One cannot speak of Sir Henry Irving without recalling the wonderful
charm and genius of his leading lady, Ellen Terry. She never
failed to be worthy of sharing in Irving's triumphs. Her remarkable
adaptability to the different characters and grasp of their
characteristics made her one of the best exemplifiers of Shakespeare
of her time. She was equally good in the great characters of other
playwrights. Her effectiveness was increased by an unusual ability
to shed tears and natural tears. I was invited behind the scenes
one evening when she had produced a great impression upon the
audience in a very pathetic part. I asked her how she did what
no one else was ever able to do.
"Why," she answered, "it is so simple when you are portraying ----"
(mentioning the character), "and such a crisis arises in your
life, that naturally and immediately the tears begin to flow."
So they did when she was illustrating the part for me.
It was a privilege to hear Edwin Booth as Richelieu and Hamlet.
I have witnessed all the great actors of my time in those characters.
None of them equalled Edwin Booth. For a number of years he was
exiled from the stage because his brother, Wilkes Booth, was
the assassin of President Lincoln. His admirers in New York felt
that it was a misfortune for dramatic art that so consummate an
artist should be compelled to remain in private life. In order
to break the spell they united and invited Mr. Booth to give a
performance at one of the larger theatres. The house, of course,
was carefully ticketed with selected guests.
The older Mrs. John Jacob Astor, a most accomplished and cultured
lady and one of the acknowledged leaders of New York society,
gave Mr. Booth a dinner in honor of the event. The gathering
represented the most eminent talent of New York in every department
of the great city's activities. Of course, Mr. Booth had the seat
of honor at the right of the hostess. On the left was a distinguished
man who had been a Cabinet minister and a diplomat. During the
dinner Mr. Evarts said to me: "I have known so and so all our
active lives. He has been a great success in everything he has
undertaken, and the wonder of it is that if there was ever an
opportunity for him to say or do the wrong thing he never failed."
Curiously enough, the conversation at the dinner ran upon men
outliving their usefulness and reputations. Several instances
were cited where a man from the height of his fame gradually
lived on and lived out his reputation. Whereupon our diplomat,
with his fatal facility for saying the wrong thing, broke in by
remarking in a strident voice: "The most remarkable instance of a
man dying at the right time for his reputation was Abraham Lincoln."
Then he went on to explain how he would have probably lost his
place in history through the mistakes of his second term. Nobody
heard anything beyond the words "Abraham Lincoln." Fortunately
for the evening and the great embarrassment of Mr. Booth, the tact
of Mrs. Astor changed the subject and saved the occasion.
Of all my actor friends none was more delightful either on the
stage or in private life than Joseph Jefferson. He early appealed
to me because of his Rip Van Winkle. I was always devoted to
Washington Irving and to the Hudson River. All the traditions
which have given a romantic touch to different points on that
river came from Irving's pen. In the days of my youth the influence
of Irving upon those who were fortunate enough to have been born
upon the banks of the Hudson was very great in every way.
As I met Jefferson quite frequently, I recall two of his many
charming stories. He said he thought at one time that it would
be a fine idea to play Rip Van Winkle at the village of Catskill,
around which place was located the story of his hero. His manager
selected the supernumeraries from among the farmer boys of the
neighborhood. At the point of the play where Rip wakes up and
finds the lively ghosts of the Hendrick Hudson crew playing bowls
in the mountains, he says to each one of them, who all look and
are dressed alike: "Are you his brother?"
"No," answered the young farmer who impersonated one of the ghosts,
"Mr. Jefferson, I never saw one of these people before." As ghosts
are supposed to be silent, this interruption nearly broke up
the performance.
During the Spanish-American War I came on the same train with
Mr. Jefferson from Washington. The interest all over the country
at that time was the remarkable victory of Admiral Dewey over the
Spanish fleet in the harbor of Manila. People wondered how Dewey
could sink every Spanish ship and never be hit once himself.
Jefferson said in his quaint way: "Everybody, including the
secretary of the navy and several admirals, asked me how that could
have happened. I told them the problem might be one which naval
officers could not solve, but it was very simple for an actor. The
failure of the Spanish admiral was entirely due to his not having
rehearsed. Success is impossible without frequent rehearsals."
Returning for a moment to Washington Irving, one of the most
interesting spots near New York is his old home, Wolfert's Roost,
and also the old church at Tarrytown where he worshipped, and
of which he was an officer for many years. The ivy which partially
covers the church was given to Mr. Irving by Sir Walter Scott,
from Abbotsford. At the time when the most famous of British
reviewers wrote, "Whoever read or reads an American book?"
Sir Walter Scott announced the merit and coming fame of
Washington Irving. But, as Rip Van Winkle says, when he returns
after twenty years to his native village, "how soon we are forgot."
