At the meeting preliminary to “Warriors’ Day” I was wending my way along
the corridor of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, when I encountered an
amphibious-looking figure with the mien of one of Mr. W. W. Jacobs’s
people, but attired in the classic tunic and sandals of a Greek of
the best period. Knowing that the meeting was to include all sorts
and conditions of theatrical men, I taxed him with being somebody out
of _Orphée aux Enfers_ or _La Belle Hélène_. He said it was not a bad
shot, but, as a matter of fact, he was a ferryman, “saving your honour’s
reverence, name o’ Charon.” “A ferryman?” said I; “then you must be from
the Upper River, Godstow way.” “No, sir,” he answered, “I ply my trade
on the Styx, and I’ve brought over a boatful of our tip-toppers—our
intelli-gents-you-are they calls ’em in the Elysian Fields—to this ’ere
meetin’. Precious dry work it is, too, sir,” he added, wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand. “Where are they?” I asked in high excitement.
“In this ’ere box, sir, where the management have allowed them to sit
incog.” “And who, my good fellow, are they?” “Well, sir, let me see;
there’s Mr. William Shakespeare, one of the most pop’lar of our gents
and the neatest hand at nectar punch with a toast in it. Then there’s
Mr. David Garrick, little Davy, as they calls ’im (though the other one,
’im who’s always a-slingin’ stones at the giants, isn’t no great size,
neither), and there’s ’is friend Dr. Samuel Johnson, a werry harbitrary
cove, and there’s Mrs. Siddons, an ’oly terror of a woman, sir, as you
might say. Likewise, there’s Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Edmund Kean, both on
’em gents with a powerful thirst—just like mine this blessed mornin’,
sir.” At this second reminder I gave him wherewithal to slake his thirst,
directed him to the bar, and, as soon as he was out of sight, slipped
noiselessly into the back of the box, where I hid behind the overcoats.
Mr. Shakespeare was beckoning Mrs. Siddons to his side. “Come hither,
good mistress Sal” (this to the majestic Sarah, the Tragic Muse!), “and
prythee, dearest chuck, sit close, for ’tis a nipping and an eager air,
and poor Will’s a-cold.”
MRS. S.—Sir, you are vastly obleeging, but where’s the chair?
DR. JOHNSON.—Madam, you who have so often occasioned a want of seats to
other people, will the more easily excuse the want of one yourself.
MR. SHAKESPEARE.—Marry come up! Wouldst not sit in my lap, Sal? ’Tis not
so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door, but ’twill serve.
MRS. S. (_scandalized but dignified_).—Sir, I am sensible of the honour,
but fear my train would incommode the Immortal Bard.