THE LIBRARY

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

GIFT OF

Kenneth MacKenna

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This edition, printed on Old Stratford
paper, is limited to one hundred and
sixty copies, signed by the Author.

THE
MELANCHOLY TALE OF "ME"

MY REMEMBRANCES

THE MELANCHOLY
TALE OF "ME"

MY REMEMBRANCES

EDWARD H. SOTHERN

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1916

Published September, igxO

College

THE MELANCHOLY TALE OF "ME"

DEDICATED TO

LUCY DERBY FULLER

AS THE "ONLIE BEGETTER" OF THESE STORIES

BY
EDWARD H. SOTHERN

PREFACE

WHEN I was young, I had a little friend; and
one day, when other little friends were invited to a
festivity, I said: "Look here! You hide behind
this curtain, and then nobody will know where you

are."

"But," said my little friend, "nobody cares!"
The pitiful experience indicated by this remark
has remained with me, and I have frequently thought
that when we are prepared to jump out from behind
our curtain and surprise people with our opinions,
we should be warned by my small friend's pathetic
conclusion.

However, we never profit by other people's ex-
perience, so here I am.

CONTENTS

PACE

DEDICATION v

PREFACE vii

PART I "ME"

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 3

THE JAM-FACED BOY 10

"GOING NOWHERE" 14

SORRY WHEN DEAD 25

FINE FEATHERS 32

" TA " 43

PRIVATE AND UNEXPECTED 52

"RASHER" 59

"THE Music OF THE SPHERES" 65

AMONG THE GODS 75

"THE BLESSEDS" 85

UNCLE CHARLEY 94

A "DAWDLER" 101

x CONTENTS

PART II HUGH

HUGH in

FORWARD! 122

"RUFFIAN DICK" 135

PART III MY FATHER

ISHERWOOD 147

THE COCKED HAT 161

LORD DUNDREARY 171

ALL MIRTH AND No MATTER 182

No SONG, No SUPPER 191

"THE CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN" 199

PART IV MYSELF

MONSIEUR LA TAPPY 209

I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 216

"SAINT VINCENT" 229

JOHN McCuLLoucH 248

THE NEAR FUTURE^ 260

RHYME AND TIME 268

MRS. MABBITT 278

WHY! 285

CONTENTS xi

MOB

THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE 292

"MRS. MIDGET" 303

"FLOCK" 314

"LETTARBLAIR" 322

MEADOW-LARKS AND GIANTS' ROBES . . . .331

"Mr OWN SHALL COME TO ME" 339

THE EMPTY CHAIR 351

"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE" 358

SANCTUARY 368

I TALK TO MYSELF 375

UP THE CHIMNEY 400

INDEX 403

ILLUSTRATIONS

Edward H. Sothern Frontispiece

"Me," aged two years Facing page 3

Edward H. Sothern, aged fifteen years " 6

Uncle Hugh and his dog " 18

Mother of Edward H. Sothern " 30

Mother with "Me" in her arms .... " 36

"Ta," Sam Sothern, aged two years ... " 44

Sam Sothern, aged seven years 44

Lytton Sothern, aged nineteen years ... " 48

"The Cedars," London " 50

Edward A. Sothern in 1863 " 54

Edward H. Sothern, aged nine years ... " 80

"The Blesseds" at Ramsgate " 86

Joe Jefferson " 92

John T. Raymond " 92

Dunchurch, near Rugby " 96

Facsimile of part of the official record of Uncle

Hugh Page 117

Uncle Hugh in Alexandria, Egypt . . . Facing page 124

xiv ILLUSTRATIONS

Lineage of Uncle Hugh Facing page 128

The set of pictures (Sir Richard Burton) from

Uncle Hugh's room " 136

Programmes of Sothern's Lyceum .... " 148

Facsimile of part of advertisement in New
York Herald, October 18, 1858, announc-
ing the first production of "Our American
Cousin" Page 172

Programme Laura Keene's Theatre, Novem-
ber 22, 1858 Facing page 172

E. A. Sothern as Lord Dundreary, 1858 . . 174

Edward A. Sothern as Lord Dundreary in .

"Our American Cousin" 176

Facsimile of part of a page in E. A. Sothern's
scrap-book noting the birth of his son,
Edward H. Sothern 178

E. A. Sothern as the Kinchin in "The Flowers

of the Forest" 180

Edward A. Sothern about 1875 .... 184

Laura Keene as Florence Trenchard ... 188

Edward A. Sothern as David Garrick ... 192

E. A. Sothern as The Crushed Tragedian . . 202

Drawing by E. H. Sothern of figure in the

Laocoon group 210

Oil sketch made by E. H. Sothern in Spain . 210

Programme Park Theatre, September 8, 1879 226

Programme Boston Museum, December 8,

1879 226

William Warren " 230

ILLUSTRATIONS xv

Programme National Theatre, Boston, No-
vember i, 1852 Facing page 232

Programme Howard Athenaeum, Boston, De-
cember 8, 1852 " 232

Edward H. Sothern in 1879 " 236

"St. Vincent" (Mrs. R. H. Vincent) ... " 240

John McCullough " 252

C. W. Couldock " 264

Daniel Frohman about 1891 " 264

Edward H. Sothern, 1884 " 270

Richard Mansfield, 1883 " 270

Sam Sothern, 1916 " 286

E. H. Sothern as Jack Hammerton in "The

Highest Bidder" " 296

Facsimile of pages from souvenir programme

of "The Highest Bidder" " 298

Eugene B. Sanger, messenger boy .... " 300

Belle Archer, Maude Adams, and E. H.

Sothern in "Lord Chumley" .... 308

"Flock." Charles P. Flockton in costume in

"Change Alley" 316

E. H. Sothern in the horse-auction scene

Captain Lettarblair " 326

E. H. Sothern as Captain Lettarblair Litton . " 326

Edwin Booth " 334

xvi ILLUSTRATIONS

Courtyard of house in New Orleans where
Edward H. Sothern was born, December
6, 1859 Facing page 348

Captain John Shackford " 352

Charles Frohman " 360

Edward A. Sothern and party on a fishing trip,

Rangeley Lakes, Maine " 370

Henry M. Rogers " 372

William J. Florence " 372

Facsimile of the play-bill of the National

Theatre, Boston, November I, 1852 . . At end of volume

PART I

"ME"

"ME," AGED TWO YEARS

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER

MOST authorities agree that fairy godmothers come
down chimneys. It is pretty well established also that
their chief vehicle of locomotion is a broomstick. "Me,"
however, will assure you that, in his own particular case,
neither of these statements is correct. "Me" possesses
a fairy godmother who has never approached him by
the chimney route, and who has ever practised the
ordinary means of transportation, although he shrewdly
suspects that in some cases she has the chimney habit.
When "Me" was a child his ambition was to be a hermit.
He had seen a picture of Saint Somebody living in a
nice, comfortable cave, with a large loaf of bread and
a pitcher of water, a lot of books and a skull. All of
these things appealed strongly to "Me." Home-made
bread he could devour to the exclusion of all other food;
books he was exceedingly fond of and early made them
his best friends, and the skull fascinated him. This
temple of thought "Me" quite longed to possess, to
contemplate it, to commune with it in solitude. You
will gather that "Me" was a somewhat unusual child.
This, I think, was the case. "Me's" head was very large
and his eyes were like saucers "Goggles" he was called
the moment he went to school, and "Goggles" he re-
mained until he grew large enough for his eyes not to be
so noticeable.

4 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Me's" first clear recollection is that of being held
up to look at the Atlantic Ocean through the port-hole
of a steamer bound for England, and of breaking out
into screams of terror at finding, on taking his eyes off
the great waves, that he was looking into the face of
a black woman. This is now merely the remembrance
of a remembrance, but there is a great distinctness about
it all the same. "Me" recalls being rescued from the
black nurse's arms and put to bed, and here he per-
ceives for the first time a sweet, gentle, white face which
has watched over him ever since.

"Me's" next remembrance is of being taught some
prayers and of being greatly interested in the pictures
conjured up thereby. Next, like a flash, comes the
scene of a large hall in a country house, and the arrival
of a man from Australia, who unpacked all kinds of
weapons of the aborigines shields, spears, head-dresses,
and of seeing "Me's" father and mother and other
persons dressed up in these strange things, and of much
laughter, and then a great number of people at a very
large breakfast-table, and the new man turning out to
be an old, old friend of "Me's" father.

Impressions come rapidly after this. Life became
interesting and kaleidoscopic. A great many people
circulated about "Me's" father and "Me's" large head
echoed with ideas from China to Peru. But "Me"
preferred to be an observer rather than an actor in the
pageant that was opening before him, and it was about
this time that one of his saucer eyes fell on the picture
of the hermit, and selected that as his calling.

Shortly "Me" went to school and was plunged into
abject misery. It is true, the school was not more than
two hundred yards from his home; but "Me" would

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 5

cast from him thoughts of the alphabet and, dropping
into his small lap, with listless hands, that volume which
tells us that "A is an archer who shot at a frog," and
"B is a butcher who had a great dog," "Me" would,
with some effort, picture himself, to himself, as bereft
by the great Reaper of both his parents and his nurse,
and his small brother and sister, and having reduced
himself to a condition of orphanage, friendlessness, and
starvation, "Me" would, to the consternation of his
pastors and masters and fellow pupils, begin to howl as
though his heart would break.

At the end of the term, Mr. Snelling, the schoolmaster,
and Mrs. Snelling, his assistant, would chalk up on a
blackboard a "letter to parents," to this effect:

MY HONORED PARENTS: Mr. and Mrs. Snelling pre-
sent their respectful compliments, and desire me to say
that they are pleased with my progress during the past
term. They beg to inform you that I stand second in
my class (there were but two in the class), that I show an
intelligent interest in my studies, and that the next term
will begin on July I. I remain, my dear parents, your
dutiful and affectionate son,

"ME."

This letter we copied with much care and much ink,
and carried home with us. Enclosed was Mr. Snelling's
official report, which, in "Me's" case, invariably read:
"Health good; conduct good. Could wish he would be
more interested in his studies."

But I think even then "Me's" large head rebelled at
the method of imparting information. His interest was
not enchained, nor his curiosity sufficiently excited; his
attention flagged and his mind wandered, and his thoughts

6 MY REMEMBRANCES

would leave the dull schoolroom and travel down the
road to his devastated home, his defunct parents, his
interred nurse, his departed brother and sister and
Melancholy claimed "Me" for her own.

While "Me" was emerging from his shell on one side
of the Atlantic, his fairy godmother was blossoming into
girlhood on the other. "Me's" father was away a good
deal from his own children. "The blesseds" he called
them, and he took great interest in "the blesseds" of
other people. Whenever he could give pleasure to a
child he would go out of his way to do so. I remember
on one occasion the small son of an old schoolfellow of
his was to have a birthday. It occurred to "Me's"
father the night before that it would surprise, and please,
this little fellow if he ("Me's" father) should appear out
of a clear sky in his bedroom early in the morning with
a lot of birthday presents. He sent out at once and
purchased presents of all kinds. He took a night train
from London to Birmingham. He amazed that house-
hold by appearing in their midst about seven o'clock in
the morning. He crawled into the child's room on all
fours, and went through strange and delightful antics
before he suddenly disclosed himself; amid great glee
and clapping of small hands and sparkling of eyes did
he deliver his presents. Amid shouts and embraces
did he depart and take a train back to London, four
hours away. His "blesseds" were ever in his mind's
eye.

So when he discovered "Me's" fairy godmother, then
a young girl, he at once won her heart by exhibiting that
respect for youthful fancies that not all grown-up people
evince. One must understand children. The fairy god-
mother was a shy creature, as fairies are apt to be; yet

EDWARD H. SOTHERN, AGED FIFTEEN YEARS

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 7

she experienced a keen pleasure when attending the
theatre to watch "Me's" parent act. That audacious
creature would stop in the midst of a speech, look directly
at the fairy and say: "There's Miranda," which, of
course, was not her name. It was her real name that he
used, however. Down would go the fairy's head below
the level of the box, conscious that the entire world had
its eyes glued on her. How should she ever show her
face again ? There was, however, a fearful joy in the
moment. She could hear "Me's" father saying quite
loud: "She has disappeared," and again, "Miranda!"
At last she would emerge, slowly, very slowly. No one
was looking at her; people had somehow thought the
interpolated talk about her was part of the play. On
subsequent visits she underwent similar experiences, and
again she would suffer the exquisite danger in which
childhood delights.

Miranda grew to womanhood, endowed with all the
graces which fairies bestow, and one day when "Me"
appeared within the magic circle, she made it quite
clear to him that here was his fairy godmother. "Me,"
who had had doubts about many things, began to see
them fade away. He soon observed that Miranda's
golden wings sheltered others than himself. She ap-
peared to be smoothing out the lives of people all about
her. Difficulties disappeared like magic when Miranda
lent a hand. She possessed a heart as open as the day to
kindly pity; a bounty all-embracing as the sun; she
would wave her wand and this one, perverse and inca-
pable, became tractable and industrious; again, and he
who had no object in life found himself and proceeded
apace; another who is certain she possesses no talent,
receives a tap on the shoulder, and lo ! the garden gives

8 MY REMEMBRANCES

forth golden fruit. Pumpkins become coaches-and-
four, bumpkins become princes, while mice become
prancing steeds. "Me" as he ambled along the road
of life got to think, as the days passed, as he met each
new adventure: "What would Miranda think of this?"
"I wonder if Miranda would like that ?" so that Miranda's
influence became an ever-present thing. Sometimes
"Me" has been sorry for Miranda, sometimes he has
felt that she would be pleased; but she has, so to speak,
constantly slid down "Me's" chimney exclaiming: "Well,
here I am!"

So again from the remote corners of the earth came
"Me" and Miranda, one to influence and one to be in-
fluenced. Are we not as the seed blown by the wind
until it meets its mate ? or taken on the wings of the bee
to be wedded on some distant flower ?

And what became of Miranda ? Just what should
have become of her! As evening fell she approached a
dark wood. "This," said Miranda, "is the abode of the
fierce dragon," but she walked on undaunted. As she
entered the wood, a thousand monsters rose up in her
path and cried:

"What brings you here ? Quick, the password!"

"Love," said Miranda, and they all vanished.

A prince appeared in shining armor, and he took
Miranda by the hand, and he drew a sword which was
called "Enlightenment," and after a terrific conflict he
slew the dragon, and Miranda and the prince walked
out of the wood, and there they mounted the prince's
horse, and they rode away to his kingdom, which is as
wide as the whole world, and Miranda became a Queen.
She has not, however, abandoned the chimney habit by
any means; one cannot throw off a habit like that so

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER 9

easily, and I happen to know, though it is not suspected
by the ordinary passer-by, that when the moon is dim
and the fire burns low Miranda will say to the King: "I
must slide down a chimney."

"Whose chimney?" will say the King.

"Whose chimney?" will say Miranda. "Really, how
can it matter whose chimney it is ? All chimneys lead
to people, all people need me, and I need all people. I
say again, I must slide down a chimney this moment,
and what is more to the point, you must slide with me."

Of course, common, selfish people will turn up their
common, selfish noses and consider it the height of ab-
surdity that this royal couple should then and there
arise and go out into the cold, and select a chimney,
and climb up to it, and slide down it, and, having reached
the floor, it will seem even more absurd that they should
strike an attitude picturesque and quaint and say: "Here
we are." And who will believe that, having given every-
body three wishes, and having granted at least two, they
will fly up the chimney and home again ? I say no one
will believe this thing. Well, it is not necessary. The
important thing is that things are; not that you or I
or the cat believe them to be.

I may here state that "Me" called himself "Me,"
because he couldn't, or wouldn't, say "I," and that
"Me" is me.

THE JAM-FACED BOY

A GREAT injury, an unworthy revenge; the dreadful
humiliation of one's enemy, a noble self-abnegation and
a reconciliation that partook of the apotheosis in a fairy-
tale these incidents are seldom crowded into the short
space of thirty minutes in the history of even a grown-
up person. Indeed, seldom do they transpire in a life-
time. Yet it was the fortune of "Me" to undergo the
rage, the base triumph, the grief, and the joy in one-half
hour which fate reserves usually for the turbulent cli-
maxes of the careers of great men.

One day "Me," as was his custom, toddled down a
flight of stone steps into the kitchen of his father's house.
There strange and wonderful things were constantly
happening; blood-stained joints of beef or mutton were
to be observed; a sausage machine might be turned, and
the meat transformed into mince meat. The spice-box
was at hand whence cinnamon, cloves, wintergreen,
et cetera, could be purloined. One might be allowed to
manipulate the rolling-pin on a pleasant mess of dough.
The pantry was hard by and one's fingers could be stuck
in jams and puddings. Fanny Marsh, the cook, was
large and red and amiable. One could see knives being
cleaned near at hand and boots polished. Life was full
of interest and discovery. As "Me" entered the kitchen
on this particular and historic occasion his eye fell on

a small boy of the lower orders seated on a chair eating

THE JAM-FACED BOY 11

bread and jam, a dilapidated doll in his lap; his toes, in
muddy and ancient boots, did not come within six inches
of the floor. "Me," on the contrary, being just up and
dressed, had on a black-velvet suit, red stockings, and a
superior pair of shoes with shining buckles. "Me" en-
tered the kitchen and stared at the new boy. That ill-
mannered child climbed down from his chair, walked
over to "Me," held up his ragged doll, kicked "Me"
on the shin and then put out his tongue. Having thus
expressed his feelings, whatever they were, he went back
to his perch and placed some more jam on his face.

"Me" had not encountered such treatment before.
This was quite a new experience. The new boy proved
to be the son and heir of a friend of the cook who was
paying a morning call. His mother, a cheerful-looking
woman, gave her son a smack on the head and some
good advice, and returned to her gossip with the cook.

"Me" stood deep in thought for a moment, then
turned on his heel and climbed up three flights of stairs
to his nursery. There were toys of all kinds a rocking-
horse, many kinds of dolls of both sexes and both black
and white, waxen and wooden; mechanical toys, lambs
that said "Baa!" cows that said "Moo!" dogs that
barked, and bears that, once wound up, would walk
about; there were engines and railway-cars which would
travel all over the room, and tops which behaved in
wonderful and eccentric fashion. "Me" contemplated
this wealth of possessions for a moment, then he selected
a few choice specimens and carried them with some labor
down to the kitchen. He reached the immediate pres-
ence of the vulgar little boy; he allowed him to gaze
on the wonderful toys, then he passed on and deposited
them on the floor of the large scullery beyond the

12 MY REMEMBRANCES

kitchen. The eyes of the jam-faced boy became large
with wonder and envy.

Again "Me" toiled up-stairs and again he came down
laden with his treasures. Once more he paused in front
of that ill-mannered urchin, and once more the scullery
received the arms full of dolls, steam-engines, and what
not. Four, five, six journeys did "Me" make; silently,
slowly, cruelly, inevitably filling the heart of that
wretched, ill-conditioned boy with envy, hatred, and
malice, and all uncharitableness. At length down came
"Me" with his mechanical toys. He wound them all
up and set them going. The lambs said "Baa!" the
cow said "Moo!" the dog said "Bow-wow!"; the train
ran about, the bear walked around.

The jam-faced child could stand no more. He opened
wide his jam-filled mouth and wept as though his heart
would break. The cook and his mother, who had gos-
siped on in blissful ignorance of the tragedy enacted in
their neighborhood, turned in amazement to the howling
boy. "Me," whose dearest hopes of vengeance were
now realized, began to experience the strangest feeling
of dissatisfaction. His victory seemed unfruitful and
even bitter. A great impulse to love this bedraggled
boy choked up in his throat and took hold of his heart
and filled up his eyes. He gathered up an armful of his
toys and threw them on the lap of the yelling urchin,
who placed his hands on them and yelled louder than
before. "Me" procured a new supply from where he
had deposited them in the scullery, and again covered
the weeping youngster with dolls and other treasures.

"What's the matter?" cried the weeping one's
mother.

"I hate my dolly," sobbed that jam-faced boy.

THE JAM-FACED BOY 13

"He shall have mine," said "Me." "I give him
mine."

The jam-faced boy stopped suddenly, a strange light
shone in his wet eyes. He crawled down off his chair
and approached "Me." That fortunate creature stood
there in his nice, clean, new velvet clothes and his red
stockings and his tidy hair, an unfamiliar emotion of
shame in his young heart. The jam-faced boy went to
him and pressed his jam-covered lips against "Me's"
red cheek and said: "I love you."

With a sob "Me" threw his arms about him, and a
great friendship was born.

Several times after this the jam-faced boy came to
play in "Me's" garden, and many times since has "Me"
hesitated to judge harshly or to retaliate hastily, because
he has not been able to forget the sweet taste of the
jammy lips of the jam-faced child. The conversion of
that imp from a foe to a friend contains the matter for
a philosophical treatise, for had he been old enough or
big enough to swear and oppose and fight, the outcome
might have been far otherwise. The doctrine of non-
resistance is here vindicated. People who cease to fight
may love perforce. Who is he who declares that, if you
keep silent and look long at your enemy, you must soon
love him out of very pity pity that he is your enemy,
pity that he is himself, pity that he is man ? Oh, "Me,"
think on this and be still.

Ill

"GOING NOWHERE"

"MoRE haste, less speed," said Rebecca, "MeV
nurse. Now as "Me's" small feet insisted on running
whether he wished it or not, this comment, often re-
peated, caused him much concern. It was Rebecca's
custom to follow up this remark with a relation of the
race between the hare and the tortoise. It always seemed
to "Me" that he would much rather have been the hare,
although that giddy animal had not won the race, for
even thus early was he convinced that the joy was in
the endeavor and not in the accomplishment. He pic-
tured himself as the hare running round and round the
tortoise until he was weary and then taking a nap; again
catching up with the tortoise and dancing about that
joyless traveller once more. Surely, the hare's journey
was the more glad to leap forth with so much purpose
and confidence and to run for the mere love of running.
When the tortoise should have arrived, what then ?
What next ? The fun surely was all over when the goal
had been reached. Why, the hare was better off after all,
for he had still to get there.

Rebecca's philosophy was by no means convincing,
and when her rather dull eye was not on him "Me"
would run, and run, and run, with no object whatever
in view, merely to be flying on tiptoe toward infinity.
Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat would go "Me's" toes with amazing
rapidity to school or from school, to anywhere or from

"GOING NOWHERE" 15

anywhere. Not only now but later, when he was quite
a big fellow, like the rat-a-tat-tat of the policeman's
club on the pavement, "Me's" mother would hear his
quick step a long way off and would run down-stairs
to let him in, for she well knew that nobody else sped
along at such a pace.

"Why do you always run?" would say "Me's"
mother.

"I don't know," he would reply. "I have to."

"But you are not in a hurry?"

"No, but I must get there, anywhere, wherever it is."

"But you go like the wind," said "Me's" mother,
which was quite true, and a fine way to go, too, whistling
and kicking up one's heels generally. It was not at all
necessary for there to be a prize in sight, nor any am-
bition to gratify, nor any one to emulate, nor anything
to attain; and when "Me" stopped, breathless and
panting, he would shortly sing in an equally purposeless
manner, again like the wind, not at all that he wished
to excel as a singer, nor that he desired any praise for
his singing, nor that, having sung, he had the slightest
intention of trying to remember what song he had
sung.

"Where are you going?" said Uncle Hugh one day,
when "Me," flying like the wind, collided with him
around a corner of the garden.

"Nowhere," said "Me."

"Ah ! a very good place, too," said Uncle Hugh.

Most people would have considered this reply foolish,
not so "Me." He was well aware that, for all his bright
smile, Uncle Hugh's remarks were wise and weighty.
"Nowhere" was a very good place to be bound for.
There were no responsibilities, no tiresome people, and

16 MY REMEMBRANCES

then, best of all, one never arrived there, so that it was
ever in prospect and never attained.

When Rebecca, after evening prayers, would discuss
the advisability of getting to heaven, "Me," very
seriously, wanted to know what he should do when he
got there. Rebecca was much perplexed. Her general
idea seemed to be that the people of paradise passed
the time in singing.

"And after that?" said "Me."

"Well," said Rebecca, "they say their prayers."

"And what more?" persisted "Me."

But Rebecca's sources of information were at an end,
and "Me" was exhorted not to be stupid. "Me" gath-
ered, however, from Rebecca's casual discourse that
there would be much flying in the life to come, which
meant going "nowhere" on wings, and at a much swifter
pace than mere feet could carry one. But then one
could not fly merely round and round in a circle, nor
flit forever from cloud to cloud. What "Me" wanted
to know was the purpose of the flying, and he concluded
that the condition of the righteous was blessed only in
so far that this inclination, this yearning, this hunger
of the human soul to be proceeding, to be ever on the
way, to be ever aspiring to something further, higher,
swifter, was no doubt in itself the true joy; and that
heaven consisted of no tangible thing at all, not of any-
thing done, but of the process of doing and a vastly
keener sight to perceive what to do. So far as "Me's"
observation went, accomplishment meant being tired
out and being put to bed, or, worse still, in the case of
getting what one dearly desired to eat, it meant pain
and regrets and a spoonful of treacherous jam. Really,
it seemed that to look through the window of the sweet-

"GOING NOWHERE'* 17

stuff shop, after all said and done, had produced more
real happiness than the actual swallowing of the many-
colored sugar-plums. Indeed, at a later day, it was
made quite clear that this was true. To obtain is to
be dissatisfied, and to be dissatisfied is to start on the
quest anew and so on forever; so that no matter how
glad one's labor might make others, the laborer who
would be content must perpetually leave his work be-
hind and speed to a fresh task which always shall look
fairer than the one he has forsaken. "Me" did not
know then but he discerned afterward that the eternal
restlessness of his little feet would mount and mount to
his heart and to his head, so that one should beat and
beat and the other plan and plan, always hastening on
and on and on to "nowhere."

That Uncle Hugh had wanted to rescue "Chinese
Gordon," that was the great thing; that he failed to
do it mattered nothing at all. That Uncle Hugh had
ever been ready to go "nowhere" at the queen's com-
mand at an instant's warning, that preparation, that
aspiration, which had seemed so childish, was one of
the things that had made Uncle Hugh quite great, quite
poor, and quite happy. That he did not get anywhere
was nothing except as a matter of geography. "Me"
and some other children realized that. It was not neces-
sary to get anywhere; the great thing was to start with
enthusiasm and to keep going with great intention on
the tips of one's toes forever.

Just about this time "Me's" schoolmaster, Mr. Snell-
ing who kept what is called a "Dame's school" (Mrs.
Snelling being the dame), announced that "The Snelling
Academy for young ladies and gentlemen" would in-
dulge in some athletic sports. The young ladies who

i8 MY REMEMBRANCES

thus proposed to anticipate the present robuster age,
and the young gentlemen who were to be compelled to
compete with them, were aged from about five to seven
or eight. "Me" was actually one of the elder boys
since he was weighed down by the burden of seven sum-
mers. Much preparation for these events was indulged
in in "Me's" garden. "Me's" own passion for run-
ning was about to attain to the dignity of a profession.
No longer was it to be a solitary pastime indulged in
for the mere love of travelling on tiptoe with arms
outstretched and winglike. "Me" looked around at
his fellow pupils with a sportsman's eye, comparing his
chubby legs to theirs, and by means of certain trial
spurts establishing his confidence in their defeat. There
was to be a prize consisting of a pewter mug which was
exhibited in the schoolroom, and on the day of the sports,
which took place in "Me's" garden, this mug and some
other small matters excited the admiration of parents
and guardians. There were flags and there was lemonade
and things that might with safety be eaten. There was
a tent. Indeed the occasion was distinguished. But
all these things have faded in the memory. The fact
that stands out in bold relief is that "Me" won the
race in fine style and that his victory made him miser-
able. When he had gained the pewter mug he didn't
want it. For "Me's" own sister and a boy who was
universally condemned because his father was a butcher
(since then "Me" has learned that it is not being a
butcher that excites contempt, the point being whether
you are a small butcher or a big butcher, whether you
slay one cow or one million) "Me's" own sister and
the blood-stained butcher boy wept bitterly because
they had lost the race. "Me" thought they wanted

From a photograph by Sarony

UNCLE HUGH AND HIS DOG

"GOING NOWHERE" 19

the mug. First he went to his tear-drenched sister and
embracing her said: "Here! take it. I give it to
you."

That athletic female thrust him away and cried: "I
don't want the mug; I wanted to win the race."

Abashed, "Me" approached the butcher boy. "I
give you the mug," said "Me," handing his treasure to
the steak-fed child.

That worthy stopped crying, flung the mug away and
yelled: "I don't want it. I wanted to win."

"Me" let the mug stay where it fell. He did not
want it either. What he had wanted he had achieved,
and that he knew was victory; but victory that made
other people wretched, which made him wretched, was
no victory. That was strange, and then he knew that
he, too, would have wept had he met defeat, and that
without victory the mug was no mug.

For some days "Me's" sister and the butcher boy
would not be comforted; indeed their spirits were only
revived when "Me" raced them once more and let them
win.

Rebecca was present on this occasion. Said she to
"Me": "There 1 'Master Clever,' what did I tell you ?
More haste, less speed."

Then was "Me" entirely convinced that the hare had
allowed the tortoise to pass him out of pure pity, and
because he had discovered the entire futility of winning
anything at any time or anywhere. The great satis-
faction consisted not in winning but in being able to
win, and sometimes even in seeing other people win.
Then there were the losers, how about them ? The
butcher boy, for instance !

"What are those people doing?" said "Me" to Uncle

20 MY REMEMBRANCES

Hugh, who had taken him to an art gallery. The people
in question were seated at easels copying pictures.

Said Uncle Hugh: "They are studying art."

A woman, who wore an apron which was covered with
paint till it resembled Joseph's coat of many colors,
here closed one eye while she held up a paint-brush,
running her thumb up and down it as she thrust it be-
tween her and a painting which hung on the wall.

"What is she doing?" whispered "Me."

"She's measuring something," said Uncle Hugh.

"Why does she close one eye?" said "Me."

"So that she can see better," replied Uncle Hugh.

"Me" took a good look at the woman student.
"But," said he, after a survey, "she has the other eye
half closed too, why is that ?"

"She is an artist," said Uncle Hugh, "and an artist
must learn to see with half an eye."

"Why?" said "Me."

Replied Uncle Hugh: "So that with half an eye he can
see more than you or I can see with both eyes wide open."

"And when he sees, what does he do?" said "Me."

"He runs," said Uncle Hugh.

"Runs?" said "Me." "Runs where?"

"Nowhere," answered Hugh. "As you do and as I do.
To see as he learns to see is to want to do, and to want
to do is to want to run, and to run when you want to
is to be happy, and "

But "Me" finished the sentence: "And to win the
mug is to want to throw it away."

"Yes," said Hugh. "To throw it away and to keep
on running."

"Does it matter which eye you shut?" said "Me,"
shutting each of his eyes alternately.

"Not as a rule," said Uncle Hugh, "but some people
have only one good eye, and if they choose to shut that
then they can't see at all."

"What do they do then?" inquired "Me."

"They approach the people who have learned to see
with only half an eye, and tell them how to see."

"But if they can't see themselves," said "Me," "they
must be blind."

"That's just where the fun comes in," said Uncle
Hugh, "when the people, with only one eye half shut
who can see more than the people with two eyes wide
open, are told how to see by the people who have no
eyes at all." And here Uncle Hugh indulged in one of
those fits of laughter which convinced persons that he
was deranged.

"What's an artist?" said "Me" suddenly.

Uncle Hugh stopped laughing. "An artist," said he,
"is one of those fellows who can see with half an
eye."

"And what is art?" persisted the insatiable "Me."

"Art," pondered the ever-patient Hugh, "is the work
accomplished by the fellow who has become so inspired
by the things he sees with half an eye that, in spite of
everything he is told by the fellows who have no eyes,
he excites the emotions of the people who can't see very
much with two eyes, to such an extent that these fellows
with two eyes see everything he has seen with his half
eye. This is called interpretation. The thing seen and
interpreted is nature and the interpretation is art, which,
being so greatly a question of eyes, may be said to be
'all my eye." And here that ridiculous Uncle Hugh
cackled again.

"What is an 'interpreter'?" said "Me."

22 MY REMEMBRANCES

"An interpreter is an untidy fellow with long hair
who makes you understand a foreign language."

"Oh, yes, a sort of waiter," said "Me," who had once
lunched at Gatti's.

"Quite so," said Hugh, "a waiter. That is, he waits.
Frequently he waits a long while for people to under-
stand him, and for his pay; usually he is not paid until
he is dead. In fact, it may be said of interpreters gen-
erally that they don't really live until they die."

"That's strange," said "Me."

"Yes," reflected Hugh. "Dead men tell more tales
than they are credited with. In fact, you may say that
we leave 'em alone till they've gone home and left their
tales behind them."

"Oh! that's Bo-Peep!" cried "Me."

"Yes," said Hugh, "Bo-Peep, a great philosopher who
believed as I do that all things are ordained; and per-
ceived that her sheep were not lost but merely gone
before with their tails still inevitably behind. No doubt
she left them alone and kept on running. This matter
of running," said Hugh, "is really at the bottom of
everything. There is just one thing to remember, and
that is that we mustn't run away, because to run away
means that you are trying to get somewhere, to hide,
to escape. Of course, that won't do at all. Once you
did that you'd be out of the running, and even if you
were allowed to run you wouldn't want to run any more,

ever."

"Yes," said "Me." "That would change everything,
of course."

Said Hugh: "People who are going 'nowhere* always
sing and laugh. Look at all the people in the street,
they are all going somewhere. You don't see one man

"GOING NOWHERE" 23

in a thousand even smile. Now and then a boy will
whistle, but not for long. He'll be going somewhere
soon, and then he'll be sad and silent like the rest."

"Hello! Stewart, what are you doing here?" said
a man who now approached.

"Cruising," said Uncle Hugh.

"Becalmed?" said the man.

"No, under full sail," said Hugh.

"Where are you bound for?" said the man.

"Nowhere," said Hugh.

"Good," said the man. "May you reach the For-
tunate Islands," and away he went.

"Where are the Fortunate Islands?" inquired "Me."

"They don't exist," said Uncle Hugh.

"Then how can you reach them?" wondered
"Me."

"You can't reach them. That's just what I tell you,"
said Hugh. "They don't exist because they are for-
tunate, and it is fortunate that they don't exist, other-
wise we would reach them, and what would we do
then?"

"We would have nowhere to run to," said "Me."

"Exactly," replied Hugh.

"Besides," continued "Me," "if we ever reached them
we might find they were not fortunate after all."

"There you are again!" cried Hugh.

"Then we should sit down and cry, I suppose," said
"Me."

"That would be a pretty kettle of fish," said Uncle
Hugh.

"So it's better to keep on under full sail, isn't it?"
said "Me."

"Yes!" cried Hugh with enthusiasm, "with the wind

24 MY REMEMBRANCES

in your face and waves high, and the spray all about,

and your weather-eye on the stars."

"Which is your weather-eye?" said "Me."

"It's the one you keep half open," whispered Uncle

Hugh.

"YOU'LL be sorry when I'm dead," said "Me" one
day to his nurse, Rebecca. This remark had such an
effect, by throwing Rebecca into hysterics, that the
value of it as a weapon of defense became instantly ap-
parent to "Me." He tried it by way of experiment on
his mother. She did not make an outcry as Rebecca
had done, but she ceased talking and paled visibly, and
looked long and tenderly at "Me." "Me's" heart
smote him, but the idea of self-destruction began to
take root, and as "Me" played in the garden that day
he would pause now and then as some fresh means of
doing away with himself occurred to him.

There was every reason why "Me" should consider
suicide. He was adored by his parents; idolized by
Rebecca; the gardener could not garden without him;
there was no wish he could possibly formulate which
would not instantly be granted. Consequently, life was
a burden to "Me," and the realms beyond the grave
properly became food for contemplation.

Uncle Hugh was consulted at an early date, and told
strange tales of how people had destroyed themselves.
The phoenix was especially interesting making a con-
flagration of himself and then, just when everybody was
saying how sorry they were, and what a lovely bird he
had been, springing up out of his own ashes and saying:
"Here we are again !" The pelican, too, was an exciting
fowl which allowed its children to eat it up and, so to

26 MY REMEMBRANCES

speak, lived again in its progeny. Then there was a
certain Black Knight of King Arthur's court who used
to permit people to cut his head off at one blow, only
to pick it up with his own two hands and place it again
on his shoulders. This seemed an admirable plan of
self-immolation. Then there was a god who had de-
parted this life by turning himself into a flower, and a
goddess who, grown weary, had transformed herself into
a tree. This again opened up pleasant possibilities and
"Me" regarded the various green things in the garden
with speculative eye as he debated which of them he
would prefer to become.

Several kittens had lately been drowned in the stable-
yard. The coachman had condemned them to a watery
grave. "Me" had witnessed their demise with solemn
interest, and poked them with sticks after the spirit
had fled. A funeral had taken place next door, and
from the nursery window a fine view could be had of the
proceedings. Besides friends and relatives, there were
a dozen "mutes," or hired mourners, who, of course, had
never met or known or heard of the deceased. Rebecca
had declared that it was a fine funeral, and that one
should always have at least twelve "mutes" to weep for
one on one's final journey.

"What do they weep for," asked "Me," "if they
don't know the dead person ?"

"They are paid to weep," said Rebecca.

"How much are they paid?" asked "Me."

"Oh, I don't know," said Rebecca. "Don't ask no
questions, and you'll receive no answers."

This was a self-evident proposition, but it did not
silence "Me's" speculations as to the value of sorrow.
He pursued his train of thought with Biggs, the butler,

SORRY WHEN DEAD 27

who was of the opinion that a "mute" might be paid
as much as five shillings to weep for a gentleman and
two shillings and six pence for a poor man.

"How much for a little boy?" said "Me."

"Oh, I suppose for a little boy about a shilling," said
Biggs.

"And how much would he cry for a shilling?" per-
sisted "Me."

"Oh, a bit at the 'ouse, and a bit at the cemetery.
'Mutes' don't cry on the road, I fancy," said Biggs,
" and they laugh on the way back."

It seemed to "Me," on thinking it over, that tears at
this rate would be about a farthing apiece for a little
boy. That seemed a lot of money and an agreeable
way to earn one's living, almost as good as being a her-
mit, and "Me" seriously thought for some while that
if he should decide to compromise the matter and hang
on to life he might do worse than be a "mute." That
one must sooner or later become an angel was a fact
established. Rebecca had a lot of pictures of angels,
male and female. There was, however, some confusion
in "Me's" mind as to whether he would eventually be
an angel or a sheep. Rebecca dictated prayers each
night to "Me" and his small sister and minuter brother.
In chorus they repeated:

"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want;
He makes me down to lie,
In pastures green He leadeth me,
The quiet waters by.
My soul He doth restore again,
And me to walk doth make
Forth in the paths of righteousness
And for His own dear sake."

28 MY REMEMBRANCES

The chief picture called up in "Me's" mind was the
picture of himself and his sister and brother as sheep.
For many moons "pastures green" was to "Me" "Par-
ders Green," which seemed a locality such as Turnham
Green or Shepherd's Bush. "He doth," owing to Re-
becca's lack of h's, became "Edith," a female who ap-
peared to have some influence, and "walk doth make"
was translated by repetition into "wardothmake," a
word of no significance whatever. After many days
"Me" thought what it all meant, and questioned Re-
becca as to "Parders Green," and "Edith," and "war-
dothmake." After much discussion, "Me" was fain to
confess that the entire prayer was a puzzle to him, and
that he was especially confounded to decipher how he
could be at one and the same time a sheep and an angel.
Rebecca's resources were stretched to the utmost to
satisfy "Me's" analytical mind, and she at length made
confusion worse confounded by declaring that "Me"
was a donkey, a statement which, though final, was no
solution. Being yet unacquainted with the doctrine
of transmigration of souls, "Me" contemplated this
threefold personality with mixed satisfaction and dis-
gust.

Up to now, grief had to "Me" been associated with
outcry and hullabaloo, and he was much astonished one
day when told that the sad lady next door, who walked
for hours and hours in her garden, as "Me" could see
by climbing on to his own wall, was dying of grief. She
made no noise, she shed no tears, she made no faces,
the usual accompaniments of grief were absent all.
Sweetly, kindly, gently, silently, she would greet "Me"
on the wall. A little while and she was no more; she
had died of longing for the man who was gone. This,

SORRY WHEN DEAD 29

then, was grief, noiseless and low; no sounds, no fuss,
no cry. That seemed very strange.

After a while "Me" was taken to church and in-
troduced to the mysteries of finding things in prayer-
books, hymns, collects, lessons, psalms. It was ail very
distracting and what with people saying, "How de do?"
and finding money to put in the plate, and looking out
at the corners of eyes at other people's bonnets, and
prodding persons to keep them awake, "Me" found a
great amount of entertainment, but wondered con-
siderably how it all helped to get one into heaven, to
become an angel or a sheep. Here "Me" became ac-
quainted with the tragedy of Cain and Abel. An old
gentleman in the pulpit told the story very graphically,
and laid stress on the long and silent vigils of Cain. He
traced Cain's growing anger against Abel, pictured the
awful crime in a terrible manner, and drew such a ghastly
image of Cain's punishment in after years that "Me"
was awake all night, and swore under the clothes that
he never would build altars or make burnt offerings as
long as he lived. This, then, was hate, thought "Me."
Here was a passion new and terrible; imagination
shivered before such a picture as this. "Me" con-
templated his own small brother and wondered if he
could ever bring himself to slay him. The idea was so
overwhelming that he burst into uproarious grief, and
for quite a while could not be comforted.

"Me's" mother used to read to him a good deal
stories, fairy-tales, some poetry. "Me" was always
very attentive and always asked a great many ques-
tions. He was especially curious as to why gentlemen
who loved ladies made such very long and tiresome
speeches to impress this fact upon them; the talk seemed

30 MY REMEMBRANCES

so excessively wearisome and unnecessary, and "Me"
always begged to be spared this part of the romance,
and to have it skipped so one could get on to the fight-
ing or the escapes on horseback, or the adventures of
the funny characters. One day, however, "MeV
mother read the comedy of "Twelfth Night," and "Me's"
attention, which had wandered a bit, became riveted
when she came to the lines:

"She never told her love
But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought,-
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like Patience on a monument
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed ?"

How it was that the words remained in his memory he did
not know, but they did, and the fact that love is silent,
and still, and strong, and voiceless took hold of "Me's"
imagination. He had in his mind three distinct pictures:
The silent lady's grief, Cain's hate, and the voiceless
love of the woman in the poem. This latter he inev-
itably associated with the gentle, ever-watchful, ever-
loving face that bent over him the last thing each night
and greeted him the first thing each morning. The im-
pression of this threefold image came and went again
as the years flew by until "Me" grew to have a settled
conviction that lines expressing this image and this idea
existed, and that he knew them by heart and yet knew
them not. He could almost see them and hear them.
Many years afterward he came across a writing-cabinet
such as people used in those days, a thing like a box
with brass corners which opened in the middle and
formed a sloping desk. Some old letters and papers

MOTHER OF EDWARD H. SOTHERN

SORRY WHEN DEAD 31

were inside, and in the handwriting of a hand long
still, clear and firm as though written yesterday, were
the lines always known and never beheld, penned in
the day when his brain first received them, surely an
echo from that other brain which had thought and
planned and joyed and sorrowed for him long, long ago:

"Deep grief is still. Deep grief is still and low,
Silent its waters ebb and silent flow.
Not hers the outcry and the labor'd breath;
She is as quiet as her sister Death,
And suffering all, feareth no further blow.

"Deep hate is still. Deep hate is low and still.
Hate slumbers not; but, hugging close its ill,
With half-shut, glowing eyes doth watch and wait,
Gnawing its heart, so feeding hate with hate,
While its pale, horrid, speechless lips say 'Kill!'

" Still is deep love. So still ! So still and deep,
'Twould seem love languished, lying there asleep;
But that his smiling mouth forever says:
'Lo ! I am here ! Mine are thy nights and days !'
In shine or shadow, do you laugh or weep."

FINE FEATHERS

WHEN the big policeman appeared on the scene and
told the wicked boys to "move on out of that," one
youngster, utterly unabashed by the majesty of the law,
cried: "Oh, go on! It ain't you, it's your clothes."

This statement reduced the criminal code, and the
penitentiaries, and the wisdom of centuries, and the
"bobby" evolved thereby as the symbol of order, to
what that bluecoat actually is: a symbol. When he
holds up his hand and the mighty traffic of London
stops, ebbs, or flows at his beck, it is his clothes the
outward and visible "bobby" who, finger on pulse,
thus affects the circulation of London's great heart.
Some yards of blue cloth and quite a number of buttons,
enclosing one mere man, enable him to hold multitudes
in subjection.

The whole thing seemed to be a question of clothes.
This is what happened: "Me" was out shopping with
his mother. The carriage had stopped at the dress-
maker's in New Bond Street; a very small and dirty
boy was being sadly overcome and beaten by several
larger and even dirtier boys. Without a moment's
hesitation, "Me's" mother, quite regardless of her
beautiful dress, and unmindful of a crowd of very supe-
rior people clad in the height of fashion, had flown to
the rescue of the small and dirty boy, had broken her
lovely parasol over the heads of his tormentors; with

FINE FEATHERS 33

remarkable strategy, had swung the tiny victim behind
her, and stood panting and victorious, holding the aston-
ished foemen at bay.

"Me's" mother possessed a very sweet touch of Irish
brogue and she now, with flushed cheeks, offered some
advice to the small boy's oppressors that had the effect
which music is said to have upon the savage breasts.
The crowd, held back by the policeman, behaved as
crowds usually do. There was some sympathy, some
laughter, some comment, and much wonder as the pretty
lady lifted the ragged urchin into her carriage and told
"Me" to keep him there until the wicked big boys had
disappeared. "Me's" mother then went into the shop
and spent some time in trying on new frocks.

Pointer, the coachman, was extremely proud of his
carriage, and his harness, and his nice white breeches,
and his shiny top-boots, and his shinier silk hat, and
when he sat on the box outside a shop it was really a
great sight. He was very serious and not inclined to
laugh at anything, although now and then he would
condescend to look exceedingly knowing, as much as
to say: "Of course you and I and Queen Victoria, we
know better." "Me" had often thought how nobly
stern and immovable Pointer was under the gibes of
cab-drivers and omnibus-drivers and other people who
appeared to have been born without any manners at
all, and who, it seemed, felt called upon to shout comic
and disturbing remarks at all dignified persons. Pointer
apparently was always stone-deaf on these occasions,
and as impervious as the iron statue of the Duke of
Wellington at Hyde Park corner. When out driving
with Pointer on the box, "Me" felt that London, as
it were, revolved about that silent, confident figure.

34 MY REMEMBRANCES

Buses and cabs and even streets seemed to do just as
he wanted them to; pedestrians and peddlers and cross-
ing-sweepers actually appeared to belong to him, and
to be entirely subservient to his caprice. Pointer was a
lordly personage and one not to be lightly questioned
even by the police. "Me" thought that perhaps Mr.
Gladstone alone would properly interrogate him when
on the box.

It may be imagined then that when the dirty boy was
placed by "Me's" mother in the clean carriage, "Me's"
first thought was: "What will Pointer think?" And
sure enough there was Pointer, his head turned back-
ward and his left eye strained through the carriage win-
dow, and with a look which plainly said: "Here's a
pretty go!" Rude fellows in the crowd, which had col-
lected to observe the fray, made some remarks which
were intended to agitate Pointer and calculated to dis-
turb his dignity. For example, he was asked how he
"liked driving a bathing-machine," and whether he in-
tended "to provide the mud-stained little boy with a
piece of soap." Pointer's interior was without a doubt
seething like a very volcano, but his demeanor was as
cold as a frosty morning, and his countenance as re-
served as a bath bun. Having relieved its feeling and
exhaused its wit on the unresponsive Pointer, and per-
suaded by the paternal policeman, the crowd evaporated.
"Me" was left alone face to face with the street arab.
Surprise had silenced that adventurer. After a few sub-
siding sniffles and two or three final sobs, he sat and
glared at "Me" wordless, mud-stained, and pale. He had
been badly beaten; one arm hung limp and gave him
evident pain when he moved, he had a cut above his
eye, some blood trickled over his nose.

FINE FEATHERS 35

No doubt social intercourse is somewhat artificial.
It has to be taught, from placing one's knife and fork
tidily together on the plate, to opening a conversation
cunningly, or entering upon a new acquaintance with
tact and propriety. "Me" had pretty good manners,
but his impulses were still controlled by certain pre-
cepts, and he found himself distinctly considering how
Rebecca would have advised him to proceed in this un-
precedented emergency, and seriously concerned as to
what Pointer was thinking. The new boy's nose solved
the problem. "Me" took from his pocket a nice clean
handkerchief and pressed it shyly into the paw of the
visitor.

"Please blow your nose," said "Me."

The new boy winced as "Me" touched his right arm
and said: "Ow! I can't lift it."

"Me" placed the handkerchief in the left hand, and
the child wiped the blood from his brow and polished
his nose as if it were a door-knob. The ice thus broken,
"Me" asked the small creature why the others had
beaten him.

"'Cos I'm a little *un," said the disabled boy. "You
just wait till I'm a big 'un, I'll show you."

From this point confidences were swift. The new-
comer confided in "Me" that he was hungry and "Me"
produced things to eat, purchased at Bonthron the
baker's, where it was customary to stop for provender
on shopping days. The new boy rapidly became sticky
as well as dirty.

Shortly "Me's" mother came out of the shop. She
fluttered a moment over the street boy and, finding that
his arm really was injured, concluded that he should
be taken to a hospital. Pointer was given directions.

36 MY REMEMBRANCES

He touched his shining hat with his whip, and away
went the clean carriage and the dirty boy.

At the hospital it was declared that the arm was
broken not very serious, but it meant many days in
bed. The child's mother was to be notified. "Me's"
mother made many arrangements. She waited until
the small stranger had been bathed and placed in a
lovely white bed. When she and "Me" went to look
at him, his face had been washed, his hair brushed, he
had on a perfectly clean white nightgown. "Me's"
mother said he was a pretty little fellow and bent down
and kissed him.

Said "Me" on the way down-stairs: "I thought he
was a common little boy, but he looks quite nice."

"That was his clothes," said "Me's" mother. "Be
sure to remember that all little children are equal."

"Are they all ladies and gentlemen, then ?" said "Me."

"They are angels," said "Me's" mother.

"Am I an angel?" said "Me."

"Me's" mother did not reply to this, but she kissed
"Me" and laughed.

It was evident that soap had a good deal to do with
making people angels. It had not been noticed that
this boy was an angel until after he had been washed !

"How long are they angels?" asked "Me."

"Oh, until they grow up," replied "Me's" mother,
and she stopped her laughter and looked out at the car-
riage window.

"Aren't grown-up people angels?" persisted "Me."

"Not often," said "Me's" mother.

"Are they equal, too?" said "Me."

"Well, no, I'm afraid they are not," and "Me's"
mother was laughing again.

FINE FEATHERS 37

"When do little children stop being equal?" "Me"
inquired.

"When they stop being children," said "Me's"
mother.

"Oh, yes," said "Me," as a light broke in on him,
"when some grow up to be bigger than others. Of
course, they are not equal then."

Said "Me's" mother: "That is their outside. That
they are equal is not a question of outsides."

"Oh, it's their insides, then!" cried "Me."

"Me's" mother was very patient, but here was a
sorry problem: how to satisfy "Me's" curiosity on a
rather abstruse question.

"My darling," said she, "it is not what people look
like that makes them your equals or your inferiors; it
is what they really are. I want you to remember that.
This little boy is now a child, so he is good. He may
grow up to be bad. It is not at all whether he will be
tall or short, but whether he will be a good man or a
bad man."

"Me" pondered over the rude boy's remark to the
policeman: "It ain't you, it's your clothes." The new
boy had looked just like a little gentleman when he was
washed and in a nice clean bed. It was his clothes, then,
that made all the difference. The fact really appeared
to be that only little children without any clothes were
equal. "Me" had observed that at the seaside, when
bathing, you really could not tell gentlemen from com-
mon people when they were in the sea, clad merely in
bathing-suits. He particularly remembered that once
a waiter from the hotel had been mistaken by bathers
for a French count, who was expected with much curios-
ity, and how the waiter had had to explain to an old

38 MY REMEMBRANCES

lady who entered into a conversation with him, while
they were in the water, that he was only a waiter, and
how the old lady had declared that "really such people
should not be allowed to bathe. The sea," asserted the
old lady, "was only intended for ladies and gentlemen."

Uncle Hugh was approached on the matter. "Me"
desired to know when people began to be unequal. Said
Hugh: "You will hear some day that 'the tailor makes
the man'; but don't believe it. The tailor only dis-
guises the man. If the tailor made the man, all the wax-
works at Madame Tussaud's would be alive and kick-
ing; but they are not, in spite of all their fine clothes
they are only waxworks."

Said "Me": "If all common people were washed,
would that make them ladies and gentlemen?"

"Well, no, not quite," said Hugh. "Gentility is
more than skin-deep. You see, it's what they say gen-
erally."

"But if they are deaf and dumb?" suggested "Me."

"Then it would be what they think," answered Hugh.

"But you couldn't tell what deaf-and-dumb people
think," said "Me."

"Then it's what they do," ventured Hugh. "Common
people do common things and gentle people do gentle
things, and if you put fine clothes on common people
they are still common people; and if you put common
clothes on gentle people they are still gentle people.
The boy who stood on the burning deck was dressed
as a common boy, but he did gentle things, so he was
a gentleman."

Said "Me": "Mamma says that angels are all equal.
If common people can be angels, then angels are all
common people."

FINE FEATHERS 39

Hugh considered sagely and then said: "It takes an
uncommon common person to make an angel, and if you
go through Clapham Common to the House of Com-
mons, you will find that all the commoners are uncom-
monly common. Besides you will notice that fine feathers
make turkey-cocks," and Uncle Hugh giggled as though
he had said something funny.

Rebecca, informed by Pointer, strongly disapproved
of the dirty boy being placed in the carriage. Common
people had no right to take such liberties with gentle-
folk. This puzzled "Me" greatly. Here was Rebecca,
a common person herself, quite opposed to common
people.

"Are you a common person?" asked "Me."

Rebecca was startled but admitted that she was.

"Don't you like other common people?" said "Me."

Rebecca was nonplussed. Doubtfully she replied:
"Yes."

"Then why are you angry with the little common
boy?"

"I'm not angry," said Rebecca, "but he ought to
know his place."

"What is his place?" said "Me."

"In the street," said Rebecca.

"Are all children angels?" asked "Me."

"Why, of course they are," said Rebecca.

"Then if the dirty boy was an angel they would have
him in heaven, wouldn't they?" said "Me."

"What are you up to?" said Rebecca suspiciously,
feeling she was being driven into a corner.

"And if they would have him in heaven, why shouldn't
mamma have him in the carriage?"

"You are too clever by half," said Rebecca, finding

40 MY REMEMBRANCES

herself bereft of reasons. "Besides it's time you went
to bed."

"Is Pointer a common man ?" queried "Me."

"Well, yes, I suppose he is," admitted Rebecca.

"He was angry because the little boy was put in the
carriage," said "Me."

"I should think so, indeed," protested Rebecca,
hurrying the bedtime disrobing in the hope of divert-
ing "Me's" attention.

What kind of clothes do angels wear?" asked

"Me."

Said the distracted Rebecca: "They don't wear
clothes at all, they wear robes."

"Where do they get them from ?" said "Me."

"How do I know?" cried Rebecca, quite beside her-
self and pressing "Me's" tooth-brush on him in the
vain hope of stopping his busy mouth.

"Is everybody equal in heaven?" insisted "Me."

"I suppose so," sighed Rebecca.

"Then you won't be common any more there, will
you?"

"I haven't thought about it," said Rebecca, "and
what's more, don't you ask any more questions," and
for a moment "Me's" head was hidden in his night-
gown.

"What makes the little street boy common?" said
"Me," emerging.

"I suppose he was born common," said Rebecca.

"Do all common people come from God ?"

"Everybody comes from God."

"Was he common before he came from God ?"

"How could he be?"

"Are people common after they are dead ?"

FINE FEATHERS 41

"Hush 1" said Rebecca. "If they are good, of course,
they are not common, or anything else."

"Then all buried people are good ?"

"Yes."

"Why are they good when they are dead?"

"Because we are sorry for them."

"Why aren't we sorry for them when they are
alive?"

"Oh, I don't know!" cried Rebecca, distracted.

"I suppose," reflected "Me," "common people be-
come ladies and gentlemen when they are buried." It
seemed quite evident that behavior came to an end in
the churchyard. There, manners, good or bad, mattered
not at all.

"Are they buried in their clothes?" resumed "Me."

"No, of course not," said Rebecca. "You get into
bed at once, I've had enough of you."

"Oh, that's it, then!" cried "Me." "When they
leave off their clothes that makes the difference. When
do people begin to be common if they are not common
before they are born, and if they are angels when they
are children, and if they stop being common when they
are dead ?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Rebecca. "Of course,
babies are not common; but boys and girls are, and
men and women are. But when people are dead you
don't think about them being common they are just
dead and of course, people in heaven all become dif-
ferent."

"Oh, yes, I see," said "Me." "They all dress alike,
don't they?"

"Oh, good night!" said Rebecca.

"Is a carpenter a gentleman?" said "Me."

42 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Of course not," said Rebecca.

"Jesus was a carpenter,'* said "Me."

By this time "Me" was safely in bed and tucked up
tight.

"You're a wicked boy," said Rebecca in an awed
voice, "and you had better ask to be forgiven," and she
turned down the gas.

"You could only tell that little boy was common by
his clothes," said "Me."

"Go to sleep at once," said Rebecca crossly.

"He looked like a gentleman in his white night-
gown," said "Me." "You couldn't tell the difference
when mamma kissed him."

Here "Me's" brother, Sam, aged two, woke up, and
began to mutter in his own private language, at the
same time scowling at "Me" for disturbing his slum-
bers. "Me" felt sure he was saying something un-
gentlemanly.

"Don't be common!" said "Me," and floated away
to the land of dreams.

VI
"TA"

SARAH TAME was my brother's nurse. My early re-
membrance of her was that of a tall, rather solemn and
majestic woman. I had as it were to throw my head
back to see her face when I spoke to her. That was
forty-five years ago. I saw her in London a while since,
and find that she is a very small person, some distance
beneath me. I can distinctly look down on her. There
was but one child in the world for Sarah Tame, and
Sarah Tame was his prophet. She used to call my brother
The Prince. The other children were just children. My
brother's name being George, my father naturally called
him Sam, and with equal reason Sam addressed himself
as "Ta." He would never say as ordinary folk do: "I
want this or that." He would say, "'Ta' wants 'TaV
brexas," meaning breakfast. Sarah, to Sam, was "Kluk-
lums." There are, I believe, some three hundred languages
besides Volapiik, but none of these would serve Sam's
purposes. Those of us who had his interest at heart
would try now and again to dissuade him from persist-
ing in this new and strange speech. Sam would never
argue about it; being smaller than his advisers, he had
to listen; but when all was said and done he would make
some remark in his unknown tongue, at which one could
not take offense, not knowing what it signified, and move
off about some important business. Never was there a
child who had so much important business as "Ta." He

44 MY REMEMBRANCES

was much given to soliloquy. It was rather uncanny to
hear him talk in this mysterious lingo to himself. Sarah
was the only one who understood him. It was as if
these two had lived in some previous existence and,
meeting on this planet, communicated in a tongue which
was theirs eons ago, on Mars perhaps. Sarah herself
was no ordinary woman; she walked in an atmosphere
of impending fate. If one should ask her to get a pocket-
handkerchief, she would reply: "I'll get it if I die on
the road." This was her customary phrase when per-
forming any mission. I remember feeling somewhat
awed at this way of treating a simple request, as though
her blood would be on my head should death overtake
her on the way. "Ta" and "Kluklums" persisted in this
language of theirs until "Ta" was about eight years of age.
Then their vocabulary was quite a formidable one and
covered all the usual occasions and requirements of exist-
ence. My father was equal to the emergency, however,
and when he returned to England one day after a couple
of seasons in America he quickly perceived the pro-
fundity of "TaV mind, and met the situation by invent-
ing a rival language on the spot. He adopted some of
"Ta's" words but broke forth in a multitude of new ones.
A torrent of unfamiliar talk flowed from him in his conver-
sations with "Ta" and "Kluklums" which overpowered
them, and for two or three days they were observed in
consultations apart, in remote corners of the nursery, the
garden, or the stable-yard. "Ta" seemed frowning and
distraught and "Kluklums" over and over again was over-
heard to mutter, "if I die on the road." From that time
"Ta" kept his secret language to himself. He and " Kluk-
lums" conversed mostly by signs. Their affection and
their understanding remained as deep as ever, but no

"TA" 45

utterance of any sort was permitted to attract the vulgar
gaze. When they met after a separation of a quarter
of a century quite recently, "The Prince!" said Sarah.
"Kluklums!"said"Ta."

For my own part, now in my mature years, I believe
that "Ta" came to us with a message which he was not
permitted to deliver. Who shall say that he was not a
medium, and that had he persisted in giving out those
strange sentences which welled up from within him, we
should not now be in possession of secrets which are
lost to us forever ? Be that as it may, "Ta" always was
possessed of a wisdom not very evidently of this world.
He seemed always to have sat in the councils of the great.
Even in boyhood graybeards listened to him with rever-
ence and ancient men deferred to his opinions.

When "Ta" was first expected on this planet, I, who
was then seven years old, was informed that he would
one morning be found in a rhubarb-bed at the bottom of
the garden of our house, "The Cedars" in Kensington,
London. Consequently, it was my custom to observe
this rhubarb-bed closely for any signs of this new baby.
My reflections were not at all amiable toward "Ta," as I
stood day after day and contemplated the large rhubarb-
leaves. I did not think I quite wanted a new baby. I
couldn't exactly define my ideas on the subject, but I
was distinctly uneasy. At last one fine day, while I was
staring at the rhubarb, I was told that "Ta" had arrived,
and I was invited to go and see him. I was so angry at
the deception practised upon me, for "Ta" had been born
behind my back as it were, that I struggled violently
with those who would have conducted me to the house.
I escaped them and by devious ways retired to a secret
retreat of mine in the tool-shed to brood over my wrongs.

46 MY REMEMBRANCES

After a while I crept up to the house and, by the back
stairs, approached the room wherein lay the uncon-
scious "Ta." I heard sounds of wailing from within and
certain tender consolations were being offered which had
hitherto been my sole perquisite. An overwhelming
sense of injury seized me, and the undefined animosity
I had felt while watching the rhubarb-bed found vent
in howls of anguish and hangings against the door of
the room wherein my rival lay. Anxious people came
out and took hold of me. When I saw "Ta" my outcry
increased, nothing would induce me to go near him. It
was a long time before my mother, by tender endear-
ments, persuaded me to first endure, then pity, then
embrace the intruder, and at last to sob myself asleep
with my arms about her. For days I regarded "Ta" with
suspicion. He, on the other hand, observed me, as soon
as he could observe anything, with stern and frowning
toleration. By and by he began to speak in this new
language I have mentioned. My name of Eddie he re-
duced to D, and in other ways he seemed to belittle me.
He seldom smiled and never cried, was quite unsociable
and, as I have said, talked a great deal to himself. An
uncomfortable sense of "Ta's" superiority troubled me.
I was beginning actually to hate him, when an event oc-
curred which overcame me with that admiration and
respect that I have felt for him ever since.

My father had given my mother a hundred and fifty
pounds in Bank of England notes. These notes she had
placed in a drawer in her desk. Shortly afterward my
elder brother, Lytton, entered the room with the son of
a neighbor who was his particular and constant play-
mate. These two were unusual-looking boys; both
very handsome, just the same age, about seventeen.

"TA" 47

They were constantly together. When my mother re-
turned to the room, my brother Lytton and his friend,
whose name was Peters, departed. My mother opened
the drawer to get money for her household bills, and
found to her dismay that more than half of the bank-
notes had gone. My father was called. I remember
quite well the excitement that followed. My father
went off in his dog-cart to Scotland Yard, and returned
with one Detective Micklejohn, a celebrated sleuth of
the time. Everybody in the house was examined; the
servants, male and female, the latter weeping copiously
because they were suspected. Of course, no individual
was suspected. The whole household, however, was
searched. "Ta" and myself alone were exempt. "Kluk-
lums" was examined with the rest, at which outrage
"Ta" made some occult remarks to which "Kluklums"
replied in the sign language.

Well, Detective Micklejohn was quite baffled. He
could find no clew whatever. He had dismissed the
servants as having nothing to do with the theft, and
had for the moment concentrated his attention on my
brother Lytton. It appeared that Lytton had gone
to the drawer, and had taken out the bank-notes and
looked at so much wealth with some awe, and then re-
placed the money. This he readily told the detective.
My mother was in tears at the mere idea of Lytton
being questioned. My father stood by, puzzled but
stern. The men and women servants were gathered in
a nervous crowd in the passage below. "Ta" and I
watched, huddled together with "Kluklums."
"Thanks," said Micklejohn, "that's all!"
He was closeted for some time with my father and
then departed. We heard that he suspected no one in

48 MY REMEMBRANCES

the house. But he did; he suspected my brother, Lytton,
who had said nothing about Peters being in the room
when he looked at the notes. Peters had taken the
money, and he went about spending it recklessly. He
looked so like my brother Lytton that Micklejohn got
on the wrong track and was quite convinced that Lytton
was the spendthrift.

He came to tell my father and mother his opinion.
My mother told "Kluklums." "Kluklums" must have
communicated by wireless (which was not yet invented)
to "Ta," for that remarkable child came down the stairs
from his nursery chanting a favorite chant of his to this
effect:

"Dordy mady iddy far
Iffoo pindat madat dar
Dordy isso tindadood
Gidy iddy far effood."

Translated, this poem reads:

"God He made the little fly;
If you pinch it, it will die.
God He is so kind and good,
He gives the little fly his food."

He came down the stairs slowly and seemingly un-
moved. He approached Detective Micklejohn, who was
coming out of the room, followed by my weeping mother
and my frowning father. He doubled up his two tiny
fists and he struck that large policeman several rapid
blows, at the same time pronouncing these cryptic
words: "Dood itto dad peepor." Detective Mickle-
john laughed. He had not yet solved a criminal mys-
tery out of the mouths of babes.

LYTTON SOTHERN, AGED NINETEEN

"TA" 49

"What does he say?" said Micklejohn.

"Dood itto dad peepor," reiterated *'Ta."

To the amazement of the assembly, "Kluklums" cried
out: "I knew it!"

"Knew what?" said my father.

"Oh, Sarah!" wept my mother.

"Ta," having delivered his ultimatum, was now try-
ing to catch a fly on the window-pane and chanting:

"Dordy mady iddy far "

"I see the child speaks French," said Micklejohn.

"Iffoo pindat madat dar."

"I knew it!" cried Sarah.

"Speak, woman!" said my father.

"Dood titto dad peepor," said Sarah.

"She also speaks French," said the astute Micklejohn.

"Nonsense!" cried my father impatiently. "This
is the child's babble that no one but Sarah can under-
stand. The woman is a second Rosetta Stone."

In his excitement, my father shook Sarah, who, weep-
ing, murmured: "Dood titto dad peepor. Oh, master,
'Ta!' I knew it!"

"Sarah," said my father, "if you don't tell me at
once what you mean I will bite your left ear."

This startling threat sobered Sarah instantly.

"What do those words mean?" cried my father.

"They mean," said Sarah, "good Lytton, bad
Peters/ that's what it means, if I die on the road."

"Who's Peters?" said Micklejohn.

"My son's friend who is always with him," said my
mother.

"Iffoo pindat madat da," sang "Ta" at the window.

So MY REMEMBRANCES

"Does he look like your son ?" said the sleuth, hot on
the trail.

"Yes, they are both very handsome," said my mother.

"Dordy isso tindadood," crooned "Ta," killing a fly
on the pane.

"Call me a cab," hissed the detective.

"That child's intelligence is unnatural," said my
mother.

"He takes after me," said my father.

"Gidy iddy fa ifood," muttered "Ta," cornering an-
other fly.

That night as Peters was treating a crowd of foolish
people at a bar, Micklejohn hit him a heavy smack on
the shoulder and said quickly: "Give me that money
you took from Mrs. Sothern's desk."

The wretched boy fell to the ground in a faint, and
was brought to our house in handcuffs. He confessed
everything. My mother wept over him; my father
grew hysterical as he embraced his own boy, Lytton.
No one but our own household ever knew of the theft
or of the redemption of the foolish purloiner. His own
people never knew. In my mother's arms, he under-
went a change of heart which I know lasted for his life.

But "Ta" would never make friends with him never !
He invariably called him "Dad peepor," until the lan-
guage of "Ta" and "Kluklums" was numbered among
those tongues that are dead.

How "Ta" reached his conclusions concerning the real
culprit has never been known. "Ta" himself, now that he
has emerged far beyond the shadowland of childhood,
can recall nothing of his mental processes at that time.
In fact, he remembers nothing about it, save what I tell
him.

'THE CEDARS, LONDON

"TA" 51

With "Kluklums" it is different. To her "Ta" was
and is a being of a different clay from that from which
ordinary Londoners are made. In some other world than
this, perhaps about the time of the Pharaohs I myself be-
lieve that "Ta" was a prince. To "Kluklums" "Ta" is
a prince here and now.

VII
PRIVATE AND UNEXPECTED

IT was "Ta's" birthday and arrangements had been
made whereby he was to send out his own invitations,
to select his own guests, to create the menu himself.

Fanny Marsh was consulted in secret. Much whisper-
ing occurred between "Kluklums" and the "Prince."
Certain epistles were penned and posted; replies re-
ceived and conned apart. Garments were considered,
hair was curled, and at length the day arrived on which
the favored guests should assemble. It had been ex-
pected by "Ta's" parents that children contiguous and
adjacent would be invited, but such was not the case
at all. "Ta" had arranged that the banquet should be
served for two persons only, and had not divulged who
the solitary guest would be. The preparations were
quite extraordinary, and the resources of "Ta's" parents'
establishment were taxed to their extreme limit. For
example, the carriage could not be used that day, be-
cause Pointer had been persuaded to wait on the
table.

Pointer had protested that he was unskilled in waiting.
At this "Ta" had wept copiously, and had declared
that skill mattered not at all. The thing was for Pointer
to be present and since he could not bring his horse and
carriage into the dining-room he must assist without
such impedimenta.

The gardener, also, dressed in becoming Sunday gear,

PRIVATE AND UNEXPECTED 53

was on hand, miserable and conscious of his hands and
feet. He also was to wait at table. "Kluklums" was
to be throned in a corner of the room and to look on.
"Ta" had wanted her to sit at the table but a sombre
prediction of her death on the road had at length rec-
onciled him to " Kluklums V suggestion that she should
be seated in a remote nook.

The hour arrived three o'clock on an April day.
The expected guest was late and "Ta's" spirit chafed,
finding vent in sundry incomprehensible utterances.
The favored child, whoever he or she might be, no doubt
had to come from a distance; the carriage had shed a
wheel, or had encountered an omnibus, or there was a
mistake in the day, or perhaps in the hour, or the little
friend was taken ill.

The grown-up people in the house waited with more
or less patience, mildly wondering what particular play-
fellow "Ta" had so signally honored as to select him or
her alone as his birthday company.

"Ta" sat at his table in solitary state. Linen and
flowers and plate and birthday presents made a pleasing
and exciting scene. Pointer, horseless, bandy-legged
and redolent of stables, shifted from one foot to the
other with foolish unrest. The gardener made some ex-
tremely rural attempts at conversation such as, "Them
geraniums is pretty backward, ain't they?" or "It's
time to burn that tobacco in the green 'ouse," or "This
'ere rain's a fine thing for them there tulips."

Not a soul responded to these efforts and the gardener
was reduced to looking at his hands with a kind of won-
der as if he had never seen them before, and was now
speculating as to what could possibly be their use, where
they had come from, and how he should get rid of them.

54 MY REMEMBRANCES

Suddenly the door-bell rang. The gardener clapped
his hands; Pointer said: "Now we're off!" "Kluklums"
muttered "I knew it."

"Ta" stood upon his chair.

"Ta's" mother and father and sister and brother,
hearing the guest had come, went into the hall to greet
him or her, curiosity as to whose little child it might be
having reached quite a climax.

The front door opened and to everybody's amazement
there stood no child at all, but a very beautiful and dis-
tinguished actress on whom "Ta," all unsuspected, had
bestowed his affections, who had received the only in-
vitation to the party and who now, radiant and glorious,
was poised, angel-like, upon the door-step.

With much laughter, and much swishing of silks, and
much brushing of wisps of golden hair away from shin-
ing eyes, the lovely lady floated into the dining-room.
It had been distinctly understood that not one of the
family should attend this party. Save for the presence
of enthroned "Kluklums," it was to be a party of two.
When the suggestion had been made that "Ta" should
have the sole say as to his birthday feast, naturally a
notable gathering of little ones was expected; but when
he had insisted upon this strange arrangement that there
should be only one invitation issued, it had been ac-
cepted with proper seriousness. Especially had "Ta"
declared that he and his favorite should dine alone.
Therefore, all hands now withdrew while "Ta" greeted
his guest. The door was closed save for the entry of
viands, and for an hour or more "Ta" made no sign.
No word came to the outside world as to how things
progressed within the banquet hall. Pointer and the
gardener flitted between the kitchen and the table in

From a photograph taken at " The Cedars "

EDWARD A. SOTHERN IN 1863

PRIVATE AND UNEXPECTED 55

melancholy state, looking foolishly unused to indoor
ceremonies and offering no word of comment on the
proceedings.

At length the meal was ended. Pointer and the gar-
dener withdrew, and for a space silence reigned. Then
a howl of agony came from the recesses of the dining-
room. Shriek after shriek of wailing and of weeping.

"Ta's" relations rushed to the scene to find the beau-
tiful actress with her arms about him, trying to soothe
him, to comfort him, to glean from him what grief over-
whelmed him. For five minutes at least no syllable
could be gathered from inconsolable "Ta."

"What is the matter?" cried "Ta's" mother.

"Booh-hoo-hoo!" howled "Ta," his knuckles goug-
ing out his eyes.

"What is it?" said "Ta's" father to the beautiful
actress.

"I can't imagine," said the glorious creature. She
then related that "Ta" had maintained an impenetrable
silence during the entire entertainment, that he had
eaten no food although pressed thereto by Pointer and
the gardener, that he had persisted in sucking his thumb
and scowling in a most uninviting and inhospitable
manner, that she had used all her arts and fascination
to try and break down "Ta's" most churlish humor,
and that at last he had all of a sudden let out that yell
which had alarmed the house and had plunged himself
into that inexplicable grief which they were now con-
templating.

"Stop it! "cried "Ta's" father.

"What is the matter, darling?" cried "Ta's" mother.

"Perhaps you can explain it, Sarah," and the anxious
crowd turned to "Kluklums" in her corner.

56 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Not if I die on the road," said that inconsequent
woman.

"Do you hear me?" cried "Ta's" father, shaking
him with impatience, "What's the matter? Is it a pain
of some sort toothache, stomachache, earache ? Tell
us what's the matter?"

"I wanted a party," wept "Ta."

"Well, you have one, haven't you?" said "Ta's"
mother.

"Yes," wept "Ta," "but then boo-hoo ! "

"Well, but what?"

"Why, I thought things would happen and they
didn't."

"What things?" said the lovely actress.

"What things?" said "Ta's" mother.

"Yes, what things?" cried "Ta's" father.

"Something private and unexpected," wept "Ta."

"Private and unexpected?" echoed the others.
"What do you mean ?"

"Ta" did not know what he meant, but the fact was
that this long anticipated meeting had by no means ful-
filled expectations. There had been no games, no romp-
ing about, no story-telling; the beautiful lady had talked
platitudes and, with very evident effort, had tried to
make conversation. "Ta" could not take any interest
in what she had said nor find a responsive chord which
he could strike. He had ventured one or two remarks
but soon was dismayed to find his sources of small talk
frozen. The pretty lady babbled away, quite believing
that she was delightful and amusing, but her prattle
was so much Greek to "Ta." Minute by minute the
feast sped by, and one sweet illusion after another van-
ished into air. Here was no playfellow, no comrade,

PRIVATE AND UNEXPECTED 57

only a grown-up person who laboriously talked non-
sense. What was there to do but weep, to lift up one's
voice in protest and despair? "Boo-hoo-hoo!"

This most playful and fascinating Rosalind, this
romping and most understanding tomboy of the last
pantomime, was nothing but a grown-up female in-
capable of games and who criticised one's cold in the
head, advised concerning one's finger-nails, inquired
after one's progress at school, and seemed to have no
conception whatever of Indians, cowboys, and pirates.
This was the public and expected behavior of all grown-
up people. The private and the unexpected so fondly
anticipated, yet so undefined and impalpable, a very
cobweb of the fancy, something woven from limelight
and forest glades, and music and dancing feet and
laughter and sweet nothings, of strings of sausages
filched by the mischievous clown, of battered police-
men, of Pantaloon finding a red-hot poker in his pocket,
of Columbine and Harlequin, all all had vanished in
this commonplace talk. What should one do but weep ?
"Boo-hoo!"

The pretty lady was, however, equal to the occasion.

"Private and unexpected?" cried she. "Then here
we go!" and catching up her frock she began to dance
a hornpipe that very hornpipe which the tomboy
in the pantomime had danced when informed that his
wicked uncle had been eaten by a dragon, and that in-
stead of being a poor newsboy he was the long-lost child
of the Emperor. That disclosure had gone at once to
his ten toes, and he had danced like mad for as many
minutes. And like mad did he now dance in a truly
private and unexpected manner, and "Ta" stopped
crying and began to laugh and to jump up and down

5 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

and when, for a climax, the lovely lady actually turned
a handspring and sat on the floor, breathless but bubbling
with laughter, life began to seem reasonable once more.
"Ta" has passed a number of birthdays since that
fifth birthday, but never has anything happened quite
so entirely private and unexpected as this. That tom-
boy is a very old lady now, and no doubt her dancing
days are over. Maybe, however, she will read these
lines and remember.

VIII
"RASHER"

THE friendship of "Me" and the jam-faced boy might
have pursued its calm and Arcadian course until cemented
by the experiences and trials of manhood had it not been
that Fate the fiddler had injected, for some purpose of
its own, a volcanic element in the person of a new and
unexpected cousin of "Me," the child of "Me's" mother's
sister. "Me" had recently made the acquaintance of
those seven devils which were turned into the herd of
swine, and caused them to run down a steep place into
the sea. A short experience of this new cousin convinced
"Me" that these same seven evil spirits had entered into
the frame of this entirely superfluous red-headed Irish
infant who now came, or rather erupted, on the scene.

The parents of this terrible creature, being extremely
poor, were on their way to Australia where the father,
an Irish physician, hoped to find fortune more kind.
The father, mother, and eight children arrived at "Me's"
house one afternoon to partake of tea and discuss the
prospects of their emigration with "Me's" mother.
The devil-possessed boy with red hair was the only male
child. Seven very beautiful and ever-smiling sisters
did not suffice to keep the evil one from perpetual up-
roar, or from a silence ominous and portentous of ill.

Tea time and the family from Ireland arrived. The
table groaned with specially prepared cakes and dainties,
and "Me's" mother hovered angel-like over the cere-

60 MY REMEMBRANCES

mony. When the elders had been served: "What will
you have?" said "Me's" mother to the one of seven
devils.

"Rasher!" cried the possessed.

"Rasher?" said "Me's" mother. "What does the
child mean ?"

"No, no!" said his own mother. "Cake, beautiful
cake; you must have cake."

"Rasher!" again cried the red-headed infant.

Said his father: "He means bacon. He wants bacon."
Then to the child sternly: "There is no bacon on the
table, you must eat cake."

"Rasher!" howled the son of Satan, "Rasher!" and
began to weep tears of rage, and screw two stained fists
into his eyes, and to squirm in a fearful manner on his
chair.

"He can have 'rasher' if he wants it," said "Me's"
mother.

"No," said the father of the imp, "he shall not have
'rasher/ He shall eat cake or eat nothing!" and he
placed a large piece of cake on "Rasher's" plate for
"Rasher" he was called by us from this moment.
"Rasher's" father was a man of small ceremony, and
he gave "Rasher" a clout on the head at the same mo-
ment that he helped him to cake, thus illustrating the
fact that good fortune is closely attended by ill.

"Rasher" refused to eat the cake. His seven lovely
sisters smiled upon him; "Me's" mother said he was
a darling; his own mother begged him to be good. "Me"
and his small sister and brother gazed in open-eyed won-
der and some fear at the fiery-haired newcomer. Sullen,
silent, lowering, "Rasher" seemed to use up the cake.
"Me," who was quite fascinated by him, observed that

"RASHER" 61

not a single crumb passed "Rasher's" lips. The other
children eagerly stuffed themselves with the feast. Their
elders forgot "Rasher" in serious contemplation of the
future and of the expedition to the antipodes. "Me's"
mother told him after a while to ring the bell, which
caused "Me" to pass near "Rasher's" chair. Amid
the uproar of the general talk, he heard "Rasher" say
in a low, horrid tone: "I'm rubbin' it into the floor, I
am ! I'm rubbin' it into the floor," and sure enough he
had dropped the sticky plum cake, morsel by morsel,
onto the carpet, and with one small leg stretched out,
was crushing the mess into the rug.

"Me" told his mother, and a general examination
brought down on "Rasher" such a chorus of denuncia-
tion as would have caused any honest boy to blink.
Not so "Rasher." He was a hardened criminal. He
stood stolid and determined on other evil courses.

"Go in the corner!" cried his father. "Stand in the
corner and don't dare to move until I forgive you," and
he lifted the horrible urchin bodily into the shameful
niche.

Shortly the tea-party broke up, and all hands ad-
journed to the drawing-room. "Me" lingered behind,
fascinated by "Rasher's" daring and lawbreaking
spirit. He approached fearfully to where the wicked
boy stood in durance. To his horror he heard "Rasher"
muttering under his breath, constantly, unceasingly,
venomously, rapidly, these awful words: "Damn devil!
Damn devil! Damn devil!" over and over again, his
face close to the corner of the wall. Such abandonment
to sin had never entered into "Me's" domain before.
He crept abashed from the room. Evil-doers surely find
great gratification in the breaking of commandments

62 MY REMEMBRANCES

and the rebellious "Rasher" glutted his anger and fed
his sullen soul by muttering "Damn devil!" for a full
half-hour.

When his father suddenly concluded it was time to
forgive him, "Me" was deputed to convey the glad
tidings to "Rasher." With some trepidation he ap-
proached the culprit who still stood obstinately in the
corner. As "Me" drew near he observed that "Rasher"
was engaged in stamping more cake into the carpet,
and varied the ejaculations of "Damn devil!" with
the baleful assertion, "I'm rubbin' it into the floor, I
am!"

"You are forgiven," said "Me." "Come up-stairs."

"Hell!" said "Rasher," and, pronouncing this terrible
word, he marched to the drawing-room.

The seven sisters endeavored to shower him with en-
dearments, but he squirmed and resisted and kept to
himself.

By and by "Me" learned that the jam-faced boy was
below, and asked to be allowed to go and play with him.

"Yes," said "Me's" mother, "and you shall take
dear 'Rasher* to play with you."

"Me" took "Rasher's" unwilling hand and con-
ducted him to the nursery. Shortly the jam-faced lad
appeared. "Me" received him with affection but was
distracted to observe that a fierce enmity immediately
flamed up between "Rasher" and his lowly friend.
Several games were begun and abandoned; "Rasher"
would take no part, until "Me" suggested "Indians."
Here "Rasher" pricked up his ears. Much tracking of
foes by their footmarks and scalping of slain redskins
followed, when "Rasher" suggested burning captives at
the stake. The idea was greeted with acclamation and

"RASHER" 63

shortly, after a great conflict, "Me" and his jam-faced
friend were bound securely to the rocking-horse. Now
"Rasher" exhibited a very terrible and ferocious glee.
He piled newspapers and picture-books about the feet
of his victims, who, meanwhile, depicted proper and
historical stoicism. What was their terror, however,
when "Rasher" lighted a match and set fire to the news-
papers; then, screaming with hideous laughter, ran
from the room and slammed and locked the door !

"Me" and the jam-faced one yelled and cried for help,
while "Rasher" laughed and laughed outside the door.
The two bound to the rocking-horse struggled as might
Mazeppa have done to free themselves, and managed
to drag the wooden steed to the other side of the room.
The paper blazed furiously and inevitably would have
set fire to the house had not "Rasher's" unholy re-
joicing been heard below and the whole household been
brought hotfoot to the scene.

A vast confusion followed. The flames were ex-
tinguished with rugs, and "Rasher" was then and there
beaten by his father until he howled with pain. "Me"
and his friend were pale with dread and trembled with
excitement. This was playing "Indians" with a ven-
geance.

"Me's" mother begged that "Rasher" should be
taken away at once to Australia, which continent "Me"
was relieved to remember was on the extreme other side
of the world. His father took charge of him. His whole
family, weeping and protesting and berating, went their
way, never to be seen by "Me" again.

"Rasher" became a mounted policeman in Aus-
tralia. No doubt it takes a "Rasher" to catch a
"Rasher."

64 MY REMEMBRANCES

The budding friendship between the jam-faced boy
and "Me" was alas! uprooted, for never was that hum-
ble child allowed to play more in such alarming com-
pany. Thus the evil that "Rasher" did lived after him.
Certainly no good will be interred with his bones.

IX
"THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES "

UNCLE HUGH sat in the sunlight smoking a large
cigar. His eyes were closed, but it was very evident
that he was awake, for smoke came from him in great
blue clouds as though he were a man-of-war.

"Me" approached with much joyful noise but was
surprised when Uncle Hugh raised his arm in admonition
and said: "Hush! Listen!"

There was no sound. The day was calm, the garden
was silent.

"What is it?" whispered "Me," prepared for the
attack of savages from any quarter.

"Hush!" repeated Uncle Hugh, his eyes still closed.
"I am singing."

"Singing!" murmured "Me," much mystified.

"Sit on the grass," said Uncle Hugh, "close your eyes
tight. Keep quite still and listen to the music of the
Spheres."

"Me" did as he was told, but heard no sound. "Who
are the Spheres ?" he queried after a while, with a vague
notion that they were of the "Christy Minstrel" family,
"and what do they sing?"

"The most wonderful music in the world," said Uncle
Hugh.

"I can hear nothing," said "Me."

"No, that's just it," said Uncle Hugh, "you can't hear
it, you only feel it. Hush ! Let us sit still without wink-
ing, while we count a thousand and nineteen and a half.

66 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Now," said Uncle Hugh, when the mystic number
was completed, "now, we are all right again. When-
ever you are worried and can't see your way out, close
your eyes and listen, listen to the music of the Spheres."

"Did you ever hear it ?" said "Me."

Uncle Hugh did not reply for quite a while, then he
said: "Yes, once or twice at sea, at night."

"What was it like?" said "Me," a general idea of
hand-organs and penny whistles and anthems in his
cranium.

Said Uncle Hugh, after another pause: "I don't quite
know. I think it feels like pity and love and yes, it
feels like hunger, too."

This was very strange talk, and for a long time "Me"
did not understand.

"The difficulty is this," continued Uncle Hugh, "we all
talk too much. Two people cannot meet without talking
talking continually at all costs they must keep it up.
If they stop for a moment they are wretched and dis-
concerted. We talk so constantly that we can't think.
You will notice that the animals don't talk, yet they
communicate. They rejoice, they sorrow. I tell you we
stunt our intelligence by so much talking. Sit still now
and then and listen, and you will learn strange things."

Left to himself, "Me" considered deeply. Frequently
thereafter would he sit by the fountain in the garden
and, sure enough, in due time the world opened its
lips and sang, and "Me" lifted up his voice in the silence
and sang, and the rhubarb-bed, and the huge black
cedar-tree, and the splashing water, and the green grass,
they all sang. And the "Sphere family" would come
floating across the lawns singing the most wonderful
songs in words quite different from any words yet in-

"THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES" 67

troduced into "Me's" vocabulary either by Mr. and
Mrs. Snelling or any one else; but all the same quite
easily understood and telling of things never heard of
before and yet entirely familiar. And the curious thing
was that you did not want to tell these experiences to
anybody, because it was as clear as day that if you ut-
tered them in words they would cease to be.

Then, too, there was another thing about it. You
were quite sure that these songs were sung to you in
confidence, not to be repeated to anybody ever. That
was why the language was no language, and why you
felt rather shy and almost guilty when somebody would
say: "A penny for your thoughts." A penny, indeed!
Why, you wouldn't sell them for a thousand pennies,
for you had a curious certainty that as they passed your
lips they would turn into ashes. They would die, fade
as the leaves of the flowers when summer has spoken.
All this was a little puzzling and rather like living two
distinct lives and having two sets of acquaintances who
were not on each other's visiting lists. Thus, wordless
thoughts and silent songs found sanctuary in the mind
of "Me." Thither would they come speeding in the
most unexpected manner, bursting open the doors and
rushing in as though they were escaping from the noise
and turmoil of the world; snuggling up in this quiet
corner to rest in the shade and saying to "Me" in the
language which was no language:

Listen! Listen! while we sing, or while we deliver
you our message. We are worn out seeking shelter, for
the earth is so full of noise.

"Why do those two men shout so at each other?"
inquired "Me" of Uncle Hugh one day, concerning two

68 MY REMEMBRANCES

men in the street who were not more than six inches
apart but who were yelling as though they were, each
of them, on a separate and distant mountain.

"They are shouting," replied Uncle Hugh, "so as to
conceal from each other what they are thinking about."

"But if they don't want to tell what they think, why
do they talk at all?" asked "Me."

"If they don't talk," said Uncle Hugh, "each is afraid
the other will consider him unintelligent or, perhaps,
unkind, and they believe that the louder they talk the
more they disguise the fact that they really have not
anything to say; so they shout the thing they don't
mean and don't want to say in order that each one shall
be persuaded that the other does mean and does want
to say it."

"And are they persuaded?" asked "Me."

"Not at all!" said Uncle Hugh. "Wait here and
listen to what they say when they part. You stand
there, I'll stand here.

"Well?" said Uncle Hugh, when he and "Me" joined
forces again, "what did your man say after he left the
other shouting: 'Happy days' ? "

Said "Me": "He muttered, 'Fool!' "

"Ha!" said Uncle Hugh, "he was saying what he
thought. My man, who left calling out, ' Be good,' said
between his teeth: 'Liar!' '

"How awful!" said "Me."

"I told you," commented Uncle Hugh, "everybody
talks too much. It was not necessary for those two men
to talk, and, having talked, they are worse off than they
would be had they been silent. Mum's the word!"

Winter came shortly, and many poor people were
out of employment. Frequently some of these would pa-

"THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES" 69

rade the streets; generally a band of ten or twelve men,
poorly clad and shivering, would walk slowly through
the fog chanting in unison: "We have no work to do!
We have no work to do ! We're all frozen out, and have
no work to do!" Pennies would be flung to these from
house windows, and the unhappy waifs would melt
into the mist, their pitiful chorus growing faint and
fainter as they passed along. Then, sometimes, would
come a man and a woman holding hands, and hanging
on to them eight or more children, usually arranged ac-
cording to their height, growing small by degrees and
miserably less as they decreased in size from the mother
down to the littlest babe. These, too, would chant:
"We have no work to do! We have no work to do!
We all are wet and hungry, and have no work to
do!"

Peering from his bright nursery into the dim street,
"Me" obtained his first glimpse of such a group. First
came their woful song upon the yellow fog; then their
gray forms, like ghosts, floated into view.

"Come to tea!" said Rebecca.

"Hush!" replied "Me," "I am listening."

"Listening? To what?"

"The music of the Spheres!" whispered "Me," for
surely this was the "Sphere family." "Here they come !"
What was it that clutched at "Me's" heart and brought
tears into his eyes if these were not they ? " It sounds
like pity and like love and yes, it sounds like hunger,
too."

"Me" wrapped a penny in a piece of newspaper and
flung it from the window. There was much scrambling
in the mud to recover it, and much touching of caps in
acknowledgment.

70 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Why do they touch their caps?" inquired "Me" of
Rebecca.

"Because you are a young gentleman," said she.

"Oh, yes, I see!" said "Me." Then to the astonished
Rebecca: "Why am I a young gentleman?"

Rebecca's reason seemed to give way under the strain
of this query. She stood still and open-mouthed for a
space, then she said in a hushed tone, "Well I never!"
and went away.

"Me" listened to the song of the "Sphere family"
until it sank into the silence of the bleak afternoon. He
stood at the window for a long while. At length came
the time for prayers, and three small figures knelt at three
small beds and raised three small voices in supplication.

But the proceedings were suddenly interrupted, for
"Me" arose and said to Rebecca: "Do they pray?"

"Who?" said that much-troubled female.

"Why, the 'Spheres'!"

"Who?"

"The 'Spheres,' the people I threw the penny to."

"Of course they do. All people pray."

"Do they say: 'Give us this day our daily bread' ? "

"Why do you want to know?" said Rebecca, past
experience making her suspicious.

"Because if they pray, 'Give us this day our daily
bread,' why are they hungry?"

"Perhaps they are wicked people!" said Rebecca.

"Are all hungry people wicked?" asked "Me."

Again Rebecca's reason forsook her, and again she
sought safety in flight.

"I suppose," considered "Me," "that food makes
people good."

This seemed fairly evident, for was there not much

"THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES" 71

talk in church about feasts the feast of this and the
feast of that ? No doubt all the wicked people were
gathered together, and fed into a state of repentance
and righteousness.

Why, of course it was so. "Feed the hungry !" Only
last Sunday the old white-haired clergyman had re-
peated it at least twenty times during his sermon. In-
deed "Me" had become rather nervous and embarrassed,
for the clergyman had distinctly pointed his finger di-
rectly at him when he had exclaimed: "Feed the hun-
gry" the fifteenth time, and the injunction had quite
taken "Me's" mind off his dinner that afternoon.

By the railings of Kensington Gardens sat a blind man
who had neither legs nor arms. A very old dog sat by
his side with a tin mug in his mouth. On the blind
man's breast was a placard on which was printed in
shaky letters: "Pity the blind." Rain or shine they
sat there, silent, still, forever listening. If you dropped
a coin in the tin mug the dog would lean his head toward
the blind man and push him. The blind man's face
would flush as he heard the sound of the coin, then his
lips would move but one never heard him speak.

One day "Me" contemplated the silent pair for some
time, and then whispered to the blind man: "Can you
hear it?"

"You mean the music ?" said the blind man.

"Yes," said "Me," hushed and expectant.

"What does it sound like?"

"Oh, all sorts of things," said the blind man. "Some-
times it sounds like the sea, sometimes like Southampton,
where I was born, sometimes like the Crimea, where I
lost my legs and arms. Just now it sounds like beef-
steak and onions."

72 MY REMEMBRANCES

"That," said Uncle Hugh later, "is his particular idea
of heaven, and as a matter of fact it is on the whole sane
and modest enough. You or I might find it difficult to
express beefsteak and onions in strains of music, but
each of us has his peculiar ecstasy. The blind man will
perceive heaven in extracting from you and me beef-
steak and onions, while we, who are blessed with sight,
will reach the heavenly sphere through feeding beef-
steak and onions to the blind. No doubt there is music
either way if one could only hear it. There is a difference
between closing your eyes and losing them altogether.
People who have lost their eyes are great listeners."

"I suppose so," said "Me." "Oh!" he continued,
"I saw them yesterday."

"Who?" said Uncle Hugh.

"The 'Sphere family/" said "Me." "I saw them
and I heard them sing."

"Yes?" said Uncle Hugh, not in the least surprised.
"What song did they sing?"

"They came along the street in the mist holding
each other's hands, and they sang: 'We have no work
to do ! We have no work to do ! We all are wet and
hungry, we have no work to do/ '

"Oh, yes, I see," said Uncle Hugh.

"Yes," said "Me," "I remembered that the music of
the 'Spheres' sounded like 'Pity and love and hunger/
so I knew them at once."

"And what did you do?" said Uncle Hugh.

"I think I cried," said "Me," unashamed.

"Good!" said Uncle Hugh. "Then you felt pity."

"Oh, yes!" whispered "Me," "and love and hunger,
too."

"What else?" said Uncle Hugh.

"THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES" 73

"I threw them a penny," said "Me." "It was all I
had."

Uncle Hugh lighted a cigar.

"When you grow up," said he, "you will learn to
smoke, and as you smoke you will indulge in contempla-
tion, and as you contemplate you will admit that if you
have only a penny a penny is a great deal, and you will
wonder why it is that you, who once were so filled with
love and pity that you gave all, now pass the hungry
by and see them not, and then you will remember that
it is because you no longer pause to listen, to listen "

"To the 'Sphere family' ?" said "Me."

"Yes," assented Uncle Hugh, "to the 'Sphere family/"

"I think I shall always hear them," said "Me."

"We will see," sighed Uncle Hugh.

"What music wakens the drowsy noon ?
It swells and sighs in the swaying trees.
The whispering grasses bear the tune
To the far-off bell and the droning bees
From honied lands over bitter seas;
'Neath the golden sun; or the silver moon;
On the morning's breath; on the evening breeze;
We shall gather its burthen late or soon.

"From the darkling brow of the pine-clad hill,
A note of the northwind sweet and clear
Makes the pulses leap, and the herd stand still
'Tis the Goat-god's reed ! from the haunted mere
Comes the lilt of laughter now far now near
Where Dryads dance to the Piper's thrill:
As he lolls on the lap of Night to hear
The plaint of Echo, from rock and rill.

"Yet hark ! 'Tis no strain of earthly things
It floats from the realms where the planets, hung

74 MY REMEMBRANCES

In highest Heaven, may brush the wings

Of choristers ever and ever young

The song of songs we have never sung

Sings not of the sorry world it sings

Of dreamful valleys the gods among

And the Harper harps on a thousand strings.

" Singer of songs, whoe'er you be,
Lord of the Heaven or Piper Pan;
To your touch, in an awful ecstasy,
Tremble the chords in the heart of man.
The love of our long-lost lay began
When the world was young and the soul was free.
Twould break its bondage, the stars to scan
For the source of its ancient melody."

X
AMONG THE GODS

"WHEN I was a god," said Uncle Hugh ("Me" did
not know it at the moment but Hugh alluded to his
divinity among the Haidar savages) "When I was
a god, I found that the scantier my raiment the more
ample was my authority. Cupid in knickerbockers is
no longer an archer; one would scoff at a Venus en-
veloped in furbelows; Adonis in a frock coat barters his
godhead for shadows sartorial; Mercury, his pinions
pump-prisoned, becomes a pedestrian; top-hats will
not adjust themselves to aureoles, while that goddess
renounces heaven who dons a petticoat."

These reflections were projected by "Me's" inquiry
as to why Cupid, as portrayed on the valentines in the
shop-windows, was innocent of garments. Cupid's con-
dition at Christmas time was even more pitiful than at
the feast of Saint Valentine. To have to handle one's
bow and arrows in the snow would be trying to toes
and fingers, to say nothing of noses.

"It's quite cold in February," remarked "Me."

Hugh admitted that it was. "But about the I4th of
February," said he, "the birds begin to seek their mates.
It is Nature's pairing time, and, long before Saint Valen-
tine appeared on the scene, boys and girls observed the
sap rising in the trees and the birds awing, and you
would be astonished to know how lonely a fellow can be
about the middle of February."

76 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Don't gods feel the cold?" inquired "Me."

"Rather," said Uncle Hugh. "That's why they keep
out of the way. You see it's terribly tiresome having to
go about so thinly clad and that, too, entirely for the good
of other people. Cupid, I'm sure, must have a hard time
to continue mischievous when he has to dance to keep
his feet warm and blow on his fingers before he can draw
his bow."

"How does it feel when he hits you?" asked "Me."

"Couldn't say," responded Uncle Hugh, "because he
never did hit me. I am told, however, that one feels ex-
cellently foolish, and from observing the wounded and
assisting the maimed, I should judge that the arrows are
dipped in some kind of drug which dulls the under-
standing."

"Oh, then you have seen people who were hit?" said
"Me."

"Yes," answered Uncle Hugh. "I knew one man who
used to be hit regularly once a week."

"Did he bleed?" said "Me."

"Well, he was bled," replied Uncle Hugh. "His 'sil-
ver skin laced with his golden blood,' so to speak."

"Why doesn't Cupid ever grow up ?" wondered "Me."

"I've often thought of that myself," said Uncle Hugh.
"I suppose it's because if he were grown up he would not
be capable of the senseless, irresponsible, reprehensible,
reckless, purposeless, and generally idiotic conduct which
now distinguishes him. The only consideration which
makes his behavior pardonable is that he doesn't know
any better. He's childish, you see, so he is forgiven.
Then, too, the complaint for which he is held responsible
is of so ridiculous and tragic a nature that there must
be a scapegoat of some sort whom we can blame for the

AMONG THE GODS 77

folly and the wretchedness in which we become in-
volved."

"Does it hurt much then?" said "Me."

"Like the very devil, I'm told," said Uncle Hugh.

"What is a scapegoat?" asked "Me."

"A scapegoat was a goat on whose head the ancient
Jews symbolically placed the sins of the people; after
which he was suffered to escape into the wilderness, and
there, because you and I and Rebecca have misbehaved
ourselves, the goat dies of thirst and hunger, and then
you and I and Rebecca are as good as new. In the same
manner, if I murder my wife for love of her, I blame
Cupid and escape the gallows."

"I think Rebecca's in love!" declared "Me."

"Yes?" said Uncle Hugh. "What makes you think
so?"

"I saw her kiss Biggs," said "Me."

"Let us not be hasty," commented Uncle Hugh. "It
may have been merely a collision, an accident, a losing of
the balance, as it were. She may have regained the
perpendicular. Then, too, at this time of year seasonable
infirmities are diagnosed as love. Hay-fever for example;
an inflamed head is often mistaken for a combustible
heart, and people rush at conclusions only to abandon
them. Thus Rebecca and Biggs, who one moment are
assured that they two should be one, the next moment
are convinced that two into one won't go."

Uncle Hugh's philosophy was somewhat involved and
confusing this morning, and "Me" was left to marvel
that so common a thing as a kiss could possibly be the
cause of so much reasoning. Love seemed a very simple
matter: merely to want and to be comforted; to be tired
and have arms about one; to long for, and to be satis-

7 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

fied; to fall asleep confident, secure and happy in the
knowledge that some other understands everything,
forgives everything, bears everything. Why, then, so
many words and such mysterious suggestions of dis-
aster and sorrow and danger ? If Cupid was a little child,
love must be innocent enough. Uncle Hugh's talk left a
sense of doubt and shadow and unrest. There was a
darker side to this kissing. It was not always a happy
and laughable matter.

"What is love ?" demanded "Me" of Rebecca.

"Good gracious!'* said that startled woman, "what
a question! Why," continued she, having thought a
moment and smiling to herself, "love is getting married,
and having children of one's own, and keeping a green-
grocer's shop just off Baker Street."

This was certainly a most particular definition, and
yet it seemed that something must have been left out;
for the chief impression made by it was one of vegetables,
chiefly cauliflower.

"What is love?" inquired "Me" of Fanny Marsh,
the cook. Fanny Marsh was engaged in basting a joint
which was revolving on a spit before the fire. She turned
toward "Me" with a very red face, and with a large
ladle of gravy in her right hand.

"Love," said she, after a pause, "is being beaten
every Saturday night." Then she poured the gravy
over the joint and wiped her eyes with her other hand.
"Me's" heart smote him, for he recalled that Rebecca
had once whispered that Fanny Marsh had not been
happy in her marriage; therefore, he rushed at Fanny
Marsh, and threw his arms about her ample person and
declared that he did not mean it, although what he did
not mean was by no means apparent.

AMONG THE GODS 79

"What is love?" inquired "Me" from Johnson, the
coachman.

Johnson was standing in the stable-yard chewing a straw
and watching the grooming of some horses with critical eye.

"Love ?" said he. "Why, you see that 'orse bite that
mare on the neck; that's love! You see them pigeons
cooin' and rubbin' their bills together ? That's love !
You see that cock acrying * cock-a-doodle-doo '? That's
love. Love's what keeps everything and everybody on
the move; it's love that makes the world go round, and
makes us all want to go round the world."

This was a long speech for Johnson, who was one of
the great silent men of history, and whose conversation
mostly consisted of "Gee-up," or "Come over," or
"Whoa, mare!" consequently "Me" was deeply im-
pressed by this oration.

Up to now inquiry had resulted in three distinct and
unrelated impressions: cauliflower, being beaten, and
perpetual motion. None of these nor all of them to-
gether appeared to fill the mental void created by the
word "love."

In the neighborhood of "Me's" house was a straggling
thoroughfare called "Lovers' Lane." Once it had been
in the country, but London had surrounded it. Hedges
still struggled to exist on either side of the narrow way.
But it was rather a birdless and bedraggled paradise.
Gloomy and distracted young men and voluble young
women strolled here at dusk; waists were encircled and
hands were held, but the general influence of the locality
seemed to be dismal and joyless.

"Like the very devil," Uncle Hugh had replied when
asked if Cupid's arrows hurt much. These, then, were
the wounded and the maimed.

8o MY REMEMBRANCES

"Hello! Here's a wedding!" said Uncle Hugh as he
and "Me" approached an excited crowd on the pave-
ment. A number of gayly dressed people came out of
the church; then, walking on a red carpet and weeping
copiously, came the bride, and the groom pretending he
didn't see anybody. Some of the people wept, also, and
some looked very solemn or angry. There was much
commiseration from the crowd. Some rice was thrown
by a forlorn, thin woman; a slipper launched by a sad
man. The carriage door slammed, and the unhappy
couple drove away.

"Was that love? "said "Me."

"No," said Uncle Hugh, "that was marriage."

"But marriage is love, isn't it?" said "Me."

"Occasionally," said Uncle Hugh.

"Why did they throw things at the bride and bride-
groom?" inquired "Me."

"Well," answered Uncle Hugh, laughing, "it's well to
begin as one may have to continue, and it is the part of
wisdom to acquire powers of resistance early in the
game. First rice, then slippers, then saucepans; one
must proceed gradually; besides saucepans are not
thrown in public, it's bad form.

"What's the matter now?" remarked Uncle Hugh, as
they arrived at Westminster Bridge and encountered
another gathering through which policemen made way
bearing something on a stretcher which was placed in
an ambulance and driven away.

"What is it?" asked Uncle Hugh of a man in the
crowd.

"Love!" said the man. "Drowned herself."

"Me" clung in fear to Uncle Hugh. "This was terrible.
Was love so cruel as all this ?"

HOWARD H. SOTHERN, AGED NINE YEARS

AMONG THE GODS 81

On the way home a street preacher was holding forth
to a number of persons who regarded him with open
mouths and wondering eyes; apparently hearing without
listening. He, too, seemed to talk without much con-
viction, and as if he had learned by heart what he was
saying.

"Love one another!" cried the preacher. "Love one
another!" he commanded again, and yet again.

"Me" quite expected the listeners to embrace each
other on the spot or to otherwise respond to the man's
invitation, but nobody moved.

"Love one another!" he cried again.

"Will they do it?" whispered "Me."

"I think it most unlikely," answered Uncle Hugh.
"You see it isn't customary. We all expect to be loved,
but to love in return puts one to considerable incon-
venience."

"We will now take up a collection for the heathen,"
said the preacher, at which the crowd melted rapidly
away.

"Why does he want money for the heathen?" asked
"Me."

"Well, you see the heathen are more or less con-
tented," replied Hugh. "Love, in the strictest sense,
doesn't trouble them greatly; so we feel called upon to
go among them and tell them all about love as we under-
stand it. We persuade them to love instead of eat one
another; but they reply that they eat one another be-
cause of their love a rather unanswerable argument;
for, as a matter of fact, if you eat your friend, or even
your enemy, you and he become as one."

Said "Me": "Uncle Hugh, when you were a god did
you forgive people their sins?"

82 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Well, I never admitted that they had any sins,"
pondered Hugh, "any more than a ship has when it is
under the weather; it's at the mercy of the waves, isn't
it?"

"But then it has a rudder," said "Me."

"That's true," replied Hugh, "and a man at the wheel
who does the best that he knows. He would not wreck
the vessel if he could help it, for the vessel's life is his
life."

"Yes," said "Me," "and then he has to think of the
lives of all the other people on board. I suppose he'd
stick to the wheel until he died ?"

"Of course he would !" said Hugh.

"Why would he do that?" said "Me."

"Courage!" said Hugh.

"Oh!" said "Me," "I thought it might be love!"

Hugh regarded "Me" in silence for a moment, then
he said, looking at the sky: "You're right, that's what
it would be love."

"The gods of yesteryear are fled !
Dan Cupid solitary stays;
And only shows his puzzled head
At Christmas time and wedding-days.

"In drafty, dim museum hall,
A Parian Psyche, all forlorn,
Upon her dreary pedestal,
For Zephyr waits from night to morn.

"There Aphrodite stands aloof
Twixt Hercules and Dian's dogs,
The Fateful Sisters weave their woof
In lexicons and catalogues.

AMONG THE GODS 83

'Silenus gone from bad to worst,
Grown marble-hearted in despair,
Through arid centuries of thirst,
Now greets us with a stony stare.

' Fled are the gods of yesteryear !
No nymph, in times so commonplace,
May flout Olympian Jupiter,
Nor meet Adonis face to face.

'Nor hope to see the love-sick moon
Stoop down to kiss a sleeping lad;
Nor fly the wind-swept rushes' tune
Lest sight of Pan should make her mad.

'Fain would we suffer goodman Puck !
Fain bear the pranks of graceless Mab;
To oust the gods not mends our luck;
And spriteless worlds are dreary drab.

'The gods of yesteryear, alack !
Have gone for ay beyond our gates;
Nor prayers nor threats will bring us back
Their human loves and human hates.

'Ne'er shall we stray with Proserpine
Upon her hero-dappled mead,
To see that twilight region shine
With forms of the heroic dead.

'Could tongue-tied Echo break her spell,
Her fond loquacity renew,
What stories she would have to tell
Of Zeus and his unbridled crew.

'How gods as cuckoos, streams, and snakes,
Disguised themselves to conquer ladies;
How plucking a narcissus makes
You whisked away by hateful Hades.

84 MY REMEMBRANCES

"How Venus turned a shepherd's head,
In sandal shoon and rustic bodice;
And how he bounded out of bed,
To find his shepherdess a goddess.

"Our times afford no such disguise,
Silk hats, French fashions, and umbrellas
Won't do: while kidnapped Deities
May phone * Hello* from Hell to Hellas.

"Garbed in the gauze of ancient Greece
Immortals were for mortals taken,
Here what with weather and police
No wonder we are God-forsaken.

"The gods are fled ! Their day is done,
We treat them now with scorn; but oddly
The wise declare, since they are gone,
A godless world at last is godly.

"Fallen their fanes, their altars cold;
Yet, from the mist of tor and glen,
Their watch and ward, as kept of old,
Still lingers in the steps of men.

"Yea ! If the gods their faces hide
From this ingrate, prosaic time,
Though lost to sight, they yet abide,
By reason slain, they live in rhyme.

"But yesteryear they kept their state
With Faun and Dryad, sprite and fay,
And wistfully we whisper Fate,
Would yesteryear were yesterday."

XI
"THE BLESSEDS"

IT is on the very first page of my remembrance that
I see myself held up in my nurse's arms to look into a
pair of gray eyes which twinkle like the sun. There is
a blaze of light and a great many people about. Some
are in beautiful clothes, and some are rough people in
shirt sleeves. I am on the stage of the Haymarket
Theatre in London in 1863. The eyes that twinkle are
those of my father. He is made-up for his part of "Lord
Dundreary," and is there before the beginning of the
play to take a final look at the scene, and my brother
and sister and I have been brought behind the foot-
lights that he may say good night to "The Blesseds."

It was as a child of three years or so that I began first
to be aware of my father. My mother used to drive him
frequently to the theatre from our house in Kensington.
Sometimes my brother Lytton and I would be taken
with her. I recall well the refreshment bar in front of
the house, with sponge-cake under glass cases and all
sorts of exciting things tied up in paper and gay ribbons.
Held in my nurse's arms, I would help myself to these
delicacies aided and abetted by the beautiful barmaid;
later we would proceed through mysterious passages to
greet "Lord Dundreary."

I remember perfectly my curiosity at the long, black
whiskers. Indeed my recollection of my father begins
with his countenance thus disguised. (It is at a much

86 MY REMEMBRANCES

later date that he dawns upon me in his proper person)
whiskers, eye-glass, black hair parted in the middle, and
with one eyebrow curiously higher than the other.

When we were old enough to witness the play, it was
his great delight to introduce remarks during the per-
formance which alluded to us but which the audience
would think part of the comedy. Especially would he
mention our names, as "I wonder what Eddy would
say to that?" This invariably sent me down to the
floor, to hide in trepidation and strange glee, and up
again, half an inch at a time, to see if any one were look-
ing at me.

All my father's acting at this time was not confined
to the stage. Our garden at "The Cedars" was a very
land of romance, and here, in nooks and corners and
rockeries and on the lawns, "The Blesseds" enacted
many a fairy-tale from "Jack and the Beanstalk" to
"King Arthur and the Round Table." As a war-horse,
or an ogre, or a dragon, or a witch, my father lent much
terror and realism to these occasions. The princes and
princesses of story-books trod these lawns and here
love, who respects neither persons nor years, first undid
me. Here was I called upon to display in real life those
qualities of which heroes are made.

"Hello, 'Buggins the Builder,' " said my father one
fine day. My playmate's name was Burgett, but forever
after we called him "Buggins the Builder." He was
not a builder, nor had any of his ancestors been builders.
The alliteration no doubt pleased my father. Be that
as it may, Gus Burgett, who was neither Buggins nor a
builder, was henceforth "Buggins the Builder."

Old Mr. Burgett pere was poor, and when a rich rela-
tive, for some reason or another, sent his small daughter,

. w

^" M
H <

"THE BLESSEDS" 87

Tillie, the sister of Gus, five pounds for Christmas,
there was some excitement afoot. My friend Gus was
quick to see the possibilities of so considerable a sum of
money. We were about the same age that is, between
seven and eight. Gus came over to play with me the
day after the gold had arrived. He had brought Tillie
with him. Tillie was about nine years of age and looked
like an apple. Hand in hand they approached me in
the garden.

"I thay!" said Gus he lisped badly and also suffered
from a perpetual "sniff" "I thay!" said he, "Tillie
hath five pounds ! Uncle Horathe gave it to her. If
you marry her the sayth you and I can have the money."

Tillie looked down at her toes; she was actually coy.
I had heard in a dim way that money was a useful thing
to have, but no desire for it had as yet assailed me; never-
theless my small bosom began to be torn asunder. I had
heard, too, of marriage and of being given in marriage,
but I had not expected to face such an ordeal for some
time to come.

"Tillie loveth you," said Gus. "Don't you, Tillie?"

"Yeth," lisped that maiden, for she, also, was affected
with both lisp and sniff.

In all fairy-tales the hero scorns gold; virtue and
poverty go hand in hand, and bribery and corruption
belong only to ogres and such. My code of ethics was
limited but clear.

"No," said I.

"Why not?" said "Buggins the Builder," cupidity
gleaming from his eyes and sniffs distorting his nose.

"I don't love Tillie," said I, which was not the case
at all, for, although I had never thought about it before,
I now adored her, I felt sure.

88 MY REMEMBRANCES

"That doesn't matter," sniffed "Buggins the Builder."

"Yeth, it doeth," sniffed Tillie, and began to cry.

The conference broke up in disorder. Tillie joined the
other children in the garden who looked at me askance.
We were both regarded with strange and new interest for
at least half a day, when a dead bird or a new toy threw
our romance into the shadow. I, too, soon forgot my
passion for Tillie in new adventures, for Uncle Hugh was
at hand, and was a leader in many enterprises.

Whenever my father's acting season was over, we
would be off to the seaside for the holiday. These halcyon
days at Ramsgate are especially vivid still Ramsgate,
made immortal in the "Bab Ballads," and in the "In-
goldsby Legends," by the fearsome tale of "Smuggler
Bill," who was raced over the cliff by the devil himself.
There is the "Smuggler's Leap" to-day in front of the
Granville Hotel, and from the hotel garden one goes
down into the " Smuggler's Cave," which, with long, dark,
tortuous passages, leads out onto the face of the cliff
some fifty feet above the sea, where, on the rocks be-
low, crashed "Smuggler Bill," and his dapple-gray mare
in death grips with the devil on his coal-black steed.

Here on the very spot my father used to read to three
delightfully terrified children the blood-curdling ad-
venture of "Smuggler Bill." When he got to the verse

"Smuggler Bill from his holster drew
A large horse-pistol, of which he had two,
Made by Knock. He drew back the cock
As far as he could to the back of the lock;
The trigger he pulled, the welkin it rang;
The sound of the weapon it made such a bang! "

when he would reach the word "bang!" there was an
awful effect, for he had begun the verse in a low, mys-

"THE BLESSEDS" 89

terious tone, very tense, and holding on to us as though
to protect us from impending danger. He proceeded
rapidly in this hushed, tense tone, until he reached the
word "bang," which he would give out with such a shout
that the cavern echoed again, and we, gloriously fright-
ened, would be hurled from him by the force of the explo-
sion, huddled together and wide-eyed, to approach again
for the next verse and the next shock. These nerve-rack-
ing recitations especially appealed to my small brother
Sam, who would frequently drag my father from his
writing-desk, or even from his meals, saying: 'Ta*
wants the ' 'Muggler's Leap.' '

When Joseph Jefferson visited England about this
period to play "Rip Van Winkle" in London, he be-
came a party to these occasions. Mr. Jefferson stayed
at our house in Kensington. You who remember the
sweet and gentle Jefferson will smile to know that my
parent told his children that a famous pirate chief was
coming to hide from the officers of the law. Shortly
Jefferson arrived, wrapped up in a very large greatcoat
and accompanied by his son Charles, who had met with
an accident on shipboard. Charles was carried care-
fully into a room on the ground floor, and Jefferson and
my father were closeted for a while making Charles com-
fortable in bed. When my father came out, I and my
brothers were peering through the banisters at the door
of the "pirate."

"Hush!" said my father. "There has been a terrible
battle on the high seas. The pirate chief will be hanged
if anybody speaks, and his first mate is full of cannon-
balls. There is only one thing to do, and that is to give
up eating and to stand on one leg. Quick! There is
no time to lose. Hush!" and he left us.

90 MY REMEMBRANCES

Shortly Mr. Jefferson came out of the room and
found three little boys each standing on one leg on the
staircase.

"Don't shoot!" said my elder brother.

"Bang!" shouted Mr. Jefferson, and the three small
lads fled in dismay.

It did not take long for us to make friends with this
"terror of the seas." We were soon taken to see "Rip,"
and then we played "Rip" ourselves, assisted by Joe
Jefferson. In those days we played many plays. The
rockery in our garden very readily became a weird spot
in the Kaatskill Mountains, "Sleepy Hollow" and the
"Village of Falling Water" materialized with the swift
magic of childhood's thought, which can make one a
gnome, or a giant, or a flea, or an elephant within the
twinkling of an eye. "Rip" was a great play for us.
The discarded Tillie was a fine Gretchen, and the per-
formance of "Buggins the Builder" as Derrich very
nearly doomed him to a theatrical career. My brother
Sam was a gnome, and had to crawl about on all fours.
He, however, was very mutinous, and no matter what
character we cast him for he would insist on introducing
the climactic speech from my father's performance of
"Rosedale," where the hero cries: "Up, guards, and at
'em." Quite regardless of plot or play, Sam would cry
this at inopportune moments, and when rebuked would
mutter in his own secret language and conspire against
our peace of mind.

"Wanted a country house in Devonshire. Must have
fishing from bedroom window." This advertisement, in-
serted by my father in the London daily papers, brought
a prompt reply, and shortly "The Blesseds" found them-
selves in Devonshire under the precise conditions ad-

"THE BLESSEDS" 91

vertised for. Actually we could fish from the bedroom
window, for a trout stream rushed by within twenty
feet of the house. All his life, my father was a persistent
fisherman; nothing could daunt him. The worst possible
luck found him enthusiastic and victorious, for if he
could not catch fish he would go into a shop and buy
them, and so excite the envy and disgust of his equally
unfortunate fellows.

Once, when we were fishing in the Rangeley Lakes, the
sport was very bad indeed, and for an entire day but
one trout was caught, and that by my father. He kept
on pulling this same trout out of the water until the
other sportsmen in distant boats concluded that his
phenomenal success was owing to the spots he selected
to fish in. They followed him about all over the lake.
Wherever he threw his line, up came trout after trout
amidst the greatest excitement and enthusiasm from
him and his crew; but those who succeeded him could
not get a bite. They awaited his return home, a gloomy
group upon the shore. As he approached he lifted his
lone fish up again and again, counting an apparently
endless catch before their very eyes, when lo! the craft
ran ashore, and there was but one trout.

A holiday with my father was no idle matter. We
were all on the jump from morning until night. Things
had to happen all the time. Once "The Blesseds" were
taken to Margate. This time John T. Raymond was of
the party. He himself was a restless spirit, and ever on
the alert to seize fun by the forelock. My father and he
disappeared from our scene of action one morning.
Shortly, when we went on the sands for our daily ad-
ventures among the Punch and Judy shows and the
donkey boys and the minstrel men, we were attracted

92 MY REMEMBRANCES

by a great crowd which surrounded some negro minstrels.
Mr. Bones and the tambourine were especially active
and diverting. We watched them for some time before
we became aware that the acrobatic Mr. Bones was in
reality John T. Raymond and the agile Mr. Tambourine,
whose convulsions were quite amazing, was our adored
father.

It transpired that my father had encountered an old
comrade who had enlisted as a minstrel, and under his
guidance he and Raymond had thus attired themselves,
infusing unheard-of vitality into the performance and
entirely eclipsing the efforts of rival performers.

Our delight knew no bounds and was the means of
discovering my father's identity and precipitating his
retreat in a cab an open fly which departed followed
by a joyful crowd, Raymond and my father still playing
bones and tambourine as they disappeared in the dis-
tance.

In later years, on my father's occasional engagements
in London, Sunday was usually devoted to some kind
of family outing. At one time he became manager of
the Haymarket Theatre in conjunction with John S.
Clarke. Clarke was a curious man, and would in the
oddest way avoid meeting people by gliding into a near-
by shop. My father delighted to see him do this, and
then to stand outside the shop admiring the things in
the window. After a while he would go in, pretending
not to see Clarke, but would stand near him with his
back to him. If Clarke tried to escape, my father would
get into the doorway and, as it were, "bottle him up."
I have seen him keep Clarke in a shop in the Haymarket
for an hour, Clarke buying saws and chisels and garden
hose and all sorts of things he did not want in order to

"THE BLESSEDS" 93

avoid recognition and to explain his presence to the shop-
keeper. At last my father would turn and cry with great
surprise: "Hello, Clarke! where did you come from?"

Clarke was a dear, kind fellow and sometimes on a
Sunday would call to take my father and his children
out for a drive. As he brought his own children with
him, a regular caravan would leave No. I Vere Street,
where my father lived at the time. Clarke and my
father in one vehicle, two other traps contained his
family; then came a hansom with my father's man and
a couple of dogs, indispensable companions on all ex-
cursions; then myself and my brother and sister in an-
other hansom; then my father's sister in a Victoria.
Away we would go, these six or seven vehicles, down
Oxford Street to Piccadilly and out into the country
past Kensington, to dine somewhere by the river; a
quaint and curious procession and a quaint and curious
outing, full of unknown and eagerly expected possibilities;
for wherever my father adventured the fortifications of
convention and custom were likely to be stormed, to be
taken by assault. One could never tell what the day
might bring forth, or, as Don Quixote would say, what
monstrous, strange, and incredible adventures might be
ours, what giants of absurdity we might encounter, or
what distressed damsels or enchanted knights errant we
might not deliver from their conceits and delusions.

XII
UNCLE CHARLEY

MY father had an odd but quite effective way of doing
things. He once sent to an employment office and told
the proprietor to send him the very best cook obtain-
able. A portly and quite overwhelming woman ap-
peared. My father asked her if she could boil a potato.
She was speechless. "Very well," said my father, "go
and boil one, and cook me a mutton-chop." The portly
person sailed away and shortly a perfect potato and a
faultless mutton-chop appeared. "Good," said my
father, "you are engaged." That cook was in our family
for twenty years.

When I had reached the age of eight, it was decided
that I must go to a boarding-school. My father used
to hunt five days a week, taking a train from London
at about five in the morning to Warwickshire, Leicester-
shire, or to Somersetshire, returning in the evening to
play at the Haymarket Theatre. One day he went to
a meet at Dunchurch, a little village three miles from
Rugby in Warwickshire. He always had magnificent
hunters, and when he would start on these occasions
from our house in Kensington, my brothers and my
sister and I would shout with glee from our nursery
window. He in his red coat, two or three horses, and
the groom would be off on their way to the railway-
station. Well, on this day he went to Dunchurch, and
during the run he found that he and one other well-
mounted man were far ahead of the field. They began

UNCLE CHARLEY 95

to talk, and it developed that the other sportsman was
a schoolmaster, one Alfred A. Harrison, who had just
started a school for small boys at Dunchurch Lodge.
"Good," said my father, as they took a fence together,
"I'll send you my boy."

A few days later I was there, taking a tearful farewell
of my mother, and a few days after that I was running
after the hounds every half-holiday, taking short cuts
across the country to the spinney where we knew the
fox would be, or where experience had shown he would
make for. I was for six years at that school, and when
I left it I took my brother Sam up, and he was there six
years, too. We are neither of us scholars, but we would
not barter those dear years for much learning.

I never go to England but I go to Dunchurch. The
school no longer exists. Some years since, on one of my
visits, I viewed the charred remains of the old house.
A large tree was growing in the middle of the room which
used to be my dear old master's study. Another large
tree grew in the room into which my mother had taken
me at eight years of age to confront the spirit of learning;
it grew from the middle of the floor, and its branches
went out at the windows the "Tree of Knowledge,"
I said to myself. I stood and looked at it for an hour,
and I lived over again all the love and care and happiness
I had known in that house, and I was quite sure that
every leaf on that tree was a blessing from the heart
of some little child who has found love and shelter under
that fallen roof.

Then I went to the Duncow, the village inn, and I sat
in the tap-room after a meal and said to a beer-bibber:
"Oh, yes, I was at school here." "Where?" interposed
the landlord. "Over there, at Dunchurch Lodge."

96 MY REMEMBRANCES

"That was never a school," said he. "Oh, yes it was,"
said I, "and I was there for six years." He smiled on
me with pity in his eye. "Well, I have lived here thirty
years," said he, "and I never heard of no school there."
Two negatives make an affirmative. "Aha!" said I,
"it was forty-five years ago that I was a schoolboy."
You see, I came near being the oldest inhabitant.

There is a pair of stocks outside the Duncow. In
ancient times the passing malefactor was made to sit
on a bench, and his ankles were placed in two holes in
a thick plank which faced him, and his wrists in two
other holes, and there he sat padlocked, and perhaps
repentant. I have seen a man in those stocks, the one
bad man who had passed that way in half a century.
So I looked at the stocks, and I looked at the church
tower whence I had heard the moping owl to the moon
complain, and I looked at the cottage which legend de-
clares was the rendezvous of Guy Fawkes and his fellow
conspirators, and I looked at the "Tuck Shop" across
the street, and I felt very lonely.

This same Tuck Shop ! I had an uncle who lived in
Coventry hard by, a dear fellow but with a Mephisto-
phelian humor. He used to drive over to Dunchurch
in a mail phaeton with two of the largest horses I ever
saw, with much clanking of chains and much frothing
of mouths, and he would take me to this Tuck Shop.
"Go and get your chum," he would say. Hotfoot I would
fetch him (one Freeling, where is he now ?). Panting, we
would greet him Uncle Charley. "Now, then," he would
say with a steely gleam in his eye, "pitch in." When we
had eaten incredibly, and paused to breathe, "Do you
feel sick yet?" would exclaim Uncle Charley. "No,"
we would reply. "Well, try some of those!" pointing
to a deadly looking bottle of bullet-like sweets. "Ah,

Duncow Inn The stocks

DUNCHURCH, NEAR RUGBY

The jail

UNCLE CHARLEY 97

do you feel sick, yet ?" "No." "Don't you feel sick ?"
to my dear Freeling. "Not yet!" "Give them some of
those things on the shelf there," answered Uncle Charley.
"Now" (after some watchful waiting), "now you feel
sick, don't you?" "No, sir," we would grin. "Well,
I'll be hanged," would declare the avuncular one. "Here !
Here's half a sovereign each for you. I'm off." Dash !
would go the horses. Clang! would go the chains.
Slash ! would go the whip, and away went Uncle Char-
ley ! Sick ! We ! He knew us not. Patent insides had
we. A-i, copper-lined, indestructible, such appetites for
everything but learning !

We did absorb many bits of information, for we were
surrounded by a general persistent endeavor. Such dear,
kind fellows were our four masters ! And our drawing-
master! When I went to take my brother Sam to this
school, the drawing-class was in session. I had just
gone on the stage. At thirteen years the master had
had some hopes of me as a painter. "Hello," said he,
"how is the art?" "Oh, I have given it up," said I,
"I have taken to acting." "Traitor," said he, slowly
and sadly, and he turned away. He was a poor, very
poor man of about fifty. He walked three miles to Dun-
church and three miles back to Rugby twice a week to
give little boys lessons in drawing. He wore a slouch-
hat and a cropped beard, and he sang all the time. I
can't walk far without being tired, and I never sing at
all. Well, he gave me a prize for drawing "Self-Help,"
by Smiles, a book that I read with delight; it has helped
me a good deal.

Mr. Harrison said to us: "What you know is much.
What you are is more"

Whenever we told tales of each other, whenever we
did any small thing that was punishable, Mr. Harrison

98 MY REMEMBRANCES

would say: "Do you think a little gentleman would do
that ?" We did not think so, and we felt it, and we said
nothing, but thought much.

Since they have reached manhood, I have met many
of the boys in that school. I have never met one who
was not a man of character, and I have met some who
were men of distinction. Soldiers, lawyers, doctors, all
professions. They ran after hounds, candy wouldn't
make them sick. But while they ran and while they
ate, they had in their eager little hearts examples of
sweet and kind nobility, daily and hourly before them in
the persons of this dear master and his wife and aids,
that have moulded many of them in the years that have
since come. "Would a little gentleman do that ?" might
be nailed up to the extinction even of "God Bless Our
Home."

I don't think I gleaned much learning at that school,
and these precepts so readily applauded are hard to
maintain. But it is not my remembrance of Colenso,
nor of Euclid, nor of Caesar's Commentaries, nor my
adoration of the multiplication table, that takes me
back to Dunchurch each succeeding year; nor is it the
Tuck Shop, for my taste for sugar is not what it was.
But be it what it may, it is something that I must sat-
isfy, or want.

My brother Sam was more of a scholar than I, sorely
against his will, as this letter, saved from the scant corre-
spondence of his anxious childhood, will testify.

MY DEAR MA:

I ham so hunape. Please send me twelve stamps.
Has the black cack killed any more piggins. Do kill it.
I yours lovin son SAM.

P. S. I am still learning Greek.

UNCLE CHARLEY 99

Now, this is an ideal document. Sam's ignorance of
English and his hatred of the classics make up the moral
of this story. As I look back on it, I say: "Sam is
Sam. Greek is only Greek." Sam has ever been aware
of this fact. It is only dawning on me at this late
hour.

Sam's philosophy and strange wisdom are instanced
by another story. An adorable master named Walker
was expounding the fifth proposition of Euclid to Sam's
class of six boys, whose toes did not touch the floor.
Walker reduced the proposition to an absurdity, Sam
steadily star-gazing, and then with blackboard and
chalk laboriously proved its sanity. Suddenly pointing
a long finger at Sam's open mouth, he cried: "Go on,
Sam." Sam looked addled for a moment, and then
murmured: "Which is absurd." "Write it out ten
times," said Walker.

We had our own separate gardens at this school.
We delved and we garnered, and we were allowed to have
our produce cooked and served. Whenever the hounds
were in the village, a boy, usually the head boy (almost
ten or eleven years old), would say after breakfast,
"Half-holiday! Three cheers for Mr. Harrison!" We
knew Mr. Harrison was eager for the fray. "You
owls!" he would say. ("Owls" he ever called us, the
bird of wisdom, observe, Minerva's chicken.) "You
owls ! go on, away with you." And away it was. Such
red blood dashing through such young hearts, such
cries, such flying over hedges, such friendships, such
vows, such memories !

Was not my father wise to know that to cook a potato
superbly was to be a good cook, and that a schoolmaster
who could ride gamely to hounds, must be a good school-

ioo MY REMEMBRANCES

master? May not a potato be as good as a feast, and
may not he who runs gayly read wisely ?

Greek! I learned none. Latin, less. Often have I
bewailed this loss. But there has been something else,
of no value of all value. Not a penny in it. Hard to
explain. But it takes me back to Dunchurch every
year, and will do so till I die.

XIII
A "DAWDLER"

"HE'S a * dawdler'!" said Mr. Snelling, really in a
tone of denunciation, and exhibiting, in the agitation
of his dear old face and his patriarchal yellow-white
beard, distinct signs of storm and stress. "He is a
'dawdler'! He absolutely refuses to learn 1 He is a
'dawdler'!"

"What is a 'dawdler'? " inquired "Ta" of Rebecca,
much crestfallen and depressed by an accusation which,
although indefinite, seemed somehow to be surely de-
grading if not felonious.

"You know well enough!" said Rebecca, thus veiling
her own ignorance. "A 'dawdler' is a person who daw-
dles. I am ashamed of you."

With much misgiving and great labor "Ta" fingered
the dictionary and spelled out this definition: "To
waste time in trifling employment."

"As what, for instance?" thought "Ta." "Dreaming
perhaps ? or singing ? or wondering about things gen-
erally?"

"A dawdler! is he?" said "Ta's" father. "We'll see
about that! What is seven times nine?" said he to
"Ta," very suddenly, on entering the nursery.

"Ta" solved this conundrum with alacrity. It was one
of the wearisome things he had laboriously acquired.

"What year did King Stephen come to the throne?"
"Ta" demanded of his father, aglow with conscious wis-
dom, and resolved to "undawdle" himself here and now.

XOI

102 MY REMEMBRANCES

"I'm hanged if I know," admitted "TaV father, re-
garding his son with undisguised admiration.

"Stephen to seize the throne did contrive in eleven
hundred and thirty-five!" repeated "Ta" sturdily, and
preparing for a further outflow of knowledge.

"The boy's a marvel!" cried "Ta's" father.

"Dublin is the capital of Ireland," continued "Ta"
volubly, somewhat flushed with triumph and with ac-
quittal well in sight. "It stands on the river Liffey.
The population of the city is 249,602. It sends two
members to Parliament. The chief manufacture is
poplin, which is much celebrated. The main branches
of industry "

"That will do," said "Ta's" father, and he embraced
"Ta" tenderly, and made anxious inquiries about his
health and his appetite. "Ta" heard him, later, de-
clare to "Ta's" mother that they must be very careful
or he would have cerebral fever or water on the brain,
or perhaps even lose his reason. "The boy's a prodigy !"
said "Ta's" father. "He knows more useless things
than any lad I ever heard of." As he kissed "Ta" good
night that evening he mentioned that he was off, on the
morrow, to play in Liverpool.

"Oh, yes!" said "Ta." "Liverpool is the capital of
Lancashire. The population is "

But "Ta's" father interrupted by hugging him ^furi-
ously and declaring that he was being overworked.

Next morning "Ta's" father plunged into a sort of
whirlwind of hansom cabs, and trunks, and farewells,
and directions that all the children should have their feet
in mustard and water. There was much also about lin-
seed tea, and Epsom salts, and Gregory's powders, and
vows to write frequently and declarations of what we

A "DAWDLER" 103

all wanted at Christmas, "TaV sister especially insisting
that nothing would satisfy her but a certain lion from
the "Lowther Arcade."

Said "Ta" at this: "The lion is the most majestic and
ferocious of carnivorous quadrupeds, chiefly an inhabi-
tant of Africa although it is found also "

But here "Ta's" father drove away sorely perplexed
concerning "Ta's" sanity, and calling out that certain
precautions should be taken in regard to sleep and diet.

The truth was that, although "Ta" was actually well
acquainted with the facts which had been divulged in
the course of his ordeals at the Snelling Academy, it
had never occurred to him to use this miscellaneous
knowledge in daily conversation. It would seem, how-
ever, that one's reputation for learning depended greatly
on imparting information in and out of season, and on
making even one's bread and butter a source of intel-
ligence and commentary. It was evident that to be a
"dawdler "was discreditable; that to possess knowledge
and never mention it would be apt to brand one as a
person who "wasted time in trifling employment," such
as gazing at the sky, or wool-gathering, or minding one's
own business.

When Pointer brought the pony round in the morn-
ing, "Ta" startled him by saying, apropos of nothing at
all: "Four times eight is thirty-two!"

"Beg pardon, sir!" said Pointer.

"I said," replied "Ta," "that the battle of Crecy was
fought in 1346."

"Oh!" said Pointer.

"And," continued "Ta," "that the distance from the
earth to the moon is 237,600 miles."

Pointer was so deeply impressed by these abstruse

104 MY REMEMBRANCES

statements that he was overwhelmed by a settled gloom
during the ride in the park. On the return home Re-
becca was encountered in the hall bearing a flower-pot
containing lilies.

"How did you enjoy your ride?" asked Rebecca.

"The white lily," replied "Ta," "is a native of the
Levant. It has long been cultivated in gardens and
much sung by poets."

"What's that?" said Rebecca.

"I assure you," said "Ta," "that three plus eight plus
four is fifteen."

"Good gracious!" cried Rebecca.

"Isn't he a wonder!" whispered Pointer.

"I should say a genius!" said Rebecca.

"Ta's" fame spread rapidly. Fanny Marsh, the cook,
looked fairly stunned when "Ta" assured her that a
cabbage was "a plant in general cultivation for culinary
purposes," and that "the cod was a fish almost rivalling
the herring in its importance to mankind."

"Such cleverness is not natural," said she. "I've
been a cook for thirty years and I know what I'm talk-
ing about."

The circle thus impressed by "Ta's" erudition was, of
course, small. Excellence is comparative, and there were
people who were by no means astonished at his informa-
tion, although eyebrows were raised at his unusual
manner of imparting it, for it was startling for staid
ladies, when asking after "Ta's" health, to receive the
reply that "Watt Tyler's rebellion occurred in 1381,
during the reign of King Richard II."

"Ta's" desire to eliminate the stain of "dawdler" from
his record seemed practically realized. Mr. and Mrs.
Snelling maintained their opinion; but "Ta's" father and

A "DAWDLER" 105

mother, Pointer, Sarah, Rebecca, and the gardener were
convinced that "Ta" was greatly misjudged, and was in-
deed a scholar of no mean parts. The impression gained
ground among "Ta's" adherents that Mr. and Mrs. Snel-
ling were jealous of his attainments, and that he made
them look small before the intellectual world. Sarah
("Kluklums") indeed was heard to declare that if "Ta"
was a "dawdler" she would "die on the road."

"The child has a perfect passion for learning," wrote
"Ta's" aunt to his mother. "I am terrified for fear he will
become a schoolmaster, or perhaps go into politics. I
think he should cultivate athletics, and should eliminate
the study of the classics from his curriculum."

"Ta" overheard his aunt offer this opinion to Rebecca,
and concluded that his "curriculum" was his head.
On bumping that member against a table, therefore, he
announced that he had a pain in his "curriculum."

It was at this time that "Ta" went to school at Dun-
church, and was distressed to find that part of his torture
was to be the continued study of Greek and Latin; hence
that historic letter in which he announced that he was
"hunape" and wailed in his misery: "I am still learning
Greek."

Most children would have escaped distasteful study
by an assumption of stupidity. "Ta's" discovery that a
little knowledge was not only a dangerous but a terri-
fying thing had many elements of novelty and exhibited
that penetration into human motives heretofore re-
marked upon.

"One often hears that people die from overstudy,"
said "Ta's" mother.

"Frequently they go mad," said "Ta's" father.

"Knowledge is power," declared "Ta's" mentor, and

106 MY REMEMBRANCES

proceeded to illustrate that statement by writing on the
blackboard, "Balbus is building a wall." How the
possession of that fact, even in Latin, could add to his
dominion, present or future, "Ta" was unable to perceive.

To most children the pursuit of learning does not
partake of the pleasures of the chase. The sport is not
made either beautiful or fascinating, nor is the object
to be attained so explained and illuminated as*to create
desire. The process assumes the sombre hue of a task;
indeed, it is mostly so designated, and the little mind so
eager to know and so full of wonder and strange ques-
tionings is dulled and tortured by restraint, and the
wearisome accumulation of means to an end not seen.
Had "Ta" been told by some eloquent and kindly tongue
of all "the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that
was Rome," his imagination, thus fed, might have
craved a knowledge of the former as a favor for being a
good boy, and have felt some enthusiasm concerning
the inexplicable mania of Balbus for the construction
of walls. As it was, the mere thought of those defunct
languages gave him a pain in his "curriculum," and the
derangement of Balbus, which resulted in mural con-
struction infinite and apparently purposeless, excited
extreme disgust and positive aversion.

The result was that "Ta," having established at home
a dread that overwork would deprive him of reason,
was not permitted to wrestle with the classics, but in
order to preserve his sanity he was taught to ride to
hounds, and very learnedly hunted three or four times
a week.

"Ta's" own private language, which had once been
the secret means of communication between himself and
"Kluklums," had of late been discarded, greatly to the

A "DAWDLER" 107

loss of the science of philology. But " Kluklums's " soul,
quick to note any inclination in the tactics of her adored
"Prince," humbly sought to interpret his statements,
geographical, mathematical, historical, and botanical,
and thereby landed herself in what, to another, would
have been rather embarrassing dilemmas.

She perceived in these scraps of lore a code or cipher
such as is reputed to prevail in the "agony column" of
the newspapers for the convenience of lovers and burglars,
and she cudgelled her brains to translate them into deeds
responsive. When, for instance, "Ta" would remark, in
reply to a request for the time of day, that "Snowden
was 3,571 feet high," "Kluklums" would add to people's
amazement by declaring, "Yes, and I have some in my
pocket," thereupon producing clean handkerchiefs.

She was fearfully in earnest about it and was heard to
vow she would "die on the road," but she would know
what Master "Ta" meant by his new manner of speech.

"Ta," meanwhile, never appeared in the least surprised
at her interpretations of his statements and accepted
whatever translation she offered as though it were the
one expected.

"Ipswich, the capital of Suffolk, is situated on the
river Orwell," would say "Ta";"the population is 50,762."

"I told her so," would answer "Kluklums," "and she
said she would be home to tea at five o'clock."

It is a curious thing that "Ta's" campaign, undertaken
with the purpose of controverting the assertion that he
was a "dawdler" and continued as a means of escape
from a study of Greek and Latin, ended by making him
a regular dictionary of universal information, which he
continues to be to this day. In times of national stress
and uncertainty people say: "Ask 'Ta' ! What does 'Ta'

io8 MY REMEMBRANCES

say?" in moments of private need or doubt, "'Ta' will
know," or "'Ta' will tell us what to do" has become a
commonplace. The force of habit is illustrated by the
fact that when recently in New York "Ta" was, in com-
pany with several other persons, the occupant of an
elevator which fell some ten stories to the basement of
a tall building. He extricated himself without haste
from the distracted and agitated crowd and remarked,
as though continuing a train of thought: "Yes, and for
the Saint Leger, I would advise you to lay 12 to 4 on
Beeswax. If past performances count for anything he's
bound to win."

Those who know him not thought this was a pose on
"Ta's" part, but "Kluklums" and I are aware that: "If
you bring up a child in the way he should go, he will
seldom depart therefrom."

PART II

HUGH

XIV
HUGH

IF you have read "Tristram Shandy," you will re-
member Uncle Toby's defense of the redoubt built by
Corporal Trim, and how the ancient warrior puffed
pipe after pipe of tobacco smoke from his stronghold to
represent the firing of cannon to the annihilation of an
imaginary foe, and perhaps you thought such conduct
quite childish on the part of a soldier and a gentleman.
Such a conclusion depends entirely upon the point of
view. One may be as a little child and not at all ridiculous
or unreasonable to some people. I happen to have known
a little child who had just such a relative as my Uncle
Toby, and this little child thought, and still thinks,
that his uncle Uncle Hugh was his name was by far
the noblest and sanest person he ever met, although most
grown-up people were quite sure he was as mad as a
hatter, erratic as a March hare.

These are some of the things that made them think
so: Uncle Hugh distrusted all grown-up people. He
did not like them. He adored little children, and was a
child again when he was with them. Although he was a
poor man, he kept an old asthmatic dog for many years
in luxury in a loose box in London. In another loose
box he kept an old horse, a victim of all the ills horse-
flesh is heir to. I used to go with him to see these for-
tunate animals, but he would never take grown-up peo-
ple to visit them.

ii2 MY REMEMBRANCES

Uncle Hugh and I were walking opposite the Knights-
bridge barracks one day when a cavalry regiment which
had seen service in one of England's "little wars" came
in sight. They had come home. Some were wounded
and wore bandages. Many a horseman led a riderless
horse, and on each side of the saddle of many such a
riderless horse, with foot in stirrup, had been secured
the tall guardsman's boots of the dead soldier, while
some garments of the absent rider were attached to the
pommel.

"That is the way my horse came home," said Uncle
Hugh.

I was well aware that Uncle Hugh loved this horse
which he never rode. For fifteen years he had kept
him a big chestnut with white stockings in a stable
near Saint James Street. It seemed a strange thing for a
poor man to do; you can't keep a horse in London for
nothing, it must cost about three pounds a week; that
is one hundred and fifty pounds a year. When a man
has an income of only five hundred a year, this is a
serious item.

"How did your horse come home, Uncle Hugh?"
said I.

It appeared that Hugh once had a very dear friend, a
soldier, an officer in a cavalry regiment. In a certain
engagement, during a "little war," this friend had been
fatally wounded and had fallen from his horse. After
the charge, which had resulted so seriously, the horse
of the officer, running wild over the field, had found his
master, and had stood over him, neighing and, as it were,
calling, calling for help. Those searching for the wounded
were attracted to the spot. The injured man was picked
up and taken to a field-hospital. He lingered for an hour

HUGH 113

and then died. On a piece of paper he had scrawled these
words: "Hugh, I am dying. Take care of my horse."
The letter had been taken from his tunic, it was stained
with blood.

Hugh was at home on the steeds of Father Neptune,
but an English hunter, turned charger, was of no use
to him. Still, there was the message from his dead
comrade; there was the letter with its injunction
stamped in blood.

Hugh, when I first recall him, arrived at my father's
house in his naval uniform. He wore the long side-
whiskers of the day 1865. His sea chest was full of
treasures which he soon disclosed to me. He gave me
at once a nautical telescope with the flags of all nations
on the outside of it, a mariner's compass, a small piece of
the lately laid Atlantic cable, "Peter Parley's Tales," and
the "Ingoldsby Legends." He showed me his sword,
and I soon became his constant companion. As usual,
the grown-ups found him a bit odd. But I was able to
entertain him. There was a rockery in the garden and
a kind of cave in it. There it was my habit to be
shipwrecked constantly, sometimes with imaginary fol-
lowers, sometimes with any companions accident might
provide. The surrounding lawn easily became the
boundless ocean, with no friendly sail in sight from day
to day, and a fountain, which imagination could readily
obliterate, could, when circumstances demanded, become
the long-looked-for ship of rescue. This I soon explained
to Uncle Hugh, who saw nothing unusual in these ar-
rangements. On the contrary, he suggested many splen-
did "improvements." We went through untold agonies
from starvation in the cave, and boarded the fountain
(having approached it under fire), seized the crew (my

ii4 MY REMEMBRANCES

young sister), made them walk the plank, and occasionally
hanged them to the yard-arm. One great day, Hugh ar-
ranged that when he should call for me at the small
school I attended, we should enlist some of the other
children, and that a fierce attack should be made on
the cave. I and my party were not to know whence
to expect the danger. I lay in the cave with the large
nautical telescope scanning the horizon when, to my
great excitement, I saw Hugh climb over the garden
wall from the street, sword in hand. I at once manned
the long-boat (a box in which croquet mallets were kept)
and started to meet and destroy the foe, when, to my
terror, a policeman appeared on the wall beside my
adored uncle, seized him by the neck, and the two dis-
appeared into the street. I and my reckless crew paled
with fear. The law had us in its "clutch." Hugh would
surely be hanged in the Tower of London, or perhaps
burned at the stake. Wails of anguish arose from the
long-boat, as, careless of the hungry ocean, we jumped
from it on to the lawn. At this awful moment, however,
Hugh appeared safe and sound at the garden door.

"Where is the policeman?" I cried.

"Dead !" said Hugh, "and since we have had no food
for ten days, we will eat him."

During a dinner at the house of Hugh's sister one day
a man at the table asked the hostess how she happened
to have on the wall the picture of one Commissioner
Yeh, the leader of the Chinese rebellion of 1858, who
had distinguished himself by beheading 100,000 of his
opponents, and he proceeded to recount the daring ex-
ploit of a young naval officer who, during the siege of
Canton, accompanied a small band of about 100 men,
led by Captain Key of her Majesty's ship Sans Pareil.

HUGH 115

With most reckless daring these few made their way into
the very centre of the hostile city. They found the
hiding-place of the head and front and instigator of the
rebellion, Commissioner Yeh. They entered his abode.
Captain Key arrested him, and the coxswain of the
party (Hugh), seizing the Chinaman's pigtail wrapped
it several times around his wrist, thus rendering him
powerless. The rebel, who was a huge, fat man, was
then conducted through the city of Canton and on to
the man-of-war. The Chinese were so amazed that not
a shot was fired until the sailors were well out in the
stream. This capture practically put an end to the re-
bellion.

My aunt pointed to the fair-haired, blue-eyed, childish-
looking Hugh, who by this time was covered with con-
fusion. "It was Hugh," said my aunt.

"What was Hugh ?" asked the narrator.

"Hugh captured Commissioner Yeh."

Everybody laughed as at a good joke. She might
as well have declared that I, a little boy, had done the
daring deed. Hugh turned her talk away from the
danger-point by some quite childish and irrelevant non-
sense, and no more was said. No one believed it. But
it was the fact. Quixotic Hugh, the companion of chil-
dren, the lover of his old horse and his superannuated
dog, had done this thing.

Uncle Hugh lived alone without a servant in one small
room at the top of a house in Waterloo Place. Occasion-
ally he would move to Richmond for a few weeks, to
the Richmond Club, and to a few chosen friends (chil-
dren) he would exhibit a certain dog-kennel he had
invented which, by means of intricate tackle, could be
pulled up into a tree so that the dog might be placed in

ii6 MY REMEMBRANCES

it at night and hauled up out of the way of dangerous
reptiles and wild beasts. He kept, at a coachmaker's
in London, a dog-cart of his invention. When your
horse should run away, you had only to pull a lever, and
the shafts separated from the cart, which would come
to a standstill while the horse would continue his wild
career with the shafts attached to him. I think, how-
ever, there was a line fastened to the harness with which
the horse could be thrown.

All the furniture and ornaments and other necessary
belongings in Uncle Hugh's room at the top of the house
could be seized with the greatest suddenness, and in the
most unexpected manner could be gathered into pack-
ages and chests, and prepared, in a wink, for any kind
of an expedition to any place on the planet. I saw it
done. There was a dado which looked like oak, it was
really tin; all the chairs and tables and chests, the bed-
stead, everything, were either receptacles or could be
collapsed rapidly. Like a conjurer, Uncle Hugh would
attack these things, and literally in five minutes every
article would be packed in its exact place, ready to start
anywhere.

People (grown-up people) used to think this was the
mania of a mad person. Uncle Hugh always seemed to
have an idea that he would be called upon one day to un-
dertake an expedition which would necessitate this aston-
ishing activity and despatch in packing up. To me, as a
child, it was the most natural and reasonable way to pack
things. Why take days and days over it, if it could be
done in a moment ?

Uncle Hugh was a sailor, a naval officer of distinction.
At about forty years of age he had retired with the rank
of captain. His room was decked with trophies of the

HUGH

ii8 MY REMEMBRANCES

sea sharks' teeth, harpoons, cannon, many kinds of
firearms, charts, telescopes, nautical instruments, a sword
over the mantelpiece, pistols, all the things that children
adore. When Hugh would favor us with an exhibition
of his dexterity in preparing for "the expedition," he
would say: "Now, then, get ready !" He would lock the
door, so as to shut out intruders, and with much serious-
ness he would begin: "You see I am prepared to go
anywhere at a moment's notice, at the Queen's command.
Now, we imagine that a messenger is approaching with
my commission. He is at the door below. He is coming
up the stairs, two steps at a time (we were on the edge of
our chairs by this time, and could assuredly hear the
steps on the stone stairs without). He knocks at the
door. He enters. I take the blue envelope and open it.
'On Her Majesty's service!' I read my instructions. I
don't lose a moment. I say 'Go!" And with a bound
Uncle Hugh would seize the tin dado, rush around the
room, as he detached it from the wall, fold it up in sec-
tions, throw it into one chest; the tables, the chairs folded
into each other, lamps, rugs, books, instruments, fire-
arms, coal-scuttles, clothes, boots, decanters, silver, a
travelling cook-stove, everything a man needs to go any-
where. In three minutes all had disappeared, and
Uncle Hugh, panting, triumphant, stood amid his sea
chests, overcoat on, hat on, sticks and umbrella in hand,
"Ready! at the Queen's command," would say Uncle
Hugh. Grown-up people who heard us talk about this
experience laughed, naturally enough, and declared that
Uncle Hugh was "gone there," tapping their grown-up
foreheads. This used to annoy me when I was a child,
because I was quite sure Hugh would one day do this
thing he had on his mind, and which he had thus confided

HUGH 119

to me and my small brother, so we concluded we would
not discuss him with the grown-up ones for the future.
We believed in Hugh, and we waited in confidence.

One day people knocked at Uncle Hugh's door and
were told that he had gone.

"Where?" said these callers.

"To rescue Chinese Gordon," said the man at the door.

These people smiled and went their way. But it was
a fact. Not just yet "at the Queen's command," but at
the promptings of even a higher authority, Uncle Hugh
had taken his instructions. 1

It was in 1885 that Gordon was in such danger at
Khartoum. Hugh gathered together his small resources,
he fitted out an expedition all by himself. He started
to rescue Gordon. He proceeded across the desert. His
force of natives turned on him, the only white man.
They plotted to kill him. It was his habit to sleep each
night with dogs tied to his wrists, and a weapon in either
hand. One night he heard his dogs growl. He awoke,
and quite near him some men discussed the plan of mur-
dering him and stealing his outfit and supplies. They
put the plan into execution the next day. Hugh shot the
leaders at once, and marched the others back to his start-
ing-point, day after day, without sleeping, keeping them
before him at a safe distance. His solitary expedition
failed, as all grown-up people knew it would. But some-
where it has been hailed as a success of a kind.

Gordon was killed at Khartoum, as all the world knows.
Help arrived too late. Hugh suffered without complaint
the pangs of poverty for years after this adventure. No

1 Uncle Hugh Stewart must nol be confounded with Sir Herbert Stewart
who led the actual relief expedition. Nor with Sir Donald Stewart who
accompanied General Gordon and who also lost his life when despatched down
the river for assistance. These, however, were relatives of Hugh.

120 MY REMEMBRANCES

one knew of his straits. He kept it from grown-up peo-
ple, and my brother and I and other small confidants
were leaving our childhood behind us in distant lands.
We never knew.

One day a doctor called on my brother in London and
told him Uncle Hugh was ill. My brother went to his
lodging. People at the door were pale and frightened.
More doctors who were gathered there said that the room
was barricaded, that Hugh was violent, that it was dan-
gerous for any one to enter. My brother called through
the door. Hugh knew his voice and opened. His appear-
ance was quite wild and gaunt, untidy, distraught.

"I thought you were a grown-up person," said Hugh.
Then he talked in his ancient, childish way sanely
enough.

My brother got rid of the disturbed neighbors, and for
some days looked after Uncle Hugh. One day when he
knocked at the door there was no reply. He went in.
Hugh was lying in a hammock slung across the room
this was his present fancy in bedsteads. He was half
dressed. He was talking to himself. He had a large
navy revolver in each hand, his other weapons, guns and
swords, were about him.

"How are you, Uncle Hugh?" said my brother.

Hugh, looking steadily at him, said, "At the Queen's
command," and died.

He had been called whither ? Who shall say if this
was the expedition he had vaguely expected ? Who shall
say if the messenger whose coming we had so often seen
enacted was not the angel visitor who had now knocked
at the door ? The hands, accustomed to weapons, had
sought them instinctively at the approach of danger.
But for this final adventure, dear Hugh, you were armed

HUGH 121

as few of us shall be. No foe can harm you, all others
will salute and say: "Pass on."

This is not fiction. Uncle Hugh was a veritable Don
Quixote. A child at heart, gentle, brave, true, kind,
generous, simple, romantic, fanatical perhaps. Don
Quixote I always think him. Long, thin, with large
aquiline nose, very fair hair, blue eyes, a trace of Irish
brogue in his voice; always laughing when with little
children. He was a bachelor, but I am sure that some-
where there must have been a Dulcinea for that chival-
rous heart. Perhaps "at the Queen's command" had a
double meaning to him.

In the Elysian fields Uncle Hugh, I know, wanders
with his asthmatic dog and his dilapidated horse; is
greeted by the ancient heroes as an equal, and comforts
small boys who may be frightened as they step from the
boat that conveys them across the Styx. I am sure he
plays at being a pirate, and perhaps he induces Achilles
and other warriors to take a part. Dear Uncle Hugh, I
salute you, "in the Queen's name!"

XV
FORWARD I

IF you had been reading "Captains Courageous," or
"Allan Quatermain," or "Treasure Island," and should
shortly come across an old sea-dog's old sea chest brass-
handled, brass-cornered, brass-plated, redolent of winds
and whales, and filling your mind's eye with belaying-
pins and pinnaces and " sons-of-sea-cooks," and "main-
sheets," and "abaft here" and "ahoy! there," and much
more mellifluous maritime lingo, what would you say to
yourself before you proceeded to open it ? You would
say, as you pondered with the heavy key between your
fingers: "This chest harbors the dreams of my childhood.
If it is empty, well I can still dream. But what if it con-
tains strange documents of dreams come true; a map
telling me how and where I shall find the buried treasure;
the love-letters of the princess who dies for me of unre-
quited love; the fruitless appeal of the nobles and the
grateful populace to make me King of the kingdom of
'Neverwas'? Such thoughts would indeed give you
pause. But then if, on turning the key and opening the
chest and scanning logbooks and papers, you should be
confronted with the faded photograph of Uncle Hugh,
holding a huge, death-dealing pistol in one hand and a
most damnable dirk in the other, dressed in a kilt and
with this exciting inscription on the back: 'Abyssinia,
300 miles up country, waiting for a friendly visit from
an Arab chief,' and dated 1885. How then?"

With the mariner's habit of making records, uncle

122

FORWARD! 123

Hugh had paused in his expedition toward Khartoum
to take this picture. Here is his logbook where is in-
scribed:

May 4, 1852. Latitude 25-58 North; longitude 120-3
East. Patchugsan, White Dog Island. Landed with
crew of Contest and Lily to rescue the crew of an Amer-
ican merchant ship taken by Chinese pirates.

May nth. Had charge of Lily's pinnace at capture
of 70 piratical Chinese junks, Tymong.

Here we are surely in the thick of adventures ship-
wrecked manners and pigtailed pirates. We are dull-
witted, indeed, if we do not see ourselves led by all-
conquering Uncle Hugh rescuing starving American sailors
on the desert island at the very moment when they are
drawing lots to determine who shall be devoured. And do
not these same rescued sailors then wreak poetic justice
on the Chinese marauders by taking part in the blood-
curdling conflict with the seventy piratical junks ? Is not
Uncle Hugh here, there, and everywhere, his fair hair
floating in the wind, battling from junk to junk while
the almond-eyed salt-water thieves are hurled into the
sea delightfully mangled, dismembered, and decapi-
tated ?

Here is a volume, entitled "Scenes and Studies of
Savage Life/' by G. M. Sproat London, Smith and
Elder, 1868. On the fly-leaf in Uncle Hugh's hand is
this startling statement:

I lived with the Haidar Indians for nearly two years,
dressed and painted in same manner as that tribe.
See page 186 a fight I had with the "Ahouahts."
It is a curious fact that the Indian war-whoop, " Weena !
Weena !" means "Forward !" same as my family motto.

i2 4 MY REMEMBRANCES

The book depicts the life and records the history of
one of the most savage tribes of North America, the in-
habitants of the Queen Charlotte Islands. Their legends
declare that their forefathers came ages ago in great
canoes from the West, and sure enough there is a tribe
of Hindoos named "Haidar" in India to-day. Hence
"Haidarabad," from "Haidar," lion, and "Bad," town.

Having read the book, you take a long breath, and
wonder what on earth Hugh was doing for two years,
"dressed and painted in the same manner as that tribe,"
and you behold him clothed in sea-otter skins and draped
with a strangely patterned blanket made from the wool
of the mountain-goat, woven upon a warp of shred cedar
bark, his face daubed with fat and painted with pig-
ments of vermilion, blue, and black, bracelets of silver
on his arms, and copper rings upon his ankles and about
his neck; a head-dress consisting of a strange wooden
mask, ornamented with mother-of-pearl, stands up from
his forehead, with a piece fitting over the head, attached
to which are huge feathers, and supporting a long strip
of cloth about two feet wide which hangs down to the
feet and is covered with skins of the ermine. He wears,
too, ornaments of dentalium and haliotis shells, and of
the orange-colored bill of the puffin.

At the time of Hugh's residence among them these
people were cannibals and head-hunters, and the his-
torian cheerfully remarks: "Your head may be cut off
at any moment. They think no more of cutting off a
man's head than of killing a salmon. They are subject
to fits of demoniacal possession." And he describes an
occasion when "It was a clear moonlight night. The
men danced on the beach, many holding high in one
hand a musket, in the other several human heads."

UNCLE HUGH IN ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT

From a photograph taken in Alexandria, as shown in the reproduction at top

FORWARD! 125

They indulged in human sacrifice, and, to form hard-
ened and fierce hearts their children were taught to
stick their knives into the victim without showing any
sign of pity or horror. At certain religious ceremonies
flesh was bitten from the naked arm and old people
torn limb from limb and eaten alive.

They worshipped the moon. The killer whale was
their evil spirit, and what with sorcerers and medicine-
men, and witch-doctors, and a fine supply of devils there
was no lack of excitement.

What in the world was Uncle Hugh doing for two
years, "dressed and painted in the same manner as that
tribe" ? There it is in his own handwriting.

Please do not tell me that having attired himself ac-
cording to the description in the book he sat on a rock
for these two years and twiddled his thumbs, or that he
spent the time in fishing, or that he donned vermilion
pigments and feathered head-dress that he might ad-
mire himself Narcissus-like in the stream. Be it ob-
served that the war-cry of the Haidars was "Weena!
Weena!" "Forward!" the same as Hugh's family
motto.

The Irish language was originally Sanscrit. There
are many ancient Irish customs which resemble those of
the Hindoos. These Haidars probably were from India.
Did Uncle Hugh's romantic vein imagine some tie of
blood between himself and this savage clan ? Did he
proclaim himself "King of the Cannibal Islands"?
Did he, as Don Quixote, his prototype, present himself
with an island or two and acclaim himself Monarch of
the Kingdom of Micomicon ?

"The man who would be king" encountered strange
happenings. Did not a certain Johnson arise one fine

126 MY REMEMBRANCES

morning and say to his wife: "Well, I am going to be
a king"?

"Where?" said the astonished lady.

" I don't know, but I am tired of this sort of thing, and
I will be a king!"

And did he not sally forth and depart into space, and
become a king indeed, King of Cocos Island in the South-
ern Pacific ?

I am convinced that Uncle Hugh became a king. He
was the very incarnation of "once upon a time." No
wonder that when he joined me in my childhood's enter-
prises I felt the spell, weird and mysterious, which sur-
rounded him. It was at that time he had, for reasons,
abdicated his throne, cast off his feathered crown, his
silver bracelets, his war-paint and laid by his arms.
Why?

This chest full of letters and memoranda and maps
and scraps sayeth not. There is nothing but the state-
ment: "For two years dressed and painted in same
manner as that tribe," written on the fly-leaf of the book.

Surely, although he went back to civilization for a
while, it was his intention to return to his throne. Per-
haps he was seeking for a queen to share his kingdom,
Quixotic, of Micomicon. Doubtless, forlorn, his sub-
jects are waiting for him now, praying to their gods of
the wind and the storm for a sign.

What is it in the soul of man that cries: "Go forth" ?
Whither we know not; for what purpose, who can tell?
The race which peopled the Queen Charlotte Islands
came in great war canoes from the West. From far-away
Ireland came Uncle Hugh. "Forward!" cried the
Stewart clan. "Weena! Weena!" yelled the savage
Haidars, as, goaded by what fearful cataclysm, what

FORWARD! 127

deadly fear, what noble aspiration, they, ages ago, dared
the vast ocean and ventured on the unknown seas.

You close your eyes, and in a moment you are sailing
out of the gray past, in a great galley such as is pictured
on the tomb of Rameses the Great, with highly culti-
vated adventurers, away and away eastward across the
Pacific. You are carrying civilization, and the arts to
the savage nations of the East, and all the legendary lore
and science and religious observance, and the customs
accumulated through thousands and thousands of years
of struggle and defeat and victory. For you are a Haidar
from Haidarabad crying: "Forward!" as you sally forth
to give the benighted savage his battle-cry of "Weena!
Weena!" Or are you, few in number, to be wrecked,
as traditions say, upon that distant shore, and are your
progeny to decay and degenerate into a wild and brutal
clan holding the remnants of your wisdom in wretched
tatters of distorted legend ? By what mysterious force
was Uncle Hugh impelled to adventure among his de-
graded and degenerate descendants (for you are con-
vinced by now that Hugh is an Irish-Scotch-Hindoo, and
that the Haidars are Hindoo-Irish-Americans) ? To re-
deem them, "Forward!" he cries. But they advance
not. "Weena ! Weena !" they yell and walk backward,
degenerating, oblivious, fading more and more until
they become the faintest shadow of a past, forgetting
and forgotten, vanished into the moonlight and the
dark; for does not your goal in going "forward" depend
entirely upon where your eyes are set ?

Here you perceive a paragraph in Sproat's volume
wherein he suggests that "Quanteat," the great god
worshipped by the Haidars as only second to the moon,
was a wondrous chief or "white man" of former times

128 MY REMEMBRANCES

whom they had credited with divine attributes. Ha 1 a
light, brilliant and dazzling, breaks in upon you. Hugh
was not only a king, he was a god I He shared the heavens
with the sun and moon; the ocean with Hai-de-la-na,
the killer whale. He blended his war-cry with the voices
of the storm; why, then, did he cease to reign ?

Hugh was proud of his descent from King Fergus I,
the Irish King of Scotland (it always tickled him that
the Scotch were originally Irish), and from King Robert
II, the progenitors of the Stewart clan. Their motto,
" Forward 1" surging in his blood, urged him forever to
strive up and on. For him the world was full of great
adventures; for him the galleons and the golden city;
for him Elysium, Hesperides, and the Island of Irish
myth, Tir-na-n'oge Land of Eternal Youth and Joy.
These are the glorious day-dreams of humanity. But
the gods dream not, they have no delusions; they are
wide-eyed; they know all. Who would bear the burdens
of a god ?

Gazing at the sunset, you and I who have been pon-
dering these matters place Uncle Hugh with the gods
that were. Now we comprehend why he descended from
his high heaven to the earthly plane. Perhaps, like other
gods long gone, the hideous things for which he was held
responsible weighed him down the fearful prayers for
vengeance, the outcries of despair, the few small grains
of gratitude, the fawning and the fear, the tears of saints
and sinners, the dreadful load of blame; forever sleepless
and beholding all.

"Ah, yes !" we murmur, "who would be a god ?"

Perhaps we think that, having traced Uncle Hugh's
pedigree from a mariner to a deity, we have reached the
top of the impossible. But there is yet another and super-

^ II YD Kit ALLY .

d Gtmat </ V

. .
..*~' ^r, -

.fH,,.(K.

LINEAGE OF UNCLE HUGH

FORWARD! 129

lative adventure, this time into the confines of purgatory
itself, for behold the London Globe of February 7, 1887!
It contains the account of Captain Stewart's encounter
with a renowned ghost in the haunted ruins of a church
in Italy.

We have heard Uncle Hugh relate this tragic tale with
a wild look in his eye which sufficiently declared that he
was recounting an actual occurrence, and although, like
the doughty Quixote himself, who, prone upon his back,
battered, blood-stained, trampled and dust-laden, still
raised his cry of "Victory!" Hugh did not acknowledge
defeat, yet he had at last charged headlong the unknown,
the intangible, the unreal. Therefore awe was in his
voice as he recalled his conflict and remembered that he
had been overcome by powers inhuman and invulnerable.

It is true that in the newspaper report one can trace a
note of polite incredulity which does not affect the event
nor cast doubt upon the facts. But we who have beheld
Uncle Hugh hail the world as his oyster, and have re-
joiced that the flesh, civil and savage, had for him no
terrors, are prepared to see him tackle even the devil
himself, which indeed he appears to have done on this
famous occasion.

The Globe says:

A story which has moved all Italy is given by one of
the most respectable and trustworthy of the journals of
Milan, and signed by Signer P. Bettoli, a well-known
name in the Italian literature of the day.

On leaving S by the mountain gate, turning to the

right and proceeding for about a couple of miles, you
may observe a small collection of miserable hovels crowned
by a high church tower. These sordid hovels and this
imposing tower are known by the name of San Vernanzio.

i 3 o MY REMEMBRANCES

In the year 1787 there came to San Vernanzio a tribe of
gypsies who, settling in the place, built these miserable
huts, and lived for many years in the midst of the pov-
erty and dirt to which they are accustomed. But as
the tribe increased in numbers they became more bold,
until their robberies and violence aroused the authorities
and several of their chiefs were taken, and one or two of
them executed, while the rest were imprisoned or had to
fly to avoid the law. Soon afterward, just at the begin-
ning of this century, the remainder of the tribe, with
the women, girls, and boys, submitted to conversion to
Catholicism, on condition of having secured to them full
possession of the spot on which their miserable hovels
had been erected. This was accorded on their consent-
ing to erect a church in the enclosed space to which they
had acquired sole right of possession. But as soon as the
building was completed the whole community disappeared
as if by magic, and nothing was ever heard of the gypsies
from that day. The hovels and the little church still
remain, falling to ruin, it is true, but still marking with
a dark spot the wild and desolate place where they stand.

Rumor soon declared the spot to be accursed. Voices
were heard at dead of night, and lights were seen moving
about among the ruins. One or two persons who, more
courageous than the rest, have ventured to remain at
night within respectful distance of the church, have tes-
tified to the unearthly noises which have issued from its
walls, and amid the blue phosphoric light thrown all
around have beheld strange figures, attired in costumes
of ancient date, walking amid the mouldering remains of
the church and the habitations which surround it. A
priest once attempted to sanctify the church by worship,
but he was thrown with violence from the place even
while on his knees before the high altar.

Since that time the place has been utterly abandoned,
and now, half buried amid weeds and brambles, it is
almost forgotten, nothing remaining to view but the
tower.

FORWARD! 131

In the middle of September last the neighboring town

of S was visited by Captain Stewart. "The Signer

Stewart," says Bettoli, "is a man of about forty years of
age, not strictly handsome but of noble and serious as-
pect, and of a powerful and energetic temperament. He
heard of the mysterious apparition at San Vernanzio, and
at once determined to pass a night among the ruins.
For this purpose he visited the place during the day and
carefully examined every nook and corner of each of the
hovels which surround the church. He chose for his
night's lodging the most ruinous of all, the one whose
mouldering wall still leans against the porch. He re-
paired alone to the place, carrying the camp bedstead
which accompanies him on his travels, and, armed with
two six-chambered revolvers, one in each hand, he re-
tired to rest.

"And now," says Signor Bettoli, "let me tell the rest
of the story as I had it from Captain Stewart's own lips:

"'I had been waiting for the hour of midnight. The
silence was intense, and, worn out with fatigue, I was fast
sinking into slumber when I was suddenly aroused by a
terrible noise which seemed to proceed from below the
earth, loud and rumbling like distant thunder, or, rather,
the passage of artillery along a badly paved street. At
the same moment, and while the threatening sound still
continued, the darkness was suddenly dispersed by a dim
phosphoric light, pale and yet bright and steady, like the
lighting of a match against the wall, and in the midst of
this atmosphere of pallid vapory hue there appeared a
human form, undefined and indistinct enough to leave
me in doubt as to the semblance whether of man or
woman. It might have been that of a nun or abbess,
but as I gazed I fancied it to be rather that of a poet or
clerk of Dante's time, for the bandelets and head-gear
of that period were strikingly apparent. I rose up on the
bed and gazed fixedly upon my strange visitor.

"'"Who are you?" I cried, "and what do you want
with me?'*

132 MY REMEMBRANCES

"'No answer was returned, and amid the subterranean
noise and phosphorescent light the figure still continued
to advance^

"'"Take care!" cried I again. "I warn you that if
you advance a step nearer I will blow your brains out.**

"'But my warning was of no avail. The shadow still
approached. Then, raising my right arm I fired one after
another the six bullets from my first revolver. For a
moment I was so blinded by the smoke that I lost sight
of everything. When the smoke had disappeared I still
beheld in the pale-blue light the figure still advancing
toward me until it stood close to the foot of my bed.

"A cold sweat broke out upon my forehead. I lost
consciousness and fell backward, fainting, on my pillow.* *'

The Globe then remarks T

In spite of the disbelief we cold-blooded Northerners
are bound to maintain concerning the exactness of Signer
Bettoli's account, we cannot help feeling somewhat moved
by the honored name of the hero of the adventure, given
as it is in full and without disguise by the narrator.

If you are in search of excitement, you have it here.
By now, with your head full of cannibals, murderers, gold
mines, sorcerers, men eaten alive, dreadful gods, killer
whales, head-hunters, Chinese pirates, wrecked merchant-
men, White Dog Island, the imminent deadly breach at
Canton, the Abyssinian desert, and goblins from the other
world, it seems to me that your frame of mind will be
about as blissful as is possible for mortal man upon this
orb.

As for me, I sat before this sea chest of Uncle Hugh,
with the photograph of him before me, and with the docu-
mentary evidence of his astonishing accomplishments on
either hand, and was transported at will into scenes of

FORWARD! 133

the most glorious carnage. Now was I amid a terrific
battle with Chinese junks, the hideous pirates falling over-
board with yells agreeably ghastly and pleasantly appal-
ling; now mad Arabs or frantic Dervishes overwhelmed
me, numberless as the sands of the desert, only to be scat-
tered by adorable Hugh as though they were feathers
before the blast; now was I bound to a stake on White
Dog Island, to be instantly burned alive by the pirate
hordes, when from the sky came Uncle Hugh, and, with
a blow, a thousand pigtailed villains bit the dust. In a
wink I am about to be eaten by the Haidar savages, who
chant the death-song while they bite pieces out of each
other to sharpen their appetites, when, hark ! Hugh's war-
cry, "Forward I" rings in my ear, and after a sanguinary
conflict I am saved for further adventures. Now are we
painted vermilion, tattooed, decked in head-dresses of
feathers, tracking prodigious animals through horrid
jungles, harpooning whales, diving for pearls, discover-
ing gold, wooing copper-colored maidens by the light of
the moon, and finally here we are, with "eyes starting
from their spheres," and each particular hair standing on
end, in battle furious, superhuman, and incredible
with the very spirits of darkness, firing bullets through
ghostly gallows-birds who, emitting fires infernal and ac-
cursed, pay no heed but rob us of our reason.

Truly, Aladdin's carpet was nothing to this ! The
fisherman's jar from which sprang the jinn surely could
not hold a candle to Hugh's sea chest, exhaling visions
innumerable, awesome, and ecstatic. "Forward!" we
cry, but we can go no farther. Hugh's rallying call is
vain. Here is a barrier he may not pass. In San Ver-
nanzio, dark, wild, and desolate, he has to pause, for the
dreadful demons mock his weapons and laugh his battle-

134 MY REMEMBRANCES

cry to scorn. He has tilted at a windmill. He has been
vanquished by the giant Pandafallando, and lies upon his
back crying "Victory! Dulcinea is the loveliest lady in
the world."

DON QUIXOTE

Romance is dead, and knights have had their day,

Old Time now dances to a soberer tune,

No longer Strephon worships Phyllis's shoon,

The very gods have fled this mortal fray;

Yet one heart owns fair Dulcinea's sway,

And bears her banner, praying as a boon

That he may dare the mountains of the moon,

The filched stars before her feet to lay.

Here Don Quixote holds his forehead high,

His lance in rest, his oriflamme unfurl'd,

Tilting at windmills or 'gainst giants hurl'd,

Honor and Truth and Love his battle-cry,

Demanding only of a laughing world

Gently to live and with brave heart to die.

Wisest of madmen, maddest of the wise !

We would adventure where thy fancies lead ;

Where knightly thought quickens to knightly deed,

Where thy defeat shames meaner victories.

Did all men view life's pageant through thine eyes,

Wield righteous sword when grief and weakness plead,

Then were this world from all enchanters freed,

All mortals listed in thy high emprise.

Quixotic we would be to still declare

Our cot a castle, and our lass a queen;

Upright, unconquered, unafraid, serene;

Finding God's poorest creatures brave and fair;

Shedding a glory over all things mean.

If this be folly, folly be our share.

XVI
"RUFFIAN DICK"

ONCE upon a time there lived a King who had a beauti-
ful daughter. This princess preferred the love of a poor
knight to the throne of her father, so she followed him
in the guise of a page. At this the King proclaimed her
an outcast from his house and heart. After many ad-
ventures the princess and the knight returned and craved
forgiveness of the King, who pardoned them, and they
were married and lived happy ever after.

This is, of course, the ordinary, well regulated fairy-
tale, and this, equally of course, is just what you would
expect to have happened to some forebear of Uncle Hugh.
Surely enough it is precisely what did happen. The
great King in this case was Tippoo Sahib, Sultan of My-
sore in India, and his daughter, about the year 1780, ran
away with an Irish officer named Newburg. She was
disowned by her father, and lost caste for having loved
a European. But she and her lover returned and begged
pardon of the Sultan. He not only forgave them their
trespass, but bestowed a large dowry upon the princess,
who was married to the poor soldier and returned with
him to Ireland. This was the great-great-grandmother
of Uncle Hugh, whose name was Hugh Robert Newburg
Stewart.

The Sultan of Mysore was the son of Haidar AH Khan
Badahur, Monarch of the Haidar Indians. So now you
see why Hugh was impelled to adventure among the
Haidars of Queen Charlotte Islands.

135

136 MY REMEMBRANCES

Tippoo Sahib was slain in battle at his capital, Se-
ringapatam, in 1799. His saddle and the trappings of
his horse are now exhibited in Windsor Castle. Other
articles from his palace are at Fife House, Whitehall,
London. His daughter died the wife of an Irish gentle-
man, leaving a family of nine children. Thus we have
Hugh an Irish-Scotch-Hindoo, as already suspected.

A man may be known by the company he keeps, and
he will admire in others those qualities which he would
foster in himself. Thus Uncle Hugh's devotion to
"Chinese Gordon" leads one, naturally, to comprehend
his affection for Sir Richard Burton, an associate and
contemporary of Gordon, who called himself an Eng-
lish-Irish-Scotch-Arab, having, mixed with the English
blood in his veins, that of the Bourbon Louis XIV, of
Rob Roy McGregor, and of the Burton tribe of gypsies.

Behold ! a set of pictures of Burton with his "brow of
a god and his jaw of a devil," which used to hang in
Uncle Hugh's room with a strange inscription framed
therein:

Sir Richard Burton, my old friend and companion.
The only man in the world that I believed in.

If one has read the life of Richard Burton, written
by his wife, one can well understand that the strong,
resolute, mystic, religious, adventurous, self-reliant, po-
etic character would inspire a man like Uncle Hugh
with admiration and confidence. Yet the inscription
is a sad commentary on Uncle Hugh's experience of
human nature. That he should take the trouble to
blazon such a statement in black and white makes one
wonder through what disillusionment he had passed.

"RUFFIAN DICK" 137

Burton's strain of Romany accounted for his vagabond
tendencies, intolerant of all convention or restraint,
which procured him the sobriquet of "Ruffian Dick"
at Oxford and in his early days in India. Before middle
age he had, as Lord Derby said, "compressed into his
life more of study, more of hardship, and more of suc-
cessful enterprise and adventure than would have suf-
ficed to fill up the existence of half a dozen ordinary
men."

This was the man Hugh had chosen for his "friend
and companion," whose creed was, "A man should seek
Honor, not honors," and whose motto ran, "Omne solum
forti patria" "every region is a strong man's home."

Lady Burton writes: "Richard's idea was that every
man by doing all the good he could in this life, always
working for others, for the human race, always acting
'excelsior,' should leave a track of light behind him on
this world as he passes through."

Lady Burton quotes these tributes:

A very extraordinary man who toiled every hour and
minute for forty and a half years, and distinguished
himself in every possible way. He has done more than
any other six men in her Majesty's dominions and is
one of the best, noblest and truest that breathes. . . .
His languages, knowledge and experience upon every
subject, or any single act of his life, would have raised
any other man to the top of the ladder of honor and
fortune. . . .

Self-reliant, self-sustained, seeking no support from
heaven or earth, substituting self-will for faith and
strenuous effort for divine assistance, endowed by na-
ture with a frame of iron and muscles of steel, he was an
athlete who might have figured in the arena in Greek
or Roman times. .

138 MY REMEMBRANCES

Though standing nearly six feet high, he did not look
a tall man, his broad shoulders, deep chest, and splen-
didly developed limbs deceiving the eye as to his real
height. While the best of ordinary men never aspire
to know more than something of everything or every-
thing of something, he might, without exaggeration, be
said to know everything of everything.

His pilgrimage to Mecca in 1853, disguised, as one
may here observe, as an Indian Pathan, made him
famous "with hair falling upon his shoulders, a long
beard, face and hands, arms and feet stained with a
thin coat of henna, behold Mirza Abdullah of Bushiri.
A blunder, a hasty action, a misjudged word, a prayer,
a bow not strictly the right shibboleth, and my bones
would have whitened the desert sand."

Burton's great distinguishing feature was his courage.
No braver man than "Ruffian Dick" ever lived. His
daring was of that romantic order which revels in danger
for danger's sake. No crisis, however appalling, could
shake his splendid nerve. He was as cool when his life
hung on a hair's breadth as when he sat smoking in his
own snuggery.

He was the first Englishman to enter Mecca; the
first to explore Somaliland; the first to discover the
great lakes of Central Africa, anticipating Stanley.

His journey to Harrar, the Somali capital, was even
more hazardous than the pilgrimage to Mecca. Burton
vanished into the desert, and was not heard from for
four months. When he reappeared he had not only
been to Harrar but had talked with the King, stayed
ten days there in deadly peril and ridden back across
the desert, almost without food and water, running the
gantlet of the Somali spears all the way. Undeterred
by this experience, he set out again but was checked
by a skirmish with the tribes in which one of his young

"RUFFIAN DICK" 139

officers was killed; Captain Speke was wounded in
eleven places and Burton himself, having fought his
way single-handed, his only weapon a sabre, through
150 savages, had a javelin thrust through his jaws.

He was, as has been well said, an Elizabethan born
out of his time. His was the spirit of Drake and Raleigh
and of Hawkins. He was poet, scholar, soldier; the
best swordsman, the best shot, the best horseman. He
spoke twenty-nine languages, not to mention his study
of the speech of monkeys. He made the best transla-
tion of the "Arabian Nights." He published eighty
works of travel. Athlete, philosopher, historian, diplo-
mat, mystic the Admirable Crichton of his time.

Wrote Theophile Gautier:

There is a reason for the fantasy of nature which
causes an Arab to be born in Paris, or a Greek in Au-
vergne. The mysterious voice of blood which is silent
for generations, or only utters a confused murmur,
speaks at rare intervals a more intelligible language.
In the general confusion race claims its own, and some
forgotten ancestor asserts his rights. Who knows what
alien drops are mingled with our blood ? The great
migrations from the table-lands of India, the descents
of the Northern races, the Roman and Arab invasions
have all left their marks. Instincts which seem bizarre
spring from these confused recollections, these hints of
distant country. The vague desire of primitive father-
land moves such minds as retain the more vivid mem-
ories of the past. Hence, the wild unrest that wakens
in certain spirits the need of flight, such as the cranes
and the swallows feel when kept in bondage; the im-
pulses that make man leave his luxurious life to bury
himself in the steppes, the desert, the pampas, the
Sahara. He goes to seek his brothers. It would be
easy to point out the intellectual fatherland of our great-
est minds. Lamartine, De Musset, and De Vigny are

140 MY REMEMBRANCES

English; De Lacroix is an Anglo-Indian, Victor Hugo
a Spaniard, Ingres belongs to the Italy of Florence and
Rome.

Burton as a little child would lie on his back in the
broiling sun and cry: "How I love a bright, burning
sun!" "Nature speaking in early years," as he remarks.

It would seem that Uncle Hugh's inclination toward
these heroic spirits had some root in the past. Look at
Burton's picture, and at the inscription beneath it and
ponder. Burton was Hugh's senior by ten years. Per-
haps it was on his return from Mecca that Hugh first
encountered him. Hugh would then have been about
twenty-two. This is the age when one must needs have
a hero to worship. It was Burton's boast that he was
ever ready to go anywhere at ten minutes' notice. Here
we see the source of Uncle Hugh's "ready at the Queen's
command." Burton's mysticism, too, is reflected in
Hugh's encounter with the apparitions in Italy.

Burton was a great mesmerist and would frequently
mesmerize Lady Burton that she might foretell the re-
sult of his journeys. She became so subject to his power
that he could send her to sleep from a great distance.
Also he appeared to her in the spirit many hours after
he had sailed away from England, before their mar-
riage.

Says Lady Burton:

At 2.00 A. M.; the door opened and he came into my
room. A current of warm air came toward my bed.
He said: "Good-by, my poor child. My time is up and
I have gone, but do not grieve, I shall be back in less
than three years, and I am your destiny. Good-by."
He held up a letter, looked long at me with those gypsy
eyes and went out, shutting the door.

"RUFFIAN DICK" 141

Lady Burton arose and rushed into the hall, but no
one was visible. A letter came by post the next morn-
ing at eight o'clock. Burton had left London at six o'clock
on the previous evening, eight hours before Lady Burton
saw him in the night.

Burton also could read hands at a glance. "With
many," says Lady Burton, "he would drop the hand
at once and turn away, nor would anything induce him
to speak a word about it."

Lady Burton's marriage to Burton was foretold by a
gypsy woman of the Burton tribe long before she met
her husband. "You will bear the same name as our
tribe, and be right proud of it. You will be as we are
but far greater than we." Some time after she came
out of the convent, where she was at school, and en-
countered Burton who stood still, startled. She felt a
strange agitation, and said to her companion as she
passed on without greeting: "That man will marry me."

After Lady Burton's death she appeared in broad
daylight to Justin McCarthy and his daughter as they
walked in Brighton. "There goes Lady Burton," said
Miss McCarthy, as she passed them.

Lady Burton was at the moment dead in London.

Both Gordon and Burton loved children. When
visiting friends, Burton was frequently discovered play-
ing on the floor with the children of the house. Gordon
founded a home for ragged boys, and during his six years'
work as Commanding Royal Engineer at Gravesend he
cared for hundreds of poor urchins who had no other
friend. Chalked up on doors and walls one might read
in those days scrawled in childish, uneven letters, "God
bless the Kernel." "The Kernel" was Gordon, who con-
ducted during his spare hours a school for ragged boys.

i 4 2 MY REMEMBRANCES

He called them his "kings," and taught these mud-larks
to be "gentle" men.

This was the Gordon who went on a mission of peace
from the Khedive of Egypt to the King of Abyssinia,
the most cruel and savage of cruel and savage kings,
and who treated Gordon with the greatest insolence.

"Do you know that I could kill you?" he asked,
glaring at Gordon like a tiger.

"I am quite ready to die," replied Gordon. "In
killing me you will only confer a favor by opening a
door I must not open for myself."

"Then my power has no terrors for you ?" said the
King.

"None whatever," replied Gordon.

And the King stood powerless before the man who
knew no fear.

On leaving Egypt, Gordon said of his successor: "He
must have my iron constitution, for Khartoum is too
much for any one who has not. Then he must have my
contempt for money, otherwise the people will never
believe in his sincerity. Lastly, he must have my con-
tempt for death."

Gordon led his troops in China, himself unarmed save
for a little cane which he always carried, and which the
soldiers of his "ever victorious army" called his "magic
wand," for he seemed to bear a charmed life. He hated
the "plausibilities" of religion, but for his ragged urchin
"kings" he said: "I pray for each one of them day by
day," and his Bible accompanied him on all campaigns.

Burton's inseparable companion was a volume wherein
was bound in one cover the works of Shakespeare, Euclid,
and the Bible. This never left him in his wild adven-
tures.

