even during the lengthy summing-up of the Tichborne trial it
never grew monotonous--although I admit that, nowadays, the voices of
Johnston {60} Forbes-Robertson and Henry Ainley could run it very
close.
Let me add that the two most attractive female voices I have listened
to were owned by women widely apart in rank and station: one belonged
to Queen Victoria, the other to my wife, and both voices were
preserved unto old age. It is pleasant to have this opinion
confirmed by no less a person than Ellen Terry, who wrote of my wife
"such a _very_ pretty voice--one of the most silvery voices I have
ever heard from any woman except the late Queen Victoria, whose voice
was like a silver stream flowing over golden stones."
The Lord Chief was a perfect host, well described as having the
vivacity of youth tempered by the wisdom of age.
He also adored music: it was almost certain you would meet its
professors at his house, and I recall memories of Madame Schumann,
Joachim and Piatti. During a short time when my wife was not acting,
her delight was great at being taken by him to the _Monday Pops_.
Among his other accomplishments was an intimate acquaintance with
languages: his French was as near perfection as a foreigner could get
to.
[Sidenote: "Justice is blind"]
On one occasion when we had asked Sir Alexander Cockburn to dine with
us, my wife {61} took George Critchett, the eminent ophthalmic
surgeon and father of our lost friend, Sir Anderson, to him, saying:
"Let me present Mr. Critchett to you, Lord Chief; as Justice is said
to be blind, you may find his services useful." On another, in reply
to a similar invitation, he wrote that he was just starting for
Geneva to preside at the Alabama Conference, and wished that
troublesome vessel had gone to the bottom of the sea the day she was
launched. Soon afterwards, at the close of our annual Swiss holiday,
we passed through Geneva just at the time the Alabama claims were
settled there, and paid our respects to the Lord Chief at the old
Hôtel des Bergues, to the sound of guns firing and the glory of flags
flying.
This delightful friendship was broken suddenly. It was in the year
we opened our newly rebuilt Haymarket Theatre, which he greatly
admired, that after presiding over an intricate case in Westminster
Hall, the Lord Chief left the haunts of justice and the "law's delay"
for the last time. He dismissed his smart little brougham and walked
home to Hertford Street. During the night came a fatal attack of
_angina pectoris_.
When I was a struggling country actor in Liverpool, so far back as
1864, I made the acquaintance of a struggling barrister on the {62}
Northern Circuit. His name was Charles Russell, and he, too, became
Lord Chief Justice of England. I enjoyed his friendship until his
death. His personality was both dominating and downright. You could
not be in a room with him and not be conscious of his presence. No
man more firmly said what he meant and meant what he said, while his
Irish tongue was ever ready with the apt bright answer, as, for
instance, when, asked the severest sentence for bigamy, he answered:
"Two mothers-in-law!" He was a relentless cross-examiner, and though
sometimes a sharp antagonist was always a friend. There was no
littleness about him, and he had no use for a fool.
[Sidenote: Russell, L. C. J.]
When I started my hospital "readings," I made a point of avoiding any
suggestion of "creed," and arranged two recitals on behalf of Jewish
and Roman Catholic institutions: at the former the Chief Rabbi
presided, at the latter Cardinal Vaughan promised to do so, but was
prevented by sudden illness: his place was taken by the Lord Chief
Justice. Soon afterwards I was asked to serve a cause which was
pronouncedly Protestant. In talking over who was to be invited to
preside, I found the committee very desirous that Lord Russell should
be approached. I pointed out that he, being a fervent Roman
Catholic, {63} could hardly be expected to comply, adding that he had
only quite recently presided at a "reading" of the same story which I
had given for the benefit of Catholics. The committee, however, said
they could but be refused, and made their request. Lord Russell
replied that I had gone out of my way to help a charity of his Faith,
and that he would gladly do the same for me. The generous speech he
made on the occasion was a warm tribute to the Reverend William
Rogers--known widely as "Hang Theology Rogers." I cherish the
remembrance of many acts of kindness shown to me and mine by Lord
Russell of Killowen, but not one of them touched me more than that I
have just related.