said about me. Some of the caricatures annoy me, but only because they
pain people I love—my wife and family. You see, my boy, it doesn’t pay to
be too sensitive, for it breaks a man up, and that’s the worst thing that
can happen to him if he has any duties in the world. Besides, everything
depends on the point of view. Once a German family emigrated to America
and settled in Milwaukee. The oldest son, in his teens, concluded he
would start out for himself. He ‘fetched up’ in New York, and without
any money, so he wrote home, ‘Dear father, I am sick and lonely and
without a single cent. Send me some money quick. Your son John.’ The old
man couldn’t read, so he took the letter to a friend—a great strapping
butcher with a loud gruff voice and an arrogant manner of reading. When
the letter was read to him the father was furious and declared he would
not send his son a cent—not even to keep him from starving. But on his
way home he kept thinking about the letter and wanting to hear it again,
so he took it to another friend—a consumptive undertaker who had a gentle
voice with an appealing inflection in it. When this man read the letter
the father burst into tears and exclaimed, ‘My poor boy! I shall send him
all the money he wants.’ You see, the same thing viewed from a different
point takes on a different color.”
After the Rev. Dr. Parkhurst visited some notorious New York “dives” and
preached his famous sermon on New York politics he was the sensation of
the day and also one of the best abused men in the land. He was besieged
by reporters until he had scarcely time to say his prayers and came to
hate the sight of a newspaper man. About that time I was making a trip to
Rochester and saw Dr. Parkhurst enter the car I was in. I said to some
friends:
“That is Dr. Parkhurst. Now watch me; I’m going to have some fun with
him.”
His chair was at the other end of the car and he was having a good
time with newspapers and magazines and far away, as he supposed, from
reporters. I passed and repassed him two or three times; then, assuming
as well as I could the manner of a newspaper man I stopped and said:
“Dr. Parkhurst, I believe?”
He looked up with a savage frown, and I saw that he took me for
one of the tormenting fraternity. I continued in an insinuating,
tooth-drawing manner until he became so chilling that I could hear the
thermometer falling with heavy thuds. When I felt that I had made him as
uncomfortable as I could I said,
“Pardon me, Doctor, but evidently you don’t remember me.” Then I handed
him my card. His manner changed like a cloudy day when the sun breaks
through, and he said cordially:
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Wilder. I mistook you for a reporter.”
“I thought, you would,” I replied, “for that’s what I was trying to make
you believe.”
We laughed together and for the remainder of the trip we were
close companions. He is a delightful talker, full of anecdotes and
reminiscences. I never met a keener lover of good stories than he, and,
beside being an appreciative listener, he is so good a raconteur himself
that a listener is willing that he should do all the story telling. He
has no patience with narrow, hide-bound denominationalists; he defined
them by telling me a story of a minister who preached a sermon so
touching that all his hearers were melted to tears—all but one man. When
asked how he had succeeded in keeping his eyes dry the man replied:
“Well, you see, this isn’t my church.”
XVI
THE PRINCE OF WALES
(_Now King Edward VII_)
The Most Popular Sovereign in Europe.—How He Saved Me From a
Master of Ceremonies.—Promotion by Name.—He and His Friends
Delight two American Girls.—His Sons and Daughters.—An
Attentive and Loving Father.—Untiring at His Many Duties
Before He Ascended the Throne.—Unobtrusive Politically, yet
Influential.
If all kings were as competent as the genial and tactful gentleman who
recently ascended the British throne, it would be a thankless job to
start a new republic anywhere. Personally, I have strong grounds for
this opinion, for I had the pleasure of meeting His Majesty many times
while he was Prince of Wales, and these meetings were due entirely to his
kindness of nature and generally were of his own initiative.
I don’t imagine he knew it, but the Prince of Wales once lifted me out
of as uncomfortable a fix as I ever got into in London. The Ancient
and Honorable Artillery, Boston’s swell military organization, visited
England in 1896, as guests of the Ancients and Honorables of London, who
entertained them handsomely and had them presented to Her Majesty the
queen. The Boston company in turn, gave a great dinner to their hosts.
Some Americans then in the city were invited, and I had the good fortune
to be of the number, through the kindness of Mr. B. F. Keith, who was one
of the Boston Ancient and Honorables.