"RUFFIAN DICK" 143

When his restless spirit sent him to Africa just previous
to his marriage, he left some verses to fame with Lady
Burton:

"Fame pointed to a grisly shore
Where all breathes death Earth, sea, and air.
Her glorious accents sound once more,
'Go meet me there !*

"Mine ear will hear no other word,
No other thought my heart will know.
Is this a sin ? Oh, pardon, Lord,
Thou mad'st me so."

Burton was a great joker and loved to horrify staid
people with ghastly stories of eating fat cabin boys at
sea, and other Munchausen tales blood-curdling and
confounding to Mrs. Grundy and her tribe. He loved
to paint himself a very black and frightful devil, and
to enjoy the amazed horror of his listeners. All these
traits must have appealed strongly to Uncle Hugh,
making him a very willing slave to that affection we
see indicated in this inscription under the portrait of
his "old friend and companion." What Uncle Hugh
was to me as a little child that was Sir Richard Burton
to Uncle Hugh as a young sailorman of twenty-two.
What Gordon must have been to his ragamuffins, that
was Uncle Hugh to my childhood's fancy.

Quoth the teller of tales: "Once upon a time there
lived a King."

Said Chinese Gordon to his mud-larks: "It is in all
men to be kingly."

Said "Ruffian Dick": "Man should seek Honor, not
honors."

Spake Hugh: "These men were my friends!"

PART III

MY FATHER

XVII
ISHERWOOD

GHOSTLY experiences are apt to be treated with scorn.
Sir Oliver Lodge, the great scientist, is at this moment
being roundly denounced for asserting that he has ac-
quired actual personal proof of a life after death. Yet,
if one considers wireless telegraphy and established te-
lepathy, it may not seem impossible that one mind, con-
centrated on another in a moment of extreme agony,
may impress that other mind, properly attuned, to such
an extent that an image may be projected so clearly as
to seem to be visible to the organs of sight.

Mr. Edwin Booth in his letters declared that two
nights before Mrs. Booth's death in 1863, she came to
him in New York, she being at the time in Dorchester,
Massachusetts. He heard her distinctly say, "Come to
me, my darling, I am almost frozen," and that, when
he was speeding to her on the train, not dreaming that
she was seriously ill, each time he looked from the car
window he saw Mrs. Booth dead, with a white cloth tied
around her head and chin. He arrived in Dorchester to
find her in her coffin.

When I was at school, a boy in the next bed to me
awoke in the night weeping, and said he had dreamed that
his father was dead. A telegram arrived the next morn-
ing to say that his father had died during the night.

Hundreds of instances have been corroborated where
captains of vessels have received communications, either

147

i 4 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

verbal or by the appearance of a figure, directing them
toward other vessels in distress, or warning them of dan-
ger. These experiences are classed with tales of the sea-
serpent, which may yet be captured and confound un-
believers.

A relative of my mother, Admiral Sir Houston Stewart,
being a sailor, believed firmly in warnings of this nature,
and although there is no evidence to that effect, he was
always convinced that not chance alone controlled his
inclination and handled his helm on a certain occasion.

It was the custom in "the palmy days" for actors to
band together and take theatres for the summer, and to
play a season of repertoire, on the order of our present
stock companies. During the year 1857, my father, John
Raymond, J. H. Stoddart, and some others occupied a
theatre in Halifax, Nova Scotia. This was christened
Sothern's Lyceum.

The season of 1857 was not crowned with success, and
although the players made many friends they made no
money; in fact, they met with financial disaster. Many
desperate expedients were undertaken to arouse the apa-
thetic public. I have a programme of an occasion pro-
jected by my father, wherein, with cheerful omnipotence,
he undertook to deliver "Three lectures on the Drama,
beginning with the Dawn of Civilization, and embracing
the history of the theatres of India, China, Japan, France,
Germany, England, tracing the growth of the play in-
stinct throughout the Middle Ages to the present time.
With a description of folk-lore, mystery-plays, the origin
of Punch and Judy, and a dissertation on the marionettes
of Italy." No seats were sold for these three entertain-
ments, the inhabitants of Halifax remaining unmoved;
so a new bill was printed, declaring that "The demand for

SOTHERN'S LYCEUM.

if*'

HALIFAX, N. S.

Proprietor itu.t ^|n

\vt-lni.

mm. liit at rl*lii prrr
!%. H. I'olliT arr to
ordrr.

FUN! FUN! FUN!!

GREAT ATTBACTION!!!

RAYMOND'S BENEFIT,

THREE NEW PIECES,

Comedy, Vaudeville, and Farce.

, ''WHACK.

IV Hum MI.UMM.U. (Hiurlub*). wlU upprar for IU.1 nlthc only,

MONDAY EVLMNG, Al'CUST 17, 1857,

First tituc ui thi* city i>f Bucks! >:;cV Comedy, .in thr-.- acb-, eutiUf!,

Married Life!

UK LT.Xt
UK TOINI
MR. DUMA

K- I-Vl.VF.-rKK
UK STIM4MUT

VLMR<TAVKI;
UK HKVNUUB
111 i .V TAYtiK
JK. FI.-'ifK
d4S MllUi.UX
VK KAVMHNP

S $ C,

IT LOIB US 18 i MtUri."
BY THE INL>I.\N N1OHTINOALE.

B Alt L A B,

BY MISS CUSHNIE.

Raymond Worried
by Sothern.

In which Ui,-)r will n, K - Hi., o'lrl-ralod Durtl from

"IL PURITANI," ]

From the collection of Robert Could Shaw, Boston

SOTHERN'S

TC1U

HALIFAX. N. S.

NOTICE.

Tho Dramatic Season positively wni-ludes
on TrKsovY, the '25th inst.

iic IHC right |trrt !-.!>

. B. Pallet arc la f ott-lnl attrn4anrr la pmrrre ;

WEDHESDAY EVENING, AUGUST Id.

LAST NIGHT BUT FOUR

BENEFIT OF

MRS. SOTHERN.

BeU( uodf r Uir UB*e41>lr PiUroaifC ol

1DNUUL Sffi BOISTON STCT1RT. L C. B.

TO CONQUER!

AX1.KS AH.O

AWX:A>TI K

.Jl ^ HAKLOW

Tomr

/"rom //t<r collection oj Robert Gould Sha'.c, Boston

August 17, 1857 August 19, 1857

PROGRAMMES OF SOTHERN's LYCEUM

ISHERWOOD 149

seats had caused so much confusion that it had been de-
termined to condense the material of the three lectures
into one, an arrangement which, it was hoped, would
meet with the approval of the hundreds of persons eager
to attend," and it was urged that "Mr. Sothern's unex-
pected call to New York to fulfil an important engage-
ment would make it necessary for those desiring seats
to purchase them immediately." The programme is pa-
thetic enough as I look at it to-day, and think of my boy-
ish father and young mother trying thus to raise the wind.
But it was no good; the populace remained indifferent,
and the wolf approached the door. Meanwhile the spirits
of the players never flagged. The scene-painter of the
theatre was one Isherwood, who also played parts.
When business had reached its lowest ebb, my father
said to Isherwood: "Isherwood, you must have a bene-
fit; at least," said he, "half the success of this thing is
due to the scenery. People never think of the scene-
painter; it is not fair. Night after night these thousands
of people applaud; we, the actors, take the calls, the
credit; no one speaks of the scenic artist, who toils in
darkness and obscurity."

Isherwood, during this eulogy, lost sight of the fact
that hardly any one was, or had been, in front; he looked
pleased and muttered words deprecatory.

"No, no!" said my father. "It shall be a benefit.
I will make the announcement to-night, and you, you
shall say a few words of appreciation."

"I daren't speak," said Isherwood; "I never made a
speech in my life!"

"Nonsense ! I will prompt you through the hole in the
curtain," said my father. (To the uninitiated, let it be
known that there is usually a small hole in the centre of

ISO MY REMEMBRANCES

the curtain whence the audience may be observed from
the stage.)

Isherwood, bashful and foolish, appeared before the
footlights, his ear near the hole in the curtain.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said my father.

"Ladies and gentlemen," murmured Isherwood.

"The Scripture moveth us in sundry places," said my
father.

"The Scripture moveth us "

"Speak up!" cried a man in front. "Where's your
voice?"

"In sundry places," said Isherwood.

"Louder!" said another.

"Queen Elizabeth," said my father through the hole
in the curtain.

"Queen Elizabeth," repeated Isherwood.

"Never!"

"Stood on her "

"Head!"

"What's that ?" said the voice.

"Without lifting her feet."

"Who are you ?" said the voice. "What are you driv-
ing at?"

Isherwood, confused, wandered away from the hole in
the curtain, and could no longer hear my father, who
vainly whispered behind it. Isherwood tried to find the
hole in the curtain again, turning his back to the audience
and looking as though he were catching flies.

"He is drunk!" remarked a sympathizer in front.

ISHERWOOD 151

"Get. off!" said another.

My father appeared at the side and came on the stage.
He led Isherwood off.

"Speech!" cried the house.

"My friend, Mr. Isherwood," said my father, "is the
scenic artist of this theatre. The enthusiasm of your
reception has confused him; he is unaccustomed to speech-
making. To Mr. Isherwood we are indebted for the gor-
geous productions which have delighted your eye during
our engagement in Halifax. His is the art which tran-
scends nature, and creates an atmosphere so elusive that
you might as well have no scenery at all. Upon the paint-
frame day and night, in storm and shine, in sickness or
in health, his mother dying, his wife starving "

"He has no wife," said a voice.

"No," said my father; "but if he had, she would be
starving. I repeat, his wife starving, his little children
although, of course, he has none crying for bread; the
scene-painter paints ! paints ! paints ! V/e, whose labors
have been lightened and whose art has been illuminated
by Mr. Isherwood's genius, now propose to express our
appreciation in the form of a benefit. This performance
will call upon the full strength of the company. The
artists concerned have with one accord proffered their
valuable services free; the stage-hands, the gentlemen of
the orchestra, our entire staff, bending the knee in ac-
knowledgment and admiration, stand prepared to do or
die for Isherwood. Isherwood forever!" cried my father.

Two or three people out of the small audience ap-
plauded. Isherwood had stood meanwhile, proud and
panting with excitement, in the prompt entrance.

"One word more," said my father. "The unique, re-
markable and overpowering feature of this entertainment

i 5 2 MY REMEMBRANCES

is that there will be no charge for admission 1 Tickets
will be issued free!*'

"Hooray!" cried a man in the gallery.

The face of Isherwood fell at his feet 1

"Hooray!" cried the meagre gathering in unison.

My father bowed himself off. Then, putting his head
around the proscenium arch suddenly, he shouted:
"But "

The audience turned to him.

"But there will be a collection taken up at the door!"

When my mother had said good-by to her family, on
the day of her wedding, there had been many tears and
protestations.

"Remember, Fanny," Sir Houston had said, "if you
want me at any time, no matter if I am at the other
end of the world, let me know and I will go to you."

They were devoted and the admiral meant what he
said.

In August, 1857, Admiral Sir Houston Stewart, in
command of the North Atlantic fleet, set sail for Hali-
fax.

Things began to look pretty badly for the players at
the Halifax Theatre. One final play was to be offered
in the hope of melting the public heart, and then the
last card had been played. Everybody was busy with
preparation. My mother was working like a busy bee
at the wardrobe; especially did she labor at the costume
of a little girl in the company who was poor and new
to the game. This girl had to have a pair of embroidered
slippers. My mother had been a famous belle in Ireland,
and she had by her some ball slippers, memorials of
joyous days gone by. My mother had the smallest foot
in the world, but her slippers just fitted this child. She

ISHERWOOD 153

covered them with black velvet and embroidered the
velvet with blue braid and spangles in an intricate de-
sign. (The girl for whom they were made gave me
these slippers thirty years after I who was as yet un-
born.)

The play failed. Creditors became pressing. The
lecture was abandoned. It was no more a question of
how to get people into the theatre, but how to get out
of town so that the engagements for the winter could be
fulfilled. Where was the money to come from where-
with to purchase the railway-tickets for the company
and to satisfy the quite amiable creditors ? Not long
since I. met an officer of the garrison who had known my
father when he was a subaltern at Halifax during this
time. He told me this story and said that the substan-
tial citizens of the town were about to come to the rescue
when help arrived, as it were, from the blue.

It having been rumored that my father and his com-
pany were about to leave the city, some half dozen of
his creditors waited upon him. He received them at
the theatre during a rehearsal, Mr. Stoddart and Mr.
John T. Raymond being present.

"Mr. Sothern," said the creditors, "we regard you
and your troupe with esteem and affection, but we need
our money, and while we sympathize with you in your
misfortune, we must have some assurance that we will
be paid. What security can you offer?"

"None," said my father. "None, but my word. I
will pay, I promise."

"Sorry, but it won't do," said the amiable creditors.

"I have to get away to earn the money to pay you
with," said my father, who had really an engagement
at Wallack's Theatre .in New York where he felt, with

i 54 MY REMEMBRANCES

the certainty of youth, that fame awaited him with open
arms.

"It can't be done," said the creditors. "We shall
have to detain you."

"But you must observe," said my desperate father,
"that our earning power here is nil. You cannot get
blood out of a stone. I'll pay you, I promise, when my
ship comes in."

Said one of the creditors: "I'm afraid, Mr. Sothern,
your ship is not likely to bring you an audience. Indeed,
a whole fleet full of theatregoers will be necessary to
meet your obligations."

Said Mr. Raymond: "I can call spirits from the vasty
deep."

Said Mr. Stoddart: "And so can I, and so can any
man. But will they come?"

My mother who had been listening to this, pale, fear-
ful, terrified, now spoke. Said she: "The ship will
come in. I know it. The ship will come in."

When one desires very much that some particular
event shall happen and then shortly it does happen, one
is apt to regard the occurrence as a dispensation of
Providence. My mother always considered Sir Houston's
arrival as beyond the realm of mere coincidence. He
had promised to come to her should she want him. She
had wanted him and he came. Things began to look
very dark, indeed, when one day the North Atlantic
fleet slowly passed the fort at the mouth of the har-
bor.

"Boom!" went the guns a salute. "Boom!" re-
plied the vessels.

"It is my Admiral Houston," said my mother. "Our
ship has come in."

ISHERWOOD 155

The movements of war-ships are not accidental, nor
is it the office of the navy to come to the rescue of dis-
tressed Thespians. Still, as I have said, Sir Houston
was assured that it was not altogether the purposes of
the admiralty nor any chance that steered him to Hali-
fax, and nothing could ever persuade my mother but
that some pitiful cherub had hovered over his helm.
However, there Sir Houston was, a very angel of deliv-
erance, and a most willing and capable angel he proved
to be.

My father and mother hastened down to the harbor,
and securing a rowboat went out to the flag-ship. There
they were greeted by the admiral. Amid tears and
laughter the adventures of the season were discussed
and the help of the British navy implored.

Several performances were given "under the imme-
diate patronage of Admiral Sir Houston Stewart, K. C.
B." The occasion of the benefit of Mrs. Sothern espe-
cially being a gala night. The play was "She Stoops
to Conquer," with my mother in the character of Miss
Hardcastle.

The townsfolk who had remained cold to the allure-
ments of the drama filled the theatre to view the officers
and men of the fleet who attended in a body. The cred-
itors were appeased. Preparations were made for de-
parture to New York.

Those citizens and some officers of the garrison, whose
regard for my father inspired a desire to help him, waited
on him with a purse which they had subscribed. With
much emotion he declined it; with tears my mother
thanked them.

Another scene of rescue was subsequently enacted on
the stage of the Halifax Theatre in 1859.

156 MY REMEMBRANCES

This time not the British navy, but the army took
part in stirring events.

The relief of Lucknow, during the Indian mutiny,
occurred in 1857. In 1858, Dion Boucicault's drama,
"Jessie Brown/' was produced at Wallack's Theatre in
New York, and in 1859 at Sothern's Lyceum in Halifax.
That very Highland regiment which had performed such
an heroic part in the relief happened to be quartered at
Halifax, and the commander of the regiment gave permis-
sion for some of his men who had participated in the actual
drama to re-enact their characters on the mimic scene.

A gigantic Highland officer, six feet six in height, lent
my father his uniform to wear in the character of Ran-
dall McGregor. My father's height was five feet nine,
therefore the kilt was about twelve inches too long
for him. However, with my mother's help and the aid
of some safety-pins, he took a reef in it, and having ad-
justed to his head the huge bonnet made of ostrich
feathers which is as large as a grenadier's bearskin
he cut a very fine figure. He rehearsed in his costume,
and when brandishing his claymore, he cried: "To
arms, men ! One charge more, and this time drive your
steel down the throats of the murderous foe!" he felt
that success was assured. At the last moment, how-
ever, he found the great ostrich bonnet so very much
too big for his head that, to avoid possible accident, in
addition to the strap and chain which is worn under the
chin he, just before going on the stage, secured it to his
head with several pieces of piano wire which went from
the front of the head-piece about the back of his head,
and from the rear part of it to underneath his chin.
This ingenious device, invisible under the shaggy feathers,
rendered the toppling busby practically immovable.

ISHERWOOD 157

At the end of Act III the Redan Fort, which commands
a certain part of the city of Lucknow, is besieged by the
rebel Sepoys. Breastworks with embrasures for cannon
run across the back of the stage. The garrison is ex-
hausted.

"Ten men alone are fit for service. Ten men to re-
pulse a thousand."

"My friends," says the Reverend David Blount,
"it is fitting you should know that the last hour has ar-
rived. The last earthly hope is gone. Let us address
ourselves to Heaven. In an hour not one of these men
will be living."

"But," cries Mrs. Campbell, "we shall be living. Oh,
recollect Cawnpore. These children will be hacked to
pieces before our eyes, ourselves reserved for worse than
death. Kill us. If you leave us here you are accessories
to our dishonor our murder."

Distant drums are heard.

Cries Blount: "They come! They come! Already
they begin to ascend the hill!"

"Quick!" cries Mrs. Campbell, "or it will be too late.
Remember we are women and may not have the courage
to kill ourselves."

Randall : Murderers ! They come for their prey.
(Dashing down his bonnet) Yes ! I will tear it from their
rage. Soldiers, one volley, your last. To free your
countrywomen from the clutches of the demons, one
volley to their noble and true hearts, and then give your
steel to the enemy. Load !

(The women form a group and cling together.

Blount : (Reading the service for the dead) In the midst
of life we are in death.

(A distant wail of bagpipes is heard.}

1 58 MY REMEMBRANCES

Jessie Brown : (Starts up) Hark ! Hark ! Dinna ye
hear it ! Dinna ye hear it ! Ay ! I'm no dreaming.
It's the slogan of the Highlanders ! We're saved ! We're
saved !

(The bagpipes swell louder. Musketry t shouts. Jessie
Brown cries'): Tis the slogan of the McGregor, the grand-
est of them a'. There's help at last !

Randall (Cries}: To arms, men. One charge more,
and this time drive your steel down the throats of the
murderous foe !

(Bagpipes change to "Should Auld Acquaintance be
Forgot." Sepoys appear at the back.}

(Randall and the Highlanders with their piper charge up
the breastworks bearing down the Sepoys with the bayonet.
The relieving forces enter. Victory. Picture?)

Halifax being a garrison town, the excitement ran high
when this military play was announced. The commander
of the garrison with his staff, the officers and the soldiers
and the citizens in gala attire composed a fine assembly.
The play went with enthusiasm, and the great climax of
the relief of the beleaguered garrison had wrought the
audience up to fever heat.

My father, quite carried away with the heroism of his
part and the intensity of the situation, when called upon
to kill the women, cried: "Murderers! They come for
their prey !" and tried to obey the stage direction of dash-
ing down his bonnet. However, the huge structure was
so firmly tied to his head that he only succeeded in pull-
ing it over his face. He struggled madly to extricate
his head. At length he emerged and cried: "Soldiers,
one volley, your last, to free your countrywomen from
the clutches of the demons." He let go the extinguish-

ISHERWOOD 159

ing head-dress to make a gesture, and again it fell over
his countenance. The house was in an uproar. How-
ever, the other players proceeded with the business of the
scene, and the general clamor promised to cover up this
accident. When my father's next cue arrived, holding
up his bonnet with one hand, he waved his claymore with
the other and cried: "To arms, men! One charge more
and drive your steel down the throats of the murderous
foe!" In his excitement, he withdrew his hands from
his head-piece, and again his face disappeared from view.
At the same moment the safety-pins gave way, and the
huge kilt fell down to his heels. Blinded as he was by
the giant of a hat, the charging Highlanders, re-enacting
their actual experience with frantic enthusiasm, threw
him to the ground. When he arose he was so confused
that he ran in this direction and in that, tripping over his
kilt, waving his claymore, struggling to get his head out
of the bonnet, and crying incoherently: "Charge, men!
Drive your steel down the throats of the murderous foe !"

The heroic rescue of Lucknow was, of course, turned
into uproarious ridicule, and the play for that night
ruined.

This was in 1859.

On August 4, 1914, the Cunard liner Mauretania en-
tered Halifax harbor; war had been declared between
England and Germany on August 3d. The Mauretania
was fired on twice on the night of the 3d, and while I was
on deck the vessel paused, trembled, turned at a right
angle and made for Halifax. On the morning of the
4th I entered Halifax harbor for the first time. An Eng-
lish gunboat sped past on its way to seek battle with
some German men-of-war. We cheered with beating
hearts, and the least emotional of us felt the pulses beat

160 MY REMEMBRANCES

and the eyes grow dim. "The god of war" was abroad,
we shivered beneath the shadow of his wing. I thought
of Sir Houston and his fleet of over half a century ago;
how he had passed over the very track this gunboat fol-
lowed now; how he had said at parting, "Call me from
the end of the world and I will go to you"; and I said
to myself: "There are more things in heaven and earth
than are dreamed of in your philosophy."

XVIII
THE COCKED HAT

DURING the year of 1870, a number of small robberies
had occurred in the suburb of Kensington. Nearly all
the houses in the vicinity had little gardens at the rear,
which gave onto alleyways. Many houses had very
large gardens. All of these gardens were walled in, the
walls being about ten feet high. A man had frequently
been seen to escape capture by leaping these walls at a
bound. Report had credited this marauder with having
some contrivance of steel springs attached to his feet
which enabled him to make such astonishing leaps, and
he had been given the name of "Spring-heel Jack." I
remember very well the chills that went up and down my
spine when I heard of this agile party's habits. Dick
Turpin, the Newgate calendar, and the exploits of Jack
Sheppard were recalled by my small acquaintances, as
we kept a sharp lookout for any signs of this Jumping
Jack.

About this time my father, who was a great smoker,
began to notice that somebody was smoking his cigars;
that, too, in a most brazen and impudent fashion, leaving
the drawer of the desk open wherein they were kept, and
strewing cigars about the table and even the floor. On
one or two occasions the hall door leading to the garden
was found open in the morning, after having been care-
fully locked, bolted, and barred at night. A half-finished
glass of brandy and soda was discovered, one morning,

161

162 MY REMEMBRANCES

on the floor of the library; also the servants declared that
they had heard some one moving about the house in the
dead of night. Everybody began to feel exceedingly un-
comfortable, and this discomfort was increased when our
next-door neighbor, whose garden adjoined ours and who
could see into our grounds from his windows, called one
day to say he had seen a man moving stealthily about our
lawn and among the trees the night before.

My father decided to keep watch himself. He loaded
a double-barrelled shotgun and sat up in the dark. It
was a wearisome business, but he kept it up for two
nights. Nothing happened. The third night he slept
as usual, and the perverse burglar ransacked the cigar
drawer again that very evening. Not only that, but he
had taken down a number of books from their shelves
and had evidently sat down at my father's desk, smoking
and reading. We had several dogs which were kept in
the stables. Two of these, a large bulldog and a collie,
were brought into the house and left at large the next
evening. There was no doubt that should a strange man
appear these animals would raise a rumpus. Indeed it
was confidently assumed that the bulldog would deprive
the culprit of some large mouthfuls of cherished portions
of his anatomy. Not at all. There was not a bark, not
a growl. The ghostly visitor had come and gone with
impunity, and not only that, but he had actually taken
the dogs out for a walk in the garden. The garden door
was open again, and there on the wet pathway were the
marks of the feet of dogs and man.

A kind of firecracker was made at that time for the
use of children who wished to frighten their elders to
death. The cracker was about the size of a small cigar;
there was a string at each end of it, which could be at-

THE COCKED HAT 163

tached to either side of a doorway, say six inches from
the bottom of the opening. An unsuspecting aunt or
uncle or nurse or parent, passing through the doorway,
would collide with this torpedo, explode it, faint or have
hysterics, or otherwise exhibit an amusing spectacle of
grown-up stupidity, rage, and impotence.

My father procured some of these crackers and secured
them to every door in the house. It was useless. The
next morning they had all been carefully untied, so that
the unearthly visitant could pass through unscathed and
noiseless.

The thing was becoming unbearable; people began to
look pale and wan. If one spoke to a maid servant sud-
denly, she would scream and jump two feet in the air.
We had a butler named Biggs, and a nurse named Re-
becca. These two became so agitated that they got
married.

"I can't be alone any more," said Rebecca.

"This is no house for a single man," said Biggs.

The Biggses left us shortly to become greengrocers.
Meanwhile my father asked them to sit up and watch.
They did so, but fell asleep and were found locked in
the library. The double-barrelled gun which Biggs had
held ready for the elusive foe had been taken from his
nerveless fingers, unloaded, and placed back in its box.

"Spring-heel Jack" meanwhile had jumped over many
adjacent walls, and had relieved people of many small
belongings, for such agility would be hampered had he
purloined grand pianos, hall clocks, or bundles of family
plate. Bull's-eye lanterns were flashed in vain; a dozen
people had seen him leap ten, twenty, thirty feet very
naturally the distance increased with each narrator.

Johnson, my father's coachman, suffered from tooth-

164 MY REMEMBRANCES

ache. One night he was devoutly wishing that he was
toothless when he heard sounds in the stable below his
sleeping-apartment. He arose and looked down the
staircase. My father's favorite mare, "Topsy," which
he never permitted any one to drive but himself, was
being harnessed to the dog-cart by a man clad in a heavy
ulster and wearing a cocked hat with feathers in it.
Johnson's teeth chattered. He called his wife quietly.
There was the man and there was the cocked hat, and
there were the feathers, white and red. Johnson crept
down the staircase into the dark stable, bootless and
silent. He approached the man stealthily. He seized
him by the neck. The stranger turned quickly and
struck Johnson an awful blow between the eyes. John-
son fell heavily and his head struck the hard fire-brick
floor of the coach house; he remained dead to the world.
Mrs. Johnson naturally screamed. This awoke the cook
who slept across the yard. The cook spread the alarm.
Soon the stable-yard was filled with excited people;
candles and lanterns illuminated the scene. There was
"Topsy" harnessed; there was Johnson senseless and
with two damaged eyes, and, best of all, there was the
cocked hat ! But where was the stranger ? Where was
"Spring-heel Jack"? For undoubtedly it was he who
was about to steal the horse and trap.

My father soon appeared on the scene. Johnson was
lured back to this world by the aid of cold water and
doses of brandy. Held up by sympathizing fellow
servants, he told his tale, corroborated by the sobbing
and trembling Mrs. Johnson, "And there," said John-
son, "is the cocked hat."

"That?" said my father, taking the hat, "that is my
Claude Melnotte hat ! It has been taken from the cup-

THE COCKED HAT 165

board in my dressing-room ! Well," said my astonished
parent, "if that is not the most infernal impudence!
Well, I'll be hanged !"

"And so will I !" said my mother, who stood clinging
to him wide-eyed and excited.

Everybody was up all night, sleep was impossible.
Next day the police were consulted; the local guardians
of the peace had already failed signally to throw any
light on the identity of the artful and persistent dis-
turber of the serenity of Kensington. For the next two
or three days, policemen examined the stable-yard;
they examined the horse; they examined the dog-cart;
they examined the bulldog and the collie dog; they
examined the double-barrelled gun; they questioned
everybody; we lived in a very interrogation-point.
There was the cocked hat in the library on my father's
desk, with its feathers, red and white. That was what
puzzled the police, "why the cocked hat?" It was
reasonable to suppose that a man about to steal a horse
and carriage would wish to escape observation and
would don a felt hat, a slouch-hat, a top-hat, a straw
hat any kind of ordinary hat but for a thief, de-
sirous of concealment, to deliberately select a large
cocked hat, trimmed with gold braid and ornamented
with red-and-white feathers, struck everybody as the
height of absurdity, or the acme of courageous insolence.
Really the fellow, "Spring-heel Jack," defied capture,
snapped his fingers at the authorities, put his thumb
to his nose as it were and twiddled his fingers at Scot-
land Yard, at the police force in general, at the army
and the navy even the King and Queen and the Tower
of London. Jack Sheppard had reappeared among us,
laughing at prison walls and treating the officers of the

i66 MY REMEMBRANCES

law as if they were so many postage-stamps that is,
things to be placed just where one desired them to be,
permanent and immovable.

"I say the thing is impossible!" cried my father,
"and something has to be done."

"Leave it to me," said Uncle Hugh.

Now we all have our prejudices which lead us into
error and humiliation and force us to self-abnegation
and apology. My father and many another person
looked upon Uncle Hugh as an amiable and eccentric
idiot. So when Uncle Hugh said, "Leave it to me,"
my father said, "Pooh!" my mother said, "Oh tush!"
and the bystanders smiled.

I, however, having braved untold hardships and dan-
gers, and having accomplished incredible adventures
under the leadership of Uncle Hugh, looked upon the
matter as solved the moment that seafarer became
mixed up in it.

The time for my father's tour of the English provinces
was approaching; the wardrobe for his various char-
acters had been replenished; the new things had come
home. Large trunks had been brought up into the large
spare bedroom. My father and mother had been busy
with lists and labels, my father being a most methodical
fellow; each trunk was labelled with the name of a play,
as "Our American Cousin," "David Garrick," "Sam,"
''Dundreary Married and Settled," "The Lady of Lyons,"
"The Hero of Romance," "The Captain of the Watch."
All of these were to be played on tour. The arrange-
ment of all these garments shoes, boots, lace shirts,
linen shirts, cravats, gloves, wigs, hats, jewels, stockings,
and a thousand and one other articles needed a vast
amount of care and precision. My father was playing

THE COCKED HAT 167

at the Haymarket Theatre in town; he came home
late, and, during the exciting events here narrated, he
had occupied this spare room so that he might not dis-
turb my mother and might look over his lists in the
evening. The spare room was now given to Uncle Hugh,
who slept there surrounded by large trunks, as though
he were admiral of a fleet, his bed the flag-ship, and the
trunks a battle squadron. My father returned to his
own apartment.

"Leave it to me!" said Uncle Hugh, and retired to
bed, his telescope under his pillow (mere force of
habit), a cutlass in one hand, and a six-shooter in the
other.

At about four bells, or, as we landlubbers would say,
at about three o'clock in the morning, Uncle Hugh
awoke. He sat up with a start; his fair hair fairly stood
up on his head; his sea-blue eyes protruded a consider-
able distance toward the end of his remarkably long
nose. There, in the moonlight, stood a tall figure dressed
in the costume of a general of the time of Napoleon a
dark-blue uniform dress coat with gilt buttons, with
tricolor sash of silk around his waist, a pair of white-
cloth breeches, boots to the knee with tan tops, a linen
stock, his hair falling in plaits on each side of his face,
and, on his head, a general's cocked hat with red and
white feathers.

From mere force of habit, Hugh sought for his tele-
scope, but this visitant from another world was clear
enough to the naked eye. Hugh slid out of bed, grasp-
ing firmly his cutlass and his pistol; he steered to lee-
ward of the foe. The figure held a pencil in his right
hand and a note-book in his left; he was making notes,
but was staring out of the window. He was breathing

168 MY REMEMBRANCES

heavily and regularly. Hugh levelled his pistol and hailed
the spirit.

"Ahoy there!" said Hugh. The figure moved not.
Mindful that my mother slept in the next room and
fearful of frightening her, Hugh approached nearer, a
little in front of the ghost.

"Ahoy there!" whispered Hugh; but the image stood
still, writing, writing, writing in the book.

Hugh crept nearer, the moon shone full on the face
of the slowly breathing thing. Hugh came within a
foot of its countenance and peered into its eyes. It was
my father. He was fast asleep.

A figure appeared at the door of the adjoining room.
It was my mother. She had awakened to find my father
gone. Hugh raised his arm for silence. Together they
watched the strange figure. The garments for the various
plays were arranged on tables and shelves about the
room, ready to be placed in the trunks, each lot labelled
and listed with exact care. My father always did such
things himself. He now began to pack these five or six
trunks; he put everything in its proper place, looking
at the lists, but only looking with his mind's eye. His
eyes gazed ever before him, but he would take up a
list, pause, consider and proceed. He filled all the trunks,
put the appropriate lists in each one, locked them up,
went out of the room, down-stairs to the library, meet-
ing the two dogs in the hall, which, of course, knew him
and followed after him; opened the drawer of the desk,
took out some cigars, lighted one, dropping others on
the floor and on the desk. He went to the dining-room,
helped himself to some brandy and opened a bottle of
soda-water, cutting the string with a knife and exer-
cised much care to avoid the cork popping and the

THE COCKED HAT 169

soda-water overflowing. He carried the drink back to
the library. He sat at the desk for some time writing,
without a pen in his hand and without any paper. For
some five minutes my terrified mother, and the aston-
ished Hugh watched him.

At last he got up, unlocked, unbarred, and opened the
garden door; went out followed by the dogs; walked
through the garden to the stable, took a private key of
his own from a certain window-sill where it was kept
in case Johnson should be out, entered the stable, pro-
ceeded to harness "Topsy," led that sweet mare into
the coach house, put her into the dog-cart, mounted
the box, and drove out into the stable-yard.

The clatter of hoofs brought Johnson and his wife to
the window. He slid down the stairs and was about to
yell, when Hugh stopped him with cutlass and pistol.

"It is the master !" said my mother in a dread whisper.
"If you wake people who walk in their sleep it kills them."

"That!" looked Johnson. "In the cocked hat, seated
there on the box of the dog-cart, in that outlandish get-up !"

My father touched "Topsy" with the whip. That
playful lady stood on one leg and waved the other three
joyfully in the air.

"He'll kill himself!" cried my mother.

"Open the stable door," said Hugh, bounding up into
the cart beside my father.

Like a flash went "Topsy" through the gate, the tall fig-
ure of the Napoleonic wars the Claude Melnotte of the
play swaying gayly with the swaying cart; Uncle Hugh,
clad only in his nightshirt and a steamer rug and a pair
of slippers. Up the high street, Kensington, and as far
as the entrance to Holland Park went "Topsy." There
my father awoke.

I7 o MY REMEMBRANCES

"Twelve pairs of black silk stockings, six court rapiers,
six pairs of square-cut shoes with paste buckles," said
my father.

"Ned!" said Uncle Hugh, "Ned, are you awake?"

"Of course I'm awake," said my father.

A policeman came up. "Wot's this 'ere?" said he.
"Fifth of November? Guy Fawkes day, ain't it?"

"Policeman," said Uncle Hugh, "we have been dream-
ing."

"Yes," said my father, who was well aware that he
sometimes had walked in his sleep, "we have been dream-
ing."

"We will now drive home," said Uncle Hugh.

"Get up," said my father, and touched "Topsy." That
lady stood on one leg again and greeted the sunrise with
a snort; then she sped away, the cocked hat and the
red feather waving in the morning air.

"Dreaming ?" said the policeman to the milkman, who
told it to the cook, who told it to the nurse, who told it
generally. "Dreaming? Dreaming? You can tell that
to the marines."

"Spring-heel Jack" was actually arrested shortly after
this eventful night. It transpired that he had never
jumped over any wall; he had climbed walls, not to say
crawled over them; he possessed little or no agility; was
far from being a desperado. When he was labelled in
the Rogues' Gallery the description read "Sneak-thief."

"Hugh!" said my father, "Lecoq was a fool to you.
I'm sorry I said 'Pooh!'"

" Hugh certainly solved the mystery," said my mother.

"I am a sailor," said Hugh.

"I wonder what that had to do with it," said I.

XIX
LORD DUNDREARY

LAURA KEENE is reported to have had a bad temper,
which took possession of her to such an extent that on
one occasion she is said to have thrown goldfish about
the room in her frenzy. This may or may not be so, and
it is not necessary to believe a fish story. However, my
father, at that time playing as Mr. Douglas Stewart,
became a member of Laura Keene's company about 1857.
When that tempestuous lady undertook to discipline that
audacious young man, she met her Waterloo. He out-
manoeuvred her, outflanked her, and indeed defeated her
completely. Mr. Stewart had incurred Miss Keene's dis-
pleasure at a rehearsal. She summoned him to her dress-
ing-room, and as soon as he entered she began a violent
tirade. Mr. Stewart stepped quickly to the gas-jet,
which illuminated the sacred chamber, and, turning out
the gas, plunged the room into darkness.

"What do you mean, sir! How dare you!" stormed
the lady.

"Pardon me, Miss Keene," said that impudent Mr.
Stewart, "I can't bear to see a pretty woman in a temper,"
and under cover of the darkness he made his exit.

It was at Laura Keene's Theatre that "Our American
Cousin" was first produced. My father, having now
taken his own name of Sothern, since two other Stew-
arts, one a manager and the other an actor in the same
company, created confusion. The story of this produc-

171

172

MY REMEMBRANCES

tion has often been told, but a new light was thrown upon
the history of Lord Dundreary when Joseph Jefferson re-
lated to me the following facts:

It appears that Mr. Jefferson was at the time of this

production supposed
to be suffering from
consumption. He
told me that his doc-
tors declared that his
only hope was to be
out in the fresh air
as much as possible.
That actually his life
depended upon it.

He was glad, there-
fore, when my father
joined Laura Keene's
company, to discover
that he was passion-
ately fond of riding.
They hired a stable
together and pur-
sue rnoiutioo. - chased two horses.

FACSIMILE OF PART OF ADVERTISEMENT IN T I c U,, r -4 t U- - Y

NEW YORK HERALD, OCTOBER 18, 1858, I ney SaZTCQ tne CX-
ANNOUNCING THE FIRST PRODUCTION OF ____ W U: P U W _ Q _ cp

"OUR AMERICAN COUSIN" pense,wmcn was a se-

rious matter, as they

were both merely stock actors. When the play of "Our
American Cousin" was read to the company, as was
customary, my father was so disheartened with the part
for which he was cast Lord Dundreary, a second old
man with only a few lines that he determined to throw
up his engagement and leave America. He had been
acting for ten years, and had, he thought, made some

Y AURA KEENE'fl NEW THEATRE, 644 BROADWAY.
1 J The necessary arrangements for the production of Tom
Taylor'i new and orlglnallh/ee act comedy having been com-
pleted, the management would respectfully Inform the public
that the first representation of

OUR AMERICAN COUSIN.

which piece haa been expressly written for this theatre bj> 000
of the moat popular dramatists of the period, and

NKVKR BKFOBB AOTKD ON ANY STACK,
will lake place

MONDAY EVENING, OCT. 18, 1858,
with DW scenery,

Appropriate costumes.

Properties, appointments, Ac., ft&,
and a cut comprising within Its limits nearly the entire
8TRKNOTH OF THE COMEDY COMPANY.
OUR AMERICAN COUSIN

Ala Trenchard, a live Yankee Mr. JcffeftOn

fclr Edward Trenchard, a Hampshire Baronet. Mr. Varrey

Lord Dundreary Mr. Sothern

Lieut Veruon, R. N Mr. Levlck

Capt.de Boots Mr. Clinton

Coyle, attorney at law Mr. Burnett

Abel Mureott. his cierk Mr. Couidock

Binoey, a butler Mr. Peters

Buddicombe, Lord Dundreary's man Mr. McDouall

Rssper, a groom Mr. Wharton

John Whicker, an under gardener Mr. B. Brown

Florence Trenchard Miss Laura Keene

Hit. Mouutcheninglon Miss Mary Welles

Augusta $K.,x m .M.^.l MlssEffle Oermon

GeoVgina J her daughters J Mr*. Sothern

Mary Meredith Miss bar* Stevens

Bharpe, Miss Trenchard's maid Miss Klynn

Skillet, Mrs. Mountchessinglon's maid Mrs. Lerick

SYNOPSIS OF SCENERY AND INCIDENTS.
ACT I.

SCENE I. Morning Room at Trenchard Manor A Imy .

Servants' gossip. An itinerant post office much more expe-
ditious than the official slow coach. An unknown locality.
Where is BraUleboro, Vermont? Florence. A trans-Atlantic
letter. A dead branch of the genealogical tree resuscitated.
An interesting Invalid. An unexpected arrival. Our Ameri-
can cousin. Cousinly affection checked. An unsatisfactory
luncheon. No chowder. No slapjacks. No Nothing. An
American drink. Brandy smashes and chain lightning.

SCENKII. Room in Trenchard Manor , . . . . JThorne.

A model lawyer and a drunken clerk. Debt, the nemesis.

A financial panic. An old mortgage, but no release, fraud
la perspective. A terrible price. A daughter's happiness for
a father's safety. A female Robin Hood. Hopeless Inebriety.

NEW TOKK, MONDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1858.

mi llEl TRfi *

624 Brordway, twtween Houstou i'il Ulreckcr street.

MONDAY EVENING, NOV. 22nd, 1858,^

iJTD EVEBT Ml. II I rSTTI. I I KT1IF.K JKllfltE.

W'l ' > " ~"~ ; 1

Strength of the Comedy Company, |

fDumb Belle

Bsa

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Reproduced by courtesy of John F. Hinchman
PROGRAMME LAURA KEENE*S THEATRE,
NOVEMBER 22, 1858

LORD DUNDREARY 173

impression, and he felt that if his years of labor had
brought him no further reward, he would give up the
struggle. He told Jefferson that he proposed to return
to England and enter his father's office in Liverpool, to
devote himself to mercantile pursuits. At once it oc-
curred to Mr. Jefferson that if my father went away he
would have to abandon the stable; he could not bear the
expense alone. He used all his powers of argument to
induce my father not to throw up his part. Joe Jeffer-
son was the leading comedian of the company, and he
promised my father that with Miss Keene's consent, he
would permit him any liberty in the scenes they might
have together.

"But I have no scenes," said my father; "I have only
about ten lines."

"We will have scenes," said Jefferson; "we will make
them."

He persuaded the dejected Mr. Sothern to at least at-
tend the first few rehearsals, and he did so. Jefferson
was as good as his word, of course, and Miss Keene was
induced to allow Lord Dundreary much liberty. My
mother played Georgina, the part opposite my father, and
she and he worked up many lines and replies at home,
and were allowed to introduce them into the play. If
you have ever seen this comedy you may have remarked
that nearly all of Dundreary's scenes are with Asa Tren-
chard or Georgina. Jefferson worked hard to help his
fellow horseman, and day by day Dundreary was, as it
were, superimposed upon the play. The success of the
character was not so great at first, but it grew as the actor
felt his way. The printed play as sold by French &
Son represents the result of the first two seasons or so of
performances. Every season that my father played the

174 MY REMEMBRANCES

piece it was altered and added to; his work on it was con-
stant and unremitting. Many actors played the part,
indeed it was commonly played by the stock companies
of the day, but my father always kept ahead with fresh
ideas. The play was gradually simplified from a drama
of three acts of four scenes each to a play of four acts of
one scene each, the first and last scene being the same.
My father each year copied out his own prompt-books,
or had them copied, and then wrote in his most recent
additions. I have many such prompt-books, with most
minute notes and directions. When I played the play,
nearly thirty years after his death, these manuscripts
were so perfect that I had no difficulty in recalling every
movement of all the characters. My father's genius was
indeed the genius of infinite pains. I have heard him
relate that the little skip he used in his gait in Dundreary
originated simply from his habit of trying to keep in step
with my mother as they walked up and down at the back
of the stage arranging their lines. The skip and the
stutter and other business grew and grew from per-
formance to performance. As Jefferson says in his
"Life," the character of Dundreary gradually pushed all
the other characters out of the play.

Another unpublished incident of the history of this
comedy came to me by accident, when one evening, while
I was playing the piece in America, my manager told me
that an old Englishman who kept the gallery door wished
to see me. I asked him to come behind the scenes. He
had, he said, occupied a position in the great dry-goods
store of Marshall & Snellgrove in London at the time
of the first production of "Our American Cousin," at the
Haymarket Theatre. Mr. Buckstone was the manager
of the Haymarket. It was his habit when business was

From a photograph by C. D. Fredericks y Co. in the collection of Robert Coster

E. A. SOTHERN AS LORD DUNDREARY, 1858

LORD DUNDREARY 175

bad to distribute a number of free seats among the em-
ployees of this establishment. One day Mr. Buckstone
called and said: "This new play, 'Our American Cousin,'
is an absolute failure. The house is empty, and I want
to make an effort to fill it on Saturday night. I think
this new man, Sothern, is very funny, and if he can get
a house, I believe he will succeed." A great number of
seats were given out, but curiously on that Saturday the
fact that Lord Dundreary was an amusing personage had
attracted a number of people to the pit. It was the pit
that Mr. Buckstone especially desired to fill, for the pit
to "rise at one," was then, as now, extremely desirable.
Together with free tickets and those who wished to pay,
there was such a crush at the pit entrance that a woman
was thrown down and trampled to death in a panic which
ensued. On Monday the papers were full of this accident.
Correspondence ensued, much advertising was the result,
and, said my new friend, "the success of the play was
assured from that moment." To what untoward cir-
cumstance may we not owe our success or failure! That
poor woman's death may have actually turned the for-
tune of the play, for if it had not drawn on the next
Monday, it was Mr. Buckstone's intention to take it off.
The play ran for four hundred and ninety-six nights at
the Haymarket and made the fortune of Mr. Buckstone
and of my father.

Two curious circumstances happened during this
English engagement. One night, after "Dundreary"
had been triumphant for about a year, and my father
felt more than assured of his great success, a weary
swell in the first row of the stalls arose about the mid-
dle of the second act, deliberately put on his coat,
stretched himself, yawned audibly, while people mur-

176 MY REMEMBRANCES

mured "Hush!" "Sit down!" etc., and started un-
perturbed up the aisle. My father, greatly nettled
but feeling sure of sympathy from the disturbed spec-
tators, went down to the footlights and said: "I beg
your pardon, my dear sir, but there are two more acts
after this."

"I know," said the weary one, "that's why I'm going."

It is dangerous to step out of one's part. An old
friend of my father, one Doctor Simpson, induced him
to go out of town to play one matinee performance of
"Dundreary." My father, feeling that he was conferring
rather a favor on the small community, went with his
company. This Simpson was a great joker, and went
about telling the rustic auditors that this man Sothern,
being an eminent London actor, they must be careful
about their demeanor in the theatre. "This is no cheap
kind of play," said he. "You must not let this man
think we have no manners. Don't applaud, don't laugh;
it isn't done, people of taste don't do it. Laugh when
you get home, but remember, 'the loud laugh denotes
the vacant mind.' If you like this man's acting, say so
quietly when you meet him at the reception after the
play."

Never was there such a night. The house crowded to
the doors and not a sound of welcome, not a sound of
laughter at this most comic of characters. For two
acts my distracted father endured torture, the fiendish
Simpson running around to him every now and again,
hitting him on the back and whispering vehemently:
"Isn't it great! I never saw such enthusiasm! They're
simply mad about it!"

"The devil they are!" said my wretched father.
"They are as dumb as oysters."

From a photograph by Sarony

EDWARD A. SOTHERN AS LORD DUNDREARY IN
"OUR AMERICAN COUSIN"

LORD DUNDREARY 177

It came to the third act where there is a long and
most arduous monologue of nearly half an hour. Not
a sound. My father could endure no more. He arose
from the stool whereon he sat, walked down to the foot-
lights and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, if you don't
laugh I can't go on." Pandemonium broke loose. People
shouted and wept. My father for once was nonplussed,
but he caught sight of Simpson in a box self-possessed
and smileless, and a light broke in upon his dark-
ness.

I have been nursed on more knees than any other
baby in America. While the men and women of my
father's generation were yet alive, I would constantly
meet elderly people, males and females, who would ex-
claim: "Why, I nursed you on my knee when you were
a baby!" Old Couldock, Mrs. Walcot, Joe Jefferson,
Stoddart, William Warren, Mrs. Vincent I could name
a thousand in public and private life whose knees had
accommodated me. From knee to knee I would seem
to have hopped as birds from bough to bough. I must
have reposed upon as many bosoms as did Queen Eliza-
beth on four-post beds. Whether I was nursed thus be-
cause I was either beautiful or good, or because the
last good Samaritan desired to hand me on rapidly to
the next, history sayeth not. Perchance my mother, in
her busy life at that time, had constantly to say to the
bystanders, "Here! hold the baby!" while she ran to
take up her cue at rehearsal; the infant would have to
be controlled by an alien hand, while " Ride a cockhorse,"
and "Pat-a-cake, baker's man" may have been sung in
my ear by many an unwilling nurse.

It is not always that one may excite admiration con-
cerning one's personal charms before one has entered

i 7 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

upon this stage of fools. Such, however, was my good
fortune. I have a letter, written by my father from New
Orleans, to his sister in England; it says:

Lytton is the most strictly beautiful child you ever
saw. Fan [my mother] is looking over my shoulder
as I write and says: "Of course the baby will be the
same."

The baby was myself. On December 6, 1859, at
79 Bienville Street, New Orleans, the baby appeared.
My father, careful to remember unimportant details,
made a memorandum in a scrap-book of theatrical no-
tices; among other notes, such as the sum due his land-
lady, and the number and variety of articles of clothing
in the wash, he had jotted down: "December 6, 1859,
4 A. M., 79 Bienville Street, New Orleans, boy born."

One is apt to forget a thing like that; a baby may
readily be mislaid, and it is always wise to make notes.
While the event was still fresh in his memory, the de-
lighted parent wrote with enthusiasm to his friend Cone,
the father of Kate Claxton, whose brother gave me the
letter:

DEAR CONE:

The long expected youth has at last arrived. The
very first thing he did was to sneeze, so the least we can
do is to call him Dundreary Sothern.

At the time of my birth my father was a member of
a stock company in New Orleans. It was shortly after
the successful production of "Our American Cousin"
at Laura Keene's Theatre in New York. This present
enterprise was my father's venture, and the theatre was
called for the occasion "Sothern's Varieties." Here a

LORD DUNDREARY 179

large and varied repertoire was played, my mother doing
her share of this work and even adapting a drama from
the French, called in English "Suspense," which was a
great success. Lawrence Barrett and John T. Raymond
were members of the organization.

I left New Orleans as a baby, and did not return until
I was nineteen and a member of John McCullough's
company. I sought out my birthplace, and discovered
it with some difficulty, for the numbers of the houses
had been changed; but at last I found the spot, a strange,
foreign-seeming building constructed about a court-
yard which was surrounded by galleries like an ancient
English inn. The place was still a lodging-house; in-
deed the woman who had kept it during my father's
time was not long dead. I was able from description
often repeated to locate the very rooms my father and
mother occupied, and the room wherein I first made my
entrance. The old Saint Charles Hotel was then in exis-
tence the building of the war-times. I hied me with
much interest to the barroom, for there was the scene
of a tragedy whereof I had heard my father speak. In
that large and rather gloomy hall, supported by columns,
had been fought a duel between an actor named Harry
Copeland and one Overall, a newspaper man. My father
was present at this conflict and barely saved his life
by jumping behind one of these same columns.

While I was in New Orleans on this visit, an old lady
gave me a small fawn-colored coat, very old-fashioned,
with high collar, bell-shaped cuffs, pearl buttons as
large as a half-dollar, much moth-eaten. On the small
strap by which coats are hung was the name of Dion
Boucicault. When "Our American Cousin" was first
produced in New York, Boucicault had lent my father

i8o MY REMEMBRANCES

this coat to wear in his part; my father had given it
to the husband of this woman as a keepsake, and here
it was back again with me. When I reached home I
looked into the ancient pockets and behold! there was
a paper and written in my father's hand, some mem-
oranda:

Get "Peter Parley's Tales" for Lytton.

Lent So-and-so twenty-five dollars; this makes forty-
five he owes me.

Fan's birthday.

Have part copied.

Pad for Kinchin and prompt-book of "Flowers of the
Forest."

Write to Polly (his sister).

Name of baby Hugh Edward John Edwin
Francis Askew also shoes.

Hair-cut.

Here certain sums in arithmetic, evidently profits
and losses.
Then comes the startling announcement:

To-day the baby distinctly said "DASH IT!"

This epoch-making remark of mine has escaped the
eye of contemporaneous historians. It may appear a
matter of no moment to the unobservant for one small
babe to say "Dash it!" One's first observation does
not carry the same significance as one's last. Whether
"Dash it!" was a reminiscence or a criticism or an ex-
pletive, whether spoken in the spirit of inquiry, rebuke,
comment, contrition, or abuse, joy or grief or pleasure
or regret, may not be known. That it was a statement
worthy of record is established beyond a doubt. At

E. A. SOTHERN AS THE KINCHIN IN THE FLOWERS
OF THE FOREST"

LORD DUNDREARY 181

that time it was an utterance of some consequence;
the fate of nurseries depended on it. Evidently it was
an event expected and prepared for. Had it not been
for the accident of my meeting with the old lady who
gave me the coat, this oration might never have been
chronicled, and the first address of a distinguished citizen
to his native city would have been buried in oblivion.
Whether I was "dashing" the world, or the nurse, or
life, or things in general, is not set down; that I even
meant what I said is not now to be established. That
I "dashed" something was evident. The dashed thing
that was dashed must forever remain a mystery.

XX
ALL MIRTH AND NO MATTER

THE difference between wit and humor has often been
debated.

"This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, and to do
that well craves a kind of wit."

Here wit and wisdom are synonymous.

Says the Oxford dictionary of wit: "Intelligence, un-
derstanding, power of giving sudden intellectual pleasure
by unexpected combining or contrasting of previously un-
connected ideas or expressions." Of humor: "State of
mind, mood, jocose imagination, less intellectual and more
sympathetic than wit."

The practical joker comes under the category of wit,
I fancy; yet there are practical jokes and practical jokes.
It may be a practical joke to crush an old gentleman's
hat over his eyes, but such an attack, though it may
cause laughter, is hardly an exhibition of intelligence or
understanding, nor can the pleasure excited in the on-
looker be classed as intellectual. But a carefully pre-
pared and elaborate series of events leading up to a comic
predicament, such as my father perpetrated when Bryant's
minstrel men impersonated the elite of New York, and
by a "shoot-up" at a dinner-party drove an ingenuous
Englishman to seek refuge under the table here one
may beg to class ideas in action with wit. "The clown
shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickled o* the

sere," says Hamlet. This result may readily be achieved

182

ALL MIRTH AND NO MATTER 183

by blows from the bawble with the bladder usually at-
tached thereto. The wit proceeds by finer methods;
imagination, premeditation, and a distinct intellectual
quality distinguish his inventions. I think, therefore,
that my father's practical jokes for which, in his day,
he was more or less famous proceeded from his wit.

The macaroni of Sheridan's time, who upset the watch-
men and buried them in their sentry-like boxes, who
wrenched the knockers off doorways in the middle of the
night, and ran their rapiers through peaceful pedestrians,
were hardly witty. But Sheridan was a wit.

When his creditor, the livery-stable keeper, called in his
carriage to collect his heavy account, Sheridan, enter-
taining him with wine and wit, not only persuaded him
to forego payment, but borrowed a heavy sum from him,
and then, having excused himself, drove away in the
liveryman's carriage. When the liveryman, weary of
waiting for his host's return, was told Mr. Sheridan had
taken his vehicle, he cried: "Gone in my carriage!"

To which the servant replied: "Mr. Sheridan never
walks!"

When the town heard this, the adventure was hailed
as the exploit of wit. But there may have been some-
thing of cruelty in it, since one speaks of the "victim" of
a wit; while humor, depending more upon the grotesque
and unexpected in the demeanor and utterance of the
humorist, is perhaps devoid of that quality.

The practical joke certainly presupposes a victim;
somebody has to be put in a foolish and laughable situa-
tion. Even a community may be made to look ridiculous.
This occurred when my father, playing under the name of
Mr. Douglas Stewart, then a member of Laura Keene's
company in New York, put an advertisement in the paper

1 84 MY REMEMBRANCES

and distributed hand-bills to the effect that Professor
Cantellabiglie (can tell a big lie) would fly from the top
of Trinity steeple at noon on a certain day in the year
1859. At the appointed hour the crush was so great
that traffic was utterly disorganized; a riot seemed im-
minent. A free fight for coigns of vantage took place in
many localities. The police had the greatest difficulty in
handling the huge crowds. At last some one while con-
templating the name of the new Icarus discovered the
joke.

"Can tell a big lie !" he shouted. "It's a hoax I"

A roar of rage, another of laughter succeeded. Then
the town laughed at the town, and each man at his
neighbor. The joker was not discovered for some days.
When Mr. Douglas Stewart announced himself as the
perpetrator of the joke, it was admitted that he had done
well.

I have met men in this year of 1914 who are still laugh-
ing at Cantellabiglie. Any man who can provide such
perennial amusement is a public benefactor.

When I was at school in London in 1875, mv pastors
and masters, like most other Englishmen, were per-
suaded that one shot buffalo in Central Park, and that
red Indians perambulated on Fifth Avenue, exchanging
skins for beads, and occasionally shooting with poisoned
arrows at offending citizens. One's scalp was supposed
to be somewhat unsafe, and to breakfast without one's
six-shooter by one's plate and one's bowie-knife in one's
boot was to be branded as a reckless fellow. Mr. Phillip
Lee, the husband of Miss Adelaide Neilson, was of these
opinions. My father took pains to cultivate such views,
and on his arrival in New York met Mr. Lee at the dock
with a brass band, conducted him to the Gramercy Park

From a photograph by Sarony

EDWARD A. SOTHERN ABOUT 1875

ALL MIRTH AND NO MATTER 185

Hotel, discussed the buffalo hunt for the following day,
which was to be accompanied by a band of Sioux Indians,
and left his guest to dress himself for a great banquet
which was to be given in his honor that same evening.
To this occasion had been invited the most eminent men
of the United States a great number of judges, colonels,
major-generals, doctors, senators, professors, and so on.
Mr. Lee, being a distinguished foreigner, was to be
greeted by the elite of New York.

As a matter of fact, my father had conspired with his
friend, Dan Bryant, the celebrated minstrel man, who
arrived at the appointed hour, accompanied by about
thirty of his comedians, attired in more or less aristo-
cratic if somewhat outre costume. My father had pre-
pared Lee for the primitive manners of the uncouth Amer-
ican; but he was somewhat taken aback at a certain
freedom of expression, and became ill at ease when each
guest, as he took his place at the dinner-table, placed a
six-shooter of great size by his plate.

"It is nothing," whispered my father to his guest of
honor; "merely custom; very touchy, these people; great
sense of honor; let us hope there will be no bloodshed."

This humane desire was dashed, however, when, grace
having been said, Dan Bryant drank his soup from the
plate and demanded a second helping. A guest on the
opposite side of the table laughed. Mr. Bryant requested
to know what caused the amusement of his honorable
friend, Judge Morton. A short colloquy followed which
culminated in the Honorable Mr. Bryant shooting across
the table at the Honorable Mr. Morton, and that agile
gentleman jumping on to the table, bowie-knife in hand,
loudly avowing his intention of cutting the heart out of
the Honorable Mr. Bryant.

186 MY REMEMBRANCES

Friends adjusted this initial difficulty; explanations
were in order, hands were shaken, drinks were taken,
apologies to the guest of the evening were made, and the
fish was served. Some one made a remark about some
one else being "a queer fish."

"A reflection on our host!" cried a major-general,
"the fish is first rate!"

"You lie!" remarked a distinguished senator.

Panic ensued. A fight with bowie-knives at once took
everybody from the table. Up and down the room strug-
gled the combatants; now the knives were in the air,
visible above the heads of the crowd; now they were
apparently plunged into the bodies of the honorable
major-general and the honorable senator. Shrieks, curses,
demands for fair play shook the chandeliers. At last the
honorable senator was slain; his body was taken into the
adjoining room, the door closed, the banquet resumed.

Lee was in a highly excited state and suggested the
police.

"No, no!" said several honorable gentlemen, senators,
judges, and professors, "we always settle these matters
among ourselves. The coroner is a friend of ours; he
invariably attends after any important gathering."

The dinner proceeded. Speeches of welcome to Mr.
Lee, the distinguished guest, were in order. Replies
by my father and Lee were offered amidst great applause
and laughter. Lee especially was acclaimed; every word
he said was the signal for shouts of appreciation. The
conspirators were waiting for a cue to cap the excite-
ment of the night. Lee provided it when he said, with
a desire to conciliate everybody and appease the war-
ring factions: "I was born in England, my mother was
Irish and my father was Scotch. As an Englishman,

ALL MIRTH AND NO MATTER 187

I salute you ! as a Scotchman, I greet you ! as an Irish-
man, I cry, 'Erin go bragh !' 3

"He means me!" cried a senator, bringing a bowie-
knife from the back of his neck. Like a flash a bullet
from a doctor of divinity laid him low. A dozen shots
rang out. Some one gave a signal, and the lights were
extinguished. A general battle ensued amid such a
turmoil that chaos seemed come again; the table-cloth
was pulled from the table with a crash of glass and crock-
ery. A great banging at doors added to the din. Cries
of "Murder!" "Kill him!" "Knife him!" rent the
air.

When the gas was lit at last and silence was restored,
the floor was strewn with victims. Lee was nowhere
to be seen. Search revealed him hiding under the table,
his teeth chattering, his hair on end, and terror in his
eye. He was extricated. The dead men arose and hoped
he had not been disturbed by the slight misunderstand-
ing. Law and order was restored, and, amid much good
feeling, the buffalo hunt was arranged for the following
morning.

The practical joker's day is past. He began to fade
with the doings of Theodore Hook; my father was about
the last of his race, as Count D'Orsay was the last of the
dandies. Times are changed, but there are men alive
still who remember Cantellabiglie and the dinner to
Phil Lee, and who yet laugh as they remember. Many
and many a man has introduced himself to me and
shown me kindness in recollection of these adventures,
which surely left a gentle thought of their perpetrator.

When I was once very much in need in New York,
a man who had been one of the victims of the Cantell-
abiglie hoax insisted that I should live on credit in his

i88 MY REMEMBRANCES

boarding-house and that I should not worry about my
bill at his restaurant. More than that, seeing that ready
cash was a scarce commodity with me, he one day thrust
some bills into my hand for my father's sake. "He
used to make me laugh/' said he, and tears were in his
eyes.

Once when I was on tour in a one-night stand, some of
my company and I sought supper after the play was
over. No restaurant was open, but a friendly police-
man assured us that if he could induce a certain German
grocer to open his store we might get some bread and
cheese and sardines. The prospect was delicious to
hungry wayfarers. We knocked at the grocer's door.
Shortly, a head appeared at the window. The owner
of the head at first refused to accommodate us, but
promises of gold melted his resolve, and shortly a very
ill-tempered German let us in. He lighted a lamp and,
seated on kegs and a bench, we began to munch our
cheese and crackers and to drink cider. One of my com-
pany, Herbert Archer, addressed me by name.

"What's that you say?" said the grocer, pausing in
the act of opening sardines. "What name was that?"

"Sothern," said I, "my name."