There was a dinner given in New York to celebrate the hundredth
anniversary of Washington Irving's birth. I was one of the speakers.
In an adjoining room was a company of young and very successful
brokers, whose triumphs in the market were the envy of speculative
America. While I was speaking they came into the room. When
I had finished, the host at the brokers' dinner called me out and
said: "We were much interested in your speech. This Irving you
talked about must be a remarkable man. What is the dinner about?"
I answered him that it was in celebration of the hundredth
anniversary of the birth of Washington Irving.
"Well," he said, pointing to an old gentleman who had sat beside
me on the speakers' platform, "it is astonishing how vigorous he
looks at that advanced age."
It was my good fortune to hear often and know personally
Richard Mansfield. He was very successful in many parts, but
his presentation of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was wonderful.
At one time he came to me with a well-thought-out scheme for
a national theatre in New York, which would be amply endowed and
be the home of the highest art in the dramatic profession, and
at the same time the finest school in the world. He wanted me
to draw together a committee of the leading financiers of the
country and, if possible, to impress them so that they would
subscribe the millions necessary for carrying out his ideas.
I was too busy a man to undertake so difficult a project.
One of the colored porters in the Wagner Palace Car service, who
was always with me on my tours of inspection over the railroad,
told me an amusing story of Mr. Mansfield's devotion to his art.
He was acting as porter on Mansfield's car, when he was making
a tour of the country. This porter was an exceedingly intelligent
man. He appreciated Mansfield's achievements and played up to
his humor in using him as a foil while always acting. When they
were in a station William never left the car, but remained on guard
for the protection of its valuable contents.
After a play at Kansas City Mansfield came into the car very late
and said: "William, where is my manager?"
"Gone to bed, sir, and so have the other members of the company,"
answered William.
Then in his most impressive way Mansfield said: "William, they
fear me. By the way, were you down at the depot to-night when
the audience from the suburbs were returning to take their trains
home?"
"Yes, sir," answered William, though he had not been out of the car.
"Did you hear any remarks made about my play?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you give me an instance?"
"Certainly," replied William; "one gentleman remarked that he
had been to the theatre all his life, but that your acting to-night
was the most rotten thing he had ever heard or seen."
"William," shouted Mansfield, "get my Winchester and find that man."
So Mansfield and William went out among the crowds, and when
William saw a big, aggressive-looking fellow who he thought would
stand up and fight, he said: "There he is."
Mansfield immediately walked up to the man, covered him with his
rifle, and shouted: "Hold up your hands, you wretch, and take
back immediately the insulting remark you made about my play
and acting and apologize."
The man said: "Why, Mr. Mansfield, somebody has been lying to
you about me. Your performance to-night was the best thing I ever
saw in my life."
"Thank you," said Mansfield, shouldering his rifle, and added in
the most tragic tone: "William, lead the way back to the car."
Among the most interesting memories of old New Yorkers are the
suppers which Mr. Augustin Daly gave on the one hundredth performance
of a play. Like everything which Daly did, the entertainment was
perfect. A frequent and honored guest on these occasions was
General Sherman, who was then retired from the army and living
in New York. Sherman was a military genius but a great deal more.
He was one of the most sensitive men in the world. Of course,
the attraction at these suppers was Miss Rehan, Daly's leading
lady. Her personal charm, her velvet voice, and her inimitable
coquetry made every guest anxious to be her escort. She would
pretend to be in doubt whether to accept the attentions of
General Sherman or myself, but when the general began to display
considerable irritation, the brow of Mars was smoothed and the
warrior made happy by a gracious acceptance of his arm.
On one of these occasions I heard the best after-dinner speech
of my life. The speaker was one of the most beautiful women
in the country, Miss Fanny Davenport. That night she seemed
to be inspired, and her eloquence, her wit, her humor, her sparkling
genius, together with the impression of her amazing beauty were
very effective.
P. T. Barnum, the showman, was a many-sided and interesting
character. I saw much of him as he rented from the Harlem Railroad
Company the Madison Square Garden, year after year. Barnum never
has had an equal in his profession and was an excellent business
man. In a broad way he was a man of affairs, and with his vast
fund of anecdotes and reminiscences very entertaining socially.
An Englishman of note came to me with a letter of introduction,
and I asked him whom he would like to meet. He said: "I think
principally Mr. P. T. Barnum." I told this to Barnum, who knew
all about him, and said: "As a gentleman, he knows how to meet me."
When I informed my English friend, he expressed his regret and
at once sent Barnum his card and an invitation for dinner. At the
dinner Barnum easily carried off the honors with his wonderful
fund of unusual adventures.
My first contact with Mr. Barnum occurred many years before, when
I was a boy up in Peekskill. At that time he had a museum and
a show in a building at the corner of Ann Street and Broadway,
opposite the old Astor House. By skilful advertising he kept
people all over the country expecting something new and wonderful
and anxious to visit his show.
There had been an Indian massacre on the Western plains. The
particulars filled the newspapers and led to action by the government
in retaliation. Barnum advertised that he had succeeded in
securing the Sioux warriors whom the government had captured,
and who would re-enact every day the bloody battle in which they
were victorious.
It was one of the hottest afternoons in August when I appeared
there from the country. The Indians were on the top floor, under
the roof. The performance was sufficiently blood-curdling to
satisfy the most exacting reader of a penny-dreadful. After
the performance, when the audience left, I was too fascinated
to go, and remained in the rear of the hall, gazing at these
dreadful savages. One of them took off his head-gear, dropped
his tomahawk and scalping-knife, and said in the broadest Irish
to his neighbor: "Moike, if this weather don't cool off, I will
be nothing but a grease spot." This was among the many illusions
which have been dissipated for me in a long life. Notwithstanding
that, I still have faith, and dearly love to be fooled, but not
to have the fraud exposed.
Wyndham, the celebrated English actor, was playing one night in
New York. He saw me in the audience and sent a messenger inviting
me to meet him at supper at the Hoffman House. After the theatre
I went to the hotel, asked at the desk in what room the theatrical
supper was, and found there Bronson Howard, the playwright, and
some others. I told them the object of my search, and Mr. Howard
said: "You are just in the right place."
The English actor came later, and also a large number of other
guests. I was very much surprised and flattered at being made
practically the guest of honor. In the usual and inevitable
after-dinner speeches I joined enthusiastically in the prospects
of American contributions to drama and especially the genius of
Bronson Howard.
It developed afterwards that the actors' dinner was set for several
nights later, and that I was not invited or expected to this
entertainment, which was given by Mr. Howard to my actor friend,
but by concert of action between the playwright and the actor,
the whole affair was turned into a dinner to me. Broadway was
delighted at the joke, but did not have a better time over it than I did.
The supper parties after the play which Wyndham gave were among
the most enjoyable entertainments in London. His guests represented
the best in society, government, art, literature, and drama. His
dining-room was built and furnished like the cabin of a yacht and
the illusion was so complete that sensitive guests said they felt
the rolling of the sea.
One evening he said to me: "I expect a countryman of yours,
a charming fellow, but, poor devil, he has only one hundred and
fifty thousand pounds a year. He is still young, and all the
managing mothers are after him for their daughters."
When the prosperous American with an income of three-quarters
of a million arrived, I needed no introduction. I knew him very
well and about his affairs. He had culture, was widely travelled,
was both musical and artistic, and his fad was intimacy with
prominent people. His dinners were perfection and invitations
were eagerly sought. On the plea of delicate health he remained
a brief period in the height of the season in London and Paris.
But during those few weeks he gave all that could be done by lavish
wealth and perfect taste, and did it on an income of twenty
thousand dollars a year.
Most of the year he lived modestly in the mountains of Switzerland
or in Eastern travel, but was a welcome guest of the most important
people in many lands. The only deceit about it, if it was a
deceit, was that he never went out of his way to deny his vast
wealth, and as he never asked for anything there was no occasion
to publish his inventory. The pursuing mothers and daughters
never succeeded, before his flight, in leading him far enough to ask
for a show-down.
Many times during my visits to Europe I have been besieged to know
the income of a countryman. On account of the belief over there
in the generality of enormous American fortunes, it is not difficult
to create the impression of immense wealth. While the man would
have to make a statement and give references, the lady's story
is seldom questioned. I have known some hundreds and thousands
of dollars become in the credulous eyes of suitors as many millions,
and a few millions become multimillions. In several instances
the statements of the lady were accepted as she achieved her ambition.
For a tired man who has grown stale with years of unremitting work
I know of no relief and recuperation equal to taking a steamer
and crossing the ocean to Europe. I did this for a few weeks
in midsummer many times and always with splendid and most refreshing
results. With fortunate introductions, I became acquainted with
many of the leading men of other countries, and this was a
liberal education.
There is invariably a concert for charities to help the sailors
on every ship. I had many amusing experiences in presiding on
these occasions. I remember once we were having a rough night
of it, and one of our artists, a famous singer, who had made a
successful tour of the United States, was a little woman and
her husband a giant. He came to me during the performance and
said: "My wife is awfully seasick, but she wants to sing, and
I want her to. In the intervals of her illness she is in pretty
good shape for a little while. If you will stop everything when
you see me coming in with her, she will do her part."
I saw him rushing into the saloon with his wife in his arms, and
immediately announced her for the next number. She made a great
triumph, but at the proper moment was caught up by her husband
and carried again to the deck. He said to me afterwards: "My wife
was not at her best last night, because there is a peculiarity
about seasickness and singers; the lower notes in which she is
most effective are not at such times available or in working order."