The spectacle was brilliant in the extreme, nine out of every ten men
present being in full dress uniform. The entire assemblage was gathered
informally in two long, glittering rows, awaiting the Prince of Wales,
who was always the soul of punctuality. I had many acquaintances in the
two uniformed bodies, as well as among the non-military guests, and was
moving about from one to another. I was in conventional evening dress,
and had a tiny American flag pinned to the lapel of my coat.
The Master of Ceremonies, whose manner was more consequential than
that of any distinguished person in the room, seemed annoyed that any
civilians were present, and he did his utmost to separate them from the
soldiers. I had the misfortune to become his _bête noire_; whenever he
found me among the military men he gently but persistently pressed me
away, but no sooner did he eject me in one direction than I reappeared
from another and between two pairs of gaily-appareled soldiers’ legs, so
I made the poor fellow nervous and fussy to the verge of distraction.
[Illustration: “I had the misfortune to become his _bête noire_.”]
Exactly at eight o’clock the Prince of Wales was announced and every
one came to attention. He entered with the genial smile which was an
inseparable part of him and shook hands with the American minister and
other dignitaries. Soon he spied me, came across the room, greeted me
very kindly, and said:
“How are you, little chap?”
“Very well, thank you, sir,” I replied.
“I am to hear you to-morrow night at the Duke of Devonshire’s, I
understand,” he continued. “Won’t you give us that mother-in-law
pantomime of yours?”
“Certainly, sir,” I answered; as the Prince left me and ascended the
stairs I saw that the Master of Ceremonies, who had witnessed the
meeting, was visibly disturbed. Soon he literally hovered about me and
displayed a fixed and conciliatory smile. The guests began to follow the
Prince, and as they passed up the stairs many of them greeted me. Senator
Depew remarked:
“Hello, Marshall, how are you?”
That dear old gentleman and English idol, John L. Toole, passed, blinked
merrily at me and said:
“Glad to see you again, Marshall. How are you?”
Presently the Master of Ceremonies turned nervously to an English officer
and asked, with an aggrieved tone in his voice:
“Who is this little chap, anyway? Everybody seems to know him.”
The officer did not chance to know me, but an English Sergeant who was of
the attendant guard and was willing to impart information said:
“He belongs to the American Army. He’s a marshal.” The great functionary
immediately regarded me with profound respect, not unmixed with
wonder at the modesty of great American soldiers, for an officer of my
supposedly exalted rank was entitled to follow close behind His Royal
Highness.
[Illustration: “They regarded me with profound respect.”]
At the Duke of Devonshire’s on the following evening I was assisted by
two young Americans—twin sisters, the Misses Jessie and Bessie Abbot.
Miss Bessie had a wonderful voice, and has since achieved a great success
in Paris in the title part of the opera “Juliet.” Both girls were clever
and charming and we three maintained a friendship which was delightful to
me and which they, too, seemed to enjoy. At that time they were living
in London with their mother, and taking part in private entertainments,
but the evening at the Duke of Devonshire’s was their first appearance
before the Prince of Wales or any of the Royal family. They charmed the
audience and were loaded with compliments, some of which were expressed
by the Princess of Wales in person.
While the Princess was conversing with the sisters she mentioned the
Prince, upon which Miss Jessie said:
“I have not yet met the Prince, but I wish to very much.”
“Oh, have you not?” the Princess exclaimed, as she smilingly regarded
the pretty girl who was unconscious that she had committed a breach of
etiquette. “Then I shall arrange it.” Immediately she walked the entire
length of the long picture gallery in which the entertainment had been
given, found the Prince, came back on his arm, and Miss Jessie’s request
was granted. The Prince, noting the resemblance of the sisters to each
other, asked if they were really twins.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Jessie replied, and then turning to me she continued,
“Aren’t we, Marshall? Her ingenuous manner compelled the Prince to laugh,
after which he said to me:
“You seemed to be posted, little chap.”
Among royal children whom I have had the honor to entertain, none are
more widely known, through their portraits and also by common report,
than the sons and daughters of the present King and Queen of England.
The first time I ever appeared before them was at an exhibition given for
the benefit of the Gordon home for boys. It was a social affair of great
prominence, the audience being composed principally of the royal family
and the nobility. The Prince and Princess of Wales were accompanied
by their children—Prince Albert Victor, who has since died but was
then heir-apparent, Prince George, who is now Prince of Wales, and the
Princesses Louise, Victoria and Maude. Other members of the royal family
in the audience were the Duke of Connaught (brother to the Prince), the
Duke and Duchess of Teck and the Princess Louise of Teck.
I suppose I ought to do the conventional thing by likening King Edward’s
daughters to Washington Irving’s “Three Beautiful Princesses,” but my
first impression of them has remained clear that I frequently revert to
the day I received it—three wholesome, pretty, dainty English little
girls of demure manner, with exquisite complexions, and whose blonde
hair was very long and their simple white frocks rather short. They had
many points of resemblance to one another, but their brothers were quite
dissimilar in one respect, Victor being slight and delicate while George
was sturdy and robust. All seemed to enjoy the entertainment, but did not
forget and lose control of themselves, as well-bred American children
sometimes do in public. Princess Louise of Teck, who is considered the
handsomest of the princesses, was at that time a very beautiful and
attractive child.
I afterward met them all at the Duke of Devonshire’s and found that in
conversation with their elders their manner was marked by the simplicity,
thoughtfulness and kindness inseparable from good breeding. They
frequently rode or drove in the park, accompanied by a lady-in-waiting or
a gentleman of the Queen’s household. The universal respect manifested
for them did not turn their heads in the least; in acknowledgment of
the bared heads about them they did not bow haughtily, but graciously
and kindly, as if grateful for the attention bestowed upon them. It
seemed impossible, to any one who had observed the condescending and
even arrogant manner in public of so many English children whose dress
and equipage indicated parental wealth and station, that the Prince
of Wales’s children could be what they really were—scions of the most
firmly-rooted royal stock in all Europe and that from among them would in
time come an occupant of the only throne whose influence is felt entirely
around the world.
But the key to the mystery was not far to find; one had but to go
back to the parents of these model children—to the Prince of Wales
and his consort, the daughter of a king whose tact and sense are
universally recognized and admired and who to this day, although past
his eighty-sixth birthday, is a model for rulers everywhere. The Prince
of Wales was, as under his new title of King Edward he still is, as
affectionate and attentive a father as can be found in the world. Despite
common report, founded on his affable and leisurely manner in public, he
has for many years been a close student of affairs and a very busy man,
yet there never was a time when his children had not free access to him,
nor when he was not his children’s industrious teacher and mentor. For
years he has been known as the most tactful man in England, and without
a superior in this respect in the world. Speaking literally, royalty is
his life business; it is also to be the life-business of his children,
so he has made it a matter of sense as well as of duty that his sons
and daughters should be prepared to so comport themselves as to make
their royalty secure and themselves safe. History has taught him that
neither great armies nor well-filled coffers can maintain a family on the
throne, and that the only security of a ruler is found in the respect and
affection of the people. While his mother was on the throne he probably
heard thousands of times—indirectly, of course, the common prediction
of “advanced” politicians that he never would succeed her. Probably this
prediction never caused him to lose a single hour of sleep, for he never
allowed himself to neglect one of the thousands of duties that devolved
upon him as his mother’s personal representative. Never obtrusive
politically, he nevertheless became a positive influence in national
politics; he appeared at all public functions that asked royal sanction,
always said and did the right thing, made himself approachable, always
was affable though never lacking in dignity, and gave to every man, great
or simple, the full measure of attention and respect that was due him,
seasoning the same so thoroughly with courtesy as to make a lifelong
admirer of the receiver. He imparted his manner to his sons and daughters
and his consort added to his influence by motherly training similar to
his own. No breath of scandal has ever touched one of these children; in
this respect the family is almost unique, for black sheep are prominent
in almost all royal families of Europe, and one such character is enough
to inflict a lasting smirch on the entire house.
The Prince of Wales whom I met is now King of England and his children
are men and women. His official presence is overshadowing his unofficial
past, almost to the extent of forgetfulness. But no thoughtful observer
will forget that King Edward and his children as they now appear date
back to many years of His Majesty’s life when he was Prince of Wales and
in apparent likelihood of being outlived by his mother.
XVII
SIR HENRY IRVING
A Model of Courtesy and Kindness.—An Early Friend Surprised by
the Nature of His Recognition.—His Tender Regard for Members of
His Company.—Hamlet’s Ghost Forgets His Cue.—Quick to Aid the
Needy.—Two Lucky Boys.—Irving as a Joker.—The Story He Never
Told Me.—Generous Offer to a Brother Actor-manager.—Why He is
Not Rich.