"What Sothern?" said the cheesemonger, "not Soth-
ern the actor?"

"Yes," said I.

He put down his sardines with deliberation, came
over to me and placed a hand on each shoulder.

"Your father? "said he.

"Yes," said I.

"Are you the son of old Dundreary Sothern?" said
the grocerman.

"Yes," said I.

from the collection of Robert Coster, Esq.

LAURA K.EENE AS FLORENCE TRENCHARD

ALL MIRTH AND NO MATTER 189

"My dear!" cried the affectionate Teuton, and threw
his arms about me. He called lustily to his wife: "Gret-
chen," he cried, "come here!"

A big woman appeared, angry at being waked up at
an unholy hour.

"Come here!" cried her lord. "This is the son of
old Dundreary Sothern ! You recall ? When we was
young peoples: 'Birds of a feather gather no moss'
remember?"

The big woman burst into loud laughter. "'No bird
would be such a damned fool as to go into a corner and
flock by himself/" said she, and they both shook with
laughter. We all laughed. What a change was there !
She rummaged her kitchen; she cooked things; her hus-
band laid a table. He produced bacon, eggs, sausages,
fruit, wine, beer, cigars. For us, had come across the
seas produce from foreign lands; for us, China, Japan,
the Indies, East and West, had sent forth their argosies;
his shop was ours.

Now there are, no doubt, a thousand grocers who
have the same loving remembrance, and, since grocers
are not the only theatregoers, nor do members of that
calling survive to the extinction of tallow-chandlers,
butchers, and bakers, and tinkers, and tailors, this in-
cident persuades me that a large part of the community
recalls the services of Dundreary Sothern with the same
kindliness; for it was out of the fulness of his heart that
this cheesemonger embraced me and, although he was
unshaved and redolent of lamp-oil, cheese, sardines,
externally, and of onions, tobacco, and beer internally,
my soul responded to his hugs, and I thought to myself
that the memories awakened in his large bosom and the
no less extensive breast of his spouse by the mention of

190 MY REMEMBRANCES

my father's name were not unworthy, and that there
was much of the sunlight and the joy of running waters
in the heart of the man who had inspired them.

It is something in a work-a-day world to make laughter
re-echo through the years. "This is a practise as full
of labor as a wise man's art."

XXI
NO SONG, NO SUPPER

I HAVE always envied those people who have the
courage and the ability to recite. I never could bring
myself to do it. The immediate contact with an au-
dience disconcerts me. When the handsome leading
man has walked on at a benefit, and has held forth with
the "Charge of the Light Brigade," it has looked so
easy and has been so victorious that I have hated my-
self for not being able to do likewise. However, I can't,
so there's an end. The deficiency is inherited. My
father never could or would recite; he had a sort of con-
stitutional aversion to doing so. Perhaps he fancied
people looked funny when reciting; he certainly took a
fiendish pleasure in disconcerting reciters. I remember
once attending a benefit performance with him and
Edwin Adams when John McCullough was to recite.
He was billed to declaim a favorite poem of his, " Flynn
of Virginia." They say he was quite wonderful at it.
On this occasion, my father and Adams selected seats
in the middle of the front row of the orchestra, and quite
upset the proceedings. The recitation begins with the
words, "You knew Flynn, Flynn of Virginia?"

Mr. McCullough came on and was greeted with great
applause. He made an impressive pause and began:
"You knew Flynn, Flynn of Virginia ?"

Ned Adams and my father stood up and, looking
steadily at McCullough, solemnly shook their heads,
as who should say, "No, we never heard of him"; then
they solemnly sat down again.

191

I 9 2 MY REMEMBRANCES

McCullough was disconcerted but went to it again.
"You knew Flynn, Flynn of Virginia?" said he. Again
the two solemn figures arose, shook their heads sadly
and reseated themselves. This occurred three or four
times, each time McCullough finding it more impossible
to control his laughter, until at last he could do so no
longer, and went off the stage hysterical.

While my father was playing Tom Robertson's comedy
of " David Garrick " in London during his first great suc-
cess in England, he made an engagement that when his
tour should open at a certain provincial town he would
attend a supper to be given by a militia regiment. The
occasion arrived, and the supper was a most elaborate
affair. The colonel of the regiment was a man my father
knew quite well in London. The dinner was good, the
fun fast and furious, and when the feast was over stories
and recitations were in order. Local talent distinguished
itself. Great was the applause and enthusiasm, and as
the night wore on the heavily laden table, on which shone
the regimental glass and silver, rattled again and again
with the appreciation of the crowd. At last my father
was called upon for a recitation. He protested that he
never had been able to recite; explained his actual in-
ability to do so, that he never had done such a thing,
and knew nothing to recite. No one seemed to believe
him. Shouts of "Oh, you must!" "Come on, now!"
and much uproar and persistence ensued. Again and
again my father declared he would if he could, but that
he was utterly unable to oblige his hosts. He professed
his sincere wish to do anything to add to the entertain-
ment of the night, but regretted that he had this peculiar
incapacity. Men gradually became emphatic, and more
or less ungracious remarks could be heard among the

From a photograph by Sarony in the collection of Evert Jansen Wendell, Esq.

EDWARD A. SOTHERN AS DAVID GARRICK

NO SONG, NO SUPPER 193

din, some unruly spirits rather rudely declaring their re-
sentment and disgust. The situation became quite em-
barrassing and distasteful. At last a climax was reached
when one man, more flushed and uproarious than the
rest, cried out: "Oh, come, I say, you must pay for your
supper !"

My father got up with sudden resolve. Said he: "All
right, I'll pay."

Much acclaim followed, although the colonel and some
others seemed to deprecate the general attitude.

Said my father: "I'll pay for my supper, but," he
continued, "I can't recite in the usual way; all I can do
is to give a scene from one of my plays."

"Good!" "That'll do!" "First-rate!" sang out the
voices.

"I'll give you the drunken scene in ' David Garrick/"
said my father; "but I must tell you that I can't be re-
sponsible when I am acting; I get carried away completely
and anything may happen. You may remember," he
went on, "that Garrick comes to the house of a common,
ill-bred, vulgar city man, where he meets a crowd of com-
mon, ill-bred, vulgar guests; they cry out to him to act,
and he does act, indeed, but not as they anticipate. He
pretends to be drunk in order to disgust the heroine, who
has fallen in love with his playing. He does disgust her.
She is broken-hearted to think that this drunken fellow
is the man who has enchanted her with his performance
of Hamlet, and Lear, and Macbeth. He is broken-
hearted that he has had to do what he has done shatter
her idol, himself. He is about to leave the room when
the common, ill-bred, vulgar crowd cry: 'Turn him out!'
' Kick him out ! ' Then he turns on them in fury like
this, as I do now," and my father turned, as indeed he

i 9 4 MY REMEMBRANCES

does in the play, and the lines of Coriolanus which Gar-
rick speaks in the scene came from his lips red-hot.
Cried he:

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate
As reek of the rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air I I banish you !
And here remain with your uncertainty 1
Let every feeble rumor shake your hearts !
Your enemies with nodding of their plumes

Fan you into despair !

Despising,

For you, the city. Thus I turn my back,
There is a world elsewhere.

Here the business of the play is that Garrick seizes the
curtains of the opening in the centre of the stage, tears
them down in his frenzy, and wraps them around him as
he rushes out.

When my father had delivered the speech with great
force, he seized the corner of the table-cloth and wrapped
it about his body as he twisted round and round on his
way to the door. Crash came all the plate and glass and
silver from the table. All the men jumped to their feet,
as with his final words my father rushed from the room.

There was a pause, breathless; then he returned.
"Dear me !" said he, "what a mess ! I fear I was carried
away. I was afraid it would be so, but one must pay
for one's supper."

It is needless to say that this incident was not acclaimed
with transports of delight. Never had that scene been
played to so unresponsive an audience.

The colonel conducted my father to his carriage and
assured him that he had taught the younger men a lesson

NO SONG, NO SUPPER 195

they were not likely to forget. Subsequently this same
colonel, and indeed many of the others present, became
my father's fast friends. The matter, however, was made
public, and my father was not asked to recite again.

To recite requires a peculiar kind of audacity. A
great many persons possess this temerity who are quite
incapable of acting in the sense of impersonating. The
ability to read is different and apart from the quality
necessary for acting. I have seen excellent readers fail
utterly as actors; equally there are good actors who do not
read well. The reciters are usually rather severe critics
of acting, and know just how the job ought to be done.

My father was a most generous and kindly critic, who
would take infinite pains to assist and instruct beginners.
In my own case, however, he began by being most severe.
It was in this same play of "David Garrick" that I had
my first lesson in acting with him. I had to impersonate
the servant who announces the guests at the house of
Simon Ingot, the old merchant. I had to precede each
guest on to the stage, stand in the centre of the doors at
the back, and cry in a loud voice: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith.'*
"Mr. Jones." "Miss Araminta Brown," and so on.
At the first rehearsal I said: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" in a
bashful and very self-conscious manner. My father told
me to speak louder. I tried again, but was more nervous
and conscious than before.

"It won't do at all," said my father, who had done his
utmost to dissuade me from entering on the career of
acting. "I will go to the back of the auditorium and
you must shout it at me like this," and he showed me how
the announcement should be delivered. By this time all
the company were observing me with looks of mingled
pity and contempt, I thought. I tried several times to

196 MY REMEMBRANCES

cry "Mr. and Mrs. Smith," knowing quite well that it
was all wrong, and quite annihilated to discover that so
simple a duty was fraught with so much danger and diffi-
culty. My father, distinctly impatient now, called loud
directions from the back of the theatre. But it was use-
less, I became worse and worse. Then he came forward
to the centre of the house and said: "It's no use; you'd
better give up the stage."

As I had not yet entered upon my coveted career, this
advice seemed premature, and for that day I retired
crestfallen and defeated. Shortly, while I was contem-
plating suicide in the dressing-room next to my father's,
I heard him discussing the incident with his manager,
Horace Wall. "No," said Wall, "he won't do. Eddy
has not the mouth for an orator."

I looked in the looking-glass at my mouth. It did seem
rather weak and small, and I wondered if it could be al-
tered, as I understood from advertisements that they
altered people's noses. But these reflections brought
neither comfort nor encouragement. However I labored
over the announcements, and was heard when the time
came to speak them.

Long afterward in Greenock, a seaport in Scotland, I
was to portray Squire Chivey in this same comedy when
my brother Lytton played David Garrick. I went into
a barber's shop to get my hair cut. In the next chair to
me was a seafaring man who resembled a pirate from the
Spanish Main. He had the olive complexion of the
story-books, earrings in his ears, a reckless air, and one
suspected stilettos and pistols all over him. He ad-
dressed me and a conversation ensued. He announced
his intention of visiting the theatre, and I incautiously
mentioned that I was acting in the play.

NO SONG, NO SUPPER 197

"Ha, ha!" cried the pirate. "What do you play?"
I told him. "I will be there," said he, "and cry 'Bravo !
Bravissimo!"

He departed and I shortly forgot his existence. When
I came on at night, however, I beheld the sea-rover rise
in his place and bring his great hands together like claps
of thunder. "Bravo! Bravissimo!" yelled he. Neither
my position nor my part demanded enthusiasm, and
there was a general "Hush!" "Sit down!" "Turn him
out!" from the audience.

"Bravo! Bravissimo!" howled my friend of the bar-
bershop.

"Shut up!" came from the gallery.

Two ushers approached and whispered counsel into
the earringed ears.

"Abaft there!" cried the pirate. "Bravo! Bravis-
simo!"

Our manager intervened. Many men arose, a gen-
eral murmur of "Drunk!" "Kick him out!" "Turn
him out!" came from all parts of the house. A police-
man floated down the aisle and seized my admirer. A
free fight ensued, all the arts of marine warfare came into
play against these land forces. Twenty men joined in
the fray.

"Bravo ! Bravissimo !" yelled my friend as he emerged
victorious for a moment, only to be submerged again.
Conquered, overwhelmed by numbers, he was dragged
away, and in the far distance I still heard him cry:
"Bravo! Bravissimo!" I have never, alas! evoked
such enthusiasm since. Many tender memories cluster
about this play of "David Garrick." I remember my
father's preparations for the very first performance:
the constant care with which he approached each and

i 9 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

every representation of this character; the loving labor
he expended on every detail; his extreme anxiety on
first nights in new cities lest he should fall by chance
below his own high standard. As a child I recall how
puzzled I was when he had shaved off his heavy mus-
tache to fit the fashion of the time. I now possess the
sketch for his make-up executed by W. P. Frith, the
Royal Academician, and the shoe-buckles which be-
longed to the real David Garrick, and which my father
always wore. The simplicity, pathos, and repose of his
portrayal made a strong impression upon me as a child.
The superb art of it has become manifest to me in the
light of my own endeavors of after years. One of the
chiefest joys of the craftsman is to learn to see with
clear eyes the masters of his craft.

XXII
"THE CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN "

ONE night during the summer of 1875, in company
with my father and his manager, Horace Wall, I at-
tended the walking contest at the old Madison Square
Garden. Edward Payson Weston was the attraction,
and a great crowd cheered him on. My father was
shortly to produce Henry J. Byron's comedy, "The
Prompter's Box," which he had rechristened, "The
Crushed Tragedian." The type of old actor he wished
to portray he was well acquainted with, for he had en-
countered many such a quaint genius during his early
experiences in England. He had not, however, de-
termined on the exact make-up for his part, and his
mind was busy trying to reduce the features and the
peculiarities of his various models to a single type a
sort of composite picture. Suddenly, on this evening,
he stopped short in his talk with Horace Wall and said:
"Look, there is the crushed tragedian."

"Where?" said Wall.

My father pointed to a man twenty feet away. "It
is Fitzaltamont himself," said he.

"That is the Count Johannes," replied Wall, and he
proceeded to explain that Johannes, who was truly no
count but one plain unvarnished Jones, had of late
exploited himself in Shakespeare's tragedies to the vast
delight of persons given to the hurling of missiles, and

that it was the custom of the "count" to perform behind

199

200 MY REMEMBRANCES

a huge net which was stretched between himself and his
admirers so that their hysterical tributes of eggs, potatoes,
and other edibles might be received (if in discussing the
conflict between genius and enthusiasm one may employ
the language of the ring) without Hamlet's melancholy
being enhanced by a black eye, Othello's revenge impeded
by the tapping of his claret, or Macbeth's apostrophe to
the bloody dagger interrupted by a blow on the bread-
basket.

Then and there my father decided that here was the
very type for which he had been seeking. We followed
Count Johannes about the Garden for an hour, my father
noting his manner, his gesture, his poses. So well did
he absorb the man-of-title's peculiar graces that, when
a few months later "The Crushed Tragedian" had won
the favor of the town, that nobleman became so incensed
at the portraiture that, to my father's great delight and
the mirth of the community, he instituted an action for
libel.

Meanwhile, having, so to speak, anchored his type
on this visit to the Garden, my father next gave his
attention to the matter of costume.

During the early part of the play De Lacy Fitzalta-
mont is a very seedy individual indeed, and it was nec-
essary to provide garments which should indicate his
condition. My father was considering this matter when
one day he walked across Madison Square with Mr.
Wall. The benches were, as usual, tenanted by many
a woebegone fellow at odds with fortune. One man
especially attracted my father's attention, for he was
walking up and down rather rapidly within a very small
space. The weather was hot and movement to be avoided,
yet this man, like a caged thing, paced back and forth.

"THE CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN" 201

"That's the very suit of clothes I want," said my
father to Wall. "You must start a conversation with
that man and get those things coat, vest, trousers,
hat, neck-cloth, shoes, everything! Buy him an en-
tirely new outfit, and have those things sent to me,"
and he passed on, leaving Wall to his novel task.

"Hot, isn't it?" said Wall to the stranger.

The man paused in his walk and gazed at Wall.

" Do you believe in God ? " said he.

This was unexpected.

"Oh, yes, certainly!" said Wall, a trifle disconcerted.
"Have a cigar?" and he proffered one to the man.

"No, no!" said the shabby one, and he laid his hand
on Wall's shoulder. "No, no! Tell me," said he, "do
you think I shall be saved ?"

"Why shouldn't you be?" said Wall.

"Why should I be?" said the man. "But there are
many mansions, many mansions."

"Let us sit down and talk it over," said Wall.

"No, no!" said the man. "I'm an old soldier."

"Well, even so," said Wall. "You sit down occa-
sionally, don't you ? "

"Never in face of the foe," said the man.

Wall began to feel uneasy.

"What foe?" said he.

"The devil and all his works," said the man.

"I tell you what it is," said Wall, "we'd better get
something to eat."

"They shall eat their bread with carefulness, and drink
their water with astonishment," said the man.

"How would you like a new suit of clothes?" said
Wall, feeling that he had better get at the heart of the
matter.

202 MY REMEMBRANCES

Said the man: "I clothed thee also with broidered
work, and shod thee with badger's skin, and I girded
thee about with fine linen, and I covered thee with
silk/'

"Well hardly that," said Wall. "I mean just a plain,
nice, new suit of clothes."

Said the man: "I decked thee also with ornaments,
and I put bracelets upon thy hands and a chain on thy
neck."

"That is not quite what I mean," said Wall. "The
fact is "

"And I put a jewel on thy forehead and earrings in
thine ears, and a beautiful crown upon thine head,"
said the man.

Wall perceived that he was dealing with a being dis-
tracted. But his experience assured him that a five-
dollar bill was an excellent argument, so he produced
one and offered it to his new acquaintance.

The stranger tore the bill in two, flung it in the air
and cried: "Neither their silver nor their gold shall be
able to deliver them in the day of the Lord's wrath."

The weary derelicts of the surrounding benches began
to sit up and listen. A number of children approached
curiously.

"What shall I do to be saved ?" said the man.

"I advise you to eat a large plate of clam chowder,"
said Wall, and taking his new friend by the arm he gen-
tly urged him toward Fourth Avenue.

Without more words they reached the Ashland House
where Wall resided. Here they entered the barber-
shop.

"Good afternoon," said the head barber.

"What shall I do to be saved?" said the wayfarer.

E. A. SOTHERN AS THE CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN

"THE CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN" 203

"He'll take a bath," said Wall. "Cleanliness is next
to godliness," said he to the man.

"Then there is hope," said the man.

"In soap," said Wall.

With the aid of the colored bootblack the distracted
one disrobed and was soon in hot water a condition
wherewith he was sadly familiar, but an element to which
he had long been a stranger.

"Clothes brushed? Shoes shined?" said the colored
boy.

" Certainly," said Wall. "Take the gentleman's ward-
robe."

The various tattered garments were gathered together
and, under Wall's instructions, carefully placed in seclu-
sion. Then, as swiftly as his somewhat large bulk would
permit, Wall hied him to a ready-made clothier, where
he purchased an entire outfit for the man in the tub.

The hot water had had a soothing effect upon that
eccentric stranger, for the colored boy reported that he
had been singing softly to himself. Shortly he called
for salvation, and the colored boy and Wall assisted him
to dry and to dress.

He emerged quite unconscious of his changed attire,
and approaching the head barber remarked: "What
shall I do to be saved ?"

"Shave," said that artist. "Shave and hair-cut!"

"That's right," said Wall, "fix him up."

Quite unresisting, the stranger was placed in the
chair, and singing softly angelic music he was scraped
and cropped and polished, and at length arose a cleaner
and evidently a wiser man, for he now said to Wall:

"I'm hungry."

"Good!" said that philanthropist, and led the way to

204 MY REMEMBRANCES

the restaurant. Here he plied his guest with excellent
fare, meanwhile keeping up a cheerful chatter.

The late tatterdemalion, who now looked like a pros-
perous business man, well-dressed, well-groomed, well-
mannered, and, indeed, well-spoken, evinced a fine
appetite. He made few remarks, but Wall observed
that the more he ate the saner he seemed to become.
A little while and his eyes began to close; shortly he was
fast asleep.

"Put him to bed," said Wall, and the fortunate waif
was half-led half-carried to a bed-chamber. There, for
a day and a night, he slept, and when Wall next en-
countered him he was a sane man.

For two days Wall took care of him, and then with
a present of money sent him on his way.

"This is a loan," said the man. "I will pay this
back."

"Don't think of it," said Wall. "I have your clothes,
you know. They are worth the money."

"You're a queer fellow," said the stranger, "a very
queer fellow. I have thought sometimes that you are
a little mad."

Two years after this adventure Wall was taking the
tickets at the entrance of McVicker's Theatre in Chicago.
A man approached with a gayly dressed party and pre-
sented tickets for a box. As Wall reached for the tickets
his eyes met those of the man.

"What shall I do to be saved?" said Wall.

"I advise you to eat some clam-chowder," said the
man.

"Then, there is hope?" said Wall.'

"In soap," said the man.

"Here's the money you lent me," said the man.

"THE CRUSHED TRAGEDIAN" 205

"You'll find the suit of clothes on the stage," said
Wall.

The man looked puzzled, but he entered with his party.
After the first act he came out. Said he to Wall: "Soth-
ern's wearing my clothes in this play."

"Certainly he is," said Wall, and then he told the
whole story.

Then the man added a prologue, and an epilogue most
marvellous. Want had driven him to the verge of in-
sanity. He had but the faintest recollection of his first
meeting with Wall. His first clear remembrance of that
adventure was of waking up in a clean bed in the Ash-
land House after many nights spent on park benches.
Then for the first time he wondered to see himself ar-
rayed in new and strange garments. In a sort of dream
he accepted all that happened, even to the moment
when he finally parted from Wall. Then he had taken a
walk to think the thing out, but found no solution save
in Wall being some kind of an angel. He had answered
an advertisement, and had secured work chiefly, he de-
clared, on account of his clothes, for his discarded rags
had barred him from most employment. He had pros-
pered, had settled in Chicago, and was now well on the
way to fortune.

"Then you are not a philanthropist, after all?" said
the man.

"I'm afraid not," said Wall.

"Nor a good angel."

"I weigh two hundred pounds," said Wall.

"Do you mean to tell me," said the man, "that I owe
my regeneration entirely to the fact that you wanted those
old rags of mine?"

"I must confess that is the fact," said Wall.

206 MY REMEMBRANCES

"If you had not wanted them I should now be in a
padded cell," said the man.

"You were certainly a bit flighty," admitted Wall.

"We are the playthings of the gods," said the man
as he returned to his seat in the theatre.

After the play he was presented to my father who in-
quired with much sympathy concerning his fortunes in
the hope of being of some further assistance.

"You are very kind," said the man. "I am much
touched by your interest. Perhaps," said he, fingering
those ragged garments which had once been his and
which were now hanging on the wall of the dressing-
room, "perhaps you, too, have known poverty?"

"I have stood in your shoes," said my father.

PART IV

MYSELF

XXIII
MONSIEUR LA TAPPY

"No, gentleman!" would say Monsieur La Tappy
when he disagreed with me, meaning "No, sir," trans-
lating literally, for Monsieur La Tappy was my French
tutor. "No, gentleman!" cried Monsieur La Tappy
on this particular occasion. "Pour moi il n'y a pas de
dieu." I was a boy of fourteen; for me there was very
much of a God. I was still fresh from school and green
in religious observances. I could, however, quite sym-
pathize with Monsieur La Tappy's doubts, or rather
convictions. Fate had dealt him some fearful blows.
The events of 1870 had ruined him. A refugee, he had
fled from France with his young wife and a son and
daughter, penniless. He had taught French and music
for a living. He was now about fifty years of age, worn
to a shadow, thin as a skeleton, want and ill health prey-
ing on his vitals; but whenever he came to give me my
lesson, he would assume a gayety that was pitiful, throw-
ing off the wretchedness that was gnawing forever at
his heart and plunging into the brightest and most rapid
of conversation.

I was attending a school of painting at this time
Heatherly's, in Newman Street, London, formerly Leigh's
Academy, a famous institution for those who wished to
send drawings of the antique for admission to the Royal
Academy schools. It was my custom to attend Heath-
erly's each day from nine until four; then I would go to

209

210 MY REMEMBRANCES

a room I had rented off Golden Square, the haunt of
wandering minstrels, pathetic ballad-singers, and dilapi-
dated fiddlers. Indeed, I held out in a musical neigh-
borhood, for in the room below me had lived until lately
a long-haired fiddler who would have delighted the heart
of old King Cole himself. London had proved for him
a hard mistress, and he had faded away into a better
world. Every afternoon Monsieur La Tappy would
come and talk French with me we merely talked, on
any subject to the accompaniment of sweet music from
my friend the violinist or the street singers. We would
have tea and such confections as my mother would send
me from her home in Kensington, for I did not live in
this room our home was too far away, and I had this
place as a sort of modest studio and for the purpose of
these conversations. In the evening I attended the life
class at Heatherly's from six to eight, and then went
back to Kensington. On three mornings of each week,
however, I studied water-color with Mr. John O'Connor,
who, until recently, had been the scene-painter of the
Haymarket Theatre. I began operations with O'Con-
nor on the paint-frame. He was preparing the scenery
for Adelaide Neilson's performance of "Twelfth Night."
A strange and fascinating world I was introduced to,
and some strange and fascinating people did I meet.
O'Connor himself was a most nervous and enthusiastic
fellow, who worked like a horse. Anybody who thinks
scene-painting is easy labor is vastly mistaken; the mere
physical strain is tremendous, the requisite skill and in-
vention endless. The rewards are not great, and the
work itself, exquisite as much of it is, passes as the winds
that blow. No wonder, thought I, that O'Connor wants
to give this up and confine himself to painting pictures

o z

BJ O

w ._
K *

MONSIEUR LA TAPPY 211

in his own studio. This he shortly did, and with him
went I to Abercorn Place, Saint John's Wood. Shortly
we took a trip to Spain, where O'Connor made a great
number of drawings, and I tried to do likewise. It was
all delightful. I endeavored to be useful with my French,
but it halted somewhat, and O'Connor would become im-
patient and yell at the natives in English. He declared
that if one only shouted loud enough and made plenty
of gesture, all foreigners would understand.

La Tappy was familiar with paintings, ancient and
modern; with literature, French and English, and with
the drama; so our talks were instructive. He had
travelled a great deal, and my Spanish trip provided
material for many a conversation. La Tappy painted a
bit, and could take interest in my efforts in that direction.
He taught the piano, but his poor fingers were so swollen
with chilblains the fruit of the severe English climate
that he was forever exercising his fingers to keep them
limber and in working order. "II faut jouer mon piano,"
he would say, playing five-finger exercises in the air while
he talked gayly on some subject or another. He had a
strange habit of suddenly shutting his eyes very tight,
and then opening them very wide. I think it was be-
cause he was tired. It was a spasmodic action that was
half-comic, half-startling. He wore long side-whiskers,
but no mustache. His clothes were quite threadbare.
La Tappy always seemed cold. I used to observe him
approaching my abode; usually it was raining. He would
appear at the end of the street with his umbrella. He
used to walk from one lesson to another, to save bus fare;
the man was abjectly poor, but proud. Frequently I
would try to persuade him to share the sort of picnic
meal I would have. Not a bit of it; a cup of tea, no

212 MY REMEMBRANCES

more, and I knew he was hungry. When he got to my
door, he would pull himself together, throw his shoulders
back, actually run up the stairs and knock with much
briskness on the door. Off, in a flash, his coat; down,
with a dash, his hat; gay as could be was he, smacking
his hands, volatile as a glass of champagne. Then would
ensue a lively conversation. La Tappy you see was
doing his duty; this was a lesson. My heart ached
sometimes, for I knew that his was heavy; only now and
then would he allow the mask to fall away, and then for
a moment his face was really one of agony. The lesson
over, he would fling out of the room and skip down the
stairs, singing or whistling. Once in the street, I would
see his shoulders drop and his soul droop. "Pour moi
il n'y a pas de dieu!" Indeed, God-forsaken did he
look.

One day it was raining dogs and cats, and I was late
getting to my room. It was foggy, too; a yellow, beastly
fog. La Tappy was always on time to the instant. The
woman who looked after the house always made my fire
at four o'clock and put a kettle on to boil; I made my
own tea. I felt sure La Tappy would be waiting, and
I had hurried through the wet street. As I opened the
hall door the interior of the ancient house was sombre
and mysterious in the gloom of a London afternoon.
As I passed in the darkness my lost musician's door, in
imagination I seemed to hear him still wooing his violin.
I felt my way to my own room quite unable to divest
my mind of the accustomed strains. The music seemed
to keep time to the dripping of the rain. My room was
empty. I threw myself into a chair. The theme of the
musician haunted me; my brain echoed it, my heart
beat to it, my lips murmured it. Was he trying to reach

MONSIEUR LA TAPPY 213

me from some remote sphere? Was he was he? I
must have slept. There was La Tappy ! with his back
to me looking out at the window. As he turned I felt
a curious shiver go through me. I took off my coat
which was wet (why had I kept it on all this while ?)
and greeting La Tappy I went to the fire. I busied
myself with the tea, and La Tappy began to work his
fingers in the air, saying: "Je joue mon piano." I
laughed and we talked as usual about all sorts of mat-
ters. When I was at a loss for a word he would
supply it, and if I did not understand what he said
he would repeat the word slowly until I did understand,
or he would tell me what the strange word meant. He
was in his usual gay spirits; he drank his tea with relish.
I was, myself, especially talkative. A funny thing had
happened at Heatherly's. I had been a very silent stu-
dent during the months I had been there, and had made
few acquaintances; those around me were all voluble
fellows, but I had kept very much to myself, really more
from shyness than from churlishness. My easel was
next to a stove which was in the middle of the room. It
was my habit, of which I was unconscious, I think, to
rest my left hand on this stove occasionally while I was
using the crayon with my right. This day a fire had been
lighted in the stove. I placed my easel and at once
rested my hand on the stove, and let out a most pro-
nounced "Damn !" This was the first word I had spoken
in that school, and was the means of making me many
friends instantly. I told this incident to La Tappy.
He laughed gayly; he made that curious action of shutting
his eyes tight and then opening them widely; he played
his five-finger exercises in the air; he drank his tea. We
talked of Spain: of the Alhambra Palace, which I had so

214 MY REMEMBRANCES

recently visited ; of moonlight in the Court of the Lions,
where a pretty Spanish lady had played on the guitar
and had sung. La Tappy had been there, had sung there
on that very spot. We talked of the processions through
the streets. I told him about a murder I had witnessed
as I sat on a bridge over the Duero sketching. Some
students, in those curious Spanish cloaks lined with red,
had come out of a wine-shop. There had been a vast
amount of talk and gesticulation; a man suddenly lifted
his arm and struck; another man ran past me and fell
on the farther side of the bridge. O'Connor and I ran
and caught him, and held his head. It was the law that
those persons found near a wounded or dead man should
be arrested. All other people stood aloof and tried to
explain this to us. O'Connor shouted in English; I
appealed in French. We were arrested by two men in
cocked hats and hauled off to jail. The wounded man
bled to death. It was a great adventure.

The fog and rain without and the fire within, and the
good things my mother had sent me to eat all helped to
make my narrative lively; the time passed quickly. At
length Monsieur La Tappy rose to go. He was working
his poor hands, again he closed his eyes with that curi-
ous suddenness and opened them widely. I helped him
on with his coat, still chatting. I had been so busy with
my anecdote that I had not noticed it before, but it now
seemed to me that he was not so gay as usual; the mask
seemed a bit awry. It was his custom when handling
anything to speak its name in French. As I gave him
his coat he said, "Mon surtout"; on receiving his poor,
faded slouch-hat he said, "Mon chapeau"; then came
the umbrella, and "Mon parapluie."

"Ah," said I gayly, "don't leave that behind, no,

MONSIEUR LA TAPPY 215

gentleman!" and I burlesqued his way of saying: "No,
sir." Then I completed the phrase, "Pour moi il n'y a
pas de dieu."

La Tappy had his hand on the door. He turned to
me. I fell back in fear. His face was livid; in the dim
room his eyes shone like two dull coals. For a second
he looked at me, then he raised his right hand above his
head and pointed upwards; he tried to speak but no
sound came; he seemed to fade through the door. I
rubbed my eyes had I been dreaming ? I was so af-
fected that for a moment I stood still; I feared that I
had somehow offended him by, so foolishly, burlesquing
his words. I ran to the door; there was no sign of him.
To the window; it was now 5.30, and as black as ink.
I made up my mind to follow him and say I was sorry.
I put on my hat and coat, and opened the door of my
room. A man met me in the doorway.

"I am Monsieur La Tappy's son," said he. "My
father had an appointment with you at four, but I have
come to tell you he can't be here; he died at three
o'clock."

"He has been here!" said I.

"No. He is dead."

"But he has only left me a moment since."

"Impossible! He is at home dead on his bed."

I could hardly speak: "He died suddenly? He said
nothing?"

"He died suddenly, and he spoke one word: 'Par-
don.' "

XXIV
I CHOOSE A PROFESSION

THE mind's eye blinks a bit when it contemplates
my Lord Dundreary in the pulpit. The church, how-
ever, was my father's original destination. My grand-
father, a very conservative merchant of Liverpool, had
set his heart on his son's entrance into holy orders. In-
deed, my father studied diligently to that end; but
nature rebelled and he compromised later on by taking
up the study of medicine. This he pursued for some
time, even going so far as to enter the hospital of Saint
Bartholomew in London. However, he abandoned the
temple of ^Esculapius and suddenly went on the stage;
so much to the horror of his father that he was obliged
to shift for himself for many years, and underwent such
labor and disappointment that, after ten years of acting,
he seriously considered abandoning the theatre and re-
turning .to ' commercial life, the church and the consult-
ing-room being now out of the question.

Owing to these hard experiences, my father was most
eager that his sons should seek less thorny paths. But,
on the other hand, he determined to allow our natural
inclinations to have full sway, for he remembered how
he had rebelled at the authority which compelled him to
labor at two callings which were distasteful to him.

During the later years of his life, I saw my father
seldom, for he was usually playing in America while I
was at school in England. Whenever I did see him, how-

216

I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 217

ever, this question as to what I was to be was always
broached. Quite suddenly and unexpectedly my father
would say: "Well, what are you going to be? This is
very important and must be settled before you are much
older. You must make up your mind about it at once."

As a matter of fact, I had the vaguest idea of what I
wanted to be, since no profession had been chosen for
me for the theatre was tabooed as being a hard, pre-
carious, and impossible field for stupid people, of which
it was admitted I was one. I was greatly disconcerted
when these attacks were levelled at me. Once I had
wished to be a red Indian, later a sailor; by and by, being
a very nervous, shy child, I had wished to have the iron
nerve and pale, impassive countenance of the Count of
Monte Cristo. "The count was pale but firm," struck
me as a satisfactory state to be in permanently. My
latest plan was to be a farmer. The country, solitude,
open air these things appealed to me strikingly. None
of these ideas but the "farmer" did I confide to my
parent. He was not enthusiastic and I abandoned the
idea. I had some small inclination for drawing, and my
father seized on that as the direction I should travel.

"How would you like to be a painter ?" said he one day.

"I think I would like it," said I.

"Good!" said he. "That's settled. I'll send you at
once to O'Connor. Scene-painting will give you a fine,
broad style. Meantime you stoop too much, so we'll
go and buy some braces to hold the shoulders back."

This we did with swift decision. I was braced like
a soldier in half an hour, and in an hour it had been ar-
ranged that I should leave school and take up the study
of drawing and color.

I studied scene-painting with those braces on, suffer-

2i8 MY REMEMBRANCES

ing torture as I wielded a huge brush in either hand.
The connection between scene-painting and standing
up straight puzzled me then, and I can't perceive it now,
but it was enough for me that my father saw it. What
a happy age, that, when the parent is a Godlike being
who knows all things I My father was the most adorable
of men, all that affection could offer he gave to his chil-
dren, and in his glorious, buoyant, effervescent nature
we saw the constant sunshine of youth and knowledge.
To him everything seemed possible. His swift decisions
seemed to us the decrees of happy fate. So with en-
thusiasm I attacked my painting and, indeed, was happy
and content until I came to know, after three or four
years, that my gift was small, and that it was necessary
for me to earn a living more securely and more rapidly
than my meagre talent would allow. My father did
not believe this, but I knew it.

I came out to America in 1879 with my mother's
brother, Captain Hugh Stewart. My father was living
at the Gramercy Park Hotel in New York. One day
we were at breakfast when in came Mr. James Ruggles,
whose father had presented Gramercy Park to the city
of New York, as a stone on the pavement at the west
end of the park testifies.

The circumstances under which I became an actor
are so peculiar that a sceptical nature will discard them
as an improbable fiction. Ruggles had dealings with
my father in some real-estate matter and was discussing
dry details when Sam, the waiter, entered with the
breakfast. The eggs were broken into a glass my father
preferred to eat eggs out of the shell.

"I hate eggs served in that beastly American fash-
ion," said my father.

I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 219

Ruggles looked up. "Oh, come," said he. "You
can say beastly or you can say American, but it is of-
fensive to say 'beastly American.' '

"Not at all," said my father, whose mischievous
spirit loved the prospect of agitating Ruggles or any-
body else he had the scent for excitement of several
Irishmen. "It is both beastly and American, conse-
quently it is correct to say 'beastly American.' '

"I must take exception," said Ruggles, really ruffled.
"I am an American, and I must protest against such an
expression. It reflects on the manners and habits of my
country, and I assure you that I am unable to hear such
a phrase used with equanimity." He arose and walked
about greatly perturbed.

Sam, the waiter, announced: "Captain Hugh Stewart
and Captain Atkinson."

Captain Atkinson was an English cavalry officer, quite
of the long, solemn, and rather weary kind, retired, rather
elderly.

"We will leave it to Stewart and Atkinson," cried my
father apparently in great excitement. Then to Sam:
"Take away the breakfast; I am upset, I can't eat it.
Now, I say that to break eggs into a glass like that"
pointing to the departing eggs "is both beastly and
American, and Ruggles here says that although ad-
mittedly American, it is not beastly, and that the ex-
pression offends him. What do you say ?" He seemed so
honestly excited and perturbed that both the newcomers
were at once engaged seriously in considering the problem.

"I like eggs that way," said Atkinson.

"I don't," said Uncle Hugh.

"There!" said my father. "There, and Hugh is a
sailor."

220 MY REMEMBRANCES

The application of this remark was not quite clear,
but all eyes wandered to Hugh. I was really concerned.
The matter seemed serious.

"How can you expect Atkinson, who is a cavalry
officer, to know anything about eggs?" continued my
father.

"Oh, I don't know," drawled Atkinson, "I know an
egg when I see one."

"One thing is quite certain!" cried my father; "Hugh
invented a saddle which was adopted by the army."

This was a master-stroke. My uncle's chief vanity
was this very thing. He was a naval officer of great
accomplishment and much distinction, but these matters
seemed to him as nothing to the fact that he had in-
vented this same saddle.

"Yes!" cried Uncle Hugh. "It took a sailor to make
a saddle for the army."

"Yes," drawled Atkinson, "but it's one thing to make
a saddle and another to stay in it," and he laughed in
a drawn-out, languid, and rather offensive way. "Be-
sides, a tailor should stick to his last."

"Shoemaker," said my father.

"Yes," said Hugh, "shoemaker."

"Atkinson means to say, Hugh," said my father,
'You may ride the waves, my dear Stewart, but you
can't stay on a horse." 1

"The devil, I can't!" said Hugh. "I'll race him any-
where for any sum. Come on !"

Hugh was quite hot and Atkinson was annoyed.

"But the eggs!" said my father. "How about the
eggs?"

"I say it is beastly!" said Hugh.

"I say distinctly it is not!" said Atkinson.

I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 221

Ruggles approached Atkinson. "Sir," said he, "I
thank you."

My father seized the hand of Hugh. "Stewart," said
he, "I appreciate this more than I can say. Of course,"
my father continued, "we can't settle the matter by
racing, and one couldn't call a man out for such a
trifle; and yet I hate to leave it undecided; Ruggles is
serious."

"I hold to my position," said Ruggles.

"Exactly!" said my father. "I, on the other hand,
am absolutely adamant in my attitude."

"Let's wrestle for it," said Hugh.

Ruggles, who was about to depart, stopped in amaze-
ment.

"Good!" said my father.

"Wrestle!" said Atkinson.

"Yes," said Hugh, "although I am a sailor."

"I'll go you!" said Atkinson.

It is incredible, but these two grown-up men seriously
encountered. My father cleared away the furniture with
enthusiasm; Ruggles, fascinated, looked on; I got up
against the wall. They wrestled all over the room, up
and down and about they were under the piano; they
fell with fury against the door. Ruggles was perforce
made to jump about to get out of the way of the com-
batants. I loved my Uncle Hugh and was emotionally
concerned for him. Atkinson seemed to become a fury
incarnate; his long limbs, usually so passive, seemed
turned into twisting serpents. Hugh's sea-legs became
the tentacles of the octopus. For about three minutes
the turmoil lasted; my father, with fire in his eye, ejacu-
lating every now and then, " Beastly has it ! No, it
doesn't !" as Hugh was down. "Ruggles, you win ! No,

222 MY REMEMBRANCES

you don't!" as Hugh, with a superhuman effort, threw
Atkinson into the fireplace.

We dragged him out, his hair was singed.

"By gad !" said Atkinson.

"Beastly it is!" said my father.

"I take my leave," said Ruggles.

"Brittania rules the waves!" said Uncle Hugh.

There were congratulations, refreshments; Hugh and
Atkinson departed the best of friends.

"Now," said my father to me, "let us decide what
you are going to be."

I sat down to a fresh breakfast to consider this weighty
matter.

"Come in!" cried my father, who always applied
himself to reply to his letters after breakfast, a matter
of a couple of hours he was very methodical about this,
punctilious to a degree. "Come in!"

It was Earp! Now Earp was the barber at the
Gramercy Park Hotel. He lived in the basement a
perfectly unbelievable man, thin as a rail, six feet three
in height, solemn as the sphinx. He eked out his income
from barbering by raising white mice; he also kept
parrots, love-birds, flying squirrels, a jackdaw. My
father was very fond of animals; he always had one,
sometimes two dogs with him, and frequently purchased
some of Earp's menagerie for his rooms in New York.
Earp usually looked after these purchases each night,
and brought them to my father when he came in the
afternoon. He now appeared. This was the first time
I had seen him. He carried his barber's implements in
his two hands. My father sat in the middle of the room,
where Earp had placed a chair. Earp then took from
a large pocket a parrot which crawled on to his shoulder.

I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 223

My father paid no attention. From another pocket he
took two love-birds which crawled up his chest to his
head and perched thereon. Two flying squirrels emerged
next, and flew at once to the window-curtains and clung
there chattering. Several white mice then appeared
and began to crawl over my father. At last another
parrot bestrode Earp's other shoulder and a jackdaw
jumped out of a small bag of razors and stood on a table.
I, of course, was surprised. My father spoke not the
thing was customary.

"Fine day," said Earp.

"Isn't it?" said my father.

"Hair-cut!" said a parrot.

I laughed with glee.

"My son Earp," said my father by way of introduc-
tion.

Earp held out a sad hand which I shook solemnly.
I felt strangely abashed at living a birdless life.

"Next!" cried the jackdaw.

It is a fact that these parrots and this jackdaw spoke
this barbarous talk. "Shave or hair-cut," would one
say, "how much?" "Fifteen cents!" would another
remark.

Meantime Earp conversed on the topics of the day
politics, stocks, the theatre, real estate, mice, and men.
It was all very instructive and amazing to me, lately
landed. At last the conversation languished.

"Now," said my father, "Eddy, what is it to be?
What are you going to be ?"

I had been wool-gathering, watching the mice and
the squirrels. Recalled to the serious affairs of the
planet, I looked rather blank; at last I ventured: "I
think I would like to go on the stage."

224 MY REMEMBRANCES

My father sat up so suddenly that Earp's birds nearly
lost their balance.

"You want to give up your drawing!" said he.

I told him my reasons at length. I knew I was hurt-
ing him and hated to do it. He had set his heart on my
being a painter, but I lamed him with reasons. At last
he seemed to make up his mind suddenly.

"Good!" said he, as Earp finished him up. "I'll
send you to the Boston Museum. You shall go at once
to-morrow! I'll give you a letter to Mr. Field, the
manager. Mrs. Vincent will take rooms for you. You
won't get any salary, because you are not worth any.
I'll give you twenty dollars a week on which you will
have to live, as I and other poor actors have done before
you. You'll have to work hard; it's no joke. You are
making an awful mistake, but I won't stand in your
way. I want you to choose, but you must get at it quick
and find out what it is like."

I knew what it was like, for children have sharp ears,
and I had heard ever since I was a child how my father
had failed and failed and failed; how he landed in 1852
in Boston, where I was going to, and appeared in "The
Heir-at-Law" as Doctor Pangloss; how the audience
at the National Theatre hissed him; how Mr. Leonard,
the manager, discharged him after the play; how he
went next day to the Howard Athenaeum and asked
the manager for a job; how the manager engaged him,
and he played four performances a day while my mother
played small parts also and nursed her little son Lytton,
and when the next day after his discharge a man ap-
peared at Mrs. Fisher's boarding-house in Bullfinch
Place a man who said he represented a newspaper,
which, of course, he did not and calling my father to

I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 225

the door suggested that a small sum would prevent a
certain article recounting his lamentable failure from
appearing in print; my mother, who was at the top of
the staircase, came down and cried out: "If you don't
thrash him I'll never speak to you again!"

The conflict which ensued and the rejoicing which
followed; the penury; the hardships; the determina-
tion to give up the theatre after ten years of labor all
this I knew, and had heard with those same sharp ears
of childhood. But it mattered not.

"Remember," said my father, "always say you will
do anything, and take anything. You can't learn to
act by telling yourself how much you are worth; other
people will have to tell you that."

The morrow brought a slight change of plan, however.

"You shall make your first appearance with me,"
said my father. "I open at Abbey's Park Theatre next
week. You shall play the cabman in 'Sam."'

He went to a trunk and produced the part.

"Here you are. You have only one line, but it is a
most important one. Sam comes on the stage and the
cabman follows him. Sam is a delightfully debonair
spendthrift who owes everybody everything, and he
has neglected to pay the cabman. He greets his host
and hostess buoyantly. He turns to find the cabman
standing, whip in hand, and touching his hat intermi-
nably as though he were wound up for that purpose.

"Now, my good man, what do you want?' says Sam.

"You reply: "Arf a crown, your Honor; I think you
won't object.'

"Sam protests that he has not the amount handy and
borrows it from his host. The incident is important as
it instantly illustrates Sam's character.

226 MY REMEMBRANCES

"You have seen London cabmen. Think it over. Get
your clothes and your make-up ready and then we'll
rehearse it."

I procured a wig and side-whiskers, a heavy overcoat,
an old high hat, a whip, thick gloves, gaiters. I made a
cabman's badge out of cardboard. Night and day I
lived, moved, and had my being as a cabman. Like
the actor who painted himself all over so as to feel like
Othello, I tried to be a cabman inside and out. At length
rehearsal day arrived. I had wandered all over New
York, muttering: "'Arf a crown, your Honor; I think you
won't object." Persons had heard me in the street,
in the park, and had looked on me with suspicion. I
had visited the theatre, and had upon the deserted stage
repeated the line again and again. A very fever pos-
sessed me. I was alternately terrified and elated. I
had read of the first appearances of distinguished actors,
they seemed to have been almost invariably disastrous.
Yet what misfortune could be mine with this one line:
"'Arf a crown, your Honor; I think you won't object"?
One could not get mixed up with such a simple phrase.
I had been told of that unfortunate who had to declare:
"Behind the thicket there stands a swift horse," and
who, agitated by false friends who had called his at-
tention to all possible mistakes, had at last said: "Be-
hind the swiffit there skands a thick korthe." But my
way was clear.

Although extremely nervous at the rehearsal, I de-
livered the line fairly well. My father did not praise
nor did he denounce me. I felt I had escaped censure.
I let up on my study of the part and looked on victory
as within my grasp.

The fateful night arrived. I felt frightened, but secure.

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I CHOOSE A PROFESSION 227

"Well, my good man, what do you want?" said my
father.

I gazed on him spellbound. I was conscious of the
footlights, otherwise I seemed to be floating outside of
myself. I touched my hat constantly.

"Well, my good man, what do you want?" repeated
my father.

I kept touching my hat but could think of no word
to utter.

The audience laughed, and during their laugh my
father said to me: "Go on. Say 'arf a crown, your
Honor."

I was so terrified that he should thus expose me be-
fore the people that panic seized me.

"Go on!" said my father intensely, and I saw that he
was desperate. Still I continued to touch my hat, but
said nothing. I felt quite incapable of thought.

"Go off!" said my father between his teeth.

This I incontinently did.

The scene proceeded, but I was aware that I had ruined
my father's entrance and spoiled that exhibition of his
character of which he had spoken. I was quite over-
whelmed at my stupidity. It had all seemed so easy,
and I had been so perfect.

"I am so sorry," I cried to my father when he came to
his room. "Why, I knew the line backward."

"Yes," said my father, "but that's not the way to
know it."

"But one line," I wailed. "It seemed impossible I
could fail."

"Yes," said my father. "Most people think that."

I went to Boston and entered the Museum Company.

I returned to New York to see my father in about a

228 MY REMEMBRANCES

month. Again Earp entered. Again the mice and the
parrots and the love-birds and the squirrels took their
part in the proceedings.

"How do you like the stage?" said my father.

"I like it," said I.

"You will suffer," said my father and his eyes looked
moist. "I hope soon you'll be worth a salary," he added
seriously.

"How much ?" said one parrot.

"Fifteen cents," said the other.

"Not yet," said I, and my father smiled sadly.

XXV
"SAINT VINCENT"

THE "Boston Museum," whither I was bound, was
one of the last remnants of Puritan prejudice against the
theatre as a place of amusement. It was a "museum/*
not a "theatre." The word "theatre" was not per-
mitted in any advertisement or playbill. For many
years its doors were closed from Saturday afternoon un-
til Monday morning there being no Saturday evening
performance. In the front of the building, on the floors
over the box-office, was an exhibition of stuffed animals,
wax-figures, mummies, mineral specimens, and other
odds and ends, which enabled the tender of conscience
to persuade themselves that this was an institution of
learning, a school of instruction, and by no means a place
of amusement. True, on the first floor was a theatre
where plays were given just as in any other theatre, but
the intolerable and unholy atmosphere of the playhouse
was mitigated by the presence of several decayed Egyp-
tians whose enlightened and tolerant ghosts must have
laughed in scorn at such self-deception, while the groups
of intelligent animals and the distinguished company of
waxworks must, in the "stilly night," have held weird
conferences as to what virtue resided in their mouldy
forms which could change the abode of Satan into a
house for the godly. Certain it is that persons who
would have considered their souls damned had they

entered the theatre, frequented the Boston Museum

229

2 3 o MY REMEMBRANCES

without a qualm, although every kind of play was pro-
duced there from farce to burlesque. Pretty dancers
were not taboo, and the broadest kind of comedy was
tolerated.

Says Mr. Clapp, a local historian: "The Museum
made an eloquent appeal to the patronage of sober per-
sons affected with scruples against the godless 'theatre/
To this day, there are citizens of Boston who patronize
no other place of theatrical amusement than its 'Mu-
seum." Many of the most distinguished actors have
played here supported by the stock company and, be-
fore people who would not enter another playhouse to
see them. Writes Mr. Clapp: "The appeal to the prej-
udiced was as successful as it was shrewd.'*

In 1879, when I joined the Museum Company, that
temple of the drama still had a distinct following of its
own. Each member of the organization had, from long
association and distinguished service, become something
of an institution. Citizens had been brought up from
childhood to love and revere them. Especially was this
the case with Mr. William Warren and Mrs. Vincent,
whose service in this one theatre covered a period of
nearly fifty years. "The actual merit of the perform-
ance at the Boston Museum was, perhaps, greater than
that of any other stock company in the country." Mr.
Warren has been declared the superior of his cousin,
Joseph Jefferson. And yet, outside of the city of Bos-
ton save in a few New England towns neither he nor
Mrs. Vincent was known at all. To them, however, a
modest but established home and the perpetual enjoy-
ment of a circle of intimate and admiring friends com-
pensated for a wider fame. Many of a greater notoriety
on looking back would gladly have changed places with

From a photograph by the Notman Studio

WILLIAM WARREN

"SAINT VINCENT" 231

them; to have been able to contemplate in retrospect so
many years of peaceful labor, and to have been so truly
honored, and so well beloved. To such an extent did this
sentiment prevail in the case of Mrs. Vincent that the
Vincent Hospital, founded in her name under the aus-
pices of Trinity Church, is in these days sometimes
inadvertently called "Saint Vincent's Hospital."

Some years ago was sold in Boston the collection of
one Mr. Brown, a famous gatherer of theatrical pro-
grammes, autograph letters, and so forth. I purchased
at this sale some letters of my father. One of these was
written from Weymouth, England, in 1852, to Mr.
Leonard, the manager of the National Theatre, Boston.
My father applied for an engagement, giving a list of
396 parts which he had played, and was prepared to
play. He was at this time twenty-five years of age, so
his experience as an actor in England may be deduced
therefrom. Mr. Leonard engaged him for leading com-
edy.

In 1852, under the name of Douglas Stewart, as I
have said, he opened in the part of Doctor Pangloss in
"The Heir-at-Law." His failure was so complete that
the audience in an uproar interfered with the progress
of the play. My father approached the footlights, hold-
ing up his hand for silence, which, having been granted,
he said: "Ladies and gentlemen, if you will permit me
to finish the play I will go home and learn how to act."
He was allowed to continue and at the end of the per-
formance he was discharged for incapacity. It was no
unusual thing then, especially in England, for audiences
to declare their displeasure with the utmost violence.
Only so lately as the year 1825 had Edmund Kean been
hooted from the stage of a Boston theatre.

232 MY REMEMBRANCES

My father accepted his dismissal with the buoyancy
of youth, fortified, perhaps, by the distresses of greater
actors than himself, and applied with a light heart to
the manager of the Howard Athenaeum.

"What can you do?" said the manager.

"Anything," said my father.

"What salary do you want?" said the manager.

"Anything," said my father again.

"What do you mean?" said the manager.

"I mean," said my father, "that I want work; that
I will take any kind of work and any salary you will
give me."

He was engaged at nine dollars a week, and played two
new parts each week, and two performances a day.

My father's mood at this time may be gathered from
his correspondence with a New York manager to whom
he applied for a position. That worthy had doubtless
heard of the fiasco at the National Theatre, for he re-
plied by telegram: "I would not have you if you paid
me a hundred dollars a week." To which my father
answered: "Terms accepted. Expect me by next train."

On arriving in Boston my father had found shelter in
a boarding-house kept by Mrs. Fisher at No. 2 Bull-
finch Place a quaint, quiet street with a kind of toll-
gate across it close to Mrs. Fisher's house. Here in this
secluded retreat Mr. William Warren and a few other
actors resided.

After this disastrous first appearance, my father and
mother and their one son, Lytton, moved their abode
to the house of Mrs. Vincent. Now began a friendship
that lasted until my father's death, and which was be-
queathed to me, for Mrs. Vincent survived him by some
years.

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"SAINT VINCENT" 233

Often have I pictured to myself these penniless babes
in the wood. My mother, then a girl of nineteen, and
my father in the heyday of his youth, making fun of mis-
fortune as though that monster were a friend, snapping
their fingers at disaster, and quite disconcerting the de-
mon of poverty by laughing in his face. No ill fortune
is terrible at the age of twenty-five.

It was at this moment that his lifelong friendship for
Mrs. Vincent began. It was on her sympathetic bosom
that my mother relieved her grief, and it was her joyous
counsel and all-conquering chuckle that fortified these
children to face fortune anew. Mrs. Vincent always
spoke of my father as "her son" and he forever called
her "Little Mother." In her memoirs she says: "He
was the most impudent, audacious, good-for-nothing,
good-hearted fellow." He was forever making her the
victim of all sorts of mad pranks. To the last of her
days she could never speak of him without uncontrollable
laughter, even when she was pausing to dry her tears at
the thought of his having passed away.

Mrs. Vincent, all her life long, was devoted to a modest
and quiet charity, and she found at once a ready dis-
ciple in my father. Early in their friendship he deposited
with her a magic hundred dollars which was never to
grow less. When in the course of her ministrations to
the unfortunate, the low-water mark of twenty dollars
was reached, my father was to be notified and the balance
restored. When Mrs. Vincent died, a twenty-dollar bill
was found by Miss Mina Berntsen under the paper of
her bureau drawer where she habitually kept it part
of this fairy fund which had maintained its evergreen
quality for twenty years.

My father's annual visit to Boston was a time of

234 MY REMEMBRANCES

whirlwind excitement for Mrs. Vincent. His approach
was heralded weeks before by all sorts of extravagant
letters and post-cards and telegrams; love-messages
written in red ink on the outside of envelopes ten,
twenty of them posted at a time calling her "Adored
One I" "Beautiful Stalactite !" "Lady Godiva 1" "Boadi-
cea ! " a thousand extravagances. Then one day his card
would be taken up by an hysterical maid servant named
"Mattie," who, with starting eyes and a fist in her
mouth, would announce: "The Duke of Wellington,"
or "The Sultan of Turkey." Mrs. Vincent would wel-
come him in her best frock, with such dear, old-fashioned
curls on either side of her rotund face, chuckling so that
her whole body shook. Then such greetings, such
laughter, such tears, such stories, such mad doings on
my father's part, and such delight in his mischief by
this dearest of old ladies. Parrots, cats, canaries; Mat-
tie, the eccentric maid, with her face full of wonder!
Then an account of the various charities to which the
hundred dollars had contributed most faithfully, and in
much detail delivered, and many tales of poor creatures
yet to be relieved, and plans and confidences and rem-
iniscences of old friends long gone.

"My dear!" cried Mrs. Vincent to my father, "the
vicar of Saint Paul's Church had intended to make the
poor people of the parish eat geese instead of turkeys for
Christmas."

"Great heavens! fFhy?" said my sympathetic father.

"Because geese are cheaper," said the distressed Mrs.
Vincent.

"What did you do?" cried my father with rising in-
dignation.

"Do!" cried Mrs. Vincent. "I just waited until

"SAINT VINCENT" 235

after the morning service; then I went into the rectory.
I bearded the rector in his den !"

"The devil you did!" cried my excited parent.

"Yes," panted the old lady, "and I did not leave him
until he had sworn that the poor people of the parish
should have turkey !"

"Hooray!" cried my father.

"Stop!" said Mrs. Vincent, rising eagerly. "Stop!
Not only turkey, but cranberry sauce!"

"Incredible!" said my father.

"Yes!" said the dear one, "and what is more cel-
ery!"

"I can't believe it," said my father.

"It is true," declared Mrs. Vincent.

"You swear it?" insisted my father.

"I swear it !" cried that dearest old woman.

On my arrival in Boston, it was to Mrs. Vincent's
house in Chambers Street that I made my way. I had
many misgivings as I walked through the curious, in-
tricate, winding, irregular, Boston streets, so like the
streets of an old English town. The queer New England
laws my father had threatened me with, the historical
associations Faneuil Hall, "the cradle of liberty"; the
old State House with the lion and the unicorn still ram-
pant; the Boston tea-party; the mad experience of the
mad Edmund Kean; my father's disastrous failure in
1852 all these kept me busy thinking as I walked along.
I was quite sure I should fail to begin with. I was not
yet nineteen. Public life, curiously enough, was entirely
distasteful to me; not especially theatre life, but any
life with crowds of people. I hated the thought that I
should have to perfect my work in public at rehearsal,
to exhibit myself in the process; all my ignorance and

236 MY REMEMBRANCES

stupidity and imperfection I knew would tie me up in
knots and paralyze me and sicken and dishearten me.
How I wished that I could study it all in private, and
then stand forth confident, victorious. But it could
not be done, one has to rehearse and look ridiculous and
feel ridiculous, and be made ridiculous and generally
pay for one's footing in the theatre. A conceited person
with a comfortably thick skin may pass through this
period without discomfort, but a diffident young man
who has the fortune to be sensitive and is aware of his
own insufficiency must undergo torture. People are not
consciously unkind, but there are few things so comic
as an utterly untrained male actor trying to act. I knew
well what was in store for me, and looked forward with
a definite dread to my initiation into the Boston Mu-
seum Company.

Wrote my father to Mrs. Vincent: "Eddy is a dear
boy, but he will never make an actor." Indeed, it is
not for me to say that my father was wrong. Thus
recommended, there I was on my way to the dear old
lady's arms. My father had failed in this very town
and had succeeded. Edmund Kean had been pelted
with cabbages, and was a great man notwithstanding.
Truly I had no hunger for these experiences, yet should
they be mine it was evident there was no need to despair.
Let me proceed toward disaster with a light heart, catch
my cabbage on the wing dexterously. Perhaps some
day this same cabbage would be pointed to with proud
interest maybe sold at auction as a valuable memento
who could tell ? In the Players Club is preserved a back
tooth which once belonged to George Frederick Cook.
I was to open in the play called "The Duke's Motto."
I had my part in my pocket. There were many cues,

from a photograph by Sarony

EDWARD H. SOTHERN IN 1879

"SAINT VINCENT" 237

but the only line for me was: "To the health of our
noble host." There was not much opportunity for
distinction, nor, on the other hand, could I excite any
great distrust or antipathy. There seemed no chance
for cabbages !

It was in a cheerful mood, therefore, that I knocked
at Mrs. Vincent's door.

"My grandson!" cried that dear creature as she took
me to her embrace, "for your father is my son."

Well, I made friends with the parrots and the cats,
and the canaries and the strange Swedish girl, Mattie,
who always walked either sideways or backward and
forever was laughing or falling down-stairs. Some friends
of Mrs. Vincent were present. They looked rather
startled when told I was to be an actor. One man be-
gan to laugh in a breathless way I learned later it was
his habit to laugh like that even in grief. He meant no
comment on my intentions, but he distressed me sorely.
Mrs. Vincent took in lodgers; also she rented wardrobes
to amateur actors. The lower floor of her house was
filled with costumes of all periods. Members of the
Harvard University "Hasty Pudding Club" were great
customers of hers. It was a quaint household, old-
fashioned, Dickensonian. To me all the people were
new and strange and delightful; hospitable, affectionate,
saturated with remembrances of my father, and looking
on me with an amused curiosity, as children might look
on a firecracker. They seemed to speculate as to what
direction I should explode in, whether I would be able
to act or not. I was quite sure I could not, and again a
kind of despair settled on me.

The next morning I went to rehearsal. Rehearsal
was a daily ceremony at the Boston Museum, such as

238 MY REMEMBRANCES

prayers in an English house, or grace at a proper dinner-
table. Ten o'clock each morning a rehearsal. Punctual
as I was, my dear Mrs. Vincent was before me. She in-
troduced me to the company as they came in, thirty or
forty of them. Up I would bob and shake hands and be
greeted and sit down again by my guide philosopher
and "Mother.** The ceremony became quite embar-
rassing and even comic, for I was shy and conscious.
At length Mr. William Warren entered. I was just
from England; I had never heard of Mr. Warren; I
had never, until a few days before, known that such a
place as the Boston Museum existed. Mr. Warren's
long and devoted career as an artist was as foreign to
me as it is at this day to the vast majority of Americans,
to say nothing of English people. His great light had
been hidden under the Boston bushel all these years,
and his happy lot was that he practically had no his-
tory outside his native Common.

"Mr. William Warren," said my dear Mrs. Vincent,
"this is Mr. Sothern, the son of E. A. Sothern."

