guests at the Continental once again—another _partie carrée_.
On this occasion the conversation was chiefly of plays. Both Sir Richard
and Lady Burton impressed on Irving how much might be done with a play
taken from some story, or group of stories, in the _Arabian Nights_.
Burton had a most vivid way of putting things—especially of the East. He
had both a fine imaginative power and a memory richly stored not only
from study but from personal experience. As he talked, fancy seemed to
run riot in its alluring power; and the whole world of thought seemed to
flame with gorgeous colour. Burton _knew_ the East. Its brilliant dawns
and sunsets; its rich tropic vegetation, and its arid fiery deserts; its
cool, dark mosques and temples; its crowded bazaars; its narrow streets;
its windows guarded for out-looking and from in-looking eyes; the pride
and swagger of its passionate men, and the mysteries of its veiled
women; its romances; its beauty; its horrors. Irving grew fired as the
night wore on and it became evident that he had it in his mind from that
time to produce some such play as the Burtons suggested, should occasion
serve. It was probably the recollection of that night that brought back
to him, so closely as to be an incentive to possibility, his own glimpse
of the East as seen in Morocco and the Levant seven years before. When
De Bornier published his _Mahomet_ in Paris some few years later he was
in the receptive mood to consider it as a production.
I asked Lady Burton to get me a picture of her husband. She said he had
a rooted dislike to letting any one have his picture, but said she would
ask him. Presently she sent me one, and with it a kindly word: “Dick
said he would give it you, because it was you; but that he wouldn’t have
given it to any one else!”
XLI
SIR HENRY MORTON STANLEY
I
On October 22, 1882, Irving gave a little dinner to H. M. Stanley in the
small private dining-room of the Garrick Club. The other guests were
George Augustus Sala, Edmund Yates, Col. E. A. Buck of New York, Mr.
Bigelow (then British agent of the U.S. Treasury), H. D. Traill, Clement
Scott, Joseph Hatton, T. H. S. Escott, Frank C. Burnand, W. A.
Burdett-Coutts, J. L. Toole, and myself—fourteen in all.
The time was after Stanley had made his expedition in Africa, which he
afterwards chronicled under the name of _Through the Dark Continent_,
and had gone out again to explore the region of the Congo for the
Brussels African International Association. He had returned for a short
visit to Brussels and London. He had been much in Belgium in
consultation with the King regarding the foundation of the Congo Free
State. Every one present was anxious to hear what he had to say; and
Irving, who, when he chose, was most excellent in drawing any one out,
took care that he had a good leading. Indeed it was a notable evening,
for we sat there after dinner till four o’clock in the morning and for
most of the time he held the floor. He was always interesting and at
times kept us all enthralled. He had a peculiar manner, though less
marked then than it became in later years. He was slow and deliberate of
speech; the habit of watchful self-control seemed even then to have
eaten into the very marrow of his bones. His dark face, through which
the eyes seemed by contrast to shine like jewels, emphasised his slow
speech and measured accents. His eyes were comprehensive, and, in a
quiet way, without appearing to rove, took in everything. He seemed to
have that faculty of sight which my father had described to me of Robert
Houdin, the great conjurer. At a single glance Stanley took in
everything, received facts and assimilated them, gauged character in its
height, and breadth, and depth, and specific gravity; formed opinion so
quickly and so unerringly to the full extent of his capacity that
intention based on what he saw seemed not to follow receptivity but to
go hand in hand with it. Let me give an instance:
At least two of those present did not seem prepared to accept his
statements in simple faith. Of course not a word was said by either to
jar the harmony of the occasion or to convey doubt. But doubt at least
there was; one felt it without evidence. I knew both men well and felt
that it was only the consistent expression of their attitude towards the
unknown. Both, so far as I knew—or know now—were strangers to him,
though of course their names were familiar. I knew from Irving’s glance
at me where I sat across the table from him that he understood. Irving
and I were so much together that after a few years we could almost read
a thought of the other; we could certainly read a glance or an
expression. I have sometimes seen the same capacity in a husband and
wife who have lived together for long and who are good friends,
accustomed to work together and to understand each other. He had a quiet
sardonic humour, and this combined with an intuitive faculty of
reasoning out _data_ before their issue was declared—together with his
glance to my right where the two men sat—seemed to say:
“Look at Yates and Burnand. Stanley will be on to them presently!”
