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: