elsewhere that Henry Watterson is the most quoted editor in the United
States. Yet a lot of his best things do not appear over his signature;
he says so many that only a phonograph could keep tally of them. One
evening at the Riggs House in Washington he found his friend Col. Dick
Wintersmith, the poet lobbyist, in a gastronomic quandary, for the
colonel longed for a dinner of beefsteak and onions but dreaded to carry
the perfume of onions in his breath. Watterson said:
“Colonel Dick, I’ll tell you how to avoid it.”
“Do!”
“Why, go to John Chamberlin’s for your beefsteak and onions; when you get
your bill it will take your breath entirely away.”
Opie Reid, editor and author, frequently appears on the platform, to
the delight of every one who listens to him. One night he was greatly
puzzled, for although his audience laughed heartily no one applauded. He
learned afterward that he had been engaged to entertain the inmates of
a home for disabled railway employees, and his audience was composed of
switchmen, each of whom had lost an arm, perhaps two. He got a laugh
even on one of the dreadful eating-houses peculiar to southern railroad
stations. Most of his fellow passengers were commercial travelers, and
knew by experience what to expect at such places, so they got off of the
train with sullen looks, as if sorry rather than glad that they were to
dine, and their complainings began before they reached the table. A negro
was walking to and fro on the station platform ringing a dinner-bell, and
near him was a small dog howling so piteously that the darky stopped and
exclaimed:
“What’s you hollerin’ for? _You_ don’t have to eat here.”
My friend Quimby of the Detroit _Free Press_ tells of “meeting up” with
two strangers who became so friendly that soon the three were introducing
themselves.
“I’m from Detroit,” said Quimby to one. “Where are you from?”
“Boston,” was the reply. The Bostonian turned enquiringly to the third,
who said:
“I’m from Pawtucket. Now, d⸺mn you, laugh!”
I am indebted to hundreds of critics and other journalists for kind
things they have printed about me. As to authors, one of them saved
my life a few years ago, and this is how it occurred:—I had rooms in
Thirty-fourth Street, in New York, next door to the late Laurence
Hutton, author of many well-known books. One night, on returning home
very late, I discovered that I had neglected to take my keys, so I was
practically locked out. I rang the bell, but no one responded. Suddenly
I noted that lights were still burning in Mr. Hutton’s house, and I
recalled that he had given a dinner that night to Mr. Edwin Booth, the
tragedian. Hutton was the most obliging neighbor any one could have had,
so I rang him up, told him of my trouble, and asked permission to go into
his yard and climb the division fence, after which I would get into my
own house through a rear window.
“All right, Marshall,” Hutton replied, “and I’ll go with you, and help
you over the fence.”
My only fear was of a lodger in my own house—a nervous man, apprehensive
of burglars, and who kept revolvers and a quick temper ready for use at
any moment he might be aroused. I said as much to Mr. Hutton, and the
affair immediately changed from a neighborly courtesy to an adventure
with a spice of danger to make it more attractive. Mr. Booth who had
overheard the conversation, announced that he wasn’t to be left out of
any fun in sight, so we three crept silently into Hutton’s back yard like
three burglars, or more like three schoolboys out for mischief. Finding
that he could not lift me over, as he had intended, Hutton got a chair,
stood upon it and helped me to the top of the fence, which was high. Even
there I was no better off, for the fence was as tall as I was not, so
like Mohammed’s coffin I was poised between heaven and earth and unable
to drop without breaking something. But Hutton was a man of expedients:
he stood on the extreme top of the chair-back, leaned over the fence and
held my cane, by its crook, as if it were a dangling rope, down which I
slid safely, thanks to a running fire of tragic stage-whispers, by Mr.
Booth, to the general effect, that it is always well to keep very tight
hold of a good thing, until you strike a better one.
I reached the ground safely and began the more dangerous part of my
enterprise, which was to open a window of the main floor without rousing
the lodger who was a light sleeper and kept pistols. A spectator, had
there been any excepting the blasé man in the moon, might have gazed at
an unusual scene—honest little me apparently burglarizing a house, while
a prominent author and the greatest living tragedian, both honorable
and law-abiding citizens, standing shakily on the highest back-bar of a
single chair, steadying themselves by leaning heavily on a fence-top and
giving me all the moral support that could be signified by heart-throbs
and irregular breathings. Suddenly Hutton whispered hoarsely,
“Look out, Marshall!”
But I looked up, and right into the business end of a revolver, and I did
not at all approve of what I saw. Had I looked toward the fence I would
have beheld two eminent Americans in the undignified act of “ducking.”
But I was too busily engaged in flattening myself against the window to
have eyes for anything but fragmentary visions of the world to come: I
shriveled so utterly that it seemed a million years before I had lungs
enough to shout.
“Don’t shoot! It’s Marshall!”
We never settled it to our mutual satisfaction—Hutton’s, and Booth’s and
mine, by which of us the world might have lost most had the revolver been
fired and hit one of us. Mr. Booth was the incarnation of modesty, Hutton
could eloquently praise any one but himself, while I—— But, as already
said, we never agreed as to which would have been the world’s greatest
loss.
XI
THE UNEXPECTED
Robert Hilliard and I and a Dog.—Hartford’s Actors and
Playwrights.—A Fit that Caused a Misfit.—A Large Price to Hear
a Small Man.—Jim Corbett and I.—A Startled Audience.—Captain
Williams and “Red” Leary.—“Joe” Choate to the Rescue.—Bait for
a Dude.—Deadheads.—Within an Inch of Davy Jones.—Perugini and
Four Fair Adorers.—Scanlon and Kernell.
In one respect personal experiences are like jokes—those least expected
cause the most lasting impression. I may be excused, therefore, for
recording some of both.
Some years ago a party of ladies and gentlemen, among whom were Mr.
Hilliard and myself visited David’s Island, an important military post on
Long Island Sound. We were handsomely entertained during the day, so at
night we endeavored to return the compliment. There was a large gathering
in the mess room, the post band gave a few selections and Mr. Hilliard
announced that he would recite “Christmas Night in the Workhouse.”
Instantly a large Newfoundland dog who had been quite conspicuous, looked
sad, dropped upon the floor and went to sleep. The joke was on Bob and
every one was obliged to laugh. But when my turn came and I announced
a few stories about camp life that dog arose, looked straight and
reproachfully into my eyes and walked out of the door. When the laughter
subsided I felt obliged to say:
“I don’t blame you, old chap.”
As I was a Hartford boy, I have always had a special liking for the men
and women whom that city has given to the stage and platform. They make
an imposing array, too—William Gillette, Mark Twain, Otis Skinner, Harry
Woodruff, Lew Dockstader, Francis Carlyle, Musical Dale, Frank Lawton, C.
B. Dillingham and Mesdames Lucille Saunders and Emma Eames.
I greatly admire Mr. Gillette’s plays; they contain so wonderful a
variety of characters that it seems to me he must have searched the whole
country for originals. One day he told me of a pleasant trip he had made
on the St. Lawrence River and said:
“I’m going to live up there.”
“Are you? Where?” I asked, supposing he would name a hotel where a large
lot of human nature could be studied, but he named a lonely part of the
Thousand Islands, and said he owned an island there, so I asked:
“Why do you go there? You will be all alone.”
“I want to be alone,” he replied.
“Will no one live there but yourself?”
“No one but a hen—a little bantam hen.”
“What do you mean by that? What do you want of a hen?”
“Well, I’ve always had great fondness and respect for hens, but have been
unable to get acquainted with them, but this is my chance.”
Mark Twain was once asked to write a testimonial for a map of the world,
and this is what he wrote:
“Before using your wonderful map, my family were afflicted with fits, but
since using it they have nothing but freckles.”
There was a time when I wished for Mark’s wonderful map, for I was
afflicted by a fit. It was at an entertainment at Long Branch given in
aid of the Monmouth Hospital. Many actors and actresses who were stopping
at “the Branch” gave their services, among them Neil Burgess, Mr. and
Mrs. Oliver Dowd Byron, Mr. and Mrs. Matt Snyder, Mr. and Mrs. Frank
Chanfrau, Miss Maggie Mitchell, Miss Theresa Vaughn and others. I was to
appear, and when I arrived, I saw Miss Vaughn and Mr. Snyder, who was
stage manager, holding an animated discussion. Snyder came over to me and
said:
“Miss Vaughn has been billed to follow you, but she doesn’t wish to. She
would like to precede you.”
“All right,” I replied, “I’m perfectly willing.”
She went out and made a great hit. Then my turn came, and I had just got
a recitation under way when a woman in the audience began to have a fit,
at the most critical part of my number. I had to stop as it was not a
duet, and go off of the stage. Mr. Snyder asked:
“What’s the matter, Marsh?”
“There’s a woman out there having a fit.”
“Oh, go back and do the best you can,” he replied.
“This is not where I fit,” I answered. But I went back and told my
pianist to play number seven of my repertoire, which was called “Poor
Thing!”
The audience saw the joke, and helped me out, but I wish my readers
could have been in my position if they do not believe that fit was an
affliction—one which Miss Vaughn was fortunate enough to escape.
A great many men have told me they greatly wanted to hear me recite,
and I am convinced that one in particular meant what he said. I refer
to Bingham the ventriloquist. He chanced to be in a town where I was to
appear before the Young Men’s Christian Association. He went to the hall
to reserve a good seat, but was told that no tickets would be sold; the
entertainment would be for members only.
“But I want to hear Mr. Wilder,” he said, “and this is my only chance
within sight. Is there no way of my getting in?”
“None: unless you join the Association.”
Incredible though it may seem, Bingham did join the Y. M. C. A. for
the sole purpose of listening to me. He never asked me to refund his
initiation fee on the ground that he didn’t get the worth of it, either,
though I’ve scrupulously avoided recalling the incident to his memory.
[Illustration: “There’s James J. Corbett!” “Which One?”]
Nothing is more unexpected by any one than to be mistaken for some one
else. One day while I was walking with James J. Corbett, the handsome
actor-pugilist, who is about twice as tall as I, two young ladies passed
us and one exclaimed:
“Why, there’s James J. Corbett.”
“Which one?” the other asked.
Light-weight though I am, there was a time when I got Corbett badly
rattled. He was living at Asbury Park, training for one of his fights,
and I, while in a railway car with him, got out some friends—a pack of
cards—and did some tricks for Jim. Soon I got him so puzzled that he
exclaimed:
“Hold on there, Marsh! These tricks get me nutty.”
It was the unexpected that brought James Young, the actor, a roar of
laughter one evening when he addressed as follows an audience composed
entirely of his own acquaintances:
“My friends—I cannot call you ladies and gentlemen, for I know you all.”
It was the unexpected, too, that only severely jarred Capt. Alex.
Williams, a noted ex-police official in New York. A woman fainted in
the street, the captain caught her by one arm, and “Red” Leary, a noted
criminal by the other.
“Cap’n,” said “Red” politely, “this is the first time you and me have
‘worked’ together.”
Minister Choate—“Joe” Choate, has a reserve fund of the unexpected. Some
American dishes were served up at a breakfast party in England, one being
ham and eggs. A young lady at the minister’s right was ignorant of the
slippery ways of fried eggs on a dish, so she accidentally spilled the
contents of her plate.
“Oh, Mr. Choate!” she exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do, for I’ve
dropped an egg on the floor,” and Choate replied:
“If I were you, I’d cackle.”
[Illustration: “Ignorant of the Slippery Ways of Fried Eggs.”]
Matt Snyder, the actor, found at his table one night a young man so
elaborately dressed as to be a startling dude, so he asked his daughter:
“What did you bait your hook with to catch that?” but he was floored by
the sweet reply:
“Cake, papa.”
Sometimes the unexpected will cause a man to be grievously wounded in the
house of his friends. Here is an illustration, clipped from a New York
newspaper:
“Marshall P. Wilder, the professional humorist, was in the Lambs’ Club,
surrounded by some spirits, yesterday evening. He looked at his watch and
remarked wearily, ‘I’ve got to run away, for I’ve got to go up-town to be
funny. It’s an awful bore.’
“Wilton Lackaye, who has been taking up the rôle of smart cynicism left
by poor Maurice Barrymore, drawled, in his most irritating manner: ‘I
wouldn’t do it, then. Why don’t you give your usual entertainment?’
“‘Cruel boy,’ chirped Wilder, as he made for the door.”
Lackaye is also the man who gravely suggested to a patriotic Scotchman
that the reason the bagpipes were put in the rear of a regiment in battle
was that the men would be so anxious to get away from the music that they
would run toward the enemy.
One of the greatest nuisances of the entertainment business, the theatre
and all other “shows,” is the persistent “deadhead.” Every good fellow
in the profession likes so much to have his friends see his performance
that he provides free tickets to the extent of his ability, often paying
cash for them. But people who are not friends—some who are not even
acquaintances, are the most determined deadheads; to have heard about
their deceased mother-in-law is reason enough—to them, for a demand
for a free ticket. Yet a man on the stage or platform is sometimes
startled by seeing close personal friends in the line, cash in hand, at
the box-office, and is reminded of the story Senator Jones of Nevada
tells about crossing a river out west. He reached the ferry but no boat
was there. He saw a man across the stream chopping wood, so he shouted,
“Hello, there! Where’s the boat?”
[Illustration: The Passengers Consisted of Three Men and a Half.]
“No boat, wade across,” was the man’s answer, “and I will direct you.
Walk ten feet to the right,—five feet to the left. Look out—there’s a d⸺
big hole there! Now three feet to the right.” Arriving on the other side
of the stream, the senator asked, “What shall I pay you?”
“Wa-all,” said the man, “there’s been a dozen men across this ferry, and
you are the first that ever offered to pay anything, so I guess I’ll let
you dead-head it.”
Occasionally the unexpected is delightful in the extreme.
Before Charles Frohman became the busiest man and Napoleon of the
dramatic stage, he used to affiliate frequently with the Lambs’ Club,
of which he was a member. One day the Lambs gave what they call their
“washing,” otherwise their summer treat or picnic, at an island in the
sound owned by Lester Wallack. At high tide boats could land passengers
on the island, and in the morning the Lambs were safely landed. But at
night the steamer which brought us was anchored out about a half mile
from the shore. When the entertainment was at an end, the members had
to be rowed in small boats to the steamer. The oarsman of the boat I
was in was a large, corpulent chap. The passengers consisted of Charles
Frohman, also a heavy weight, George Fawcett and myself, making three men
and a half. This weighed the boat down to almost within an inch of the
water, and coupled with the fact that neither Mr. Frohman, Mr. Fawcett
nor myself could swim, I fully expected it would be our last sail, but
we reached the steamer in safety. One little false move on the part of
either of us would have caused the head of the Dramatic Syndicate, an
excellent actor and “Merrily Yours” to be busy—for a moment or two, in
“Davy Jones’s Locker.”
Augustus Pitou tells a suggestive story of the unexpected. Late at night
he asked for a barber at a hotel. It was “after hours,” but after much
delay one appeared and asked as a favor of Mr. Pitou if he would kindly
lie on the lounge and let him shave him in a horizontal position. Mr.
Pitou consented. The touch was so gentle he fell asleep. When he awoke
and felt of his chin he said:
“That’s the gentlest shave I have ever had.”
“Well, sir, you are the first live man I have ever shaved.”
The man was an undertaker’s barber!
Nat Goodwin tells how Billy Mannering, a brilliant old time negro
comedian, sprang the unexpected on a hotel proprietor. The company was
having hard luck on one night stands. Country hotels were as bad in those
days as now—even worse. The boys were eating breakfast one morning when
Bill came down late and said:
“Boys, how is it? About the same as all the rest of the hotels?”
“Yes, Billy.”
In came the proprietor and said: “Good-morning, gentlemen.”
Billy asked: “Who are you?”
“I’m the proprietor, sir.”
“So you’re the proprietor! Do you know you are a brave man? If I were
you, I would live out in the woods, and not come near the hotel. I would
be afraid to face my boarders.”
“How’s that? Are not the beds all right?”
“Yes, but we can’t eat our beds. Still, you have two things here that
can’t be improved on.”
“What are they?” asked the proprietor, filling out his chest.
“Why, your pepper and salt.”
I played the unexpected on several people aboard a certain ocean
steamship, on which my friend Perugini was a passenger. Several of the
ladies on board became enamored of “Handsome Jack,” and were very anxious
to be introduced to him. They made me their confidant, but Perry was not
much of a “masher” and did not care to meet them. At this time, he had
an affliction of which I am glad to say he has been cured; he was deaf.
One morning I rapped on his stateroom door, and getting no response, I
concluded I would run the risk and go in. There he lay, sound asleep. His
valet had preceded me, and everything looked as neat and cozy as could
be. Perry did not hear me, no matter what noise I made. I went on deck,
found four of the young ladies and said:
“Now’s your chance to meet Perugini; just follow me.” They accompanied me
and all four looked in at the door, but were afraid to go in.
“Oh, don’t he look lovely,” said one.
“Isn’t he charming—I could just hug him!” said another. I went in; as he
did not hear me they took courage and one by one they stole in and got
near to Perugini. I slipped toward the door and quickly closed it. The
girls were too frightened even to cry out. Then I took hold of Jack and
gave him a shake that awakened him. Poor Jack! He was more frightened
than the four girls put together. All I got out of him when he and I got
on deck was,
“Oh, Marsh! How could you?”
Kyrle Bellew was a passenger on the same steamer. My acquaintance with
Mr. Bellew is a most pleasant one, so I know he will forgive me if I
detail this little joke, which, like all my jokes, was played in good
nature.
On the ship he wore a yachting cap and a full yachting costume, including
a big cord around his neck, to which was attached a telescope. In the
evening he would walk up to the side of the steamer, pull out this
glass full-length, gaze out on the ocean at some distant ship, close it
and again walk down the deck, posing in an effective manner, seemingly
unconscious of the amusement he afforded the other passengers. In a
burlesque spirit I arranged, as best I could, an imitation of him. I
got a seaman’s trousers, blouse and hat, and extemporized a sort of wig
as like to my friend’s as possible; to a piece of rope about my neck I
attached a Belfast beer bottle. At a safe distance I walked up and down
the deck and gave the passengers the benefit of my burlesque. I don’t
believe Bellew ever saw me. If he had, I fear it would have been my
finish; still, I think he would have enjoyed the practical joke afterward.
Even a book-canvasser can be floored by the unexpected. James Whitcomb
Riley tells of an insinuating member of this profession who rang the bell
of a handsome residence and when a specially aggressive looking servant
opened the door he asked politely:
“Is the lady in?”
“What do ye mane?” the girl asked. “I’d have ye know we’re all ladies in
this house!”
In another part of this book I have referred to entertainments I gave at
an insane asylum—a place where the unexpected should be the rule, to the
performer. But at the Bloomingdale Asylum I once saw it work the other
way, and to an extent that was pathetic all round. Among the inmates were
Scanlon and Kernell—two men who had thousands of times delighted great
audiences with song and joke. I knew of their presence but how they
would look or feel I had no means of imagining.
One of my assistants for the occasion was Miss Cynthia Rogers of Toledo,
Ohio. The programme was not printed, nor arranged in detail, so we were
in ignorance as to what songs had been selected. Miss Rogers “went on”
dressed as an Irish lad, beginning in a copy of Scanlon’s familiar
make-up, the most popular song of his own composition, “Mollie O.”
Everybody looked at Scanlon. His face was suddenly aglow with interest.
His lips followed, word by word, the course of the melody. He raised
one hand and motioned as if he were directing the music. At the close
of the first verse, when the building shook with applause, he smiled
happily. He was living his triumphs over at that minute, oblivious to his
surroundings. He was impatient for the next verse; he followed the words
intently; his face was flushed, the old inspiration showed in his eyes,
and when the applause broke forth again he laughed and bowed his head.
“Did you see that man?” Miss Rogers asked me a second later. “Did you
ever see such an expression? Who is he—that young man yonder, with his
head bowed?”
“Why, I thought you must have known,” I replied. “That’s Scanlon.”
“Scanlon the actor?”
“Yes. The author of your song.”
Miss Rogers was tearfully uncertain, as she went on to respond to an
encore, whether she had done right or wrong. She sang “In It” and the
“Latch Key in the Door.” Then Scanlon was brought back to us and Miss
Rogers was introduced to him.
“I want to thank you,” he said simply. “I felt as I used to, you know.
Some day I will sing it again. You are very pretty and you sing well.”
If there was one man in the audience blind to the pathos of the scene
which had just occurred it was Harry Kernell, the comedian. He had looked
on quietly, his face impassive, his hands clasped loosely over one knee.
He smiled when Scanlon came back to the seat just in front of him; then
his face became fixed and vacant as before.
Kernell raised his face again as his wife who had been sitting beside
him, left her seat. He seemed to have forgotten her, and to be hearing
nothing and seeing nothing, when I announced the next number on the
programme.
“We have a pleasant surprise for you,” I said, smiling in anticipation.
“Mrs. Kernell is here; she came up to see her husband, my old friend, and
we wouldn’t let her refuse to sing for you.”
But Kernell did not look up until his wife, Queenie Vassar, began
singing. The little woman watched him tenderly. The poor fellow
understood. After that, no lover could have been more appreciative than
he was. It was the one voice in all the world that could move him.
Scanlon turned and whispered to him, but Kernell’s soul was in the song.
Quickly he looked ten years younger than he does ordinarily. He seemed
grateful for the applause, and eager for another song, and another, so
Mrs. Kernell sang “Peggy Cline,” “Sligo” and “The Bowery.”
After that Kernell sat still and gloomy. The spell was broken that had
made him young. The deep lines came back on his face, his shoulders
stooped and he was an old man again, listless and helpless. One could
hardly imagine him the man that scattered sunshine so royally, laughing
his way to fame, building his triumphs on the happiness he gave to others.