And surely enough he was on to them, and in a remarkable way. He was
describing some meeting with the King of the Belgians regarding the
finances of the new State, and how of those present a small section of
the financiers were making negative difficulties. The way he spoke was
thus:
“Amongst them two ‘doubting Thomases’—as it might be you and you”—making
as he spoke a casual wave of his hand without looking at either, as
though choosing at random; but so manifestly meaning it that all the
other men laughed in an instantaneous chorus.
Somehow that seemed to clear the air for him; and having established a
position which was manifestly accepted by all, he went on to speak more
earnestly.
I shall never forget that description which he gave us of the reaching
that furthest point on Lake Leopold II. that white men had ever reached.
He wrote of it all afterwards in his book on the Congo, though the
incident which he then described differed slightly from the account in
his book produced three years afterwards. No written words could convey
the picturesque convincing force of that quiet utterance, with the
searching still eyes to add to its power. How as the little steamer drew
in shore the natives had rushed in clustering masses ready to do battle.
How one nimble giant had leaped far out on an isolated rock that just
showed its top above the still water, and poised thereon for an instant
had hurled a spear with such force and skill that it passed the limit
they had fixed as the furthest that a missile could reach them and where
they held the boat in safety. How he himself had peremptorily checked in
a whisper one beside him who was preparing to shoot, and he himself took
a gun and fired high in the air just to show the savages that he too had
power and greater power than their own should they choose to use it.
How, awed by the sound and by the steamer, the natives made signs of
obeisance, whereupon he brought the boat close to the rock whence the
warrior had launched his spear and laid thereon offerings of beads and
coloured stuffs and implements of steel, saying as he prepared to move
away:
“We shall come again!”
Then he told of the wonder of the savages; their reverence; their
complete submission! How the canoe moved away in that glory of wonder
which would in time grow to a legend, and then to a belief that some day
white Gods who brought gifts would come to them bringing unknown good.
It was an idyll of peace; a lesson in beneficent pioneering; a page of
the great book of England’s wise kindliness in the civilisation of the
savage which has yet been written but in part. We all sat spell-bound.
There was no “doubting Thomas” then. I think, one and all, we held high
regard and affection for the man who spoke.
Then encouraged by the reception of his words—and after all it was a
noble audience, in kind if not in quantity, for any man to speak to—he
went on at Irving’s request to re-tell to us the story of his finding
Livingstone. Here he did not object to any direct questioning, even when
one man asked him if the report was exact of his taking off his helmet
and bowing when he met the lost explorer with the memorable address:
“Dr. Livingstone, I believe?”
He laughed quietly as he answered affirmatively—a strange thing to see
in that dark, still face, where toil and danger and horror had set their
seals. But it seemed to light up the man from within and show a new and
quite different side to his character.
Somehow there is, I suppose—indeed must be—some subtle emanation from
both character and experience. The propulsive power of the individuality
takes something from the storage of the mind. Certainly some persons who
have been down in deep waters of any kind convey to those who see or
hear them something of the dominating note of their experience. Stanley
had not only the traveller’s look—the explorer’s look; he seemed one
whose goings had been under shadow. It may of course have been that the
dark face and the still eyes and that irregular white of the hair which
speaks of premature stress on vitality conveyed by inference their own
lesson; but most assuredly Henry Stanley had a look of the forest gloom
as marked as Dante’s contemporaries described of him: that of one who
had traversed Heaven and Hell.
After a long time we broke up the set formation of the dinner table, and
one by one in informal turn we each had a chat with the great explorer.
He told us that he wanted some strong, brave, young men to go with him
to Africa, and offered to accept any one whom I could recommend.