I did not rise, so distracted was I with much introduc-
tion. Mr. Warren shook me by the hand and spoke a
kindly word, greeted Mrs. Vincent, and passed on. But
I had made an awful mistake. I had not risen to greet
the idol of Boston. The manner of the entire company
which had been kindly tolerant before, now became
frigid. I felt something was wrong, but I could not tell
what. For a week I suffered the cold shoulder. At last
Joseph Haworth, with whom I had struck up a friendship,
thanks to Mrs. Vincent's intercession, took pity on my
ignorance and told me that everybody resented my
treatment of Mr. Warren. Mr. Warren himself had re-
mained behind on that fateful day after the rehearsal.

"SAINT VINCENT" 239

As I left my dressing-room, where I had been busy, I
encountered him. He patted me on the back. Said he:
"My boy, I knew your father and mother; come and
see me at my lodgings at Mrs. Fisher's; we must have a
chat. Perhaps I may be able to help you."

Of course I called, and of course the dear old actor
was sweet and kind. Here in the very house wherein
my boy father and girl mother had lodged, Mr. Warren
took me under his wing.

Said Haworth: "The people resent your behavior to
Mr. Warren."

"But Mr. Warren doesn't resent it," said I, while
before me arose visions of cat-o'-nine-tails, and burning
witches, and heads without ears, and Edmund Kean
standing there a mark for cabbages, and my father's
speech to the audience in 1852.

"My adventures have begun," I reflected.

"To the health of our noble host !" I cried with much
assurance on the opening night of "The Duke's Motto,"
already one line had become a small matter to me. I
began to feel my wings. My father had arranged to
provide me with that twenty dollars a week of which I
have spoken. I was to receive no salary whatever from
Mr. Field, the manager of the Museum. But Mr. Wil-
liam Seymour asked me to appear on salary day.

"I receive no salary," said I.

"No," said he, "but Mr. Field desires you to come
up with the others and accept an envelope."

This I accordingly did and was handed an envelope
with nothing in it. No sooner did I grasp it than
one of the minor members of the company said: "You
couldn't lend me ten dollars out of your salary, could
you?"

2 4 o MY REMEMBRANCES

"You can have it all," said I and I handed him my
envelope.

He looked at me, puzzled, but took the envelope and
opened it. "Don't you get anything?" said he.

"No," said I.

"Why not?" said he.

"I'm not worth it," said I.

Such an admission struck him quite speechless, and
I myself believe it is a unique confession, albeit quite
sincere, for Edmund Kean's cabbages were ever in my
mind's eye, and fame appeared to be a most fickle flame,
liable to be blown out even by those who had been at
the pains of kindling it, as one blows out the gas and is
poisoned thereby.

The economy of a stock company offered interesting
instances here at the Museum. Some of the actors had no
intention of letting grass grow under idle feet. One player
was a barber by day, another, the beloved "Smithy,"
was a tailor very properly, the tailor played fops. I
had a particular friend who was a cab-driver. Who shall
point the finger of scorn that these had two strings to
their bow? Their example might be well followed; an
honest barber or, for that matter, an honest cab-driver,
may be the noblest work of God. And well may the
actor's study of mankind be multiplied a thousandfold
by the scraping of innumerable chins or the driving of
the accidental wayfarer from the cradle to the grave.
Who could better take man's measure than the tailor,
dissect him to a hair than the barber, or consider his
final destination than the cab-driver ?

For three months I disported myself at the Museum.
Then my father arrived in Boston on his annual visit.
We were at the time playing a burlesque called "Pip-

From a photograph by the Notman Studio

"ST. VINCENT" (MRS. R. H. VINCENT)

"SAINT VINCENT" 241

pins." I had quite a part in this, and was made up to
look like "Lord Dundreary." My father had sent me
one of his wigs and a pair of whiskers. His delight when
he saw me thus decorated was unbounded. I had to sing
a song and execute a dance. Most excellently foolish I
was, but it was one of the rungs of the ladder, and I was
learning that I had feet.

Immediately on my father's arrival in Boston, I went
with him to call on Mrs. Vincent. She lived, at that
time, in Charles Street, having recently moved from
Chambers Street. As the door opened, my father dashed
past the startled servant-maid, rushed up-stairs two steps
at a time, flew like a cyclone into Mrs. Vincent's room,
saying:

"Come, we must fly instantly; all is discovered ! We
are lost ! Your parents are in hot pursuit. Quick ! Send
for hot rum and water, and an onion ! I have pistols
and asafcetida!"

Meanwhile, to the terror of some sedate persons whom
Mrs. Vincent had invited to meet my parent, he seized
that gentle, sweet, and hysterical matron, wrapped a
camel's-hair shawl around her and carried her down-
stairs; placed her in her rustling silks into the carriage
which had brought us to her door, cried to the driver:
"Quick, drive for your life ! We are pursued ! Five
dollars ! ten dollars ! twenty dollars if we escape !" The
driver was on the box by now; the horses were prancing,
for this excitement was contagious. Heads appeared
from neighboring windows, passers-by stopped and
stared. I, myself, was bewildered, so intense and earnest
was my father. Dash ! we went up Charles Street.

"They are after us!" cried my father out at the
window. "Go on! drive round and round the Com-

242 MY REMEMBRANCES

mon till I tell you to stop I Ten dollars 1 Twenty
dollars 1"

The driver was now standing up on the box, belaboring
the horses. Mrs. Vincent's cries and laughter alarmed
persons in the street. We went at much risk quite round
the public garden and back to the Charles Street house,
my father violently directing operations from the window,
and intermittently declaring to Mrs. Vincent his adora-
tion for her, saying that "since they had to die, they
would die together !" and much to the same effect. Mrs.
Vincent's perturbed household gathered her up and took
her back to her room; the cabman, wild-eyed and re-
warded, went his way, and an uproarious party dis-
cussed the amazing adventure.

How could such people ever grow old ? They never
did grow old; evergreen was Mrs. Vincent, a perennial
was my father; both of them had the hearts of children,
responsive as children to the touch of joy or sorrow.

I went one day with these two to visit the poor people
who were for the moment Mrs. Vincent's particular
charges; my father accompanying her as a friend on the
condition that his part in the ministrations was not to
be divulged and stipulating that he was to be introduced
as the Grand Duke Alexis. To many humble abodes
we made our way with a carriage full of baskets and
parcels. The Grand Duke Alexis was received with
much awe, and created great astonishment by showing
these poor people the strangest conjuring tricks. In
one house he asked an old woman to please give him a
plate of roast corks.

"Roast corks!" said the astonished dame.

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Vincent, "a favorite dish in
Russia."

"SAINT VINCENT" 243

"They keep out the cold," said my father. Some
corks were produced. "Don't bother to cook them,"
said my father, "I'll eat them raw."

The good people observed this strange nobleman
solemnly eat these corks, or seem to do so. He would
lift a cork to his mouth and palm it dexterously and drop
it onto his lap. A small child got under the table and
discovered the deception, and there was much merri-
ment in consequence. At another house my father ex-
tracted coins from Mrs. Vincent's ear, and discovered
coins in the pockets of people whose pockets seldom har-
bored such visitants. Packs of cards were produced and
strange tricks accomplished with them; ventriloquism
made old people and young people look up chimneys
and into cupboards. Never were such feats performed
before in these humble homes. The climax was reached
when my father asked one household if he might be per-
mitted to stand on his head in the corner of the room
and say his prayers. This he actually did, Mrs. Vincent
explaining to the bewildered onlookers that such was the
custom in Russia. Into the lives of these suffering people,
such astonishment, wonder, and delight entered that
night as was the topic of conversation for many and
many a day and night to come.

The incredulous reader will exclaim with Fabian in
"Twelfth Night":

"If this were played upon a stage now one would con-
demn it as an improbable fiction."

But my father was like no other man alive. His moods
were as violently varied as the wind. His tenderness,
his audacity, his agility of mind and body, his elfin spirit
of mischief, his pity for the unfortunate, his schoolboy

244 MY REMEMBRANCES

delight in the strangest of pranks made up a very love-
able and unique personality.

In his "Life of E. A. Sothern," Mr. T. Edgar Pember-
ton relates that on his meeting John McCullough for the
first time, McCullough said to him:

"You knew Sothern?"
"Intimately," replied Pemberton.
"Then you loved him," said McCullough.

Now I went away from Boston to travel and play
small parts in my father's company. His last season
on the stage it proved to be. In a little while he was
no more.

It was after my father's death, in 1882, that Mr. War-
ren's jubilee his fiftieth year in one theatre was cele-
brated with much ceremony. He was now seventy years
of age, and Boston paid him a worthy tribute. Then
shortly came Mrs. Vincent's turn. Her dear heart was
gladdened, too, with the homage of her thousands of
friends. Again a little while and her time had come.
According to her desire, all her pet birds were buried
with her. They were mercifully chloroformed, and she
and her parrots and canaries were borne to one grave
followed by a sorrowing multitude.

The Vincent Hospital is one of the proudest monu-
ments ever erected to an actor. Here in New England,
in Boston, where the prejudice against the playhouse
was so powerful that the astute managers had to prac-
tically charm the godly into the belief that a theatre
was not a theatre; here has been erected by Trinity
Church, under the direct, immediate instigation of
Bishop Brooks, a noble memorial to a noble woman of
the stage. Mrs. Vincent, "the actress," in the very

"SAINT VINCENT" 245

hotbed of prejudice, by merely living her gentle, kindly,
loving existence, had become such a shining light of
sweetness and goodliness that with one accord people
raised this hospital to her, and here is where a certain
good fairy again prevailed. Down Boston's chimney
she came and made Boston's duty clear.

The time had come when Mrs. Vincent had moved
from Chambers Street to Charles Street. In the opposite
house across the road resided one Miss Caroline Staples
with her mother. Miss Staples, herself a quaint spinster,
regarded Mrs. Vincent, the actress over the way, with
vivid and tremulous curiosity. The old player's pil-
grimage to Saint Paul's Church on Sundays, where she
occupied the same pew for many years; her departure
for early rehearsal and for the play each evening, her
return about eleven o'clock at night can one not see
the little old-fashioned Puritan, Miss Staples, watching
from behind her curtain this denizen of the wicked and
forbidden theatre ? Did she not wrestle with her own
imagination to discover how the dear dumpling of an
old lady, fluttering to and from her daily labor, could
possibly be a minister of evil ? For Mrs. Vincent's
comings and goings and the reports of her acting ac-
complishments all led Miss Staples into a clearer knowl-
edge of plays and players. Mrs. Vincent, too, had
observed Miss Staples, but no word had ever been ex-
changed between the two estimable old gentlewomen.
Then Miss Staples's mother died and Mrs. Vincent sent
over a card and a note of sympathy, and a mighty friend-
ship resulted. When Mrs. Vincent died, Miss Staples
wished to create some memorial to her friend of the
playhouse, and consulted the good fairy as to the best
way to bestow one thousand dollars to this end. A

246 MY REMEMBRANCES

small hospital already planned to emerge from a working
girls' club might be aided in remembrance of her, and
perhaps this modest ward might be christened the
"Vincent Hospital." Down to Bishop Brooks sped the
fairy. "Would Trinity Church be willing to name its
little hospital after an actress ?*"

"Why not?" said the bishop. "Why not? She was
a good woman."

On the wings of love flew the fairy, and gave the con-
sent of Trinity Church to the newspapers. Then, sorely
frightened at her own temerity, she began to wave her
wand so that the one thousand dollars should become
several thousands. A great fair was held in old Horti-
cultural Hall. Mrs. Vincent's collection of fans was
mended and patched and exhibited and actually sold
Mrs. Malaprop's fan and Lady Teasle's fan, and Mrs.
Vincent's costumes were placed on exhibition. Ad-
mission at a dollar a ticket was charged. Thus over
four thousand dollars was raised. Mr. Edwin Booth
was spoken to, Mr. Jefferson was written to, all sorts
of chimneys were adventured, so that shortly when the
deacons of Trinity Church gathered to discuss the fact
that Trinity Church had sanctioned the naming of a
ward after an actress, the solid, illuminating, flaming,
persuasive fact stared them in the face that a large sum
was at the back of the enterprise already, and that it
was determined that not the projected ward only but a
hospital should arise to the honor of the dead "play-
actress." There was some slight demur. But Bishop
Brook's hearty indorsement turned the scale. So the
plan was carried through. The Vincent Club was formed,
a permanent institution whose members, the smartest
young women of the city, devote much time and loving

"SAINT VINCENT" 247

care to the affairs of the charity. Thus, to-day the
affection of a whole community is consolidated into an
institution now housed in a new and adequate building
which is an honor to them and to the sweet soul they
celebrate. "Saint Vincent's" Hospital! What gentler
monument could the old actress have desired ? Out of
her poverty she had all her busy life spared much of her
slight substance for those less happy than herself. She
was never more than a stock actress on a small salary.
Her life had been one of hard work and generous sacrifice.
For half a century she had labored and loved. Her one
life has done more to break down New England's aver-
sion to the calling of the actor than would the eloquence
of a thousand homilies. And one of the sweetest tributes
I can pay my father's memory is to recall the fact that
Mrs. Vincent was his friend.

Was she not happier and more fortunate than those
of us who sail the seven seas in search of the bubble,
reputation ? Honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
and all that should accompany old age were hers; and
after all is said and done, these are the things that are
best, for when the curtain falls as winds that blow, into
the night go one and all.

XXVI
JOHN McCULLOUGH

"A BABBLED o* green fields," whispered Mistress Quickly
as Falstaff lay in the adjoining room slowly marching on
his final journey. Surely this mountain of flesh saw him-
self again as a mole-hill and reverted, as all men will, to
his earliest days.

It was, I believe, in this mood that, in the last year
of his life, my father's thoughts returned to some modest
lodgings which he had once occupied in company with
two other actors in the small seaport of Yarmouth in
England. Many years before Mr. Douglas Stewart, as
my father was then called, was a member of the com-
pany at the Theatre Royal, Birmingham. The stage-
manager and heavy man was one James Crucifix Smith,
a broad man blessed with a tall, majestic wife. These
two became dear friends of my father, and on certain
high-days and holidays they would go to Yarmouth on
fishing excursions; occasionally the company might play
in Yarmouth and other adjacent towns. These lodgings
of which I speak were on a terrace at right angles to the
seashore. You stepped out of the front door on to the
pebbly beach, on which was a line of fishing-boats drawn
up and extending as far along the shore as the eye could
reach weather-beaten, picturesque craft with sails of
every hue; and old salts and young salts hard by mend-
ing their herring nets, while a scent of seaweed and fish

was heavy on the breeze.

248

JOHN McCULLOUGH 249

In these modest rooms, in days long gone, James
Crucifix Smith and my father, mothered and cooked for
by Mrs. Smith, had passed some joyful days.

One morning when he was ill and worn after his
last season in America, my father said: "Pack up!
We are going to Yarmouth to fish." James Crucifix
Smith met us at the station on our arrival. I had
never seen Smith before. He was as broad as he was
long, his countenance beamed as the morning sun and
was surely as round. He had the largest coal-black
mustache I had ever seen. He was dressed for fishing
in a costume which seafaring men don when they en-
counter typhoons and other devastating storms. The
day was fair as an Arcadian song, the sea was like glass.
But when Smith fished he meant business. My father,
too, had brought an outfit such as men prepare for polar
expeditions. I had been on many fishing excursions with
him in America the Rangeley Lakes, Lake Tahoe, the
Saint Lawrence River in Canada. A great variety of
weapons was always procured supplies such as arctic
and African explorers might require; a literature of fish
and fishers, and tackle for leviathan or a minnow. Mrs.
Smith was also at the station, a dear, motherly matron;
to look at her was to rest secure about dinner.

The station being near the shore, we were soon in the
lodgings. Very small they were, but my father was de-
lighted. He was ill and worn out, but he became young
again, rushing about the house and recalling the days
when these three had lived and laughed and worked and
scraped and economized on this very spot. Smith had
a boat all ready, with a crew consisting of one boy.
Smith had a speaking-trumpet such as admirals use in
storms at sea, and with this it was a simple matter to

250 MY REMEMBRANCES

convey his orders to the crew who stood waiting for
them not ten feet from the window.

"We must go fishing at once," said my father while
dinner was cooking.

"Of course," said Smith. "I knew you would want
to, so I am ready. The boat's ready, the tackle, every-
thing is ready. Ahoy there !" yelled he out of the window
and through the speaking-trumpet. "All hands on
deck!" and he gave several incredible instructions to
the crew which that manner proceeded to execute.

Soon we were at sea. We fished. I was unutterably
seasick; no words can tell how wretched I was; wet
through with spray, cold as ice. But Smith and my
father were jubilant, and returned to the small lodgings
weary with laughter and shouting and heavy with Yar-
mouth bloaters, mackerel, and codfish.

There was much anecdote that night as we ate
Mrs. Smith's leg of mutton in the very small sitting-
room. Smith had always played the heavy villains and
Mrs. Smith the stately queens. It had been her custom
to consign Smith to awful dungeons; to have him hanged,
drawn, and quartered; to sentence him to be shot ere
dawn. Many times Smith's head had been brought to
the block, and the executioner's axe had put an end to
deeds too horrible to mention here. Few men had lived
so many wicked lives or died so many violent deaths as
Smith. Yet there he sat, beaming like the setting sun,
his large mustache moving like a wave of the sea as he
munched his roast mutton.

A happy week we spent at Yarmouth. But shortly
my father began to feel restless. I did not know it then,
but his last illness was upon him.

We went back to London where it was arranged that

JOHN McCULLOUGH 251

I should join John McCullough and return with him to
America, occupying the captain's cabin on the Adriatic,
which McCullough and my father had expected to share
on the return journey. With much seriousness, McCul-
lough, my father, and I constructed a legal document on
half a sheet of note-paper, my first contract for an en-
gagement. I was to receive twenty dollars a week and
find my own wardrobe. McCullough made out a list
of articles used by noble Romans and others that I should
impersonate. My father went with me to the costumer's
and ordered the things, with a glittering array of armors,
helmets, togas, hauberks, befeathered and bedizened and
bewigged, I sailed away to begin acting in earnest. Alas !
In one year my father died, in three years more McCul-
lough also had passed away.

John McCullough was a very old friend of my father,
who confided me to his care for two reasons. In the first
place, my father earnestly hoped that hard work would
dishearten me with the theatre, a career for which he
was convinced I was totally unfitted; and, secondly,
should I determine to continue acting, he believed that
a company playing a large repertoire, of what are called
legitimate plays, was the best school for a beginner.
John McCullough produced thirteen plays the year I
was with him "Othello," "Hamlet," "Merchant of
Venice," "Julius C*sar," "Richard III," "Jack Cade,"
"Richelieu," "The Lady of Lyons," "Brutus, or the
Fall of Tarquin," " Virginius," "The Gladiator," "Damon
and Pythias," and "Ingomar." I was given about six
parts in each of these plays and some understudies.
Most of these parts were flying messengers, one or two
lines; leaders of mobs, and such like. Later I was
given better parts Roderigo in "Othello," Lucius in

252 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Virginius," De Beringhen in "Richelieu," and so forth.
At first, however, McCullough carefully observed my
father's wishes, and, in order to impress upon me the
hopelessness of my expectations as an actor, would,
while I was playing a scene with him, comment cheer-
fully on my efforts, under his breath, as thus: "You're
a d d fine actor, you are." He was quite good-
natured about it, and while at first it disconcerted me,
I grew accustomed to it, and, indeed, found such candid
criticism useful.

We opened the season in Detroit. I had brought from
England my large trunk full of beautiful new wardrobe,
carefully selected to meet all possible emergencies. In
those days, each actor had to provide his own outfit
down to the smallest detail. For these thirteen plays no
scenery was carried. All productions were made, by the
various theatres we played in, out of stock scenery. It
was, therefore, much cheaper to play a large and varied
repertoire then than it is now, when the actor has to take
with him six or seven carloads of scenery and appoint-
ments, and when he must provide all costumes for a
company of sixty or seventy people.

The costumes of most of the members of the McCul-
lough company had been worn for some seasons, so when
I exhibited these beautiful new clothes of mine they
excited much admiration in my dressing-room. Men
from adjoining rooms were called in to view the nice
new garments and the bright shining armor. In about
ten minutes most of my things adorned the members of
the company, who had seldom appeared to such ad-
vantage. I had some misgivings, but a desire to be civil
among new acquaintances induced me to let the mat-
ter go.

From a photograph by Sarony

JOHN McCULLOUGH

JOHN McCULLOUGH 253

After the performance, however, McCullough called
everybody on the stage and asked them to take off this,
that, or the other sandals, armor, helmets, togas, and
so on. A small heap of my belongings adorned the centre
of the stage. "Now," said he, "keep your things to
yourself, and remember that in the beginning the tailor
makes the man."

I did not play many important parts in that company,
but I studied all the plays, heard them spoken each
night by very capable people, and always look back on
that year as the most valuable training I ever had. The
company had worked together for some seasons, so much
rehearsing was not necessary. Small accidents, how-
ever, would now and then mar a scene, as one night,
in the drama of "Damon and Pythias." When we had
rehearsed the play during the day, one of the smaller
members was ill, so, as he had only two words to speak,
a super was put on in his place. In the Senate scene,
one of the leading characters has to declare: "I do as-
severate it is the vote," and three senators, who are
seated at one side of the stage, cry: "And I!" "And
I!" "And I!" Myself and another actor were two of
these senators, and the super now became the third.
We went through the words, we received the cue: "I
do asseverate it is the vote." "And I!" said I. "And
I !" cried the other. "And Hi!" said the super. "No!
No!" said Mr. McCullough, "not Hi; I! I! Don't
pronounce the H like that again!" So again we did it,
the poor super very conscious and perturbed. "I do as-
severate it is the vote"; "And I !" "And I !" "And Hi !"
"Look here, my good man," said McCullough, "you
must not pronounce it 'Hi/' 5 "Hi know, sir," said the
super; "Hi know Hi have that difficulty; Hi'm an English-

254 MY REMEMBRANCES

man. But Hi'm sure Hi can conquer it. Hi'll practise it
all day and Hi'll be all right at night." (Fatal faith 1
How often have we seen it the prologue of disaster!)
Well the night arrived. We had all forgotten the episode
of the morning in our various preparations. "I do as-
severate it is the vote"; "And I!" cried I; "And I!"
said the man next to me; "And me!" said the super.
May he rest in peace, wherever he may be! To me he
is immortal.

In the play of "The Gladiator," Spartacus overcomes
his opponent in the arena, and, looking up at the specta-
tors, who are on an elevated gallery to the left of the
stage, he raises his sword and waits for the signal of
"thumbs down" to deliver the coup de grace. We, in
the gallery, would make this gesture, the blow would be
given and a fine picture achieved. The men and women
in the gallery were composed of about twelve supers
and about as many of the minor members of the com-
pany. Since only the upper part of the body was visible,
the lower part being hidden by the stone parapet of the
gallery, we wore our trousers or our skirts, as the case
may be, under our togas. One night McCullough fought
the great fight, beat his foe to the ground, raised his
sword for the signal to slay him. With great gusto we
all made the movement. The platform gave way !
What had been thumbs down was now feet up. We
were, some twenty-four of us, with trousered legs and
stockinged legs, male and female, sticking up in the
air, uninjured luckily, but humiliated and sheepish as,
fallen from our high estate of Roman nobles, we picked
ourselves up and trundled off the stage.

When we reached Washington, McCullough one night
called me to his dressing-room after the play. In the

JOHN McCULLOUGH 255

room was General Sherman, whom I had met before with
my father. I greeted him and was rather surprised when
he placed his arm about my shoulders affectionately.
McCullough said: "Eddy, I have some bad news for
you which I have been holding until after the play,"
and he handed me a cable despatch, which told of my
father's death. The impression made by such news is
peculiar. I was greatly astonished at its effect on me.
I would have expected, had I ever contemplated the
receipt of this announcement, that I should be conscious
at once of deep emotion, but such was not the case. I
said good night to General Sherman and McCullough and
went home to my hotel, next to the National Theatre.
I had my supper and went to my room, and still I could
feel no overpowering emotion; I suppose I did not
realize what had happened to me. I was greatly dis-
turbed at this seeming heartlessness on my part, for
I was conscious that I loved my father deeply and that
life without him was going to be very empty. I knelt
down with an overwhelming sense that something was
wrong with me, and that this lack of feeling was unnatural
and blameworthy, and I prayed for some light and some
understanding, but I received none. I slept well and
went about my work the next day. People were sad
and sympathetic when they met me, but I was still
quite unable to grasp what had happened. That night
we played "Richard III." In the second act, the Prince
of Wales, the character I was playing, is discovered on
a throne, in the centre of the stage, surrounded by his
court, Richard III, Lady Anne, and quite a number of
people. Richard has murdered the prince's father in the
tower. The prince has come to London to be crowned
King. The lord mayor comes to welcome him to the

256 MY REMEMBRANCES

city. Shortly the prince's brother, the Duke of York,
enters, and says: "Well, dread my lord, so I must call
you now." The prince replies: "Ay, brother, to our
grief as it is yours. Too late he died that might have
kept that title which by his death hath lost much maj-
esty." As I began the speech I felt the words stick in
my throat, and at the word "death" I went all to pieces.
I was overcome by the most uncontrollable grief and
sobbed aloud. Queen Anne (Miss Kate Forsyth), who
was on the stage, and King Richard III (McCullough)
came to me; and the others courtiers, ladies in waiting,
men at arms, pages looked scared and distracted. The
audience made no sound; my father's death had been
announced in the papers, and they understood. Soon
I controlled myself and went on with my part, and with
some three or four other parts I had in later scenes of
the play.

I went back to England at the end of that season.
In 1883 I returned and joined McCullough's company
in the middle of the season. He called me to his room
one day in Detroit and asked me to write some letters
for him. He was thin and looked worried and ill.
"There's something the matter with my head," said he,
"I can't remember things." The shadow was upon
him. The climax came very shortly in Chicago. It had
been decided on account of his condition to close the
season and disband the company. He had been told of
this, but he called a rehearsal. All the members re-
sponded. He began to rehearse, to go through one part
and then another. He would stop, think a moment,
and begin a speech in a different play. It was pitiful.
The company, familiar with all his plays, took up the
lines wherever he led them. He went through a scene

JOHN McCULLOUGH 257

in "The Gladiator," then he went to the last scene in
"Virginius," where Virginius raves after he has killed
his daughter. Then to "Othello's" farewell speech,
one he had often told me that his great master, Edwin
Forrest, had only read to his own satisfaction once in
his life:

O now forever farewell the tranquil mind ! Farewell,

content !

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars
That make ambition virtue; O farewell !
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump !
The spirit-stirring drum; the ear-piercing fife;
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war !
And O, you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,
Farewell ! Othello's occupation's gone.

It was pitiful in the extreme to hear McCullough
read this at any time, and trebly so now. He wandered
through others of his various characters, the people
about him weeping and seeking to hide their grief. At
length he drifted into the part of Cardinal Richelieu.
He played the scene in the garden where Baradas, the
creature of the King, comes to take Richelieu's ward
away from him. He had spoken the tender speech of
protection to Julie, and now Richelieu says to Joseph,
who holds him up on one side while his ward assists him
on the other: "Well, well, we will go home!" Here he
walks feebly up the stage. Baradas, seeing how broken
he is, says, aside to De Beringhen: "His mind and life
are breaking fast." Richelieu overhears him, turns
with his old fury and cries: "Irreverent ribald! If so,
beware the falling ruin ! I tell thee, scorner of these

258 MY REMEMBRANCES

whitening hairs, when this snow melteth there shall
come a flood. Avaunt 1 My name is Richelieu 1 I
defy theel Walk blindfold on behind thee stalks the
headsman aha ! How pale he glares God save my
country!" and he falls fainting as the act ends. Poor
McCullough went up the stage at "Well, well, we will
go home." Baradas said his line, the tears streaming
down his face: "His mind and life are breaking fast."
McCullough threw Joseph and Julie off as he turned on
Baradas and began, "Irreverent ribald! If so, beware
the falling ruin," and stopped dazed. He looked at the
weeping Baradas, at Julie sobbing, at the rest of the com-
pany standing about overcome with grief and terror,
and collapsed utterly. He never played again.

John McCullough was one of the dearest and most
beloved actors of his or any other time. In some parts
he was magnificent Virginius, Brutus in "Julius Caesar,"
and Brutus in "The Fall of Tarquin," and in Othello
he was superb.

It has been my fortune to encounter two rather start-
ling coincidences in connection with the death of Mr.
Booth and John McCullough. The night that Edwin
Booth died, I was taking supper in the dining-room
of the Players Club with three friends. There were no
other men in the club. It was about two o'clock in the
morning. We, of course, knew that Mr. Booth was ill,
but his death was not expected immtdiately. While
we were talking over our meal, suddenly every light in
the club went out. My companions began to call for
the waiter and to protest loudly. From the darkness
right at our elbows, a voice, that of Mr. McGonegal,
the manager of the club, said: "Hush! Mr. Booth is
dead."

JOHN McCULLOUGH 259

The day Mr. McCullough died I happened to be study-
ing the play of "Cymbeline." I was reading the song
in Act II:

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must.
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust

when a friend of mine opened the door of my room in
the Sturtevant House Hotel and said: " McCullough 's
dead."

XXVII
THE NEAR FUTURE

"I AM sorry that I have no position of any importance
open at this time," wrote Mr. Daniel Frohman one sum-
mer's day in 1883, "but no doubt in the near future I
shall be able to offer you and your sister an engage-
ment."

"Man never is but always to be bless'd," and the
eternal springs of hope spurted joyfully at this phrase.

"In the near future!" Surely, that must mean next
week, at any rate before the month should wane. It
would be absurd to imagine that "the near future" could
be a year away, that would be far into eternity; say six
weeks at the remotest calculation. Then, too, the words,
"no position of importance," one could build on that.
Leading parts perhaps. Doubtless our appearance had
made our capacity evident to even a casual observance.
The matter was as good as settled. The future really
was secure. All one had to do was to pass the mean-
while with a light heart and to determine calmly and
without prejudice what salary one would condescend to
accept. One must not undervalue oneself nor make the
mistake of holding one's ability cheaply. Mr. Daniel
was a business man and naturally would endeavor to
make a good bargain, but we owed a duty to ourselves,
and although we were prepared to discuss our stipends
with civility and even amiably, we, of course, could not

put up with any nonsense, and must make it clear that

260

THE NEAR FUTURE 261

we were not to be imposed upon, and that even though
we were artists we had a keen business sense.

We had seen this actor and that actor whom rumor
credited with this or that weekly remuneration, and it
was clear as day that our accomplishments were equal,
if not superior to theirs. We were modest and unas-
suming, but even so one must be honest about it, and
admit that one's quality is worth such or such a sum.

We would say thus. Mr. Daniel would reply so. To
this we would demur in this wise. Mr. Daniel would
beat about the bush in such a manner. We would keep
to the point and drive him into a corner. He would have
to admit the justice of our argument, the propriety of
our claim. He would perceive that further remonstrance
would be indecorous, even indecent. He would accede to
all demands, contracts would be signed with a certain
ill-concealed avidity on his part, and with a dignified
reserve, a pleasant indifference, on ours. Announcements
would be made, success would soon follow, clamor for
our services and general acknowledgment of our desert.

By now it is Thursday. The "near future" was, at
the latest, on Wednesday. A call at Mr. Daniel's office
elicited the statement that at present his ranks were
full, but he was delighted to see us, and in the near
future he surely would be able to place us to our ad-
vantage.

On second thoughts we really could afford to accept
a lesser salary than that we had determined on after
Mr. Daniel's first assurance, and indeed, it was not
necessary when that anticipated conversation should
ensue to create an atmosphere of hauteur nor to allow
Mr. Daniel to feel that money was the sole object of
our negotiations. Perhaps, two-thirds of the amount we

262 MY REMEMBRANCES

had selected would amply repay us for our labors. On
that sum, should he engage us, say, for three years for
we would not tie ourselves up for a longer period we
could take a lease of that small but particular house we
had so often coveted. Two servants could take care of
it, although certainly one must have a fine cook. Yes,
one must not be hard on Mr. Daniel nor force him to
pay us more than he can really afford. Some concessions
are due to art. One must not be too mercenary. Two-
thirds would be satisfactory.

But now this is three weeks later. A little note to
Mr. Daniel meets with the charming response that he is so
pleased to hear from us, that he bears us in mind, and that
doubtless "in the near future" a vacancy will occur in his
theatre when he will be delighted to notify us. Really we
have been hasty in assuming that two-thirds is actually
necessary as a matter of salary. One can live on one-half
of that original amount. Certain economies can be prac-
tised. One servant besides the excellent cook, and then
the place need not be furnished so extravagantly as we had
decided it should be. Besides, once we are at work, we
shall be so occupied that many expenses we have counted
upon we will not have time to indulge in. Perhaps, we
had better write Mr. Daniel a line to assure him that
one-half the salary we first thought of would allure us.
But, on reflection, he has not yet, in so many words,
proposed to avail himself of our services.

By this six months have flown by. We meet Mr.
Daniel on a street-car.

"Anything doing?" we cry gayly.

"Not now," replies Mr. Daniel, jumping off the car;
"something 'in the near future,' perhaps," and he is gone.

Well, really, the house would be an extravagance,

THE NEAR FUTURE 263

anyhow; one can be perfectly comfortable in a hotel,
and if only one of us can secure employment we can
get along very well; besides, this plan will relieve Mr.
Daniel of a great part of that celebrated wage which he
will have to pay us. A note sent by messenger suggests
to him that, perhaps, he can use my single service in
some role. Mr. Daniel is delighted to hear from me and
hopes I enjoy good health, but just at present all his
companies are full; "in the near future," however, an
opening will doubtless occur.

But it is nine months since this tantalizing phrase
was first projected. Will Mr. Daniel, I wonder, give me
the smallest part ? Can I coax him to pay me one-
twentieth portion of that original sum? Daily I wait
on him. Daily he smiles and waves his hand and daily
says: "In the near future." I wonder if Mr. Daniel
would hire me at any figure at all, or would he, per-
chance, lend me ten dollars.

"Why," said I to him in after years, "why did you
not give me a job when I pestered you so constantly,
so persistently, so hungrily?"

"You looked so happy and prosperous," said he,
"that I did not think you needed one."

Then I told him how empty my pockets had been,
and how I had chewed the cud of that sentence, "in the
near future," day in and day out, and how my sister
and I had wondered and wondered what day of what
week that "near future" would fall on. It could not be
far away now. Now it was here, now again it had fled
into the void, far, far away.

"You appeared so neat and well-groomed and young
and cheerful," said Mr. Daniel, "that I felt sure you
were not in need of employment."

264 MY REMEMBRANCES

"We were dressed up for the occasion," said I, and
I recalled how my sister had put on her prettiest frock to
call on the manager. No doubt I had given a last glance
at myself in the glass; probably we did have a satisfied
air. A lean and hungry look might have been more profit-
able and have brought "the near future" to our door.

It was to the Madison Square Theatre that I went to
pester Mr. Frohman for engagements. "Hazel Kirke"
was then running on its long career. Here I encoun-
tered old Mr. Couldock, one of those venerable ones
who had nursed me on his knee, a massive and leonine
man, who took his profession very seriously. His part
of Dunstan Kirke, the old miller, was a very King Lear,
and his performance was superb and terrific. Mr. Coul-
dock had shown much favor to a young man who was
making his first experiment in a theatre. It was this
youth's business in a certain scene to carry, with two
other men, some bags of flour across the stage. The de-
tail of his action Mr. Couldock would constantly discuss
with him, so important did he consider it that it should
be done in just such a manner. The old gentleman's
kindly and constant interest and anxiety encouraged the
young man to believe that his career as an actor was
dear to Mr. Couldock's heart, and he foresaw himself
under the great player's protecting wing borne to the
very pinnacle of fortune.

One day, however, the business with the bag of flour
went wrong. Intoxicated with Mr. Couldock's encourage-
ment and favor, the wretched novice became light-
headed. He, in a careless moment, dropped the bag of
flour onto the stage, and ruined the scene so dear to the
old actor's heart. He grovelled with apology, but old
Mr. Couldock was strangely amiable.

THE NEAR FUTURE 265

"Come to my room after the play," was all he said,
and he actually laughed as he said it, a curious light in
his eyes which the young man felt sure was the glow
of affection.

"You're a good boy," said the still amiable Dunstan
Kirke after the play, as he stood disrobing himself in his
dressing-room.

The novice had again protested his sorrow for the
accident which had ruined the scene.

"You're a good boy and ought to make a fine actor."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Couldock," grinned the youth.
"I have been longing to ask your advice about going on
the stage. I was so frightened you would be angry with
me."

"Angry about what?" said old Couldock. "Not at
all. How much salary do you get ? "

It was in Mr. Couldock's power to recommend an
increase of wages, and the pulse of the young man beat
high as he said : " Five dollars a week, Mr. Couldock."

"Five dollars a week, eh? And how do you spend
it?"

"Spend it, Mr. Couldock?"

"Yes, sir! Spend it. You understand English, don't
you ? What do you do with it ?"

There was a note of impatience in the voice which
rather shocked the young hopeful, but he reflected that
Mr. Couldock was old and his performance arduous.

"Well, dod gast it ! How do you spend it ?"

"Well, Mr. Couldock, sir," piped the startled youth,
"I pay a dollar a week for my room."
' "A dollar for your room, eh ? Well, go on ! What
more?"

"And three dollars for my board."

266 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Three for your board, that's four. What else?"

"And fifty cents for car-fare and extras."

"Fifty cents for car-fare. Well, go onl That makes
four fifty. Well?"

"And twenty-five cents for laundry."

" Four seventy-five. Well, what else ? Dod gast it I
Hurry up! What more?"

"Well, Mr. Couldock, that's all."

"Then you save twenty-five cents a week?"

"Well, not always, Mr. Couldock; sometimes I save
only ten cents."

"Well, dod gast itl Say ten cents, then; that is, you
save forty cents a month, eh ? Do you, or don't you ?"

"Yes, Mr. Couldock, sir, I do."

"And you want to know my advice about going on
the stage, eh ? Dod gast it 1"

"Yes, please, Mr. Couldock."

"Well, I'll tell you. Take your forty cents a month,
and save it up until you have three dollars. Do you
understand me ? "

"Yes, Mr. Couldock, yes, sir!"

"Until you have three dollars, and then buy an axe
and cut your dod-gasted head off!"

To me, however, Mr. Couldock was as gentle as a
lamb and regaled me with many remembrances of my
father and mother in their earlier days. He told me how
they, too, had hovered about the threshold of oppor-
tunity, and I was able to look back through the years
and see them as young as my sister and I then were,
waiting for that same "near future" which our lagging
steps could by no means overtake, and which seemed
forever in the middle of next week. I have always re-
membered it, and am still waiting for it to turn up.

THE NEAR FUTURE 267

One is never aware of it until it has melted into the
past, and yet there it is again beckoning just ahead of
you, full of promises, of dreams come true, of castles
builded and of fortunes made.

XXVIII
RHYME AND TIME

"LovE is a madness," says Rosalind, "and deserves
as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do." What
is to be said, then, of persons who, not having the excuse
of being in love, indulge in the reprehensible conduct
common to lovers, who indite verses to fictitious divini-
ties, and venture to rhyme while retaining their reason ?
If the whip and the dungeon should be the fate of the
one, surely the block or the stake should put an end to
the other. Therefore, am I a fugitive from justice and,
as the criminal is drawn back to the scene of his crime,
here am I confessing to once having written a love-song.
Still, as a moral hangs thereby, the tale may justify the
ditty. The rhyme having been committed, I took it,
with some others, to my friend, Walter Slaughter, the
leader of the orchestra of the Royalty Theatre, London,
where I had an engagement at the time. He had told
me that he wanted some lines to set to music.

"Here you are," said I, "I built this song myself."

"Load,' does not rhyme with 'bowed,'" said Slaughter;
"' cloud* would be better."

I wished that I had thought of "cloud" myself, but
I had to accept the amendment.

Slaughter came to me a few days after. "I have
written some lovely music for your words," said he,
"but now I don't like the words, and I want to use the

music for something else."

268

RHYME AND TIME 269

"What's the matter with the words?" said I.

"They seem rather senseless," replied Slaughter.

I was a bit dashed, but I had other troubles just then,
so I soon forgot all about my song. As a matter of
record, here is the song:

" When cruel Fate or weight of years
The head has lowly bowed,
One mem'ry dries the bitter tears
And lightens sorrow's load.
Oh, sweeter than the twittering song
That summer zephyrs bear,
The sound of one dear word that long
Has lingered in mine ear.
When, in the silent winter night,
The shadows of the firelight
The past express:
'Will you be mine ?' again I cry.
Again I hear her soft reply,
My darling: 'Yes/

" It is the magic word that opes
The cavern of the past,
Recalling youth and love and hopes
Too honey-sweet to last.
Once more her trembling hand I take,
I press her lips once more,
I hear her voice ! I start ! I wake !
The dear day-dream is o'er.
When I at eve at summertide,
Kneeling, her flowery grave beside,
Cry in distress,

With heavy heart the sad refrain:
'Ah, shall we ever meet again ?'
She murmurs: 'Yes.'"

I thought the song rather good and read it frequently.
Slaughter was no doubt right about "load" and "bowed,"

2 7 o MY REMEMBRANCES

but "twittering song" struck me as first-rate. I liked
"summer zephyrs" too; "cavern of the past" sounded
tip-top, and "magic word" was fine, recalling "sesame"
"AH Baba and the Forty Thieves." It seemed fraught
with associations of romance. However, I threw the
masterpiece over my shoulder and proceeded.

We were busy at this time rehearsing a play called
"Out of the Hunt," by Farnie. Richard Mansfield was
cast for a small part. The leading comedian was J. G.
Taylor. A number of well-known people were in the
cast. We were to open a new theatre in Panton Street,
which was not ready, so we were transferred to the Roy-
alty. Mansfield was a young man then, about twenty-
four I should say. He was practically unknown. He
soon began to shine at rehearsal. His part was that of
an old beau. J. G. Taylor was to play a certain waiter.
The play was an adaptation from the French; Farnie
was the adapter with no pride of authorship, so he al-
lowed Mansfield a good deal of liberty in the way of
interpolation and business. Day by day the part of the
old beau was built up, especially in Taylor's scenes, until
Mansfield's part assumed the proportions of a leading
character and Taylor's part, which was the principal
comedy part of the play, faded away into the background.
We all began to take notice of Mansfield and to per-
ceive that his character was going to be the part of the
play.

One day Taylor rebelled. He told Farnie and Alex-
ander Henderson, the manager of the theatre, that he
was the leading comedian of the company, and that
Mansfield's part had now become the most important
personage in the comedy. He protested violently. Far-
nie was in a dilemma. Mansfield's business and additions

J-

RHYME AND TIME 271

were so clever and so valuable that he deserved the
prominence accorded to him. Taylor was an important
actor, and could not be dispensed with.

Mansfield came forward. "Would Mr. Taylor like
my part ?" said he.

Taylor felt that, as the principal comedian, the best
part belonged properly to him. He ought to have Mans-
field's part.

Mansfield handed it to him. "By all means," said
he, "here it is," and he handed over the manuscript
covered with interpolations, corrections, and business.

We resumed our rehearsals.

"You will allow me," said Mansfield to Farnie, "you
will allow me the same privilege with this new part you
were so generous as to accord me with the other ? Mr.
Taylor has the advantage of my suggestions on the
other character, you will permit me to do my best with
this?"

"By all means," said Farnie, and to work we went
again.

Mansfield built up again. Day by day, little by little,
his new part absorbed scene after scene. Many of his
scenes were with Taylor, and again his part began to
excel Taylor's part. In the end Mansfield's performance
was the play, as far as the play went, for it was a failure,
but his work was remarkable. He played some other
smaller parts in that theatre, and then he went to Amer-
ica. I played a few engagements in London and the
provinces, and then I followed him. At that time the
impression I made was not quite victorious. A critic
wrote: "Talent is seldom hereditary, a lamentable in-
stance of this is to be seen at the Royalty."

This was not encouraging and seemed to fulfil my

272 MY REMEMBRANCES

father's predictions. Still one must live, even if other
people do not perceive the necessity. If one has a pain
in one place, one always believes one could bear it better
if it were in another. So to be "on the go" from where
fortune frowns appears to be on the way to where that
fickle lady may smile.

I went to New York. I could get no employment.
There my resources were at an end, so I wrote a play.
Having written my play, I looked for some one to pro-
duce it. One day I went into a dramatic agent's office
Mr. Spies on Union Square. He was talking with a Mr.
Fort who was manager of the Academy of Music at
Baltimore. I heard Fort declare that he must have an
attraction at once to play three performances for "The
Police Fund Benefit" at Baltimore, in two weeks from
that day.

"I will do it," said I.

"Who are you ?" asked Fort.

I told him who I was and spoke of my play.

"How much do you want for yourself and play and
company for three performances?" said Fort.

I indulged in some rapid arithmetic. "Two hundred
dollars," said I.

"I'll give you three hundred," said Fort.

There were seven people in the play. Myself and my
sister and my friend, Joseph Haworth, were three. I
engaged the other four and started rehearsal.

We went to Baltimore. The theatre was crowded
for the benefit performances. The play went like wild-
fire. I had been my own stage-manager, my own busi-
ness manager; I had played the leading part and written
the play. I now took on myself the office of press agent.
I went to the office of the Baltimore Sun, and asked to

RHYME AND TIME 273

see the dramatic editor. A large man in shirt-sleeves
was pointed out to me.

"Has any one been to the Academy to-night?" I
asked him.

"I guess not," said he.

"Will there be a review of the play there?" said I.

"Who are you?" said he.

I told him my name.

"What play is it ?" asked the big man.

"'Whose Are They?'" said I.

"Who wrote it?"

"I did."

"Who played the chief part ?"

"I did."

"Who's the manager?"

"I am."

"Look here," said he, "since you wrote the play and
play the chief part and manage the show, you can write
the notice," and that large man motioned me to a chair
and to pen, ink, and paper.

Alas ! I was too ingenuous. At a later day, would
I not have lauded myself to the skies and blown a blast
to wake the heavens ? Now I blushed and stammered
and retreated in confusion. I believe the big man took
pity on me, for a review appeared next morning saying
the play was one of the wonders of the earth.

Our fame spread to New York, and I received an offer
to open at Wallack's Theatre, later the Star. We played
there one week and made money; we played a second
week and lost it. We then went to Brooklyn and
collapsed. We were done for. However, one John P.
Smith, a manager of the day, took up our banner and
off we went on a tour the next season. He changed the

274 MY REMEMBRANCES

title of the play to "Crushed," which proved ominous,
for "crushed" we were. We went from bad to worse
until we got back to Baltimore. The policemen who
acclaimed us so wildly before surely now would rally
to our rescue. Not a bit of it. Those policemen avoided
us as though we were honest men. Disaster overwhelmed
us. We returned to New York. I had not one penny in
my pocket. Smith had lost a good deal of money, and
I could not ask him for anything. The company left
me at the depot. Smith went off in a cab. I stood be-
side a very large gripsack, literally without one cent in
the world. It was Sunday, about eleven o'clock in the
morning. Very few people were about in the lower
part of New York, for the depot was away down-town
then. A young fellow named Armstrong was the only
one of the company who stayed behind.

"Are you going up-town ?" said he.

"Yes," said I. "I'm waiting for a car. Armstrong,"
said I, "have you any change?"

"Not a nickel," said Armstrong.

"Then we'll have to walk," said I, "for I have none,
either."

We lifted our bags mine was an awful weight and
up Broadway on that damp, misty Sunday morning we
trudged. The tramp was interminable; my bag bothered
me so I had to stop and change hands every block. Still
I was rather glad Armstrong was there, for misery loves
company. We walked to the Sturtevant House on
Broadway and 29th Street, where I had always found
shelter under the wing of the kindly proprietor, Charles
Leland.

Weary and wet and disheartened, without funds and
without prospect, I entered the office. Sadly I reflected

RHYME AND TIME 275

that my hair needed cutting; ' more sadly I reflected
that barbers have to be paid for their services. I reg-
istered my name at the desk. My old friend, Mr. Sco-
field, the clerk, handed me a letter with an English post-
mark. I opened it. It was from Slaughter. Said he:
"I enclose a draft for three pounds, your share from the
sale of that song of yours."

Who shall say that the muse is ungrateful ? Who
shall say that the rhymester follows a will-o'-the-wisp ?
Who shall say that "loves" and "doves" and "hearts"
and "darts" and "kisses" and "blisses" are for fools
and their follies ? Here I had three pounds, the reward
of such rhyming !

"Armstrong," said I, "we will have our hair cut!"

We did. I asked Armstrong to breakfast on the Amer-
ican plan. I walked out into the open air a free man
once more. Three pounds ! The world was mine !

A period of repose was forced upon me, however. I
did not find anything to do for about a month; then I
joined a company playing the prophetic repertoire of
"Called Back" and "Lost." Lost we were and called
back we soon became. Cyril Maude, Louis Mann, and
other people, now distinguished, were minor members of
that company. After much tribulation we landed in
Chicago. We played on the North Side and lived at
a small hotel called the Sfea House. The company had
not been paid for a month, and things looked quite hope-
less; still we had no prospects, and the only thing for
us to do was to stay on. At this moment I received a
telegram from New York offering me an engagement.

On what accidents does our fortune depend ? I had
heard this play read one day, and had been frank enough
to say I did not like it; the other people present offered

276 MY REMEMBRANCES

perfunctory and insincere or rather polite praise. The
author recalled my poor censure and sent for me to play
the wicked nobleman in the drama. "Fame awaited
me!" "I must be off!" But I had no money. The
manager wanted me to stay, for I played a leading part.
I declared I would go at once. I telegraphed, accept-
ing the engagement. My friends in the company begged
me not to forget them in my good fortune, but to recall
their many excellent qualities and their past performances
to the various New York managers. This I swore I
would do. We sat up late that night, considering how I
could possibly escape from Chicago with neither wings
nor greenbacks; we were at a deadlock. The manager
declared he had no money and that, if I stayed, the
coming performances would enable him to pay his people.
We knew better. Despair was on the point of gnawing
at our hearts when one adorable old woman named
Annie Douglas arose and made this memorable remark:

"You must go!" said she, and she led me aside. "I
am an old actress," whispered Annie Douglas. "You
are young, and you must not miss this chance. I have
been in this sort of company before, and I am always
prepared."

That adorable woman lifted the hem of her dear old
frock and took from her stocking a roll of bills which
she proffered to me. What shall be said of her ? I pro-
claimed to the waiting crowd the virtues of this most
excellent of comrades. Much embracing followed. Some-
body found the wherewithal to toast her. I declined
the dear Douglas's proffer. Then I stated my determina-
tion. With Napoleonic precision I proceeded to act.
I attacked the hotel proprietor in his lair. I arranged
to leave my hotel trunk and my two theatre trunks as

RHYME AND TIME 277

hostages to fortune. I received my railway fare and
some pocket-money; I called a cab, and amid sorrow-
ing and rejoicing I went my way.

I played in "Favette" and failed. I played in another
play, "Mona," with Miss Dauvray, and I met with
some success. I was engaged then for Bronson Howard's
new play, "One of Our Girls." I was so bad at rehearsal
that Frazer Coulter was secured to take my place. Sud-
denly I began to develop a bit, and was permitted to
play the part of Captain Gregory. Fortune favored me
in that character, and the sun began to shine.

XXIX
MRS. MABBITT

IF one may achieve immortality by inditing an essay
on roast pig, may another not hope for a laurel leaf by
penning some remarks about a cook ? The pig cannot
be roasted without one to roast it; a roastee demands
a roaster, and the excellence of the roast pig depends
entirely upon its being not overroasted nor under-
roasted, but justly roasted. Moliere elevated his cook
to the rostrum of the critic; a very proper proceeding,
for the critic should be able to cook your goose for you
in more senses than one. The ultimate object of labor is
food; nothing can be successfully accomplished on an
empty stomach. One must work to eat, one must eat
to work. "Let who will make the laws so I may make
the songs." But the songs cannot be made by empty
men. No supper, no song is as imperative as "no song,
no supper." No man should make a god of his stomach,
but he may be pardoned if he makes a goddess of his
cook.

When I first started housekeeping in New York, I
acquired a flat in Washington Square, and I invited my
brother Sam to come from England to live with me.
Having purchased my pots and pans, I bethought me
of a cook, and confided to my brother my various hopes
and fears on the weighty matter. My brother is a man
of quick resolves. I was not surprised to receive a cable

from him which said: "Will arrive June 3, with cook."

278

MRS. MABBITT 279

The cook's name was Mrs. Mabbitt. She had kept
house for my brother in his bachelor chambers in Lon-
don, and, with his assistance, had, from the humble posi-
tion of charwoman, climbed to the lofty pinnacle of
cook. Day by day, week by week, month by month,
she and he had culled from London Truth, The World,
and other weekly papers devoted to culinary study such
kitchen lore as would turn sow's ears into silk purses,
or make soup out of sawdust. We lived in clover !

Alas ! we player-folk are birds of passage, here to-day
and gone to-morrow. Soon I had to go on my tour of
the country. One cannot dismiss one's cook and have
her, too; so I installed Mrs. Mabbitt in my apartment
and went my way. Now Mrs. Mabbitt was no ordinary
woman. She was rather small but of vast dignity in a
quiet way, precise of speech, jet-black hair which she
dressed in a very old-fashioned style with six small
ringlets falling down on each side of her face; a lace cap
on her head, mittens on her hands, and a manner that
put people in their places at once. She suffered greatly
from rheumatism, was indeed a martyr to it; but pro-
ceeded with great fortitude to lift heavy utensils, and to
mix and fix and sort and sift, as was her nature to.
While I was away for about six months, Mrs. Mabbitt
resided in solitary state in my superior new apartment.
The rumor became rife in the neighborhood that she
was a wealthy English lady, some even said a person of
title. Her rheumatic tendency increased apace. My
physician, who attended her, declared that she must be
out in the air for an hour or two each day. Walking was
difficult for Mrs. Mabbitt, so I wrote to an old coach-
man, an ancient friend of mine, and bade him call for
Mrs. Mabbitt two or three times a week and take her

280 MY REMEMBRANCES

for an outing in the park. These excursions established
rumor more firmly in the conclusion that Mrs. Mabbitt
was a person of distinction.

At length, the season over, my brother and I returned
and Mrs. Mabbitt resumed her cooking. In these days
her duties and her growing infirmity gave her little time
and less inclination to take the air. At last I had to in-
sist on her going out with my coachman friend. My
brother objected that the large carriage, and the two
prancing steeds, created too much stir for one's cook,
and bewailed this state of affairs to my physician. "I
can't see any harm in it," said that scientist, "so long as
your brother does not go with her."

The time came, however, when Mrs. Mabbitt flatly
refused to go alone or to go at all. I saw myself faced
with the alternative of either losing my cook from in-
anition and lack of fresh air, or of having to take her
out driving myself. I chose the latter course and might
be seen some fine days prancing through the Park with
a distinguished old lady by my side balancing an ante-
diluvian bonnet on her head and early Victorian ringlets
shading her cheeks. Our conversation was limited but
instructive and culinary.

I had plenty to think about and needed the fresh air
myself, so I killed two birds with one stone. My brother
was much disturbed and protested that the proceedings
were unusual ! However, I had read, and did daily read,
much tearful talk about the servant question, and I
congratulated myself that I knew how to catch a cook
and keep her, too. It is just to this pinnacle of self-adula-
tion that fortune delights to lead a man in order to dash
him down. Mrs. Mabbitt was a woman of sixty-five.
She was a spinster, calling herself Mrs. out of some

MRS. MABBITT 281

mistaken idea that the married state is more cook-like
and secure. At the precise moment when I was assured
that my fortifications surrounded Mrs. Mabbitt, and
hemmed her in, when I was convinced that all the ties
of interest and affection, and the considerations of age
and fortune had riveted her to me with hooks of steel,
she eloped, ran away, fled, with the youthful grocer-
boy who peddled groceries to us in Washington Square !

A brief note announced the tragedy. She had gone
to California. The grocer-boy was twenty-four, Mrs.
Mabbitt was sixty-five. We, my brother and I, were
crushed. The coachman friend came that morning to
take Mrs. Mabbitt for her drive, but instead conducted
my brother and myself to our club, where, with gloomy
countenances, we contemplated our breakfast.

For a while our establishment languished while we
picked up food here and there. We tried cooks of sundry
colors, but they came and cooked and went away. They
could not and would not fall into the Mabbitt manner,
and any other manner to us was useless and abhorrent.
Thus our cookless existence meandered on for a melan-
choly and never-to-be-forgotten month, when one day
we received a telegram from a Far Western town which
said: "Husband has deserted me, please send railway
fare to get home."

Oh, idiotic grocer-boy! To have found this pearl of
women and to prove so much a swine! This treasure,
kings might envy, to grasp and cast away ! This flower
of cooks ! This paragon of roasters, of broilers, of fricas-
see-makers ! This queen of pudding-mixers I

Well, back came Mrs. Mabbitt, but no more the same.
She had aged ten years. We asked for no confidences,
but gladly took her to our hearts. Yet she insisted on

282 MY REMEMBRANCES

telling all the circumstances of her poor courtship and
her pitiful betrayal. The grocer-boy had heard the
stories of her high degree, of her wealth, of her noble
lineage, and had thought, despite her denials, that he
was marrying at least into the peerage. The poor woman
had no money, having sent all she earned each week to
her relatives abroad. The heartless cheesemonger had
borrowed her last wages to buy the tickets out West,
swearing that he loved her for herself alone. One week
of illusion and he had demanded more coin, then the
bubble burst.

For a little while Mrs. Mabbitt struggled to get back
to her old duties, but it was useless; she soon collapsed,
her rheumatic ailment conquering her strength. We
placed her in an ancient ladies' home; there she lingered
a while, and passed away.

The grocer-boy, I pray Heaven, is gone not where
people cook, but where they are cooked !

There is a churchyard in an English village where some
grateful poet thus pays tribute to one of Mrs. Mabbitt's
quality :

"Here lies Moll Britt, who cooked such meals
As took the devil by the heels;
You simply couldn't be a sinner
If old Moll Britt had cooked your dinner.
She'd roast a joint six times in seven
*Twould make you think you were in Heaven.
Let's hope she tends the kitchen fire
Where good cooks feed the angel choir."

What fitter epitaph for Mrs. Mabbitt ?

It is frequently the case that professors view the world
as it wags from the point of view of their own specialty.
A friend of mine who purveys ancient and decrepit

MRS. MABBITT 283

anecdotes tells me frequently that Mr. Clarkson, the
wig-maker, on being asked his opinion of a great Shakes-
pearian production, declared it to be superb. "You
couldn't see a join," said he, meaning thereby that the
line where the wigs of the actors joined their foreheads
was invisible.

My friend also assures me that a certain clog-dancer
on witnessing Charles Coghlan play Othello remarked:
"Oh, yes, Charley Coghlan he's all right, but give Charley
Coghlan a breakdown and where is he?"

Mrs. Mabbitt was no less absorbed in her art. She
perceived life through the medium of a saucepan and
noted mankind by the lore of the cook-book.

Sometimes I would lure Mrs. Mabbitt to the theatre
to see me play. Holding her in reverence as I did, I was
usually eager to know how she liked what I had done.
The first play of mine that she saw had a breakfast scene
in the first act, and when I approached Mrs. Mabbitt
for her opinion, she said merely: "Well, sir, Fm glad I
didn't cook that breakfast." The rest of the play seemed
to have escaped her notice.

On another occasion there was a small mention in the
comedy of household bills, but all the comment we could
extract from Mrs. Mabbitt concerning a tragic love-tale
and much excellent comedy was: "Well that butcher
was a cheat and no mistake." The pangs of the lovers,
the labors of the comedians, my own desperate efforts
to please might as well never have been, so far as Mrs.
Mabbitt was concerned.

Of course it is this concentration on one idea that
makes great people. The small man scatters his energies;
the great man does one thing better than the rest of
mankind. To Mrs. Mabbitt man was hungry or re-

284 MY REMEMBRANCES

plenished; things were cooked or uncooked, good to
eat or not good to eat, well done or underdone. The
whirligig of time and fortune concerned her not. That
fate is a fiddler, life a dance, disturbed not the precision
and perfection of her recipes. Her creed was "Love and
honor thy cook that thy days may be long in the land,"
and her motto was, "Dinner's ready."

XXX
WHY!

THAT curious perversity which demands that we shall
impress our particular convictions upon each and every
one of our acquaintance was no doubt implanted in our
nature with most wise intent. Through this force has
knowledge prevailed, for each new assertion has provoked
not only argument, but opposition in the course of which
error has been laid bare and truth has been established.

The most ordinary experience will recall occasions
when we, or another thus afflicted, have felt impelled as
by a resistless power to insist upon some quite unimpor-
tant opinion and, heedless of evidence, of rebuff, and of
disinclination to pursue the subject on the part of our
opponent, we have driven him from indifference to con-
flict and from conflict to anger, and finally have de-
nounced him for his obstinacy if we have not reflected
on his honesty.

"Ta," subsequently "Daddies" and eventually "Sam,"
with that truly supernatural wisdom for which he has
been conspicuous, early discovered a means of over-
whelming such disturbers of the peace, a knowledge so
serviceable to the sanity of mankind as to be worthy of
record.

Like most great discoveries, the thing is so simple
thai when made manifest one is astonished that one
never thought of it oneself.

285

286 MY REMEMBRANCES

The method consists of two parts :

A. The constant repetition after each assertion of
the one word, "Why?"

This leads the foe to exhaust himself in reckless and
self-destroying exposition, explanation, and confusion.

B. The steady, ceaseless, cold-blooded, remorseless
insistence upon one statement, unaccompanied by com-
ment and injected into the enemy's remarks with ex-
treme cunning and persistency just at the moment when
he considers himself victorious. Said a fellow traveller
to Sam one day:

"The manners of the English people are inferior to
the manners of the Americans."

"Why?" said Sam.

The victim proceeded to declare that that reserve
for which Englishmen are said to be noted was in reality
founded upon self-esteem, which was a quality offensive
in itself and which caused those with whom they came
in contact to feel aggrieved at an affectation of supreme
excellence.

"Why? "said Sam.

"Well," continued the unsuspecting one, "you must
admit that Englishmen as a class assume an air of supe-
riority."

"Why?" inquired Sam.

"Because they think they are superior," said the
enemy, waxing hot. "They seem to regard themselves
as the lords of creation."

"Why ?" murmured Sam.

"That's just the annoying part of it !" cried the man
of opinions. "There is no reason for such a pose. Your
Englishman simply takes it for granted that you are an
ass, and that he is not."

From a painting by Cecil Clark Davis

SAM SOTHERN, 1916

WHY! 287

"Why?" said Sam.

"Because he is so infernally obtuse that he cannot
see beyond the end of his own nose!" exclaimed the
man, roused by now to a pitch of indignation and scarcely
able to articulate with intelligence. "I tell you it won't
do ! People won't stand for it."

"Why? "said Sam.

"They don't have to!" exploded the man. "In this
country all men are equal, and I want you to understand
that I am as good as the next man."

"Why?" said Sam.

"Because this is a government of the people, by the
people, and for the people."

"Why?" said Sam again.

"We fought for it ! We bled for it ! We died for it !"
cried the man, "and no man alive shall say to me that
I am not the equal of any man on God's footstool."

