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?”