II
The next year, on September 14, we met again when Irving had a large
dinner-party—sixty-four people—at the Continental Hotel. Of course in so
large a party there was little opportunity of general conversation. All
that any one—except a very favoured few who sat close at hand—could
speak or hear was of the commonplace of life—parting and meeting.
I did not meet Stanley again for six years, but Irving met him several
times, and at one of their meetings there was a little matter which gave
me much pleasure:
When we had gone to America in 1883 I had found myself so absolutely
ignorant of everything regarding that great country that I took some
pains to post myself up in things exclusively and characteristically
American. Our tour of 1883–4 was followed by another in 1884–5, so that
in the space of more than a year which the two visits covered I had fine
opportunities of study. In those days Professor James Bryce’s book on
_The American Commonwealth_ had not been written—published at all
events. And there was no standard source from which an absolutely
ignorant stranger could draw information. I found some difficulty then
in buying a copy of an Act of Congress so that I might study its form;
and it was many months before I could get a copy of the Sessional Orders
of Congress. However, before we left at the conclusion of our second
visit I had accumulated a lot of books—histories, works on the
constitution, statistics, census, school books, books of etiquette for a
number of years back, Congressional reports on various subjects—all the
means of reference and of more elaborate study. When I had studied
sufficiently—having all through the tour consulted all sorts of persons—
professors, statesmen, bankers, &c.—I wrote a lecture, which I gave at
the Birkbeck Institute in 1885 and elsewhere. This I published as a
pamphlet in 1886, as _A Glimpse of America_. Stanley had evidently got
hold of it, for one night when we were in Manchester, June 4, 1890, I
had supper alone with Irving and he told me that the last time he had
met him, Stanley had mentioned my little book on America as admirable.
He had said that I had mistaken my vocation—that I should be a literary
man! Of course such praise from such a man gave me a great pleasure.
Strangely enough I had a ratification of this a year later. On March 30,
1891, I met at luncheon, in the house of the Duchess of St. Albans, Dr.
Parke, who had been with Stanley on his journey _In Darkest Africa_; I
had met him before at Edward Marston’s dinner, but we had not had much
opportunity of talking together. He told me that it was one of the very
few books that Stanley had brought with him in his perilous journey
across Africa, and that he had told him that it “had in it more
information about America than any other book that had ever been
written.”
III
The dinner given to Stanley by Edward Marston, the publisher, on the eve
of bringing out Stanley’s great book, _In Darkest Africa_—June 26, 1890—
was a memorable affair. Marston had then published two books of mine,
_Under the Sunset_, and the little book on America, and as “one of his
authors” I was a guest at the dinner. Irving was asked, but he could not
go as he was then out of town on a short holiday, previous to commencing
an engagement of two weeks at the Grand Theatre, Islington, whilst the
Lyceum was occupied by Mr. Augustin Daly’s company from New York. At the
dinner I sat at an inside corner close to Sir Harry (then Mr.) Johnston,
the explorer and administrator, and to Paul B. du Chaillu, the African
explorer who had discovered gorillas. I had met both these gentlemen
before; the first in London several times; the latter in New York, in
December 1884, in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Tailer, who that night were
entertaining Irving and Ellen Terry. There we had sat together at supper
and he had told me much of his African experience and of his adventures
with gorillas. I had of course read his books, but it was interesting to
hear the stories under the magic of the adventurer’s own voice and in
his characteristic semi-French intonation. In the course of conversation
he had said to me something which I never have forgotten—it spoke
volumes:
“When I was young nothing would keep me of out Africa. Now nothing would
make me go there!”
In reply to the toast of his health, Stanley spoke well and said some
very interesting things:
“In my book that is coming out I have said as little as possible about
Emin Pasha. He was to me a study of character. I never met the same kind
of character.” Again:
“I have not gone into details of the forest march and return to the sea.
It was too dreary and too horrible. It will require years of time to be
able to think of its picturesque side.”
At that time Stanley looked dreadfully worn, and much older than when I
had seen him last. The six years had more than their tally of wear for
him, and had multiplied themselves. He was darker of skin than ever; and
this was emphasised by the whitening of his hair. He was then under
fifty years of age, but he looked nearer to eighty than fifty. His face
had become more set and drawn—had more of that look of slight distortion
which comes with suffering and over-long anxiety.