"Why?" said Sam.

"The Constitution declares it!" cried the man. "The
Fourth of July announces it ! and I say that no man can
tell me that I I would like to hear any man say
Fetch me the man who will !"

Sam now brought into play plan B, which has the
effect of changing the train of thought, but still keeps
the antagonist occupied to his undoing.

"The best fishing is in the Thames !" said Sam.

The man looked stunned at this sudden turn of events.

"What's that?" said he.

"The best fishing," said Sam, "is in the Thames."

"The Thames isn't big enough to hold a fish," said
the man with a fine scorn. "Why, there's a creek near
my home which would hold all the fish in England.
Did you ever hear of the Hudson River?"

288 MY REMEMBRANCES

"The best fishing is in the Thames," repeated Sam.

"Look here," said the man, "I'll take you for some
tarpon-fishing in Florida. You don't know what a fish
is until you hook a tarpon."

"The best fishing is in the Thames," sighed Sam, as
though the man's ignorance was becoming a trifle weari-
some.

"The Thames nothing !" said the man. "The Thames
isn't a river at all ! It's a leak in the ground. Look
here," and he leaned over and placed his hands on Sam's
knees, "I'll take you up to the Saint Lawrence River and
show you some salmon. When you have had a forty-
pound salmon on a fly-rod "

Sam removed the man's hands from his knees with
much gentleness and dusted his trousers carefully.

"The best fishing is in the Thames," said he.

"Why, just off little old New York," said the man,
"I will show you some sea-bass that will make your
hair gray. Say!" said he, becoming sarcastic, "did you
ever see a fish outside of a sardine tin ? Why, I've watched
the people in London fishing in the round pond in Kensing-
ton Gardens catching little minnows and putting them in
a pickle bottle. At it all day long. That's your English
fishing. The only decent fishing in Europe is in Norway.
Any man who knows anything about fishing will tell
you that. You may catch a brook-trout once in a while
in Scotland, and they tell me a man once hooked a salmon
in the Tyne. I believe there was a time when you could
catch codfish in the Channel, and there are bloaters at
Yarmouth. But I'm talking about sport. Understand
me, I'm a fisherman; I have fished all over the world,
and I know what fish is. I can cast a fly five hundred
yards, and light on a ten-cent piece. I began to fish

WHY! 289

before you were born, and I'll guarantee to show you
more fish in half an hour than you can find in England
in six years/'

Here the man paused and looked about him. It truly
seemed that he had talked down all opposition. There
was a pause.

Sam smoked sadly for a few moments.

"I guess when we talk fish I'm all there," said the
man, and he rose and put on his hat.

Sam blew some smoke at the ceiling.

"The best fishing is in the Thames," said he.

The man sat down again, his countenance working
spasmodically. He made one or two efforts to speak.
At length he cried out:

"Have you ever shot a moose?"

Sam smoked in silence.

"Ah ! I thought not," said the man. "Nor a wild-
cat, eh ? Nor a buffalo, nor yet a grizzly bear ? ^They
don't have them things in England, do they?"

"The best fishing is in the Thames," said Sam.

The eyes of the man became bloodshot, his breath
came and went quickly, his hands twitched, he spoke
with much effort.

"Well, I have!" he said hoarsely. "I have hunted
in the Rockies, and I have fought a black bear with my
two hands and won out. How's that for high ?" said
he. "That's going some, I take it."

"The best fishing is in the Thames," said Sam.

"By the great God!" said the sportsman, "I say and
I don't care who knows it, that this country beats the
world when it comes to big game. I'd like to see the
man who will say 'no' to that. I'll bet my boots that
I'll show you more real sport in a fortnight than you can

290 MY REMEMBRANCES

see in Europe if you live to be as old as Methuselah!"
and he smacked his knee a great smack and dashed
his cigar onto the floor. He kicked his chair vehemently
and shook a large finger in Sam's eye. "And don't you
forget it !" said he.

Sam gazed at him as though he were a great distance
away.

"Huh !" said the man, and, going to the door, he looked
back in triumph.

"The best fishing is in the Thames," said Sam.

The man tried to speak, but he found no words. His
mouth opened and shut, he swallowed with difficulty and
rushed from the room.

"The best fishing is in the Thames," said Sam.

Let it not be thought that Sam made this statement
without due regard for veracity. To go a-fishing is not
of necessity to catch fish, nor is the catching of fish the
only pleasure in fishing; else would the toilers in fish-
ing-fleets exist in a very paradise piscatorial.

No, the true joy of fishing consists, as does all other
true joy, in anticipation. The struggle of the finny
victim over and the prey landed, a kind of sorrow per-
vades the gentle angler. The hours of preparation, the
search for the early worm, the skilful manufacture of
the exquisite fly, the patient waiting accompanied by
contemplation, the murmurs of summer, and the whisper
of the stream to these the bloody business of fish-catch-
ing is subservient.

So when Sam declared that the best fishing was in
the Thames, he meant that the Thames, for him, was
the best place wherein to fish; that is, to go a-fishing.
Like many another Thames fisherman, he would consider
one fish in a week a sufficient reward.

WHY! 291

It was observed on one occasion, when a river-party
had enjoyed some days of boating, punting, and so forth,
that Sam, accompanied by a very pretty damsel, sat,
with admirable tenacity, in a punt, casting his line
patiently hour after hour. No bite responded to his
blandishments, and day in and day out to inquiries he
would smilingly reply:

"No, not a bite/*

It was noticed that neither he nor his lovely com-
panion ever indulged in conversation. She looked at
Sam; Sam looked at the river. The river whispered;
the sun smiled; the rain fell; silence reigned.

"Why do you take that girl out with you?" said a
friend. "We all think she is so stupid; she never opens
her lips."

"That's just it," replied Sam. "She's so pretty to
look at, and she does not disturb the fish."

"But there are no fish," said the friend.

"No," said Sam, "but that doesn't interfere with the
fishing."

XXXI
THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE

"WHERE are they gone, the old familiar faces?" The
Lyceum Theatre, on Fourth Avenue opposite the Ash-
land House, is now but a memory. For sixteen years
it was my home actually, for I lived there constantly
in spirit even when I was away, ever contemplating
what I would produce there on my return. For sixteen
years I brought out there a new play each summer under
the direction of my guide, philosopher, and friend, Daniel
Frohman. I grew there from boyhood to manhood.
There I made many of my closest friendships, and there
most of the comedy, farce, and tragedy of my existence
had its genesis in the real and in the mimic world. I
was twenty-three when I began to play there; I was
thirty-nine when I left there, never to return. I watched
the theatre building, wondering whether I should ever
act in it; I watched it being pulled down by a wrecking
concern, sad that I should never play in it again.

"Where are they gone, the old familiar faces?" In
front of the house and behind the curtain, Time has been
busy with his scythe. In sixteen years, Death has had
time to gather a heavy harvest.

In 1885, therefore, it was with much acceleration of
my pulse that one evening, coming out of my modest
lodging, I saw right before my eyes my own name in
letters six feet high. I was a star ! I had, so to speak,

blossomed during the night. While I slept, the bill-

292

THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE 293

board man, with paste and broom, had labelled me as
"valuable goods. Fragile! This side up with care."
I stood before these giant letters and reflected upon
the power of print and the bubble-like quality of reputa-
tion. Then I wended my way to Daniel Frohman and
said: "The letters are too big; I can never live up to
them."

Managers are optimistic. "We will try," said he.

I had been two years at the Lyceum Theatre in the
company of Miss Helen Dauvray. Fortune and Miss
Dauvray had been kind to me. I had proceeded toward
a modest success. My brother Sam had joined me in
America, having just finished his schooling in Paris.
He brought with him two dogs: Death, a bulldog, and
Trap, a fox-terrier. One day I brought to my rooms in
23d Street a box of old manuscripts, mostly copies of
"Lord Dundreary," and others of my father's repertoire.
Death and Trap and Sam stood by and looked on idly
while I, as idly, looked over the plays. Suddenly Trap
flew at a heap of manuscripts and seized a printed book.
We tried to get it from him. He dashed about the room,
as fox-terriers will, under the bed and over the bed,
waiting, watching, fleeing. Death, an unwieldy fellow,
began to take notice and amble after us as we pursued
Trap. My landlady opened the door. Out went Trap,
Death after him, nearly upsetting my landlady. My
brother and I rushed after the dogs. Trap headed down
23d Street direct to the Lyceum Theatre, play in mouth.
In and out of cabs and cars, pedestrians and jehus, that
wonderful dog went directly to the box-office of the
theatre.

Frank Bunce, the business manager, beheld him.
"What has he got there?" said he.

294 MY REMEMBRANCES

"A play," said I.

"Does he want me to read it ?" said Bunce.

"If you please," I replied.

"Take it up-stairs to Mr. Frohman," said the busi-
ness manager.

'Twas done. Frohman read it. He accepted it and
produced it. The play had been written twenty years
before for my father by Madison Morton and Robert
Reece. They called it "Trade/* Frohman christened
it "The Highest Bidder." The hero was an auctioneer
who fell in love with the daughter of a haughty baronet;
hence the conflict between trade and birth. The play
was a great success and started both Dan Frohman and
myself on the waters of prosperity. "Out of the mouths
of dogs cometh wisdom !"

The structure and the dialogue of "Trade" was rather
old-fashioned and stilted. David Belasco, the stage-
manager of the Lyceum, took it in hand to doctor it
and produce it. Belasco and I worked with the fervor
and enthusiasm of youth. We both enjoyed our work;
we were both indefatigable. A great deal of the dialogue
I wrote myself as the days of rehearsal went by. I was
allowed great liberty in that respect. LeMoyne and
the other actors were good comrades, and all went as
happily as could be. We all fancied we were rather
clever, when one day Mr. Frohman came to see how we
were getting on. The very fires of enthusiasm consumed
us; we stood panting and exhausted before our manager,
strong in the consciousness of work well done.

"Awful!" said he. "It is simply awful! The thing
will be a shocking failure!"

Printing six feet high ! Much talk about the com-
ing debut of a new star; much affectionate reminis-

THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE 295

cence in generously inclined newspapers of that new
star's old father. "These things have to be lived up to.
At it again !" Sam and I and the two dogs and Belasco
and our sympathetic crew; day and night did we rehearse
and write and discuss. One scene, the crucial scene of
the play, concerned an auction of the proud father's
estate. The hero, the despised auctioneer, buys in the
property through an agent who bids on the stage. "Go-
ing! going! gone!" cries the hero in the auctioneer's
box.

"Who has bought the Larches?" weeps the heroine.

"I !" says the hero.

Consternation ! Victory ! Defeat of the villain ! End
of the act !

This scene was very intricate and what we call "liney";
twelve or fourteen different people had to talk constantly
in it; extra people had to shout on exact cues approval
or disapproval, the thing had to go like clockwork. The
man working it out might see his way to some successful
consummation, but to an onlooker, what with interrup-
tions, repetitions, pauses to write things down or argue
about them, the prospect must have been hopeless, and
the future black with disaster. Since Mr. Frohman had
said "Awful!" we had worked like so many devils. I
had rewritten many scenes, especially had I labored at
the auction scene. So much had it been changed and
added to that when the dress rehearsal came I had to
read the scene from my pages of manuscript placed
among papers on my auctioneer's desk. I had to pre-
tend to drink champagne during this scene. Refresh-
ments are being handed about at this particular auc-
tion; my clerk, observing my distraction and grief, plies
me with glasses of wine. I insisted on having real cham-

296 MY REMEMBRANCES

pagne, so that we would get the real "pop" when the
cork was knocked out. This pleased the rest of the cast;
at the dress rehearsal the scene was played with enthu-
siasm. All the characters and the extra people, the stage-
hands, the scene-painter, the stage-manager, when Jack
Hammerton said "I!" felt we had earned each other's
esteem and admiration. The third and last act was re-
hearsed. This consisted chiefly of love-scenes between
the bashful hero and the lovely heroine. "'Tis love that
makes the world go round," said I to myself. These
scenes, since there were no lovers in front to experience
the gentle throes and share the sweet madness, went
sadly enough at this dress rehearsal. When all was said
and done and Jack Hammerton had won the heroine,
had bestowed his first kiss upon her pouting lips, we
stood once more expectant of approval. Mr. Frohman
came down the aisle of the theatre to the footlights.
There stood the sweet sweetheart of the play; there the
delightful old comedy friend, LeMoyne; there the en-
thusiastic and conquering hero; there the gratified stage-
manager, Belasco.

"Well," said I, my bosom swelling with certain con-
fidence that the six-foot printing was not all in vain
"well, how now? What do you think now?"

"Awful!" said Frohman. "It will be a frightful
failure!"

Belle Archer, the heroine, faded away in tears; Archer,
her husband in real life, and the wicked baronet of the
play, muttered as only wicked baronets can; LeMoyne
began to talk about the palmy days of the drama; Be-
lasco alluded to the marvellous climate of California. For
one moment my heart sank within me. Mr. Frohman
was retreating up the aisle. He saw his first production

THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE 297

in his new theatre a fiasco. Let us respect his reflections
and draw a curtain over his grief.

I was up with the lark. "Trap," said I, as that rest-
less fox-terrier jumped onto my bed "Trap," said I,
"you selected this play."

"Bow-wow!" said that animal with extreme con-
fidence.

"Boo-hoo!" boomed Death, the bulldog, in a deeper
note, as who should say: "Me too!"

This was inspiring. Up and out and to it again ! Some
few final touches, some few words of advice, and some
parting instructions on the eve of battle, and we were
in for it.

The night was upon us. There we were playing the
play. The audience was kind and generous. The first
act, however, went quietly. The exposition was a bit
long, but one amusing scene at a breakfast-table excited
much laughter, thanks greatly to the excellent comedy
of Mr. LeMoyne. The curtain went down to one
call.

Where was Mr. Frohman? He did not come behind
with encouragement or advice. We knew not then, but
afterward we knew. He had seen part of the first act,
and had left the theatre in despair. He had gone to the
Ashland House across the way. There on this hot summer
night, the windows in front of the theatre being open,
he could actually hear the actors speaking on the stage;
he could hear the audience laugh and applaud whenever
they were so inclined. There he sat on one of those well-
remembered rush-bottom chairs, the picture of wretched-
ness, Bunce, the business manager of the theatre, on a
chair beside him, glum, silent, pale, desperate. These
two, who saw the fortunes of the theatre blasted, sat

298 MY REMEMBRANCES

with lips compressed and chairs tilted back like men
whose doom was sealed.

"What's that?" cried Frohman.

"My God! The theatre's on fire!" cried Bunce.

They rushed across the street. The place was in an
uproar. Up the stairs on either side of the lobby they
sped, followed by the police and several old patrons of
the hotel across the way. Passers-by stopped and stared.
Some one cried: "Sound the fire-alarm!" In the theatre
the audience rocked and roared with applause. Shouts
of victory resounded in the air. Up went the curtain
again, and again, and yet again. There was Jack Ham-
merton in the auctioneer's box, a bottle of champagne
in one hand, a glass in the other, his hair on end and
wet with perspiration, his collar wilted and burst from
his collar button, his waistcoat undone, gesticulating
hysterically as picture after picture came and went
again. Five calls, six calls, seven ! eight ! nine ! ten !

"Ten calls! What's the matter with Sothern?"
whispered Bunce.

"It's that champagne! I knew it was a mistake!"
said Frohman.

But it wasn't the champagne at all. We had lived up
to the printing at least we thought we had. The last
act went finely. Frohman beamed like the morning sun;
the lovers loved like Love himself; the audience played
its part and all went merry as a marriage bell. "The
Highest Bidder" was a fine success. We began at once
to consider our next play.

An interviewer was asking me one day for a record
of my modest achievements. Said I: "Any distinction
to which I may lay claim is not connected with the
theatre. Acting is a side issue with me. My chief ac-

wi
o "

THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE 299

complishment in days to come will be admitted to lie-
in the realms of invention. I am an inventor."

"What did you invent?" said the surprised scribe.

"The London messenger-boy," I replied. "It is en-
tirely owing to my enterprise that fltessenger-boys exist
in London."

I proceeded to enlighten my interlocutor: "When my
little play, 'The Highest Bidder,' had achieved the
distinction of a fifty-night run in New York during the
summer of 1885, Mr. Dan Frohman and I, in the pride
and enthusiasm of victory, got up a souvenir to celebrate
the occasion. I made some little pen-and-ink sketches
of the characters, of which sketches I was extremely
proud. I said to my brother Sam one morning: 'I
think we ought to send some of these souvenirs to the
authors of the play.' The piece had been written for
my father twenty years before by two popular writers
of the day, Madison Morton and Robert Reece. Morton
was a most prolific writer of farces, ' Box and Cox' being,
perhaps, his most famous one; and Robert Reece had
for years and years written the burlesques for the Gaiety
Theatre, London. At this time, Reece was an old man,
an inmate of the Charter House in London. The Charter
House is a hospital and school founded in 1611 by Sir
Thomas Sutton. It was originally a Carthusian monas-
tery established in 1371. It is an asylum for poor brethren
the number of whom is limited to eighty, and they must
be bachelors, members of the Church of England, and
fifty years old. Each brother receives, besides food and
lodging, an allowance of twenty-six pounds a year for his
clothing, et cetera. Neither Reece nor Morton had ever
expected to hear again of their play, 'Trade,' which
they had sold to my father twenty years gone by, and I

300 MY REMEMBRANCES

thought it would please them to know that, at last, it
had been played and had met with success. 'We must
send them some of these souvenirs/ said I. 'How shall
we do it ?'

"'Send a messenger-boy,' said my brother.

"I have before remarked on the astonishing acumen
and the strange ability to see through millstones pos-
sessed by my brother. The idea immediately struck me
as not only feasible but capable of vast advertising pos-
sibilities. In those days, thirty years ago, it was still
something of an adventure to cross the Atlantic. I had,
myself, only recently been interviewed because I had
gone to London and back within twenty days. To-day
this is, of course, commonplace.

"We rang the messenger call. A very small boy re-
sponded. Said I: 'I want you to take this package and
these two letters to Mr. Robert Reece at the Charter
House, London, England/

'"Yes, sir/ said the boy without exhibiting the slightest
surprise. He took the package and the letters and went
away.

"'A remarkable boy!' said I.

"'American/ said my brother.

"We went over to Mr. Frohman, and told him of our
plan. He was enthusiastic. The head man from the
messenger office came over to the Lyceum Theatre;
this was a matter of more than fifteen cents. Arrange-
ments were made through the office of the Edwin H.
Low Steamship Agency. A ship sailed the next morning
and our messenger-boy, named Eugene B. Sanger, in a
new uniform, and looking as though taking letters to
Europe were his daily duty, went his way.

"Up to the time of S anger's arrival in London no mes-

from a photograph taken in London U'ith the " Buffalo Bill" Company

EUGENE B. SANGER, MESSENGER BOY

Sanger was sent to London to distribute souvenirs of "The Highest Bidder"

THE OLD LYCEUM THEATRE 301

senger service existed; any one who wished to send a
message, either sent it by a cab or called for a commis-
sionnaire that is, an old soldier disabled from active
service, retired on a pension, and whose progress as a
Mercury was aided by the loss of one arm or one leg.
There was a commissionnaire's office where one could ob-
tain the service of one of these veterans to perform
many and various duties; as a rule you sent a commis-
sionnaire in a cab ! Sanger's visit was, for our purposes
of advertising, made as public as possible. Buffalo Bill
was at that time giving an exhibition at Earls Court;
to him also was a souvenir sent, and we soon received a
photograph of our boy surrounded by Buffalo Bill's
Indians, cowboys, and other Wild West citizens. Sanger's
mission to Morton and Reece was discussed in the Daily
Telegraph and other papers. Then a correspondence
ensued as to the messenger service in America; Sanger
was interviewed and discussed learnedly upon his pro-
fession. Much argument to and fro resulted. His
comings and goings were chronicled, and the establish-
ment of a messenger service was discussed and advocated.
Not long afterward it was actually instituted, and, as
all the world knows, you can call a messenger-boy in
London to-day with the same facility that you can call
one in New York. Ten years later, in 1895, Mr. Rich-
ard Harding Davis sent his messenger-boy 'Jaggers'
from London to New York, thereby availing himself of
the service which my brother's suggestion had estab-
lished.

"This, I declare, is a sufficient claim to immortality;
here is a useful and really necessary concomitant of daily
existence, which brings ease and peace and comfort to
thousands of people, which facilitates intercourse in all

302 MY REMEMBRANCES

business and pleasure a long-felt want supplied ! And
who did this thing ? To whom is glory due ?

"To me ! From the housetops I cry it ! I did it
Sam and I.

"Sanger's visit was a triumphal progress. On land
and sea he was petted and entertained, as though he had
been a messenger from Mars. He gave up being a mes-
senger-boy and went on the stage; became an actor, a
writer, a manager, a man of letters in more senses than
one."

Said I to my newspaper friend: "Here's a service which
should arouse the gratitude of mankind, and yet you will
persist in talking to me about my inconsequential doings
on the stage."

"But," said he, "I was not aware you had distinguished
yourself in this line."

"'Twas ever thus," said I. "The history of invention
teems with the wrongful wresting of reward from the
patient investigator. Some other brow will wear the
laurel which should have been mine. History, however,
will vindicate my claim."

XXXII
"MRS. MIDGET"

IT is generally difficult to determine the origin of
nicknames. As a rule, however, they are founded on
some evident characteristic of the individual thus labelled
and defined; so that when "Mrs. Midget" was called
"Mrs. Midget," it seemed a most proper cognomen.
"Mrs. Midget" was small and elf-like; bashful, elusive,
and, in a sweet way, mysterious; eager and earnest about
her work, ready, indefatigable, and observant. Her fore-
head was high, her nose, tip-tilted like a flower, was
slightly on one side, and she laughed with lips close to-
gether like a rosebud. She had a great sense of humor
and her eyes were full of wonder.

In the same manner when "Mr. Oldest" was dubbed
"Mr. Oldest," that seemed an entirely appropriate name
for him. He was only about twenty-four, but there was
a general impression that he was at least a hundred and
two. Anyhow, he seemed appallingly ancient to "Mrs.
Midget," who herself was just sixteen.

It was the habit of "Mr. Oldest" to work very hard
at everything and at nothing. In fact, a candid and un-
pleasant friend had said to him one day: "You think
you work, but you don't; you fidget." Indeed this was
frequently the case, for much of the effort of "Mr. Oldest"
failed to get him anywhere. Still his restlessness was of
the kind exhibited by persons eager to start in a race,

303

304 MY REMEMBRANCES

and who lift up first one foot and then another; who
hop about and swing their arms and cry "Ha, ha!"
as the war-horse of the Scriptures is reported to have
done, when he scented the battle from afar, and who
clap their hands as the little hills are admitted to have
clapped theirs, on the same excellent authority. The little
hills behaved thus because they were glad, and "Mr.
Oldest" was glad not about anything in particular,
but just because he wanted to work and because there
seemed to be plenty of work to do.

"Mr. Oldest" was, in fact, so anxious to be up and
doing that no doubt his features at twenty-four took, on
occasion, the aspect of Methuselah; so that when, one
fine day, he was addressed as "Mr. Oldest" he became
"Mr. Oldest" from thenceforth.

It was in the summer of 1887 that "Mr. Oldest"
started in to fidget abnormally concerning a certain play.
"Mrs. Midget" was cast for a part in it. That is now
thirty years ago, but "Mr. Oldest" can remember quite
well the slim, childish figure in a summer frock who
came to rehearsal. She had very little to say, but watched
with large eyes everything that transpired. At that
time "Mrs. Midget" had a way of speaking with her
mouth pursed up and her lips not opening very far.
She laughed after the same fashion, and "Mr. Oldest,"
who took upon himself to rehearse this play, and to tell
everybody how to do everything, tried to get "Mrs.
Midget" to talk with more open lips, and to laugh with
wider gladness. This matter of laughing was a particular
fad of "Mr. Oldest." His own laugh was mirthless to
a degree. It was not properly a laugh at all, but a suc-
cession of short, sharp explosions; or, when he was un-
controllably merry, a wail as of some lost soul, or of some

"MRS. MIDGET" 305

animal in pain. In ordinary social intercourse this did
not matter, but when it came to impersonating characters
which should indicate merriment, joy, or humorous ap-
preciation, here was a serious defect. Therefore, "Mr.
Oldest" had determined to conquer it. He would have
what he called "laughing parties." That is to say, he
would gather together four or five victims the low
comedian of his company, the old woman, the soubrette,
and any other who had a blithe spirit, a comic face, or
even a miserable countenance which might excite laughter.
He would seat them on chairs very close together in a
circle. He would say: "Now then, we will laugh."

"At what ?" some one would ask.

"At nothing," would say "Mr. Oldest." "One, two,
three, laugh 1" and they would laugh, at first without
any mirth at all, then the absurdity of it would beget
mirth. The distorted face of the comedian laughing
against his will, the distress of the miserable man who
objected to laughter, the old lady conscious of dignity
outraged shortly the whole lot would feel the contagion
of laughter, and would become hysterical. Meanwhile,
"Mr. Oldest" would direct operations, his voice rising
above the din.

"We will make various sounds," he would say. "We
will laugh, Ho, ho! Ha, ha! Hi, hi! He, he! Hu, hu!
Again ! Keep it up !"

The martyrs would obey and thus "Mr. Oldest" culti-
vated his own laughter at the expense of the peace of
mind and perchance the sanity of his friends.

When it became evident that "Mrs. Midget's" laugh
was open to improvement, "Mr. Oldest" took her aside
and explained his system. Soon she was made one of
the party, and, seated with the others on the stage after

3 o6 MY REMEMBRANCES

a rehearsal, she was made to laugh. To this day she will
tell you that the laughter with which she now fascinates
you was due to this treatment.

"Mr. Oldest V laugh yet troubles him. He has to
keep his eye on it constantly. It is spoken of still as a
stage laugh, and is accounted painful to the listener.
But "Mr. Oldest" perseveres and hopes to laugh loud
and long before he dies.

For two years "Mrs. Midget" played parts with "Mr.
Oldest," and then the charm and industry for which she
had become noticeable attracted the attention of wise
men, and she began to climb, step by step, the ladder of
fame.

She was in the habit of declaring that the fidgeting of
"Mr. Oldest" had induced her to fidget, too. She be-
came renowned as a great worker, quite indefatigable,
with a consuming ambition to do great things in the
theatre.

"Mr. Oldest," between momepts of fidgeting, had
confided to her that one day he meant to play Hamlet.
He had mentioned this weakness of his to others, who
laughed, but "Mrs. Midget" did not laugh; she did not
say anything, but she did not laugh, and "Mr. Oldest"
was not in the least surprised to learn later on that "Mrs.
Midget" was at that very moment at work on her prompt
book of "Romeo and Juliet."

"Mr. Oldest's" fidgeting led him a pretty dance.
He played all sorts of parts in all sorts of plays, while
"Mrs. Midget" steadily climbed up and up year by year.
On the 6th of December of every year "Mr. Oldest"
would always receive a telegram which read:

Dear Mr. Oldest: Many happy returns of the day.
Mrs. Midget.

"MRS. MIDGET" 307

This was not a voluminous correspondence, but it
was a link which held two fidgeters together in an in-
teresting and pretty way for a number of seasons.

One day when "Mrs. Midget" had become a "star"
actress, and "Mr. Oldest" was rehearsing a new play,
he received a note asking if she could attend his rehearsal.
Now, this was a thing that "Mr. Oldest" would never
allow anybody to do. He hated to have people sit in
front and watch him in the process of self-discovery.
He preferred to fidget without the gaze of prying eyes.
Still he felt sure of "Mrs. Midget's" sympathy and
understanding, so he wrote her an affectionate note and
begged her to come. She was to sit up in the gallery,
and no one was to be aware of her presence. She was
to have pencil and paper and make notes. It was a
dress rehearsal, and "Mr. Oldest" was to play the heroic
role of a Huguenot outlaw. There was much sword-
play and much love-making, and there was moonlight,
a sun-dial, and a troubadour; there was a king whom one
had to defy, a castle to be taken by strategy, a terrible
duel, and, generally speaking, "Mr. Oldest" was to be
a very devil of a fellow. In his secret heart he rather
fancied himself in this character, and he was rather in-
clined to think that he would make something of an im-
pression on "Mrs. Midget." She came into the theatre
by the front way, so that the rest of the company should
not know that they were being observed; since "Mr.
Oldest" firmly believed that actors should not be rep-
rimanded or corrected before people not concerned with
the matter in hand, it makes them feel foolish and humil-
iated, and distracts their attention to the detriment of
their work.

"Mr. Oldest," having attired himself in all his finery,

308 MY REMEMBRANCES

visited "Mrs. Midget" in front of the house, placed her
comfortably in a seat in the balcony, quite out of sight,
saw that she had pencil and paper, and departed to
take his place in the rehearsal. In those days agility
was "Mr. Oldest V strong point. It was declared in-
deed that he acted more with his feet than with his head;
also those who wrote plays for him were careful to provide
him with plenty of love-making under picturesque cir-
cumstances. Firelight, moonlight, sun-dials, turnstiles
were enlisted to assist the melting mood. On this oc-
casion "Mr. Oldest" threw himself into his part with
enthusiasm; his duels were terrific, his comedy was side-
splitting, his love-making adorable at least, so he
thought when he had a moment to consider; for he was
terribly busy directing everybody and attending to every-
thing, and quarrelling with the man who worked the
moon, and the man who led the orchestra, and the man
who rang the curtain up and down.

At last the rehearsal was over and "Mr. Oldest"
sought "Mrs. Midget," so that he might receive her
commendation and approval. She was nowhere to be
seen. Those in front of the theatre said she had gone
home as soon as the final curtain fell.

"Ha!" thought "Mr. Oldest," "she is overcome.
The beauty of the thing was too much for her. That
love-scene about the sun-dial, while the troubadour sang
in the distance of 'fond love and false love.' And then
the sword-play! That would upset any woman; per-
haps it was too real, too terrible. One should have some
consideration for the females in the audience."

"Mr. Oldest" discussed the rehearsal with his friends
in the company. They thought he was very fine indeed,
and he thought they were almost as good as he was.

From a photograph by Sarony

BELLE ARCHER, MAUDE ADAMS, AND E. H. SOTHERN
IN "LORD CHUMLEY"

"MRS. MIDGET" 309

The next morning "Mr. Oldest" received a letter
covering about sixteen pages from "Mrs. Midget." He
began it with a smile of confidence, and ended it with
an inclination toward suicide. "Mrs. Midget" wouldn't
have the play at all. The love-scenes were nonsense;
the comedy was horse-play; the fighting was lacking in
spirit and danger. "Mr. Oldest V make-up was all
wrong; his costumes made him look too short. The
music was too frequent and out of place. The lights
were badly managed. The plot was obscure. One could
not hear what was said at vital parts of the play. "Mrs.
Midget" was very sorry, but failure stared "Mr. Oldest"
in the face.

There was no time to lose. .In two days the play was
to be produced. There was to be one final dress rehearsal.
"Mr. Oldest" recognized that every word written by
"Mrs. Midget" was true. Her criticisms were astute,
the faults found were evident as soon as she pointed them
out. As is so frequently the case, "Mr. Oldest" had
fallen in love with his errors. These things he would
have become painfully aware of the morning after the
production; thanks to "Mrs. Midget," he knew them
now. It was extremely unpleasant, but it was extremely
fortunate. "Mr. Oldest" rehearsed like mad. He ex-
plained to his stupefied comrades that everything which
he had thought was all right was all wrong. Love-scenes,
combats, lights, music, make-up, costumes were re-
written, reorganized, reformed, altered, modified, per-
fected. The play was a great success. The author and
"Mr. Oldest" alone knew whose medicine had cured
them. Everybody else believes to this day that they
did it all themselves.

The fact is that "Mrs. Midget's" art is not accidental

3 io MY REMEMBRANCES

nor by any means a thing of chance. She worked very
hard to find out why things are, and she was able to
apply method to her analysis. She is a living instance
of the truth that faith can move mountains, and that
work can accomplish what seems to be impossible. She
is a small, fragile woman, and she has done the labor of
a strong man.

Says the intelligent reader: "This is all very pretty,
but it is clear that you yourself are 'Mr. Oldest.' We
know you quite well with your sword-play and your
sun-dial. You have revealed yourself during this tale
in a hundred ways. But who is 'Mrs. Midget'? That is
what interests us. Who is this quaint, mysterious, elfin
creature who hid up in the gallery and is so strangely
wise ? It is very evident that you have a soft spot in
your heart for her."

"Hush ! bend over lend me your ear. Is any one
listening? Here in the twilight I will whisper, 'Mrs.
Midget* is "

"Yes! Yes! Goon!"

"You promise not to tell?"

"Yes, I say!"

"Whom do you think?"

"I can't imagine. Tell me quick!"

"You'll keep it dark?"

"Oh, yes. Who is she?"

" 'Mrs. Midget* is Maude Adams."

One day "Mrs. Midget," now become a great star,
very sweetly confided to Miss Katherine Wilson, a mutual
comrade and old friend, that she would like to meet
"Mr. Oldest" after many years and exchange reminis-
cences over the festive board. "Mr. Oldest" jumped
at the suggestion, and invited Miss Wilson and "Mrs.

"MRS. MIDGET" 311

Midget" to dine with him at his abode. He ordered a
delicious dinner and made great preparations; but,
being a stupid creature, capable of entertaining only
one idea in his head at a time, and being absorbed as
usual with his propensity for fidgeting, he meanwhile
accepted another invitation for the very evening on which
he had asked "Mrs. Midget" to dinner. Herr Conned
had sent word to "Mr. Oldest" that he had a fine play
for him which he wished to talk about and desired that
"Mr. Oldest" would take dinner at his house on this
identical evening, so that Herr Conried could read the
play and tell "Mr. Oldest" about its production in Ger-
many. On the spur of the moment, and in the midst of
his work, "Mr. Oldest" accepted the suggestion and
promptly forgot about it. So that on the night when
his party for "Mrs. Midget" was prepared and he,
dressed in his best clothes, awaited her arrival, having
ordered the most beautiful flowers for his table and
lovely bouquets for "Mrs. Midget" and his old friend,
Miss Wilson, while he stood admiring the perfection of
his preparations, fixing this and changing that, he was
suddenly seized with the awful thought that this was
the date of Herr Conried's dinner. What was to be done ?
He was due at Herr Conried's house in twenty minutes !
"Mrs. Midget" was at that instant on her way to his
door. Despair lent "Mr. Oldest" some semblance of
wit and he seized the telephone and called up Mr. Con-
ried, told him frankly that he had mixed his dates and
asked Mr. Conried to come and dine with him. Mr.
Conried declared he could not do that, since he had
invited some friends to meet "Mr. Oldest," but said
that he and Mrs. Conried would be delighted if "Mr.
Oldest" would bring his two friends to dine at his house.

3 i2 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Mr. Oldest" accepted gladly and hung up the receiver,
only to recall that he had not confided to Mr. Conried
who his two friends were. At that moment the bell
rang. "Mr. Oldest" opened the door himself, and there
stood "Mrs. Midget" and Miss Wilson.

"Stay!" cried "Mr. Oldest" to the driver of the car-
riage which had brought them. "Stay, one moment!
Quick!" said he to the astonished "Mrs. Midget" and
the confounded Miss Wilson, "I am going to take you
out to dinner ! The most wonderful plan ! You will be
delighted!"

"Where to?" said "Mrs. Midget" and Miss Wilson
with one voice.

"No matter," said "Mr. Oldest"; "leave it to me!"

They were off by now, and there was much excitement
and curiosity as to their destination. Soon they arrived
at Herr Conried's door. "Mr. Oldest" hurried them
up the stoop to the house and rang the bell.

"Whose house is this?" said "Mrs. Midget."

"Herr Conried's," said "Mr. Oldest"; "we dine with
him."

"No! No!" cried "Mrs. Midget," "I can't do it!
We don't speak ! We have quarrelled ! We "

But she was, by now, inside the door and despite her
protestations was greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Conried.
Soon she was in the midst of a joyful occasion. The
dinner-party was delightful. Herr Conried was gay,
wise, kind, and made much fun of "Mr. Oldest V di-
lemma. " Mrs. Midget " in a dream saw her quarrel, what-
ever it was, fade away into thin air, in a whirlwind of
laughter and gayety. "Mr. Oldest" never discovered
what the trouble between her and Herr Conried had
been; but one thing was certain, he had been the means

"MRS. MIDGET" 313

of their making friends again; so that what had promised
to be a disastrous occasion turned out to be a night of
rejoicing.

Mr. Conried thanked "Mr. Oldest," "Mrs. Midget"
thanked "Mr. Oldest," Miss Wilson thanked "Mr.
Oldest," and "Mr. Oldest" went to his rest persuaded
that he was a very clever fellow indeed.

XXXIII
"FLOCK"

WHEN Charles P. Flockton died, a fine actor and a
good man went on his last journey. "Flock," as he was
familiarly called, played in my company for twenty
years. Always conscientious, indefatigable, kind, gentle,
serene; a dear friend, a good comrade. His personality
was extremely striking a quite remarkable face : aquiline,
gaunt, strongly marked, saturnine, Quixotic; a very
mysterious man, not of many friends, secretive, proud,
a flashing eye, independent, intolerant of wrong, ob-
stinate in right, even to his own undoing, a great hu-
morist, a very anchorite; abstemious in all ways, never
touching strong drink and able to live on bread and
milk; a perfect gypsy, preferring a camp-bedstead or
a rug on the floor; always cheerful, always kind.

"You imitate Henry Irving," said a critic one day.

"Nonsense!" said "Flock." "Irving imitates me!"

" Flock," although ever tidy and neat and picturesque,
was almost shabby at all times. He industriously mended
his own garments, sewed on his own buttons, and re-
paired the frayed ends of his trousers legs with extreme
care. "He is penurious," said some; "a miser," said
others; "mad!" would murmur a third. Squandering
one's means was ever a proof of one's sanity.

Many pensioners, however, had "Flock." Strange,
sad, poor people waited for him at stage doors; old women

314

"FLOCK" 315

and old men with tattered garments and wan faces,
young people, too, evidently out of a job, would meet
"Flock" and walk off with him, no one knew whither,
no one asked or was told why. In a workaday world
these things attract slight attention; we have something
to do, somewhere to go; it is not our affair.

For many years "Flock" held a fine position in Lon-
don. When he came to America he went out as a "star"
in "The Flying Dutchman." The venture was not suc-
cessful, but "Flock" looked the mysterious mariner to
the life.

"Flock" was a great horseman. At one time he kept
a riding-school in London, which he conducted while he
was acting. A certain actors' society in New York took
measures to boycott English actors in this country. It
was suggested that American actors should resign from
companies wherein English actors would be employed.
"Flock," who was a member of this organization, made
a vehement address on the subject and either was ex-
pelled or resigned. A positive fellow was "Flock."
Once on a time "Flock" lived in a flat in New York
with young Alexander Salvini. The flat was at the top
of a building. In the street opposite were a number of
small shops a butcher, a baker, a candlestick-maker,
and so on. I was invited to dine there. I climbed up
the stairs, and while waiting for some one to answer the
bell I had time to observe this curious list on the out-
side of the door:

Chops one boot.

Steak two boots.

Potatoes waistcoat.

Cabbage coat.

Spinach one pair of trousers.

316 MY REMEMBRANCES

Coal white shirt.

Wood blue shirt.

Flour socks.

Before I could read more "Flock" himself opened the
door.

"What do you have your wash list on the outside of
the door for ? " said I.

"That isn't a wash list!" cried "Flock"; "that's
the signal service. You shall see. You are before the
dinner-time. I'm only just in and I cook the dinner
myself. Come!" "Flock" went to the window, blew
a shrill whistle, once, twice, thrice! "Look out at the
other window!" cried "Flock." "You see those fellows
come out of the shops? Now keep your eye open!"
He took two old boots and put them on the window-sill.
A man at the butcher shop opposite, who was looking
our way, put a whistle to his lips and blew a blast.
"Good! "said "Flock."

"Again!" He took a red waistcoat and waved it in
the wind three times. "Potatoes for three," said he.
The man at the grocer's shop replied with a whistle.

"Shall it be cabbage or spinach?" said "Flock."

"Cabbage! "said I.

"Right you are!" A coat was thrown in the air;
came the response instanter from below. Some socks,
a pair of trousers and innumerable garments carried the
message to the waiting tradesfolk. Shortly a boy ar-
rived with a basket full of food.

"You see, old man," said "Flock," "it saves a lot of
trouble. I don't have to go down; they don't have to
come up; one boy can do all the work. My own idea.
Good, isn't it?"

Good it was surely, and might be more universally

From a photograph by Sarony

"FLOCK"

Charles P. Flockton in costume in " Change Alley '

"FLOCK" 317

adopted to the vast saving of labor and the general
picturesqueness of life.

The dinner was excellent. Beefsteak and kidney
pie, bread of "Flock's" own baking, English tea im-
ported especially by "Flock" for "Flock," a Man-
chester pudding "the only place in America where you
can get one, my boy" a great dinner! "Flock," cook,
waiter, bottle-washer, here, there, and everywhere; Sal-
vini, a dear fellow, happy as a child. In England most
actors live in lodgings, and when they come to America
they like to find lodgings to live in. They are fond of
certain particular and long-established dishes, such as
beefsteak and kidney pie and Manchester pudding. A
friend of "Flock's" named Paxton, the scion of a dis-
tinguished family in England, being down on his luck,
went as a waiter in a third-class restaurant in New York.
A more fortunate acquaintance entered the restaurant
one day and picked up the bill of fare; he turned to
the waiter to order his meal. It was Paxton.

"Great Heavens! Paxton!" said the customer, "you
don't mean to tell me you are a waiter in a place like
this?"

"Yes," said Paxton, "but I don't get my meals here."

"Flock" played many parts with me. I never saw
him disturbed or at a loss on the stage but once. We
had produced a play by Paul Potter called "The Vic-
toria Cross." "Flock" was my father in the play. I
and my sweetheart and a number of others in a certain
garrison of a fort in India are surrounded by hostile
natives. There is no hope for us; we are all doomed;
our defenses are being undermined; we can hear the
enemy knocking knock ! knock ! knock ! as they dig
tunnels under the very building we are in. We get ready

3 i8 MY REMEMBRANCES

for the explosion of the mine which is to blow us all to
atoms. We hear the picks in the very wall; we take fond
farewells and level our guns, to sell our lives dearly. The
explosion takes place, the wall falls in, and out of the
aperture, amid falling brick and stone and dust, appears
my father, "Flock." "Fine, my boy! Splendid!" said
"Flock" with enthusiasm. "Good! Explosion! Centre
of stage ! Expect enemy ! Old father ! Embrace !
Splendid!" The scene was built with much detail. We
rehearsed with our usual care; but even the best-regulated
families encounter disaster. On the first night we had
trouble indeed. The many pieces of stone were put in
their position for the twentieth time; the real bricks
and the real dust were there in their accustomed places.
"Flock" was enthusiastic as he pictured himself as the
old general in his khaki, sword in hand, coming through
the smoke and ruin, and, standing right in the centre
of the stage and in the midst of his family, crying: "You
are saved !" The cue came; the explosion went "bang !"
the property-man pulled his strings; the wall gave way;
"Flock" dashed through flame, fire, smoke, and dust,
when some perverse bricks, having delayed their descent,
now fell from the height of five or six feet right onto
the top of his dear old bald head. "Flock," staggered
from the blow, got entirely out of his part, looked at me,
and said, "Hang it! old man, this is all wrong, you
know ! Smashed my blooming head, old man ! Oh,
no, this won't do!" and much to the same effect. His
anxious family surrounded him and led him back to the
plot of the play, but it was an awful moment.

There came a time when "Flock" began to look very
untidy and careless in his attire; also he was late for
rehearsal occasionally, an unheard-of thing for "Flock";

"FLOCK" 319

also he went wrong in his lines now and then, an equally
unheard-of thing. He was quite a different man as the
days went by. "Are you ill?" I asked him.

"No, old man, never ill."

"Are you worried ?"

"No, old man; never worry about anything."

Days, some weeks passed by; more and more marked
became "Flock's" distraction. Some embarrassing mo-
ments occurred in our play, Miss Marguerite Merring-
ton's comedy of "Lettarblair," wherein "Flock" had
himself arranged a sweet scene, where he, as old Dean
Ambrose, makes love to an old flame of his through the
medium of that song, "Believe me, if all those endearing
young charms which I gaze on so fondly to-day," sung
in his trembling, aged voice with great feeling to the
accompaniment of the zither, which he played ex-
quisitely. This scene was touching and beautiful.
"Flock" went all wrong with the zither; he could not
go on; lost his head. For a moment the ship floundered,
but he regained the helm and continued. This was quite
distressing; no one could throw light on the matter.
At length I reached the conclusion that "Flock" had
fallen from grace; that one of those strange and un-
accountable revolutions of character and habit we some-
times encounter had overturned "Flock's" admirable
serenity. I could get no word of explanation from him,
but was given to understand that my inquiries were im-
pertinent, and that "Flock's" business was his own.
However, I felt that my business was also mine, and
that certain breaches of discipline must be called atten-
tion to; so I spoke harshly to "Flock" one night, and
said in effect that he must be more careful, and that I
would have no more of it.

320 MY REMEMBRANCES

The next night a note came to say that "Flock" was
ill and could not play. An understudy went on. "Flock"
was down and out. He could keep up his brave fight no
more.

"I give up, old man," said he when I went to see him;
"I give up. I didn't want you to know."

There, on a bed across the room, was all that was
left of an old friend of both " Flock's " and mine. " Flock "
had nursed him night and day for weeks and weeks.
The man had given way to a weakness common enough,
which quite incapacitated him from such precise work
as play-acting. To be known as a victim of that weak-
ness was to be ever out of work, so far as the theatre
was concerned. "Flock" did not want me, he did not
want the world, to know that this unfortunate had
crawled into his house one night, a helpless, hopeless
wreck; nor that he, "Flock," had, without help, tried
to nurse the wretched man back to sanity and health,
reputation, cleanliness, and happiness. "Flock" had
given of his all money, time, health. He had sat up,
holding the unhappy man on his bed, and gone exhausted
to his work the next day; he had gone without food and
without sleep, and had suffered suspicion and abuse,
and had had to give it up at last. Good old "Flock" !

This was not the only time he played the Good Samar-
itan. The things he so strenuously denied himself he
conferred with lavish hand on those about him less for-
tunate than he. Strange, mysterious meetings he had
with poor vagrants, which always ended with "Flock's"
hand going into "Flock's" pocket, and then seeking the
hand of the oppressed one.

At Prince Edward Island on the sea "Flock" had
bought a lot of land and a modest house. Here he

"FLOCK" 321

had intended to spend his last days, but it was not
to be.

"Spread my ashes to the four winds," said "Flock,"
when his time came, and so it was. Some friends took
a journey to Prince Edward Island, and the mortal re-
mains of old "Flock" were wafted to the breeze.

"Oh, such a little while, alas ! have we
To gentle be and kind !
Ere we shall blend into the vagrant wind,
Shall mingle with the never-sleeping sea,
Then, ever seeking, shall we ever find
I, you ? You, me ?"

XXXIV
"LETTARBLAIR"

"WHAT is a Lettarblair?" said Miss Marguerite Mer-
rington to me one memorable morning in 1887.

Said I: "Lettarblair is the name of a cousin of mine,
Lettarblair Litton, and it is a first-rate name for the
hero of your play."

We were talking in the sitting-room of Miss Merring-
ton's home on Grand Boulevard at i2Oth Street, New
York, whither I had journeyed carrying a letter of in-
troduction from that identical good fairy who has flitted
through these pages. She had sped down Miss Merring-
ton's chimney, and, having waved her wand, Miss Mer-
rington, a teacher of Greek in the Normal School, at
once became plagued with a bee in her bonnet which
buzzed to her concerning many a fanciful scene and
many words of pretty wit and gentle wisdom.

"You shall write a comedy!" cried the fairy, where-
upon the teacher of Greek seized a pencil and began.

She already had the matter in some shape when I
paid her this visit. Events happen quickly when en-
thusiasts confer. In one minute, Miss Merrington's
hero, who was a fiddler, absent-minded, and a dreamer of
dreams, became in the play of her lively fancy a soldier,
an Irishman, a man of action.

In two minutes he had changed his name to Lettar-
blair from whatever it had previously been, and in half
an hour he had become enmeshed in some very fascinat-
ing adventures.

322

"LETTARBLAIR" 323

The play proceeded apace, and soon was in condition
to submit to Mr. Daniel Frohman.

The authoress and her fellow conspirator, myself,
awaited the manager's verdict with impatience.

"It is the worst play I have ever read," said he.

To many people this would have proved a shock.
To us it was merely a means of perceiving that the play
must be made better.

The advice of Mr. Fred Williams was sought. He was
the stage-manager of the Lyceum Theatre, a very dear
old fellow, and a wise man in the ways of play-
making.

Mr. Williams, however, permitted himself on occasion
to become somewhat the slave of tradition. In a cer-
tain play, Mr. Herbert Kelcey was called upon to enter
the room of a house in London. Mr. Williams, reading
from his carefully prepared manuscript, said:

"Enter Kelcey with a gun in his hand. Property-man,
where is that gun ? Hand it to Mr. Kelcey. Now, then,
go on ! Enter with a gun in his hand."

"Pardon me, Mr. Williams," said Kelcey, "but I don't
quite understand. There is nothing in the play about
a gun. There is no reason that I perceive why I should
enter with a gun."

Said Mr. Williams: "My dear boy, there is no reason,
but it makes an admirable entrance."

Mr. Williams smiled benignly upon us. He read the
play.

"I will copy it out," said he, "perhaps something may
occur to me in the process."

With much labor and in a hand remarkable for its
size and its clearness, Mr. Williams copied out the play.
We were then called upon to hear his suggestions.

324 MY REMEMBRANCES

Mr. Williams, with an all-embracing smile and a most
mellifluous Dublin brogue, began:

"I will read you a play," said he, "called" here he
considered sagely, and then as though the idea were his
own and an inspiration of the moment "Lettar-
blair!"

"Yes," said Miss Merrington, "that is my title."

Mr. Williams ignored this remark.

"Lettarblair!" said he. "I will call my play 'Lettar-
blair.'"

"My play!" said Miss Merrington.

Mr. Williams read the names of the people in the
play. "There," said he, beaming upon us affectionately,
"there you have my cast of characters."

"My cast of characters," said Miss Merrington
weakly.

He had reconstructed the comedy to some extent,
and many of his suggestions and amendments were of
importance. But we were disconcerted by his most
amiable but insistent habit of alluding to "my play."
However, that was merely a figure of speech, and we
soon dismissed our misgivings. We both recognized the
value of Mr. Williams's advice, and Miss Merrington
went at it again.

In a few weeks another version was submitted to Mr.
Frohman.

"This play," said he, "is impossible. I have never
read such a bad play."

Again Miss Merrington and I departed, and again we
consulted Mr. Williams, who once more copied out the
manuscript and once more read us "his" play.

This happened a third and a fourth time until two
years had passed. At length I declared to Mr. Frohman

"LETTARBLAIR" 325

that I wanted to put the play in rehearsal, but he was
obdurate and would have none of it.

Things looked badly for "Lettarblair," and I had to
write to the good fairy to say that I must abandon the
conflict. Not so the good fairy, however. She went to
Buzzards Bay with the manuscript and its author, who
read it to Mr. Joseph Jefferson, the fairy hovering by.
Mr. Jefferson said it was charming, and wrote to me
recommending that I should consider the matter further.
But I was now embarked on other enterprises, and my
enthusiasm had grown cold. However, when Mr. Jeffer-
son began his engagement with Mr. Florence at the
Garden Theatre in New York I placed the play in re-
hearsal.

" Lettarblair V Irish brogue and many very witty
lines, a beautiful new British soldier's uniform, and some
charming love-scenes were all very well; but there was
no doubt that the story lacked form and backbone and
plausibility.

For many days we struggled valiantly. Mr. Jefferson
came to several of our rehearsals and offered valuable
suggestions, but the members of the cast, all old and
eager comrades though they were, felt that the play was
incoherent and incomplete. Still I determined to try it
at a matinee.

"I won't buy a single stick of scenery for it," said Mr.
Frohman.

"I will do it with what is in the theatre," said I, "with
the exception of one small front scene, and all I want for
that is the table with the bench around it which one
sees in Marcus Stone's picture."

"What will it cost?" said Mr. Frohman.

"About fifty dollars," said I.

326 MY REMEMBRANCES

"It is too much," said he. "It would be throwing
away the money."

I consulted the carpenter and the scene-painter.

"We can do it for thirty dollars," I said.

"Well, go ahead!" said Mr. Frohman, and it is a fact
that "Lettarblair" was produced for thirty dollars.

The people wore the clothes they already possessed,
but I, of course, had to purchase that beautiful uniform.

Now we went to work in earnest.

In Act II the heroine has an interview with the hero
in his rooms at the barracks. This interview is the real
crux of the play, and certain matters are there discussed
on which hangs the future conduct of the story.

One day I stopped at rehearsal.

Said I: "Miss Merrington, here is the great difficulty.
I have felt at each rehearsal that this scene is unreal,
untrue. It couldn't happen. The girl would not remain
in the man's rooms after the exit of the others, and if
she did remain she would leave the instant that Lettar-
blair, with whom she has quarrelled, should enter."

"She must remain, though," said Miss Merrington,
"or there is no play."

"But we must make her remaining necessary. How
will you make it absolutely necessary for her to stay
necessary for her to hear against her will Lettarblair's
explanation and his protestation of love ? There is
every reason why she should go, and no reason why she
should stay."

Here we were at a standstill, for unless this could be
mended the whole play fell down.

"I have it," said I. "She must get her dress caught
in the door."

"But she could turn the handle and release it."

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"LETTARBLAIR" 327

"There must be no handle. A few moments previous
to this some character must open the door, and the
handle must come off. It must roll a little distance down
the stage. Shortly the heroine turns to take a last look
at the scene, standing so that her dress is between the
door and the frame of the door. The person who has
just gone off shuts the door and her frock is caught.
She is a prisoner/*

"She could pick up the handle."

"No, it is too far from her, and here is where we have
a splendid comedy scene. She must try to reach the
handle. She calls for the others to open the door. They
are too far away to hear her. She takes that sword there
and tries to reach the handle. She can barely touch it.
She puts the scabbard on the end of the sword-blade,
she touches the handle, but, ah ! the scabbard falls off,
and she cannot get it again. She moves to take off her
frock when Lettarblair enters. She demands the handle.
He perceives her dilemma and his own opportunity.
He laughs, takes a chair, sits down in front of her, and
there is the interview which she has to take part in
whether she will or no.'*

Then and there the whole scene was acted out and
entirely rewritten. Everything became not only possible,
but convincing and inevitable. The play rapidly de-
veloped in every direction, and in a few days, at our
dress rehearsal, our hopes ran high.

This particular scene at the first performance proved
a fine success, and when the heroine was relieved from
her predicament just as Lettarblair, pleading his cause,
and trying to undo the Gordian knot which the authoress
had skilfully tied, took the rebellious lady in his arms,
when the door was burst open from without, the heroine

328 MY REMEMBRANCES

released, and the climax of the act shortly after achieved,
Miss Merrington knew that her comedy was victorious.
Soon the play was put on at night, and ran for a year.

This incident does not belong to the chapter of ac-
cidents, but is one of those opportunities begot of en-
deavor; for obstacles present themselves to the ad-
venturer merely to be overcome, and of such conquests
events are born. Thus was my father confronted with
the impossible task of making the original part of Lord
Dundreary a great or even a good character study when
that emergency which rendered him desperate proved
to be his salvation.

On the occasion of the first dress rehearsal of Jus-
tin McCarthy's play "If I Were King," Mr. Daniel
Frohman pronounced a judgment which undoubtedly
secured the success of that drama. In the original ver-
sion the heroine, Katherine de Vaucelles, was aware dur-
ing" the entire second and third acts that the new grand
constable was actually the Fra^ois Villon of Act I, and
the interest centred in her observation of the toss-pot
poet's regeneration before her very eyes, and his trans-
formation from a rascal to a counsellor and commander
of the King's army constituted the chief interest of the
acts.

"These acts have no movement whatever," said Mr.
Frohman when Mr. McCarthy and I joined him in the
auditorium on the fall of the curtain. "There is no
suspense. That long recitation of * Where are the snows
of yesteryear' is extraneous, tiresome. There is no drama
behind it. There is no conflict. The moment the cur-
tain rises, we know the heroine is about to surrender
to the hero, and when she succumbs at last we have
anticipated it for three-quarters of an hour. There is

"LETTARBLAIR" 329

no surprise, no victory over obstacles, no achievement,
no opposition."

Mr. McCarthy looked exceedingly blue.

I myself saw that Mr. Frohman's objection was just,
but perceived no remedy.

"Were you not interested in the love-scene ?" I asked.

"No, not a bit," said Mr. Frohman.

"Why not?"

"The heroine's submission is a foregone conclusion."

"The poem is beautiful."

"Perhaps, but since she already admires the hero all
his wooing in verse seems superfluous. The action
drags. If we knew that he was luring her into a trap
with all his honeyed talk, and if, when she had declared
her love for him she should discover for the first time
that this magnificent grand constable is in fact no other
than the ragged vagabond of the first act, then you would
have a dramatic situation; we in front would be aware
throughout Acts II and III that this revelation was pend-
ing, was threatening, and we would watch the rhymester's
wooing of the haughty lady with keen anticipations,
we would look forward to her anger, her scorn, and her
denunciation."

"You mean that she must not know who the new
grand constable really is ? "

"Of course she must not."

"Who shall betray him?"

"He must confess."

"But that is the plot of the 'Lady of Lyons.' That
is exactly what Claude Melnotte does."

"What does that matter? Such a revelation is one of
the thirty-six situations of Gozzi. Novelty consists not
so much in situation as in treatment."

330 MY REMEMBRANCES

The wisdom of these remarks was evident.

That night Mr. McCarthy rewrote the scenes of the
second and third acts. The alterations were surprisingly
simple.

The next day we rehearsed the new version. The
love-scene, the poem, the wooing, all assumed a new
interest. Every word and glance which now drew the
heroine more and more into the mesh of love increased
the excitement of the auditor, and when Villon, having
won her heart, confessed that he was the vagabond poet
and Katherine denounced him for his perfidy, the strength
of the situation was intense.

Thus did a grave fault beget a great excellence.

Some time after the success of the play Mr. Mc-
Carthy said: "That was a lucky thought of mine, that
change at the end of the second act."

A lady who had been present at the dress rehearsal
laughed scornfully. " Your thought !" said she. "Why,
the idea was mine."

"Really," said I, "it is immaterial, but in mere justice
to myself and in the cause of truth and history I must
declare that the suggestion was mine."

Such is the ingratitude of the victorious.

XXXV

MEADOW-LARKS AND GIANTS'
ROBES

IN a field adjoining a village churchyard "Me" one
day discovered a human skull. No doubt an absent-
minded sexton had placed it on one side when making
a new grave. Perhaps it had rolled away, and the kindly
grass had covered it. The skull was broken and within
the cavity a lark had built its nest. Three small birds
were chirping therein. Soon they would take flight and
rise to heaven's gate carolling their hymn of praise.

Thus did the voice of song proceed from the ruined
temple in spite of the destroyer, and in the midst of death
there was life. It was as though

"The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook"

had returned in new guise to the ruin of her former
home, and into the shattered receptacle had, in mere
exuberance of joy, poured the wine of life anew.

Garlanded without by wild flowers and echoing with-
in the love-songs of the birds, might one not contemplate
this once human habitation and say: "Death, where is
thy victory ? "

We read in the lives of distinguished painters how a
little sketch made at random, and the folds of a drapery
set down as the whim chanced, and the study of a figure
made in years gone by, one day gather about the nucleus

331

332

MY REMEMBRANCES

of a wandering thought, and there on the instant a great
picture is conceived, each one of these separate and
vagrant memories contributing its hoarded treasure to
the common store.

The same contribution of experience to practise occurs
in literature and in life. So in the mind of "Me" the
picture of the hermit, the thought of the retreat of the
meadow-lark, one day peeped in at the window of his
remembrance as he read in Lamb's "Tales from Shake-
speare" the story of the bereaved Hamlet where once he
had wished to be an Indian he now craved to impersonate
the sombre prince.

The curious gratification which mankind experiences
in contemplating the story of "Hamlet" was once amus-
ingly instanced in the remark of a small child who one
day watched a rehearsal of the tragedy.

"Which of our plays do you like the best?" I asked
her, as she sat on a trunk absorbed in the scenes of treach-
ery, incest, murder, and revenge.

"'Hamlet,' "she lisped.

"Why?" said I.

"Because it is so happy," said she.

She meant, no doubt, because she received so much
satisfaction from the tale. The pity for the hero's blighted
love, the justice of his cry for vengeance, and the final
punishment of the wicked King, all satisfied her sense of
right.

In a small, old-fashioned album for cartes de visite
was a photograph of Edwin Booth as the Prince of Den-
mark which he had presented to "Me's" mother. This
picture must have been taken about 1865. Gazing at
the beautiful, sad face, "Me" fed his imaginings while
his mother read to him the pages of the play, and, like

MEADOW-LARKS AND GIANTS* ROBES 333

the other little child of a later day, he was fascinated by
the "happy" story.

"Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not
how oft. Where be your gibes now, your gambols, your
songs, your flashes of merriment that were wont to set
the table on a roar ? Not one now to mock your own
grinning."

Here would "Me's" mind hark back to the poor
abandoned head-piece wherein the lark had nested, and
he longed from the skeleton of the printed page to see
the prince in flesh and blood take wing.

It was not until 1879 that I, no longer "Me," saw
Mr. Booth play Hamlet. It is enough to say that all
longings were fulfilled.

Edwin Booth's genius shone like a good deed in a
naughty world. His light was so steady and pure and
his acting so free from exaggeration that he baffled
imitation, although all the ambitious actors of my early
days took him as their ideal. However, here was no
strange gait nor curious utterance to copy. Dignity,
beauty of speech and of carriage, and a very noble sim-
plicity shamed imitation and stripped one bare of all
pretending. Booth was unique in his grandeur. It is
not likely he will find an adequate successor.

"Dost thou in the name of this child renounce the
devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the
world, with all covetous desires of the same and the sin-
ful desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow nor
be led by them?"

Had it not been for the fear of this undertaking, Edwin
Booth would have granted my father's wish and would
have become my sponsor in baptism.

Said he to Mr. Daniel Frohman: "When E. A. Sothern

334 MY REMEMBRANCES

asked me to be godfather to his son Edward, I really
feared I might have my hands full should I register these
vows of a godparent. Sothern himself was such a harum-
scarum fellow at that time, with his practical jokes and
his spirit-rapping and his amazing vitality a very pres-
ent terror to nervous and staid persons that I, who
looked upon such covenants seriously, hesitated to guaran-
tee his son from 'the devil and all his works' or from
'the vain pomp and glory of the world,' so I managed
to evade the obligation."

However, when, many years later, I began to play
parts of some consequence at the old Lyceum Theatre,
Edwin Booth would come now and again, and, having
purchased a seat in the balcony, would sit there all by
himself, to see whither my inherited effervescence had
led me. Frank Bunce, the business manager, discovered
him two or three times in this seclusion and protested
that Mr. Booth should accept the hospitality of the
theatre in the shape of a box. But this he would never
do, his visit being always unexpected, and his seat always
in the balcony.