The American people at large know Henry Irving as a great actor,
scores of Americans and hundreds of Englishmen of his own and related
professions know him as one of the most friendly and great-hearted men
alive. Many volumes could be written about his thoughtful kindnesses, and
at least one of them could be filled with mention of his goodness to me,
for, in my many visits to England, he never failed to “look me up” and
show me every kindness in his power—and his power is great. If I were
to go into details regarding myself, I should offend him, for, like any
other genuine man, he does not like his left hand know what his right
hand does, but it shouldn’t hurt for me to tell some open secrets about
his kindness to others.
Lionel Brough often talks of the time when he and Irving, both of
them young men, were members of a company in Manchester. In those days
Irving was a dreamer of dreams and had a fondness for being his own only
company, so his associates made him the butt of many jokes that did not
seem to disturb his self-absorption. He had no intimates in the company,
although he was of lovable nature. Near the theatre was an upholstery
shop, the owner of which became acquainted with Irving, understood him
and loved him, as did the family; they called the young actor “Our
Henry,” always had room and a hearty welcome for him, and in many ways
served as balm to his sensitive nature.
When Irving went to London he did not forget his Manchester friends—not
even after he became a successful and very busy manager. He sent them
frequent evidences of his regard, though he had no time to make visits.
On coming into possession of the Lyceum Theatre he determined to
reupholster every part of it. A large London firm desired the contract
and made estimates but Mr. Irving sent to Manchester for his old friend,
and, as the Irving company was leaving England for a long American tour,
gave the upholsterer _carte blanche_.
On Irving’s return from America be inspected his theatre, was delighted
with the renovation, and asked the upholsterer for the bill. After
looking it over he sent for the London firm that had offered plans and
estimates, and asked them what they would have charged to do what had
been done. They named a sum five times as large as the Manchester man
had charged; Irving discovered later that his old friend had charged
only for materials, the work being “thrown in” for old affection’s sake.
But Irving disregarded the bill entirely and drew a check for twice the
amount of the London firm’s estimate.
But it does not require memories of past kindnesses to open Mr.
Irving’s purse, for he is almost as susceptible to the influence of
old association. He has always maintained a far larger company than
his productions demanded, and retained old members long after their
services would have been dispensed with by a manager at all careful of
his pennies. Many Americans have pleasant remembrances of old “Daddy”
Howe, who died in Cincinnati some years ago while a member of the
Irving company on tour. At a memorable dinner given Mr. Irving by his
professional admirers in America, Mr. Howe arose and told of his offering
to retire when the company was preparing to come to this country, and
how his suggestion was received. Although he was eighty years old at
the time, he had been a member of but three companies, one of which was
Mr. Irving’s. He knew that the expenses of the American tour would be
enormous, and that the small parts for which he was usually cast would
be well played here for far less than his own salary, so his conscience
compelled him to write Mr. Irving saying that he comprehended the
situation and would either retire or accept less pay. As he received no
reply, he repeated his suggestion in person to Mr. Irving.
“Dear me!—Ah! yes!—Well, I’ll let you know presently,” was the evasive
answer from which Howe assumed that he would be retired, so it was with
trembling hands that he opened a note from the manager the next day. He
read:
“Of course I expect you to go to America, and I hope the increase of your
salary will indicate my appreciation and good wishes.”
As Howe told this story his eyes filled and overflowed, but Irving, when
all eyes were turned toward him, looked as if he did not see that there
was anything in the incident to justify the old actor’s emotion or the
applause of every one around the tables.
I am indebted to my friend, Mr. J. E. Dodson, who came over with Mrs.
Kendall’s company, for these stories illustrating Mr. Irving’s manner on
the stage in circumstances which would make almost any manager star drop
into rage and profanity. Here is one of them:
“Old Tom Meade, beloved by all English players, and the best stock ghost
any company ever had, was much given to reading in the dressing-room
between his cues. “Hamlet” was on one night, and after his first
appearance as the murdered king, Meade went to his room for the long
“wait” before the closet scene. With his heels on the table, a black clay
pipe in his mouth and silver spectacles astride his nose he was soon in
the profoundest depths of a philosophical work. The call boy gave him
notice of his cue.