There were times when he looked more like a dead man than a living one.
Truly the wilderness had revenged upon him the exposal of its mysteries.
XLII
ARMINIUS VAMBÉRY
Amongst the interesting visitors to the Lyceum and the Beefsteak Room
was Arminius Vambéry, Professor at the University of Buda-Pesth. On
April 30, 1890, he came to see the play, _The Dead Heart_, and remained
to supper. He was most interesting, and Irving was delighted with him.
He had been to Central Asia, following after centuries the track of
Marco Polo and was full of experiences fascinating to hear. I asked him
if when in Thibet he never felt any fear. He answered:
“Fear of death—no; but I am afraid of torture. I protected myself
against that, however!”
“How did you manage that?”
“I had always a poison pill fastened here, where the lappet of my coat
now is. This I could always reach with my mouth in case my hands were
tied. I knew they could not torture me; and then I did not care!”
He is a wonderful linguist, writes twelve languages, speaks freely
sixteen, and knows over twenty. He told us once that when the Empress
Eugénie remarked to him that it was odd that he who was lame should have
walked so much, he replied:
“Ah, Madam, in Central Asia we travel not on the feet but on the
tongue.”
We saw him again two years later, when he was being given a Degree at
the Tercentenary of Dublin University. On the day on which the delegates
from the various Universities of the world spoke, he shone out as a
star. He soared above all the speakers, making one of the finest
speeches I have ever heard. Be sure that he spoke loudly against Russian
aggression—a subject to which he had largely devoted himself.
XLIII
Shortly after the publication of this book I received a letter from a
gentleman, Mr. Charles Richard Ford, who had in early life been one of
Irving’s companions at Thacker’s in Newgate Street. We met and a few
days afterwards he sent me the following memorandum which he had
written. I give it _in extenso_, as it bears on a period of his life but
little known. This reminiscence of one who was a close friend and who
had kept and valued for more than fifty years every little souvenir of
their companionship—even to his visiting card—is to my mind a valuable
enlightenment as to his life and nature in early days.
By Mr. Ford’s kind permission I am able to reproduce the photograph
alluded to in the monograph.
AN EARLY REMINISCENCE OF SIR HENRY IRVING
BY MR. C. R. FORD
It seems evident that the numerous memoirs of the late Sir Henry
Irving that have appeared in the newspapers have been intended to
cover only that part of his life since he became famous: it may
therefore be interesting to the many friends who have known and
admired him during that period to hear something of his earlier years
in London while engaged in what he himself described as a “musty City
office.”
He began life at the early age of fifteen, and in 1853 was to be met
most days walking down Cheapside, tall, thin and striking-looking,
with that firm, long stride, since so well known, on his way to the
Bank to pay in the firm’s cash.
The thoroughness and carefulness so consistently displayed in all his
future life were eminently apparent in his short City career: he was
always punctual and regular in his attendance at 87 Newgate Street,
and the whole day saw him hard at work at the books committed to his
keeping. These ledgers were put away among other disused books and
remained unthought of for years; some time after he became famous they
were sought for but have never been found.
One of his memoirs speaks of his giving “us boys a halfpenny for
mis-pronouncing words.” The fact, of which this is a perversion,
really showed his keenness in helping others. The staff at Messrs.
Thacker’s was a mixed one and contained in addition to well-educated
gentlemen some who had never grasped the true pronunciation of their
own language. To help the latter, the following paper was drawn up by
Irving (it is still in existence in his handwriting) and signed by
most of the clerks:
LIST OF FINES
_Fine_ for not aspirating h’s, whether in the beginning or in the
middle of words such as house and behaviour.
Exceptions: Honour, heir, honest, herb, hour, hostler, and their
derivatives.
_Fine_ for misplacing the h such as hart for art.
_Fine_ for not giving the pure sound to the u as dooty for duty, toone
for tune and the like.
Exception: blue.