Augustin Daly did a great service to the theatre by his wonderful
genius as a manager. He discovered talent everywhere and encouraged
it. He trained his company with the skill of a master, and produced
in his theatres here and in London a series of wonderful plays. He
did not permit his artists to take part, as a rule, in these concerts
on the ship, but it so happened that on one occasion we celebrated
the Fourth of July. I went to Mr. Daly and asked him if he would
not as an American take the management of the whole celebration.
This appealed to him, and he selected the best talent from his
company. Among them was Ada Rehan. I knew Miss Rehan when she
was in the stock company at Albany in her early days. With
Mr. Daly, who discovered her, she soon developed into a star of
the first magnitude.
Mr. Daly persisted on my presiding and introducing the artists,
and also delivering the Fourth of July oration. The celebration
was so successful in the saloon that Mr. Daly had it repeated
the next night in the second cabin, and the night after that in
the steerage. The steerage did its best, and was clothed in
the finest things which it was carrying back to astonish the old
folks in the old country, and its enthusiasm was greater, if
possible, than the welcome which had greeted the artists among
the first and second cabin passengers.
After Miss Rehan had recited her part and been encored and encored,
I found her in tears. I said: "Miss Rehan, your triumph has been
so great that it should be laughter."
"Yes," she said, "but it is so pathetic to see these people who
probably never before met with the highest art."
Among the many eminent English men of letters who at one time
came to the United States was Matthew Arnold. The American lecture
promoters were active in securing these gentlemen, and the American
audiences were most appreciative. Many came with letters of
introduction to me.
Mr. Arnold was a great poet, critic, and writer, and an eminent
professor at Oxford University and well-known to our people.
His first address was at Chickering Hall to a crowded house.
Beyond the first few rows no one could hear him. Explaining this
he said to me: "My trouble is that my lectures at the university
are given in small halls and to limited audiences." I advised
him that before going any farther he should secure an elocutionist
and accustom himself to large halls, otherwise his tour would be
a disappointment.
He gave me an amusing account of his instructor selecting
Chickering Hall, where he had failed, and making him repeat his
lecture, while the instructor kept a progressive movement farther
and farther from the stage until he reached the rear seats, when
he said he was satisfied. It is a tribute to the versatility of
this great author that he learned his lesson so well that his
subsequent lectures in different parts of the country were very
successful.
Once Mr. Arnold said to me: "The lectures which I have prepared
are for university audiences, to which I am accustomed. I have
asked my American manager to put me only in university towns, but
I wish you would look over my engagements."
Having done this, I remarked: "Managers are looking for large
and profitable audiences. There is no university or college in
any of these towns, though one of them has an inebriate home and
another an insane asylum. However, both of these cities have
a cultured population. Your noisiest and probably most appreciative
audience will be at the one which is a large railroad terminal.
Our railroad people are up-to-date."
I saw Mr. Arnold on his return from his tour. The description
he gave of his adventures was very picturesque and the income
had been exceedingly satisfactory and beyond expectation.
Describing the peculiarities of the chairmen who introduced him,
he mentioned one of them who said: "Ladies and gentlemen, next
week we will have in our course the most famous magician there
is in the world, and the week after, I am happy to say, we shall
be honored by the presence of a great opera-singer, a wonderful
artist. For this evening it is my pleasure to introduce to you
that distinguished English journalist Mr. Edwin Arnold." Mr. Arnold
began his lecture with a vigorous denial that he was Edwin Arnold,
whom I judged he did not consider in his class.
Mr. Arnold received in New York and in the larger cities which
he visited the highest social attention from the leading families.
I met him several times and found that he never could be reconciled
to our two most famous dishes--terrapin and canvasback duck--the
duck nearly raw. He said indignantly to one hostess, who chided
him for his neglect of the canvasback: "Madam, when your ancestors
left England two hundred and fifty years ago, the English of that
time were accustomed to eat their meat raw; now they cook it."
To which the lady answered: "I am not familiar with the customs
of my ancestors, but I know that I pay my chef, who cooked the
duck, three hundred dollars a month."
We were all very fond of Thackeray. He did not have the general
popularity of Charles Dickens, nor did he possess Dickens's dramatic
power, but he had a large and enthusiastic following among our
people. It was an intellectual treat and revelation to listen
to him. That wonderful head of his seemed to be an enormous and
perennial fountain of wit and wisdom.
They had a good story of him at the Century Club, which is our
Athenaeum, that when taken there after a lecture by his friends
they gave him the usual Centurion supper of those days: saddlerock
oysters. The saddlerock of that time was nearly as large as
a dinner-plate. Thackeray said to his host: "What do I do with
this animal?"