“Uh-yes,” was the reply, but Meade went on reading. Several minutes later
there was feverish excitement in the wings and messengers from the stage
manager poured into Meade’s room; the lights had been lowered, the stage
was enveloped in blue haze, but there was no ghost! Dropping his book,
Meade hurried to the stage, but in his excitement he entered on the wrong
side, and almost behind Hamlet. It was too late to go around to the other
side, so Meade whispered huskily to Mr. Irving:
“Here, sir, here—just behind you!”
About this time the man who managed the calcium light succeeded in
locating the dilatory ghost and in throwing the blue haze upon him, as
Hamlet exclaimed:
“See where he goes e’en now, out at the portal!”
Poor Meade was in agony until he was able to speak to Mr. Irving.
“Gov’n’r,” he faltered, “reading in my dressing-room—heard call, but
forgot. Rushed to wrong side of stage, sir. Never happened before—never
will again, sir. And after all, it didn’t go so bad, sir.” For a moment
Mr. Irving looked him through and through, after which he said icily:
“Yes, Tom—but I like it better the other way.”
One day Mr. Irving chanced to meet McIntyre, with whom he had played in
the provinces in his own struggling days. The two men had not met in
years, and Irving’s eyes—marvelous eyes they are, beamed with delight, as
they always do when they see an old companion.
“Well, well, McIntyre!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”—and he
led the way into Haxell’s, where they might have a quiet chat over cigars
and brandy and soda.
“Nothing,” was the comprehensive reply.
“Have you settled on anything?”
McIntyre admitted that he was expecting to play in something at the
Holborn. Before they parted Irving said: “You must come down and have
seats in the house, so you can tell me what you think of us.” Next day he
sent to the Holborn a most cordial letter containing tickets for the two
best seats in the lyceum and an urgent request for another chat. Merely
as an afterthought was this postscript:
“Forgive me for handing you a ten-pound note as a loan at your
convenience. You may need to get something new for the play.” McIntyre’s
feelings may be imagined when I repeat his confession that at that moment
he did not know where his next meal was coming from.
Mr. Irving is very fond of children and—as does not always follow in
other men’s fondness of the same nature, he is very attentive to them.
When he produced “Olivia,” the juvenile part was played by a nine year
old boy who kept himself very clean and tidy, but his street clothes were
so old that extreme poverty was evident. One night Mr. Irving asked:
“Where do you live, my lad?”
“Beyond Hammersmith, sir”—a London section some miles from the theatre.
“And how do you get home?”
“I walk, sir,” the boy replied, surprised by the inquiry.
“Yes, yes. But after this you must ride”—and Mr. Irving ordered that
the boy should be supplied with bus fares thereafter. Later Mr. Irving
noticed that the boy had a troubled look on his face. Asked if he didn’t
enjoy riding, he confessed that he had been walking to save his ’bus
fares, for his mother was ill and his father out of work. An order was
given that the boy’s salary should be raised; throughout the summer,
though the company was not playing, the child continued to receive his
salary, at Irving’s personal order.
Still more significant of his cherishing regard for children is a
story of how he squandered time—more carefully guarded on the stage
than anything else,—to make a boy happy. It occurred in a one-act
piece—“Cramond Brig,” in which there is a supper-scene in a cottage, a
steaming sheep’s head and an oat-cake are brought in and the cottar’s
little son is supposed to do boyish justice to the feast. The little
chap who played the part did not look as if he had eaten more than his
allowance, which was not to be wondered at; stage feasts are not prepared
by chefs, and the sheep’s head was indifferently cooked, the only stage
demand being that it should send up a cloud of steam and look piping hot.
One night, when the meat chanced to be well cooked, Mr. Irving noted that
the boy entered into the spirit of the scene with extreme realism, so
with a smile at the youngster’s energy he asked:
“Like it, me boy? Ah, yes; I thought so. Boys are always hungry.”
No sooner was that hungry boy out of hearing than Mr. Irving ordered
that the sheep’s head and oat-cake should in future be properly seasoned
and carefully cooked; still more, he informed the players that the
supper-scene was not to be hurried, but was to be governed by the boy’s
appetite. And how that boy did enjoy the change!—though Mr. Irving seemed
to get as much pleasure out of the feast as he.