_Fine_ for omitting the g at the end of words, as shillin for
shilling.
_Fine_ for saying jist for jest, jest for just, instid for instead and
such like cockneyisms.
_Fine_ for using the singular number instead of the plural and all
ungrammatical expressions.
We, the undersigned, agree to pay the fine of one halfpenny for each
breach of the foregoing rules and to appoint Mr. J. H. Brodribb as
treasurer.
(Signed) JOHN HENRY BRODRIBB,
(and five others).
_March 20th, 1856._
Only two of the other five are known to be living.
While thus most conscientiously discharging his office duties and
seeking to improve others, he was hard at work after business hours in
self-improvement and in fitting himself for his future career on the
stage. He was a frequent attendant at the Old Sadler’s Wells Theatre and
often stood for more than an hour at the door in order to secure one
particular corner seat in the pit, where he could watch every emotion in
the face of Phelps, especially in his Shakespearean parts. His other
method was to practise himself in the art of elocution by inviting his
relatives and friends to some large rooms placed at his disposal by his
father and mother and entertain them by reading a play through, or with
a selection of recitations. His favourite play for such occasions was
the _Lady of Lyons_, although he more than once read through (somewhat
“cut”) one of Shakespeare’s dramas. His two recitations most impressed
on the mind after fifty years were _Eugene Aram_ and _Skying the
Copper_, evidencing as they undoubtedly did both his remarkable tragic
and comic powers. As showing his thoroughness even then in small
matters, his “make up” for the servant girl in the latter piece has
never been forgotten by one who helped him to rouge his bare arms to the
proper red tint for a “slavey’s.”
The efforts he afterwards so constantly made to place the stage in what
he considered its proper position in the country and its education—as
witness his last speech in favour of a Municipal theatre—were really
begun when still in his “teens.” A young friend had promised to open a
discussion on his suggestion at a literary debating society on the
question of the moral effect of theatrical representations and sought
his aid in forming his arguments in their favour. He at once took a
great deal of trouble, giving him many authorities and writing out long
quotations in favour of the educational value of the stage when properly
conducted; in fact, composing a good half of the paper subsequently
read.
In 1856 he could no longer endure the privation of being kept away from
the profession for which his inner consciousness told him he was fitted.
As an illustration of the errors of judgment clever men may make, his
old employer went to see him at Manchester some time after he left
Newgate Street, and wrote to his son:
“We went to see Brodribb and did not think much of him; he would have
done much better to keep to his stool in Newgate Street.”
This use of his old name brings to remembrance the fact that the name he
made famous was not the first he thought of adopting: indeed he had
cards printed with an entirely different one, J. Hy. Barringtone. The
decision for “Irving” was a sudden one and was made known to a friend in
a short note saying, “I have decided that the name shall be Irving”; but
for some years after this he continued to sign his notes “J. H. B.” to
his family and friends.
Nothing he enjoyed more than studying human nature in its various phases
of excitement. He was found one day on the hustings of a contested
election and much enjoyed pointing out how the passions of those in
front of his view-point were delineated in their actions and faces. At
another time he happened to be present at a provincial cricket dinner,
which ended in a fiasco, and it is not easy to forget how eagerly he
watched the physiognomies of those who unhappily contended around him.
It was on this occasion, after he had previously electrified the company
with one of his powerful recitations (he was still a City clerk), that
upon being asked to give a toast, he gave one typical of his own
feelings on such occasions, “The Pleasure of Pleasing.”
The time came when he left the City—July 1856—and entered upon his new
and loved profession. He was most careful in the selection of articles
that would be useful to him in his future career, and the wonderful
forethought and adaptation which were afterwards so successful at the
Lyceum were foreshadowed in the purchases for his first small wardrobe.
Although he did not look back with much pleasure to his days in the
City, he always welcomed most heartily and kindly any of his former
companions who called on him at the Lyceum, and in one instance gave
employment to one needing it.
One object of these reminiscences is to show his numerous friends that
as a youth he developed the same kindly, thoughtful and clever
characteristics which they recognised and admired in his later life.