I never heard from him, how he liked the plays, or
whether he congratulated himself or not that he had
refrained from becoming my godfather. It is quite
possible that he experienced a melancholy satisfaction
while contemplating me that he was in no way respon-
sible for so eccentric and restless a comedian. When
later on the Players' Club was established, I would meet
Mr. Booth occasionally, and he would speak with affec-
tion of his early association with my father and mother.

Many years after his death I was greatly surprised
and touched to receive from his daughter, Mrs. Gross-
man, the pouch which her father was accustomed to wear

From a photograph by A. A. Turner in the collection of Robert Cosier
EDWIN BOOTH

MEADOW-LARKS AND GIANTS' ROBES 335

in "Hamlet," with a very charming letter saying that
she had witnessed our production of that tragedy.

It is a pleasant figure of speech to declare that one
steps into this man's shoes or wears that man's mantle,
but, alas ! inhabiting the shoes and upholding the mantle
is but the office of a dummy. These seven-league boots
may run away with one's reputation, and this giant's
robe incontinently smother one.

One of the least glorious actors I have known had a
mania for the collecting of wardrobe belonging to the
great ones of the past. He would come on the stage
wearing shoes which had belonged to Edwin Booth, a
cloak which had once enfolded Forrest, a sword wielded
by Edmund Kean, jewels which had reposed upon the
breast of Charlotte Cushman, a ring which had been
worn by Adelaide Neilson, a wig presented to him by
Richard Mansfield. So conscious was he of his relics
that he could never attend to the business in hand.
He actually would assume during one brief speech the
manners of these several people; so that he might enter
as Forrest, address you as Cushman, bid you farewell
as Mansfield, and exit as Kean.

Every article that he wore had its association.

I ventured to suggest that the many reminiscences
conjured up by his various garments distracted his at-
tention on a certain occasion.

"Oh, not at all!" he replied; "not at all. You see,
I was in the navy."

The application was not exactly clear, but I concluded
after much reflection that this explained the fact that
he was so constantly at sea.

I must say that I have great sympathy with these
collectors of odds and ends, and those same covetous

33 6 MY REMEMBRANCES

desires deplored in the baptismal office beset me on all
sides. I have not yet yielded to my naval friend's weak-
ness for wearing the clothes of departed greatness, but
I glory in a treasure-house of the same. This lust of pos-
session is surely a matter of atavism. The bird must
build and own its particular nest, and discover and pos-
sess its own peculiar worm, defending it with bill and claw.
Why do I love the ancient chair wherein I sit less when it
belongs to another than when it belongs to me ? Though
still in the chair, am I not out of pocket ? And why
does the patch of ground I have paid for fill me with a
gratification which the magnificent estate of my neigh-
bor cannot by any means create ? It is certainly not a
question of beauty, for his park puts my little garden
to shame. I can see his groves for nothing, and my one
acre costs my all. My collection of stamps and my
cabinet of birds' eggs elated me with a pride which the
more splendid endeavors of Philatelist Smith or Ornithol-
ogist Brown were powerless to produce. After wander-
ing through the palaces of the world I contemplate my
single Tudor wedding-chest, my one trestle-table, and
my solitary Elizabethan four-post bedstead with in-
creased affection and enthusiasm. They are mine, and
what's mine's my own.

But this is adoring the vain pomp and glory of the
world, and probably denotes an inclination toward the
devil and all his works. One's godfather would have a
sorry problem here.

Therefore my sorrow that Mr. Booth was no godfather
of mine is mitigated by the reflection that he was spared
some concern on my behalf.

Every now and again one encounters the comment
that it is a detriment to the conception of the dramatist

MEADOW-LARKS AND GIANTS' ROBES 337

for his characters to be impersonated that to associate
this, that, or the other actor or actress with the Shake-
spearian personages limits the imagination and controls
the fancy. Such critics surely pay a poor compliment
to their own intelligence which should be capable of re-
jecting the incompetent while accepting what is excel-
lent. A reader must perforce form some image in his
mind of the characters he contemplates. Even our gods
and our devils, and our heavens and hells take some
shape. It is seldom, of course, that so entirely satis-
factory a realization of the poet's ideal occurs as in the
case of Mr. Booth's "Hamlet." Even the querulous
Lamb could have found no fault there. The very first
words I ever heard concerning the player's art dealt
with this same impersonation when my father and
mother were discussing the production at the Winter
Garden in New York. Although I did not witness a
performance of "Hamlet" until 1879, I am quite sure
that my mother's description, and the little photograph
of Mr. Booth helped me greatly to understand and to
love the tragedy.

Had my mind had nothing to feed upon but the lame
elocution of my schoolmasters, who indulged in a very
false gallop of verses, I should soon have wearied of the
poet's lines. But the actor's picture and the knowledge
of the effects he had created made me eager to enjoy the
story. The many thousands in this workaday world
who have little time to devote to reading plays would
not sacrifice their memories of Booth's prince for all the
dissertations of the scholars, who, with due respect,
will, on this particular theme, sometimes grow "as
tedious as a King."

All the world is aware of Edwin Booth the tragedian,

33 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

but here is rosemary of his own planting which may well
be gathered from an old number of the Century Magazine,
and placed upon his grave for remembrance a letter
written to his friend, William Bispham:

Anent a certain friend, a poor player who struts,
etc., but one I love with all the tenderness a son might
bear for a father, one of the oldest and the dearest old
duffers the good God ever made ! Perpend ! (be-
loved by his kind) approacheth now the time when the
oil burneth low and the wick waxeth brief. He wants
to settle in New York his dear old wife and he in
apartments, in a good location on an economical plan,
and loaf out the rest of their winters. The thought
struck me that you could give me all the points touching
the subject. Say if he wished to buy the furniture of a
flat of perhaps five or six rooms, in some neighborhood
you know, can you give me an idea of what it would cost
for rent ? Say a lease of several years, cosy and plainly
furnished and one servant, a cook, for example. Do you
know of such a chance for next year ? And can you give
me an idea of rent, cost of furniture, servant's wages, and
other little details requisite for the comfort of a dear old
couple of antique babies ? Let me know as soon as pos-
sible for they contemplate selling their house, and re-
tiring on a small income I want to locate them in New
York for the balance of their earthly sojourn, which
can't be many centuries longer. This entre nous. I
thought I'd find, say, four or five cosey rooms and furnish
them comfortably, rent the place for several years, and
relieve them of all cares for the future. No one but you,
they, and I are to know the facts, and even you must
be ignorant so far as they know.

XXXVI
"MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME"

FALSE spiritualism and those pretenders who trade
upon the credulity of the superstitious and unhappy
these were especial antipathies of my father. It was he,
in conjunction with the late Sir Henry Irving, who,
about 1868, exposed the tricks of the celebrated Daven-
port Brothers in London; not because they were tricks,
but because they claimed their wonders were controlled
by spiritual influence. My father and Irving performed
all the Davenport miracles on a public stage, showing
that they were merely conjurers' inventions. The house
we lived in was a veritable wonderland, for my father
in his study of magic had all kinds of paraphernalia in-
stalled. The place was wired throughout, so that trap-
doors in floors or walls would open and swallow or eject
various objects. For example, at a certain seance a
peculiar shoe-buckle, procured after vast search and
trouble, was projected with precision from behind a clock
onto the centre of the dining-room table, so that a cer-
tain unbeliever should receive this token, the long-lost
fellow of one in his possession. I saw this projection
practised with infinite pains, so that the shoe-buckle
would land exactly where the victim was seated. A
small trap-door was made under the table. This opened
with the pressing of a button. Within the trap was a
basin of ice-water. During the demonstrations, my
father would surreptitiously take off his shoe and sock,

339

34 o MY REMEMBRANCES

place his foot in the ice-water, dry it on a napkin, and,
under cover of the dimmed light, present a ghostly and
clammy hand (foot, of course) to some one under the
table. Usually, when he had sufficiently mystified his
guests, he would tell them that all his wonders were
mechanical tricks. He hated the humbug of spiritualism,
but really believed deeply in actual spiritual manifesta-
tions.

I mention these facts to make clear that I, having been
accustomed to the exposing of trickery since childhood,
was not likely to be readily deceived by supernatural
experiences. We have all encountered the "amazing co-
incidence," and may have paused, perhaps, to consider
how strange it is that the paths of two persons shall,
after wandering hither and thither all over the globe,
in an apparently aimless and unconnected manner, sud-
denly assume a direct relation to each other; shall cross
or connect, so that a clash or climax of circumstances is
the result. Two sets of events hastening, retarding, di-
recting each covering a period of years, the links of
each chain being forged day by day, the victories or
the defeats of the two lives, keeping those lives in the
precise path where they will finally collide, at a ball,
at a street corner, on a train. This is, of course, an or-
dinary reflection, but instances are always entertaining.

This instance concerns a match-box, a snuff-box, a
bronze equestrian statue, a pair of paste shoe-buckles,
a leather cigar-case, and a walking-stick with a cloi-
sonne handle. From the four corners of the earth the
footsteps of the people here discussed approached one
another. Failure and success, health and sickness,
moulded the succession of events which brought them
hour by hour to the cross-roads where they encountered

"MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME" 341

after many days. In our drawing-room at "The Cedars,"
Kensington, there stood a curio-table with a glass top.
Under the glass cover, ever since I can remember any-
thing, I remember the articles enumerated above, with
the exception of the equestrian statue in bronze, which
stood on the sideboard in the dining-room. This was a
statue of my father on horseback with two dogs looking
up at him. I remember the sculptor modelling the horse
in the stable-yard.

It has been my observation that when people die their
small and more intimate belongings disappear in quite
a mysterious way. Whether it is that our elders give
them away as souvenirs, or whether the articles walk
off of their own accord, when he who most cherished them
is gone, certain it is that things vanish. I recall, I say,
all of these articles mentioned, and then I became aware
one day that they no longer existed. Where, I said to
myself one morning, my mind harking back, as is some-
times the case, to that curio-table where are those
shoe-buckles which belonged to David Garrick ? And
where the cloisonne walking-stick, also the property of
that great actor ? Where is that snuff-box which be-
longed to Listen ? Where is that big leather cigar-case
with the initials in gold on the outside ? and finally I
wondered where was the statue of my father on horse-
back, and where the small gold match-box in the form of
a portmanteau, which had been presented to my father
by the late King Edward when he was Prince of Wales.
As the event will disclose, these articles had travelled
to the ends of the earth, and when the hour had struck
they turned, as though they were so many needles on
the mariner's compass, and pointed toward me, as though
I were the true magnetic pole. By devious ways and

342 MY REMEMBRANCES

through many hands, oversea and overland, these things
made their way to me who wanted them back. They
seemed to actually escape from one person to another
who should more readily carry them nearer and nearer
to me, who during this time continued to see them in the
mind's eye ever in that drawing-room under the glass top
of that curio-table.

To begin with the match-box, the Prince of Wales,
at the time he gave the box to my father, was very fond
of riding to hounds. My father, too, was passionately
fond of hunting. The prince had been exceedingly kind
to him on many occasions, and one day on the field
presented him with this small gold match-box. Shortly
afterward, my father met with a bad accident while
hunting. He was thrown from his horse against a tree;
his arm was broken and his eye badly damaged. He was
carried unconscious to a farmhouse near by. When he
recovered his senses and prepared to depart, he observed
that the match-box, which he had worn attached to his "
gold chain, had been broken off. Farm-hands were sent
to the scene of the accident, but could find no trace of
it. My father begged the farmer to institute a search
and offered a reward, but no sign of the box was dis-
covered. A duplicate box was ordered from "Coster,"
the jeweller, who had made the original, and this duplicate
my father wore for some years. When my elder brother
was about to depart on a professional engagement to
Australia, my father gave him this duplicate. My brother,
when about to return from Australia, gave the duplicate
to one Mr. Labertouche, who had shown him much kind-
ness. Labertouche, in turn, gave the duplicate to an
actor, Arthur Lawrence, who in the year 1890 joined my
company in New York. We will leave the fortunes of

"MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME" 343

the duplicate for the moment with Arthur Lawrence.
Meantime, the original match-box had never been found.
One day my brother Sam, who inherited my father's
passion for hunting, was riding to hounds. He got into
conversation with an old farmer who rode beside him,
and during the talk divulged his name Sothern. "Are
you the son of Dundreary Sothern?" said the farmer.

"Yes," said my brother.

"I want you to take a bite with me after the run,"
said the farmer; "I have something to show you."

My brother went. The farmer, while lunch was pre-
paring, went to the cupboard; then, approaching my
brother, said:

"Twenty years ago your father lost this match-box
in my field. This morning one of my men was ploughing
and found it. Accept it."

Please observe that the paths of my brother and the
farmer crossed for the first time on the very morning
on which the match-box had been ploughed up after
being buried for twenty years. My brother wrote me
an account of this curious coincidence. I received the
letter while I was travelling. I was seated in a Pullman
car with Arthur Lawrence by my side. He had just
joined my company that day. My manager brought
me my brother's letter. I read his account of the in-
cident. I then told Lawrence the strange history of the
match-box and said: "I wonder what became of the
duplicate."

"Here it is!" said Lawrence, showing it to me on his
watch-chain.

Observe again that Lawrence had joined me that day,
that he was seated beside me when I opened my brother's
letter, that he had recently arrived from Australia and

344 MY REMEMBRANCES

had applied to me, a total stranger, for an engagement.
Over the years, oversea, overland, he had brought this
duplicate match-box to me at the exact moment that I
received news of the finding of the original after twenty
years. Lawrence gave me the box. Both boxes have
come home.

An agent in my employment, named Craeger, said to
me one day in Saint Louis: "There's a snuff-box in a bar-
room down-town, and the barkeeper says it belonged
to your father."

Said I: "It is an octagonal box, made of brass, and it
has paste stones on the outside about as large as peas.
Inside is this inscription: 'From William Listen to the
Reverend Charles Klanert From the Reverend Charles
Klanert to his son, James Klanert From James Klanert
to E. A. Sothern, 1870.'"

"That's the one," said Craeger. "Have you seen it ?"

"Not since I was about eight years old," said I.

We went to the barroom. I examined the box. I
asked the man where he had obtained it. He was rather
mysterious, and would not say. I offered to buy it from
him. He would not sell it. "Well," said I, "I'll leave
you my address in case you change your mind; mean-
time, leave it to me in your will if you die." I went my
way, sad at heart, for I wanted the snuff-box badly.

Two years afterward, a bell-boy at the Virginia Hotel
in Chicago announced: "A gentleman to see you, sir."

"What gentleman?" said I. "Go and ask his name."
A strange name appeared on a card. "Well, show him
up," said I.

A tall man appeared, a perfect stranger. "I have
come to give you this snuff-box," said he, and he handed
me the box; "also this cigar-case," and he handed jne the

"MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME" 345

leather cigar-case with the initials in gold. "They be-
longed to my father," said he, "who received them
from Mr. Connor, the manager of John McCullough."

I thanked him and remarked: "I saw this snuff-box
two years ago in a barroom in Saint Louis."

"Never!" said he. "It has been in a glass case in my
mother's sitting-room under lock and key for fifteen years."

"Pardon me," said I, "but I went to the place and
handled the box and read the inscription and offered to
buy it."

"You are mistaken," replied my benefactor smiling
kindly. "The box has never been out of our house since
we received it from Mr. Connor. We have valued it
highly, but I want you to have it." With some generous
and complimentary remarks he departed.

The thing is inexplicable. But the box had walked
into my hands at last.

A certain storage house sent me a letter one fine day
to say that a trunk belonging to my father was in its
possession. I sent for it. It contained some odds and
ends of old theatrical wardrobe. I took out a pair of
square-cut shoes. In the toe of each shoe was a silk
stocking. Wrapped in each silk stocking was one of
those buckles which had belonged to David Garrick, and
which had been presented to my father when he first
produced a play of that name in London about 1870. I
opened a very dilapidated make-up box. There was the
handle of the cloisonne walking-stick; the stick itself,
which had been of ebony, was missing. Said I:

"Serene I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea,
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate
For lo ! my own shall come to me."

346 MY REMEMBRANCES

Last year my brother entered his dressing-room one
night in London. The actor who dressed with him said:
"Sam, I saw a bronze statue of you on horseback in
a shop in King's Road, Chelsea."

"Never had a statue in my life," said Sam.

The man assured him that in a pawnbroker's window
was the statue with a placard reading, "Mr. Sam
Sothern." My brother went to the place indicated.
There was the statue. He went in and questioned the
pawnbroker, who knew nothing about it except that
there it was, and that the price was so much. My brother
bought it. Where had that bronze horse carried my
poor father during forty years ? Through what lands
had he and his two dogs wandered by hill and dale ?
What adventure had landed him in this pawnbroker's
shop in Chelsea ? Who had harbored him in content
or sold him in poverty ? At last we have him home again,
and that is enough.

I was relating these circumstances to a young woman
in my company one day, a rather reserved, quiet, watch-
ful girl.

"It is nothing," said she. "All one has to do is to
wait. You," she continued, "did not go out to seek
these things, they sought you."

"Where did you learn so much wisdom?" said I.

"From the ceiling people," replied this strange girl.

"The ceiling people ?"

"Yes. Yours may be different. Mine are the ceiling
people," and she went on to tell me that ever since she
could remember she had known and talked with and
actually seen, not with her imagination, but with her
bodily organs of sight, certain people whom she had
first as a child pictured in the ceiling. Later, they came

"MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME" 347

in at the gate and drove up to the house and entered
therein. Nobody else saw them ever. She knew them
by name, and would look from the window and announce
their arrival: "Here come Mr. and Mrs. Westover,"
she would say, and she would help them out of their cart
and take them into the house, entertain them for hours,
bid them good-by, and discuss their visit after their
departure. "I saw them as plainly as I see you," said
she. "They have watched over me and helped me al-
ways."

"It was your vivid, childish imagination," I ventured.

"Not at all," said she, rather impatiently. "I saw
them with my eyes."

"Do you see them still ?" said I.

"No," she answered. "They have gone back again
into the ceiling."

My brother Sam, up to the age of thirteen years had
as constant playmates several little people, especially one
small old man clad in a green jerkin and tights, who
would appear on the pole supporting the window curtains.
They would slide down the curtains and play with him
for hours. He used to speak of them to his nurse and
his mother, but as he was given a dose of medicine every
time he mentioned them he ceased to talk of his experi-
ence. He tells me that he was thirteen years old when
they last appeared to him, and that in his remembrance
they were not creatures of his imagination but actual
beings.

Alas ! I never have had any "ceiling people" to search
the seas over and bring back to me my strayed memen-
tos. They came on more prosaic wings. The imagina-
tion of a child is extremely sensitive and vivid, and one
can easily believe that children seem really to see the

34 8 MY REMEMBRANCES

creatures of their fancy. It is not frequently, however,
that grown-up people are so convinced. I know of two
aged persons who are childless. But their long and
constant desire for children has become such an ob-
session that they are persuaded that certain children
have actually come to them in the spirit though not in
the body; that these children have really been born
to their souls; that they are present and that they can
communicate with them; that they come and go and
exchange thought, and this to them is no delusion but
an actual consciousness. They play with them, con-
verse with them, are aware of their arrival and their
departure. These are not "ceiling people," but "chil-
dren of desire."

The point where imagination becomes delusion is
hard to define. Mr. George Augustus Sala was remark-
able for his precise memory. He once explained to
my father that he had arranged in his imagination a
large room the walls of which were rilled with shelves;
the shelves divided into partitions; the partitions sub-
divided into a certain number of small spaces. Each
space contained a small drawer numbered or lettered
the entire arrangement purely imaginary. But Sala
declared that it was so actual to him that, when in need
of recalling certain information, he could open the door
of this room, enter, select with precision the shelf, the
partition, the subdivision, the drawer, the book or the
bundle and the document in the bundle, and turning to
the page recover at once the matter he was in search of.
Here are no "ceiling people," no "children of desire,"
but granaries of the mind.

But neither the "ceiling people," nor the children of
the heart, nor the storehouses of the intellect exhaust

COURTYARD OF HOUSE IN NEW ORLEANS WHERE

EDWARD H. SOTHERN WAS BORN,

DECEMBER 6, 1859

"MY OWN SHALL COME TO ME" 349

the resources of the imaginative human being. It is
agreeable to contemplate the adventures of things tan-
gible, but thrice happy is he or she who can dispense
with real-estate agents and payments of silver and gold,
and live and move and have his being in a house which
has no existence whatsoever except in the mind. Such
is the joyous state of one I know who saunters by a river
which is not, enters a boat which has no being, rows to
an island which is on no chart, disembarks upon a strand
where mortal has never trod, and daily proceeds to a
house which is but the figment of a dream.

"I have killed 'Little Nell,'" cried the weeping Charles
Dickens when the creature of his fancy had been slain
by a stroke of his pen, so real to him had become the
creation of his brain. When I have seen my friend
smiling apart with half closed eyes: "Where are you
now?" I have said.

"On my river," answered she; or, "In the great hall
by the oriel window"; or, "In the long gallery; I am
looking out on the hills." For let it be known that this
is a staid Elizabethan house, very quaint and still and
old, surrounded by great trees and quite full of ancient
Tudor furnishings. Once there was a moat about it,
but that has been done away with in the course of time
by simply thinking that it was no longer there. There
have been many alterations and the whole structure
has frequently been moved from one part of the coun-
try to another overnight. For years and years the
owner has been looking forward with intense desire to
possessing a house in the country districts of England.
She has studied the country houses of that dear gray
land until she is actually an authority on the subject.
She has concentrated her mind to such an extent on the

350 MY REMEMBRANCES

matter that during the last few years the precise house
she desires has taken concrete form. She actually lives
in her house. She exists in it. She drives through the
great iron gates, and up the stately avenue. She lifts
the remembered curious knocker. She sounds the long-
beloved-quaint old bell.

To possess one's house without either rent or pur-
chase is to live indeed rent-free, care-free, fancy-free.
By the mere process of thought to be able to remove one's
dwelling from valley to mountain-top; to be solitary or
surrounded by a retinue, and, best of all, to be attached
to one's castle in the air by such strong threads of love
that one can draw it nearer and nearer day by day until
at last one enters the door and sinks down to rest by the
fireside, so after many days to find one's dream come
true.

XXXVII
THE EMPTY CHAIR

ALTHOUGH he was distinctly a rolling-stone, my father
gathered moss in the shape of friends to an extent nothing
short of marvellous. His were not the friendships of an
hour or a day; they lasted long after he himself had
passed away. I inherited many of these friendships,
and among the dearest and best was that of Captain
John Shackford, of Philadelphia. It was not my fortune
to see Captain Shackford often, but those occasions
when I did meet him are fraught with tender memories.
He had been the commander of one of the White Star
Line steamers. My father had often crossed the ocean
with him, and they had become fast friends. When I
first began to obtain some success in America, Captain
Shackford looked me up and asked me to dinner. I
went gladly enough. The captain himself and a friend
of his and his wife, four of us, composed the party at the
Bellevue Hotel. The table was laid for five persons,
but we began dinner with one place empty. This place
was for my father, who had long been dead.

When dinner was over, Captain Shackford arose and
addressed the gathering. One would have thought that
there were a hundred people present. He began: "Mr.
Chairman," addressing his friend opposite, whom, for
convenience, I will call Mr. Feathers. "Mr. Chairman,"
said the captain, "Ladies" (to Mrs. Feathers) "and
Guests" (to me): "We have with us to-night " then

351

35 2 MY REMEMBRANCES

he launched forth with a eulogy of my father, serious,
gentle, and tender. He proposed his health, and drank
in silence. Then he resumed his seat to the applause
of Mr. and Mrs. Feathers. Feathers then arose and
responded. The captain then got on his feet again and
made an oration of some minutes without mentioning
my name, but pointedly discussing the son of my father,
alluding to my various steps toward popularity and
generously criticising my progress. This, too, was inter-
rupted by applause and very meaning glances from Mr.
and Mrs. Feathers, as much as to say: "I fancy he
must mean you." At length the captain wound up by
waving his hand toward me and saying: "I need
scarcely say that I allude to our guest, Mr. Edward
Sothern, the son of his father." I then got on my legs
and haltingly offered my thanks amid great enthusiasm.
The formalities having been complied with, with great
solemnity not at all as a joke we then came down to
earth and to cheerful conversation.

Every year, for many years, this same thing took
place. Shackford would come all the way from New
York to show me this kindness. Always 'there was the
vacant chair; always the address to my father; always
the same adulation of myself, as though I were not aware
whom he was discussing.

Captain Shackford was one of the most peaceful of
men, but my father, perhaps for that reason, was con-
stantly making him presents of huge firearms. When
he died, the captain left me a brace of these two enor-
mous revolvers.

One experience he had with my father was a precious
one which he loved to relate. It seems they had under-
taken to attend two parties on one evening in London;

CAPTAIN JOHN SHACKFORD

THE EMPTY CHAIR 353

one was a ball in a private house, and the other was a
children's party. My father, in order to amuse the chil-
dren, had engaged a man to induce the servants of the
establishment by certain largess to permit him, the man,
to take up a position on the roof so that he might talk
down the chimney. My father's plan was to indulge in
some ventriloquial acts, and astonish the children with the
voice from above. Certain questions and replies, and a
code of signals had been carefully arranged. As luck
would have it, however, my father got the houses mixed
up. As the servant was about to open the drawing-
room door of the first house they entered, he said to
Shackford: "Now we'll make the children laugh; let
us enter on all fours."

The two men got down on their hands and knees, my
father winking at the servant and taking him into his
confidence. "Now," said he, "open the door and an-
nounce us." The man did so solemnly enough. Shack-
ford and my father crawled in. It was the grown-up
party ! The people were, naturally, amazed, but my
father, was as usual, equal to the occasion.

"Stay where you are," said he under his breath to
the humiliated Shackford; then, aloud: "Quick!" he
whispered, "all of you flat on the floor. A man has
escaped from the county jail, and they are about to
shoot with rifles from across the street. They say they
have seen him on the balcony. Quick! for your lives!"

So serious and intense was his tone that actually most
of the people went flat on the floor. Others started to
investigate; the host especially rushed out with great
fortitude onto the balcony. The hoax seemed about to
explode when a voice came down the chimney saying in
stentorian tones: "Look here! I've had enough of this,

354 MY REMEMBRANCES

it's as cold as hell up here." It was the man who should
have been on the roof at the children's party, and who
also had been directed to the wrong house. A stampede
followed.

"The escaped convict!" cried the host. "Quick,
follow me!" He rushed to the roof followed by many
of his guests. My father and Shackford did their best
to calm the company. There was much noise and argu-
ment in the neighborhood of the chimney; then an omi-
nous silence. Then more noise and more protestation
on the stairs; then a crowd entered the ballroom hold-
ing on to a rough-looking customer, much disordered,
and much dazzled by the illuminations and the splendor
of attire.

"Convict be hanged!" cried the ventriloquist. "I
was engaged by a man to get up on the roof and answer
questions when he talked up the chimney. He gave me
this address. I came here and tipped the servants and
they let me up." Here he caught sight of my father.
"There he is!" he shouted. "That's the man."

"Call the police!" said the host. "That gentleman
is Mr. Sothern."

"I know who he is!" cried the man. "He paid me
to come here."

"A likely story," said the host. "Call the police!"

My father approached the man. "I never saw you
before in my life," said he, and stood looking his con-
federate in the eye. "Come, you know you are mis-
taken, don't you?" and he began to make passes at the
chimney man actually, he merely meant to confuse and
combat the distressed and disarranged fellow. Much
to his own amazement and that of the lookers-on, the
man glued his eyes on him and seemed fascinated.

THE EMPTY CHAIR 355

"Now," said my father, "go slowly down the stairs;
when you get to the bottom say, 'High cockalorum,'
then open the door and walk directly to the police
station."

This the man proceeded to do; he walked down-
stairs, said: "High cockalorum," and passed out into
the night.

My father was convinced he had mesmerized the man,
but what really happened was: Shackford, who was
holding him behind, had muttered in his ear: "Do what
he says, there's money in it."

The party went on, much excitement prevailed and
the evening passed away. Next day the confederate
called at the hotel, was properly rewarded and comforted
with explanations.

Another story that Captain Shackford told me was of
an old farmer and his wife, each of them about seventy-
five years of age, who one day approached my father in
the dining-room of his hotel, and told him they had
driven thirty miles into the city to see the play of "Our
American Cousin." "We've heard tell of it all our lives,
it seems to me," said the old man, "and my wife and I
made up our minds to try and see it before we die. Now
we get here and we can't get a seat for love nor money.
We drove straight in my wagon to the theatre, then we
came here, we heard you were in the house, perhaps you
can get us in somewhere."

"You shall come to the theatre with me," said my
father. "You shall stay here as my guests. You shall
have supper with me and mine after the play is over."

He made those two ancient farmers sit down and eat
their dinner then and there. He drove them over to the
theatre with him. He interrogated the box-office, only

356 MY REMEMBRANCES

to find every seat in the house was sold, and that even
the orchestra was placed under the stage, and their
places given up to the audience. Two chairs were placed
in the prompter's entrance, and these two old rustics
were ensconced therein. Their excitement, their de-
light at the unfamiliar surroundings, was childish and
even pathetic. My father kept them busy with atten-
tions and anecdotes, and introduced them to his com-
pany and to all the mysteries of behind the scenes.
Their old faces became flushed, their old eyes became
bright with the novelty and the excitement. At length
up went the curtain and shortly on came Lord Dun-
dreary. Not all the plaudits of that great audience
gratified my father so much as the joy of those two old
people. Their rustic ejaculations, "For the land's sake !"
"Darn that critter!" "Well, I'll be darned!" and the
like, accompanied all the dialogue. My father prac-
tically played to them the whole evening. Their eyes
grew larger and larger with the wonder of the experi-
ence. The pretty ladies of the company made much of
them, and when all was over they were driven home
bubbling with excitement, quoting lines from the play,
and "darning" away until they reached the dining-room
of the hotel. There, as was customary, my father
supped with all those members of his company who
might be living in the house. This night the old farmer
and his ancient spouse were made the guests of honor.
Their health was drunk, speeches were made, fun was
fast and furious, and at last two very happy, astonished,
and bewildered old persons were conducted by an af-
fectionate crowd to their bed-chamber.

As a matter of fact nothing gave my father more
anxiety or caused him more nervous worry than to have

THE EMPTY CHAIR 357

anybody sit or stand in an entrance behind the scenes.
He has made me get out from such a position once or
twice, and never would allow any one to stand where he
might see them. He did not want his attention dis-
tracted; therefore, he must have permitted himself
some considerable anxiety and inconvenience by enter-
taining these old people as he did.

XXXVIII
"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE"

"WHY fear death ? Death is only a beautiful adven-
ture."

Thus spoke Charles Frohman as he stood with three
other passengers, his arms locked in theirs, upon the
slanting deck of the Lusitania as she sank off the coast
of Ireland. At 2.30 p. M., on May 7, 1915, the vessel
was torpedoed by a German submarine. Mr. Frohman
could have had no hope of escape. He was probably
wounded by the explosion and one of his legs was per-
manently disabled from illness. He could not walk
without the help of a cane.

At such a crisis a man's soul speaks, and Charles
Frohman's words illuminate his life and shed a radiance
upon his death. God grant we may greet the inevitable
hour in such wise when it shall strike for us! A man
who can speak thus at such a moment can need no other
epitaph.

I had not come in contact with Mr. Frohman for
some years, although we would exchange a greeting
now and then at Christmas or New Year's Day; but on
February 22, 1915, I received this letter from him:

MY DEAR EDDIE:

I am writing you a confidential little letter because
I don't want it known what play Belasco and myself
propose producing here in the Spring, but I know I can
tell you, and that is "A Celebrated Case." We were
both wondering, Belasco and myself, whether we could

358

"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE" 359

get you to come back to the New York stage this Spring
to play the big part in this play and to be our leading
star for the occasion. It would be fine for us and a fine
thing for the audiences to have you in this part, I am
sure. I hope you will both talk it over and, if there is
the smallest chance, if you don't want to come to town
I will come up and see you. At any rate I want you to
know how eager we both are to have you in case we can
get you. It was a great pleasure for me to receive the
New Year's telegram from you both. I am happy that
you thought of me. Give my best wishes to Julia and
accept also the same for yourself.

Very truly yours,

CHARLES FROHMAN.

On the 24th of February I called on Mr. Frohman at
the Empire Theatre, to thank him for his offer, which
I was unable to accept. I had not seen him since his
illness, and my wife and I were distressed to see that he
could not walk without a stick, and that one of his legs
was stiff at the knee. However, he made light of his
ailment. He was enthusiastic, as ever, about his many
plans. He stood up and acted vehemently the various
parts in a play the plot of which was his own invention.
He was in great good humor as he told of the proposed
production of "A Celebrated Case" in which he had
Wanted me to play.

Mrs. Sothern told him that she had decided to retire
from the stage.

"But you will give some farewell performance!" he
cried.

"No," said she. "I am tired. I have done enough."

"But you must say farewell!"

"No. I have said it."

"You will never act again ?"

360 MY REMEMBRANCES

"No. Never!"

He became very solemn and was silent a moment.
"Strange," said he, "you don't want to."

He couldn't understand it. That there could be any-
thing else in life but work seemed incredible. We have
heard from those who were present how he conducted
his rehearsals from a stretcher while he was ill, with
what indomitable courage he persisted in his labors.

"Well," said he, as we were going away, "when you
have your home in England you will ask me to come and
stay with you. I'll bring Barrie, and we will stay for a
week, a month. You'll love Barrie."

We were quite sure we would.

"Good-by," said Charles, "and thank you again for
coming to see me."

He seemed unusually, almost pathetically, affected
by our visit. We both remarked upon and wondered at
it. I believe in premonitions myself, and I have thought
since that his mood sprang from some cause beyond our
ken.

Mrs. Sothern and I were both touched by his manner,
and frequently during the next few days we said how
glad we were that we had paid him this visit.

We shortly returned to Washington where we had
passed the winter, and on April the 9th we received this
letter:

DEAR JULIA MARLOWE AND EDDIE SOTHERN:

I know you will forgive my writing you through the
typewriter. I am compelled to do so because I cannot
express my feeling for you with my hand which trembles
so much when I think of you. I want to thank you about
the Osteopath, and I have started in on your advice at
once. I have tried everything else. I wonder why you

From a photograph copyright by Underwood if Underwood

CHARLES FROHMAN

"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE" 361

both don't sail with me (about the first of May I want to
go). It would be a fine thing. As far as I am concerned,
when you consider the stars I have managed, a mere
submarine makes me laugh. Most affectionate regards
to you both.

Yours truly,

C. F.

On May the I5th a letter arrived from London, written
to my wife by a mutual friend. It said:

" Just a line to beg you not to come on the Lusitania.
The Germans are bent on sinking her. They nearly
did in the dock at Liverpool a few weeks ago. This is
not generally known, but a shipping man told me."

Alas ! even those who had been warned did not believe
that human nature was capable of such a deed !

Hanging in Charles Frohman's office was a placard
which bore this verse:

"Blessed is the man diligent in business. He shall
stand before kings. He shall not stand before mean
men."

Stand before kings he assuredly did, for his London
ventures brought him "command performances" from
Queen Victoria and from King Edward. As for mean
men, I fancy they would not remain long in Charles
Frohman's presence, for he himself was the soul of gen-
erosity. Indeed, he was quite princely and large about
most things that he did.

My earliest contact with him began about 1883, when
I landed in New York to seek my fortune. When Daniel
Frohman had accepted the play of "Trade" (afterward
called "The Highest Bidder") for production at the

362 MY REMEMBRANCES

old Lyceum Theatre, he sent me to Charles Frohman
with whom I made the contract for the play on behalf
of my brother Sam, whose property it was. Also I con-
tracted with Charles for my own services. Charles sub-
sequently transferred these contracts to Daniel Froh-
man.

My brother and I found Charles in the Coleman
House on Broadway and 28th Street, where he lived
at the time the summer of 1885. I had met him fre-
quently before, for, from the moment I landed, no man-
ager escaped my importunities. I was on their trails
all the time seeking engagements. Charles had ever
greeted me with glad good humor, but he himself was on
the skirt of prosperity at that period, coquetting with
fortune, but not quite accepted as a suitor. Shortly
he was to win her favor with Bronson Howard's "Shenan-
doah." But on this day when we arranged for "The
Highest Bidder," I fancy Charles wanted Sam and me,
and our little play, as much as we wanted him. The
success of this comedy aided the fortunes of Daniel and
Charles Frohman and myself.

Charles had no office at this time. He occupied a
desk in a room with several other men, and here on this
hot summer day in his shirt-sleeves he drew up the con-
tract for our little drama which was to waft us all on the
way to good fortune. We all signed it then and there.
My brother was to receive a hundred dollars a week for
the play, and I was to receive one hundred and twenty-
five a week for playing the leading part. Later, on the
success of the play, another contract was made for my
own services.

In our hurryings to and fro I would often meet Charles
Frohman always eager, always smiling, always kind,

"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE" 363

humorous, gentle, and lovable. Once in Boston he asked
me to witness a dress rehearsal of "Shenandoah" just
previous to its production at the Boston Museum. In
the streets of various cities, in restaurants, all over the
country we would encounter in our wanderings. Then
one day he came running up the stairs of Daniel Froh-
man's office on Fourth Avenue. I was going down-
stairs with my new play under my arm.

"I am to play 'The Dancing Girl,'" said I. "I am
rather nervous about it. I have never played such a
serious part before. What do you think about it?"

"What will you take for your season?" said Charles.

"How do you mean?" said I.

"What will you take in cash now for your season ?"
said he.

"What will you give me?" said I.

"I'll give you forty thousand dollars for your share,"
said Frohman without a moment's hesitation.

"No," said I. "If you think I'll make that I may
make more," so I did not take it. But this illustrates
Charles Frohman's spirit of adventure.

It was many years later, when Charles Dillingham
had approached me with a view to my joining forces
with Miss Julia Marlowe, that I went to see Charles
Frohman about an entirely different matter. My busi-
ness concluded, I rose to go.

"What do you think," said I, "about this plan of my
playing with Miss Marlowe ?"

"Fine!" said he. "What do you expect to make out
of it?"

"Oh, I don't know," said I. "About a hundred
thousand dollars on the season."

"I'll give it you if you'll let me manage you," said

364 MY REMEMBRANCES

Charles. "I'll give you a hundred thousand a year
each."

"For three years?" said I.

"Yes," said he, "for three years. Will you take it?"

"Yes," said I.

"All right," said he. "I'll send you a contract down
to the Garden Theatre to-night." And sure enough
Dan Frohman had the contract there that very evening,
and I signed it in between acts of "If I Were King,"
which I was playing at the time.

Miss Marlowe was abroad, but was cabled to, and
wired her consent. The thing was done. Such rapid
action was truly Napoleonic and bore out Charles's
saying: "I would rather be rightly wrong than wrongly
right," a remark which requires some figuring out, but
in this instance it meant: "If this Shakespearian com-
bination is going to be a good thing for the theatre I
want to be in it and help it along."

Charles did not entirely approve of my desire to play
the Shakespeare roles, but since that was my determina-
tion he was eager to support the venture. He was hu-
morously candid in his criticism, and told me frankly
enough that he did not like my performance of Malvolio,
and that my conception of Shylock was all wrong. In
a general way he preferred me in romantic parts, and
once, as he sat at a dress rehearsal, he sighed and said
to Miss Marlowe: "Why does he want to play Shylock?
Oh, for the Eddie Sothern of twenty years ago!"

Under his direction we produced six Shakespeare
plays "Hamlet," "Romeo and Juliet," "The Taming
of the Shrew," "Twelfth Night," "The Merchant of
Venice," and "Much Ado About Nothing." These
productions were all new and elaborate. I had a free

"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE" 365

hand practically in the matter of scenery, costumes, and
accessories.

The venture was expensive, and, although the receipts
were great, Mr. Frohman felt at the end of the second year
that he did not want to make three more productions,
as we had agreed should be done. We, however, wished to
proceed with our original scheme of three plays a year,
also we wished to take our productions to London.
Charles could not sympathize with our plans, so I asked
him if he would like to give up the contract for this
third year.

He said "Yes"; so we handed him back the agree-
ment, and undertook the enterprise ourselves. He wished
us Godspeed and we went our way.

When Charles and Daniel Frohman entered upon their
careers as managers the business of the theatre was fre-
quently conducted on a haphazard plan. If a venture
succeeded, all went well. In the event of failure, the
actors very often suffered loss. Any irresponsible person
could take out a play and obtain time in various thea-
tres. I have myself been a victim of such adventures.
Owing greatly to the Frohman faculty for organization
and fair dealing, theatrical affairs were soon conducted
on a sounder business basis. The Frohman word was
as good as a bond to any man. This was Charles Froh-
man's especial pride.

It has been the custom in certain quarters to exclaim
against Mr. Frohman's "commercialism" in the con-
duct of his business. This abuse is quite nonsensical
and unfair. The amusement-loving public demands
many kinds of entertainment. It can be said of Charles
Frohman that he never on any single occasion offered
anything below the standard of cleanliness and good

366 MY REMEMBRANCES

manners, and that, on the other hand, he provided his
patrons with the very best plays by the very best dram-
atists of his time, interpreted by the most capable actors
procurable. The salaries of players and the royalties
of playwrights increased by leaps and bounds under his
generous direction, for he was ever ready to pay for the
best. Masterpieces are not written frequently; if Mr.
Frohman overlooked any in his generation they are yet
to be discovered.

A recent play contest offering a prize of ten thousand
dollars succeeded no better than previous occasions of
the same nature in unearthing neglected genius. Nor
did the generous experiment of the New Theatre, nor
any of the several excursions of the dissatisfied and in-
spired display one actor or play superior to those pro-
duced by the commercial managers.

We are informed that the theatre has great power
along lines of instruction and reform, but it is observed
that philanthropists do not endow playhouses.

Sir Henry Irving's oft-quoted axiom that the theatre
"must succeed as a business or it will fail as an art"
is no more than plain common sense, and the frothing
and foaming of all the ink-pots in the world will not
make it otherwise.

When Haroun-al-Raschid desired to learn how he
should govern his kingdom, he went disguised into the
taverns, and there the toss-pots instructed him; for the
failures in life can always advise the successful ones as
to the conduct of their affairs.

Charles Frohman, no doubt, lost much wisdom by
not hearkening to the wine-bibbers. They, on the other
hand, would have had lighter hearts, heavier pockets,
and happier heads had they denounced him less and

"THE BEAUTIFUL ADVENTURE" 367

spent the time thus gained in emulation of his honesty,
good humor, kindliness, industry, and courage.

The sincere tributes at his funeral paid homage to a
public benefactor. As I sat and saw and listened I could
but feel uplifted in my sorrow; for here, surely, greater
than Death victorious was Life triumphant, a purpose
vindicated, a calling honored, an example declared.

It was no idle statement made by Rabbi Silverman
that Charles Frohman's last words will echo through
the days and nights for "those who go down to the sea
in ships and occupy their business in great waters."
They will strengthen many a doubtful wayfarer. They
are the greeting for our journey's end. "Then they
are glad because they are at rest, and so He bringeth
them to the haven where they would be."

XXXIX
SANCTUARY

EACH man has in the recesses of his mind some group
of associations some collection of memories to which,
as to a mountain fastness, he can retreat in moments of
sorrow or despair; when by the scourge of chance, or
by the lash of his own folly, he has been laid low, thither
may he flee for sanctuary. Far, far away to some re-
membrance of home and childhood, or maybe to the
door of some dear friend where, in the spirit, he may
cling, as did those unhappy ones of the olden time who,
fugitives from hatred or the law, found refuge within
the precincts of the church. Here, for a while, will he
bid defiance to ill fortune, arise from his defeat and
gird his loins anew.

It has been my happy fate to possess such havens.
To them in evil days I could sail away with the speed
of thought and find my comfort with the morrow's sun.

People who go fishing may catch more than fish.
They may land a sweetheart or a friend. Happy are
the entanglements begot of fishing-tackle.

"Have we any onions on board?" said Mr. William
J. Florence as we were about to start from Boston on a
fishing trip to the Rangeley Lakes in Maine. "I must
have plenty of onions," declared Mr. Florence.

Said my father: "Billy is so fond of onions that he
hopes this ship will spring a leek."

"Why stand ye here idle all the day ?" said my father

to Mr. Ben Wolf, the writer, and to Mrs. Harris, who

368

SANCTUARY 369

was bidding good-by to Doctor F. A. Harris. "Why
stand ye here idle all the day ?"

Said Doctor F. A. Harris: "We are the scribes and
the F-Harrises."

Here Mr. Henry M. Rogers, of Boston, approached,
clad for the occasion after the fashion of whalers in the
North Sea.

"I wonder," said my father, "where Harry got his
make-up for 'The Flying Dutchman/ "

Said Mr. Rogers: "When Rogers was an actor in
Rome."

Now people who are capable of such jokes as these
are not easily daunted, and it will be readily believed
that neither fisherman's luck nor any other luck could
affect them to sadness.

That was a great excursion and from it grew a sheaf
of those memories whereof I have spoken a safe retreat
in time of stress and trouble.

"My boy wants to go on the stage," said my father
one day to his fellow angler, Mr. Rogers, "and I would
give anything to prevent it. He will fail and he will
be unhappy."

"Forbid him to do it, then," said Mr. Rogers.

"No," said my father, "I can't do that. I don't want
him to curse me when I am dead."

I suppose my father thought that having failed as a
tinker or a tailor, I would have looked back to the imag-
inary glories of my stage career and would have blamed
him.

This was in 1875.

I remember reading a story of an acrobat who noticed
that a certain man constantly attended his exhibitions.
Wherever he travelled, through all the capitals of Eu-

370 MY REMEMBRANCES

rope, East and West, India, China, Saint Petersburg, the
same eyes watched him. He became fascinated, then
terrified. He thought: "Some day I shall fall; that
man will see me die."

At length he met the stranger. "Why do you follow
me all over the world ?" said he.

The man smiled. "One day you will be killed," he
answered. "I want to see it happen."

For over thirty years, every time I have played a new
part, if not on the first night, very shortly after it, I
have seen an eager, kindly face observing every move-
ment and have known that the owner craved for me
victory.

"Work on," he would seem to say. "It will happen
one day and I want to be there."

First at the Boston Museum, then in New York,
then in many cities, year by year as I crept along, the
spoken and the written word, the constant presence,
urged me on.

Man does not live by bread alone, and of all words
that proceed from the mouth of God does not "friend-
ship" contribute most to the spiritual weal? Juliet
cries aloud: "Lord! lover! husband! friend!" rising
to the superlative need of her despair. Without the
sympathy of friendship sorrow is multiplied and vic-
tory is vain.

Just before the graveyard scene in "Hamlet," a tall,
white-haired figure crosses the stage, and stands with
folded arms contemplating the low comedian as he ar-
ranges the several properties for his scene the skulls,
the bones, the pickaxe, and the spade. The warning is
given, and the visitor moves to the wings and bends to
pass under the stand of a calcium-light. As he lifts his

George Holland William J. Florence E. A. Sothern Henry M. Rogers E. H. Sothern

EDWARD A. SOTHKRN AND PARTY ON A FISHING TRIP,
RANGELEY LAKES, MAINE

SANCTUARY 371

head the lightman shifts his light, and the venerable
dome comes violently in contact with part of the iron
stand. With an exclamation he clasps his hands to his
skull.

The comedian has observed the catastrophe.

"Why may not that be the skull of a lawyer?" says
he.

To which the stricken one responds readily: "Why
does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about
the sconce with a dirty limelight and will not tell him
of his action of battery?"

Again it is Christmas night, when we of the theatre
greet each other on the stage after the play. A great
feast is spread, and tables make three sides of a square
along the footlights and the wings. There has been a
Christmas tree and a minstrel show wherein I am the
blackfaced middleman, and a burlesque of the season's
happenings. Now arises this same tall, white-haired
form, and in a gentle talk he reviews the past and com-
pliments the present. There is much laughter and some
tears. The middleman's eyes grow dim. In how many
places the stage door has opened when this kindly, courtly,
eager figure, ever gentle, ever green, year in, year out,
has passed to the dressing-room of one laboring player
to bring the smile of sympathy and the hand-clasp of
courage ?

"Success. Yes, we must beware of success," says
my friend. For has he not seen in the toss of my head
that I believe I have achieved, and does he not sigh as
he contemplates the poverty of my victory ?

Never does he say, "The case is thus or so," or, "You
must do this or that"; but "Do you think, perhaps,
there is reason in such a reading?" or "I wonder if that

372 MY REMEMBRANCES

scene might not be improved by such considering," so
that my poor vanity is soothed rather than pummelled
into the true path. Or he will sigh: "She should have
died hereafter she should have died."

"Yes," I will say consciously, "I say ' would, don't
I?"

"Yes," he will reply, "yes, you have elected to say
'would,' and no doubt you have good reason for doing
so. She should have died, she should. That, if I remember
correctly, is the text. Your amendment may be an im-
provement. She should have died, she should have died
hereafter."

I go home with this line humming in my ear. No
one has contradicted me, nor called my judgment in
question, yet the next night, and for all nights to come,
I say: "She should have died hereafter."

"Nay, then, let the devil wear black 'fore /'// have
a suit of sables," murmurs my old friend. "Meaning,"
says he, "before he will wear a suit of sables, of course.
Yes ! Yes, of course ! I have encountered that reading
in the commentators, plaguy fellows they are; before
I'll have a suit of sables."

Then will he read the line as its stands in the text:
"Let the devil wear blacky for /'// have a suit of sables.
Sables, I believe, were the extreme of finery in those
times," says he. Then with a gay gesture and a scoffing
tone, "for /'// have a suit of sables. You played well
to-night," says he at parting.

I go to bed and to sleep muttering, "for," "before,"
"for /'// have a suit of sables," and forever after I read
the line as it should be read.

"Socrates was a wise man," said my mentor one day.
"Said Socrates: 'I went to one who had the reputation

SANCTUARY 373

of wisdom. When I began to talk with him I could not
help thinking that he was not really wise although he
was thought wise by many, and wiser still by himself,
and I went and tried to explain to him that he thought
himself wise but was not really wise, and the consequence
was that he hated me, so I left him, saying to myself,
"I am better off than he is, for he knows nothing and
thinks he knows; I neither know nor think that I
know."'"

"Touchstone says the same thing," I remark:

"'The fool thinks himself a wise man,

But the wise man knows himself to be a fool.' '

"Exactly," says my old friend, "and if we only rec-
ognize one another's folly, how mutually helpful we can
be! Now," says he, "I shall go and sit in front. Booth's
enunciation was exquisite," he declares as he picks up
his hat, and, while agreeing with him, I reflect on my
own manner of speech.

"And his tenderness to Ophelia ! How much more true
than the raging of Macready." And I resolve to temper
my passion in that scene.

And so, for thirty years and more, "I have not lacked
your mild reproof, nor golden largess of your praise."
How often in moments of doubt and discouragement I
have fled in thought to that door which ever seems to
lie in green pastures and by quiet waters, changeless
through the years, a steadfast spot in an unstable world.
There have I sunk upon the threshold and have seized
your hand, although you knew it not. "Sanctuary!"
I have cried, and the phantoms of failure and distress
have fled.

374 MY REMEMBRANCES

"I believe in some former existence. I was myself
connected with the theatre," said Mr. Rogers.
"When was that, I wonder?" said I.
Said he: "When Rogers was an actor in Rome."

XL
I TALK TO MYSELF

"THE child is father to the man," said I to myself
as I contemplated that picture of "Me" which adorns
this volume. "And if you could materialize," I con-
tinued, "you would no doubt get down from your perch
and demand of me, your offspring, how I have realized
your hopes and expectations; to what extent, and why
I have departed from your ideals; why I have com-
promised here and retreated there, and generally call
upon me to explain why I am what I am, where I am,
and who I am."

To my consternation, the large-headed, chubby-legged
image climbed down from the chair, emerged from the
photograph, fixed his goggle-eyes upon me and spoke:

"I have been longing to question you," said he. "I
never thought that the conditions would be favorable.
But here is the ist of April Lord Dundreary's birth-
day by the way you have been reading about the sub-
conscious mind; I have been standing on a shelf between
'Alice in Wonderland' and the 'Bab Ballads'; the mo-
ment is propitious, we are both in the mood."

This was not the vocabulary of "Me." "Subcon-
scious," "propitious." "You take my breath away,"
said I.

"Very likely," said "Me." "You are not nearly so
sophisticated as I had hoped you would be. I have sat
here in this daguerreotype for some fifty years, and have

37S

376 MY REMEMBRANCES

marvelled to see how you have wasted time and oppor-
tunity. Since I was photographed I have been obliged
to retain this shape and this exceedingly cramped atti-
tude, but the years have passed over me notwithstand-
ing. I have seen and observed; one has eyes even if
one ir a daguerreotype. I have grown wise in my frame;
while it is you, who have roved the world over, who are
still a child. What have you done with life?"

I felt like telling "Me" I would spank him if he talked
to his elders like that; but I reflected that he was my
parent, my own flesh and blood. I really could not raise
my hand against him. "Nonsense!" said I, "you are
an infant."

"I am as old as you are," said "Me." "In fact, I
was you before you were born."

"You are remarkably well-preserved," I muttered.

"I am a daguerreotype," said "Me." "It is true that
externally I have stood, or rather sat, still all these years,
but my mind has not been idle. I have kept track of
you to some extent. Now and then I have been packed
away between books of theatrical reviews, and since I
am printed on an extremely sensitive plate I have ab-
sorbed the opinions, good, bad, and indifferent, con-
cerning your various performances. From what I have
absorbed, I should think you were rather a wooden
actor."

I really thought I had myself well in hand by this
time, and had recovered from my first astonishment,
but I flushed angrily. "I was not wooden!" said I,
indignant. "A writer in Kalamazoo declared that I "

"There, there," said "Me," "don't become emotional.
You know I never was inclined toward public life; I
was quite averse to the stage; constitutionally I hated

I TALK TO MYSELF 377

crowds. How did you come to enter upon a career so
entirely distasteful to you when you were 'Me' ?"

"Oh, come," said I, rather sulkily, "you used to play
a good deal as a child. I remember quite well how ab-
sorbed you were in your role of hermit, or pirate, or
red Indian."

"That," said "Me," tossing his unreasonable head,
"is the natural play-instinct of the infant or the animal;
but for a grown-up man to pursue such pastimes seems
to me grotesque. Nature has provided the play-instinct
in order to exercise the growing and immature bodily
and mental faculties of the "

"Where on earth did you hear all this?" cried I in
amazement.

"I stood for years on a shelf between Darwin's 'Origin
of Species' and 'The Descent of Man/" said "Me."

"Look here," said I. "You come of a theatrical
family, and were surrounded by the influences of the
theatre from childhood. Your friend Darwin will tell
you the power of environment. It was natural, almost
inevitable, that this play-instinct you talk about should
lead you on to the stage."

"Lead you, you mean," said "Me." "You forget
that I was incarcerated in this frame at the age of four.
I was not old enough to be aware that such an institu-
tion as the theatre existed. Since that time I have led
a most secluded existence, sometimes packed away in
trunks with books, sometimes on shelves, sometimes in
drawers. Having been photographed on a silver plate,
I have reflected a great deal, everything in fact. You
can see your face in me at this moment. I repeat, this
daguerreotype process has permanently arrested my
physical development, but has preserved my reflections

378 MY REMEMBRANCES

forever and ever. Now, really, you owe me some explana-
tions. What induced you to become a rogue and a vaga-
bond?"

"Stop!" said I angrily. "That is a vulgar error.
Where did you get that?"

"It is generally known," said "Me."

"And, like many things generally known, it is partic-
ularly wrong. If you had ever been placed near Doran's
'Their Majesties' servants,' you would know that 'the
celebrated statute of 1572 does not declare players to
be rogues and vagabonds. It simply threatens to treat
as such all acting companies who presume to set up their
stage without the license of two justices of the peace at
least/ Then, as to-day, any man high or low who trans-
gressed the law would become amenable to the law, and
would be treated as a rogue and a vagabond. Players
in 1572 were 'Her Majesty's servants,' members of the
royal household, or of the household of some great noble.
They were persons of distinction and consideration.
'Ich dien' I serve is the motto of the prince himself.
I tell you "

"You are getting excited," said "Me."

"I am excited," I replied. "It annoys me to hear
this rogue and vagabond talk. Players were never
classed as rogues and vagabonds. They were licensed
in 1572, as they are licensed now in 1915, by the lord
chamberlain. A penalty of ten pounds is still inflicted
on any actor concerned in an unlicensed theatre. You
must have a license to practise as a physician, a clergy-
man, a soldier, a sailor "

"I accept your apology," said "Me."

"I don't apologize!" cried I. "I am instructing you,
you have been so long on the shelf "

I TALK TO MYSELF 379

"Oh, don't throw the shelf in my face," said "Me."

I nursed my indignation in silence while the chubby-
legged sage nodded at me wisely.

"Look here," said "Me." "I have been standing here
against several volumes of Elizabethan dramatists, and
the plays of Congreve and Wycherley. I think they
are positively indecent, vulgar, common; I don't see
how you "

"Really," said I, "just to give your sense of decency
a real shock, I will place you shortly against the * Table
Talk* of Martin Luther. Those were candid times a
spade was called a spade. The stage, as literature gen-
erally, reflects its generation. In a pure generation the
stage is pure."

"Indeed!" said "Me." "What play-actor wrote:

Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view;
Gored mine own thoughts; sold cheap what was most
dear.

Thence comes it that my name receives a brand
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand ?"

I cast at "Me" Raleigh's "Essay on Style," and
nearly knocked him off his chair.

"Read there!" I cried. "Modern vulgarity is wont
to interpret these lines (of Shakespeare) as a protest
against the contempt wherewith Elizabethan society re-
garded the profession of playwright and actor . . . be-
cause he is not put on the same level of social estimation
with a brocaded gull, or a prosperous goldsmith of the
Cheap. No ! It is a cry from the depth of his nature for
forgiveness because he has sacrificed a little at the altar

3 8o MY REMEMBRANCES

of popularity.' What his 'nature' works in, and re-
volts against, is the judgment of the rabble, not his art,
not his brother poets nor brother players. To whom
did he sell 'cheap what was most dear' ? Why to the
brocaded gull and the prosperous goldsmith. It was
for them he made himself 'a motley to the view.' The
brand his name received was the self-reproach of the
poet who had as manager of a theatre made a conces-
sion to popular applause."

"The plays of Shakespeare," said "Me," "are less
calculated for performance on a stage than those of any
other dramatist whatever."

"Rubbish!" I cried.

"I am sitting on Charles Lamb, and I know what I
am talking about," said "Me." "Listen:

I confess myself utterly unable to appreciate that
celebrated soliloquy in 'Hamlet' beginning, 'To be or
not to be,' or to tell whether it be good or bad or indif-
ferent. It has been so handled and pawed about by
declamatory boys and men, and torn so inhumanly from
its living place and principle and continuity in the
play rill it is become to me a perfect dead member."

"Nonsense!" cried I. "Lamb might just as well
have said that because a preacher bored him, or his roof
leaked, or his dinner was ill prepared, that sermons shall
not be preached, houses lived in, nor food eaten; or that
because painting, sculpture, architecture, writing were
at one period undeveloped and imperfect, all of those
arts should have been forthwith abandoned. The art
of expression was no doubt faulty in his time, and is by
no means perfect yet. But that is a poor reason why
it should no longer be cultivated. It would be as un-

I TALK TO MYSELF 381

reasonable for us to assert that because Lamb's own

farce, 'Mr. H ,' was such a ghastly failure that he

himself hissed it, there shall be no more good humor
while the world wags.

"It is distressing that the schoolboy and the ranters
made so fearsome an impression, but it is they who
murdered Shakespeare who should be murdered; not
the art of acting that should be strangled.

"It is deplorable that Garrick's harlequin pose on his
tomb in Westminster Abbey which pose was, of course,
the sculptor's choice, not Garrick's should have ir-
ritated Lamb; but it is even more lamentable that Lamb
should have lambasted Garrick concerning performances
which he admitted he had never witnessed."

My vehemence appeared to make no impression upon
"Me," who continued obstinately:

" When such speeches as Imogen addresses to her lord
come drawling out of the mouth of a hired actress "

"Why hired?" said I. "Why hired any more than
was Lamb himself hired as a government clerk, or as a
clergyman is hired, or an admiral, or a general, or a
prime minister, or a bishop, or a king? Are not all of
those paid for their services ?"

"Acting is not an art!" said "Me."

"Really," said I, "you are a little prig."

"Abuse is no argument," said "Me."

"You repeat the cant of the critics," said I. "Look
here a dictionary Webster: 'Art. The fine arts are
those which have primarily to do with imagination and
taste, and are applied to the production of what is beau-
tiful. They include poetry, music, painting, engraving,
sculpture, and architecture, but the term is often con-
fined to painting, sculpture, and architecture.' '

382 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Well?" said "Me."

"There you are," said I.

"But it does not mention acting," said "Me."

"No, it doesn't," said I, "but "

"As I remarked," interrupted "Me," "acting is not
an art. Now, poetry "

"The poet must have an interpreter," said I.

"Pooh!" said "Me," "the actor is merely the instru-
ment, as a fiddle "

"Precisely," said I, "as a fiddle to the master violinist
who interprets the works of the composers, so is the
body of the actor to the directing mind of the actor.
He executes upon himself as the violinist, the harpist,
the pianist executes on his instrument. The difference
is this: the musician's instrument is made by the hand
of man, the actor's instrument is made by the hand of
God. But and here is the crux the actor's instrument
being himself his own limbs, eyes, voice the studied
exercise of these members and faculties would seem to
the vulgar "

"What's that? "said "Me."

"I repeat it," said I. "Vulgar! To the vulgar mind
it would seem that the trained, premeditated, selected,
tasteful, inspired use of these faculties requires no art,
no method of * doing well some special work/ to quote
from Webster's definition of art again."

Said "Me": "Any one can walk and talk and look
and gesticulate."

"True," said I, "any one can do so in nature, but
any one cannot do so with premeditated art."

Said "Me": "I used to do it when I played Indians."

"There you are wrong," said I. "You actually were
the thing you wished to be."

I TALK TO MYSELF 383

"Nonsense!" cried "Me," his large head shaking
dangerously.

"You are behind the times," said I. "Much has
been perceived since you became a daguerreotype.
Listen! I read from Macaulay: 'Of all people, children
are the most imaginative. They abandon themselves
without reserve to every illusion. Every image which is
strongly presented to their mental eye produces on them
the effect of reality. No man, whatever his sensibility
may be, is ever affected by "Hamlet" or "Lear" as a
little girl is affected by the story of poor "Red Riding-
Hood." She knows that it is all false, that wolves can-
not speak, that there are no wolves in England; yet
in spite of her knowledge she believes, she weeps, she
trembles, she dares not go into a dark room lest she
should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. Such
is the despotism of the imagination over uncivilized
minds ' "

"You mean to say," interrupted "Me"

"That the child imagines himself to be the character.
The actor does not. The ignorant imagination of the
child persuades itself that it actually is the character;
the trained intelligence of the actor interprets the char-
acter to the observer."

"I can see no difference," said "Me."

"You are a little stupid," said I.

"Aha!" said "Me," "the grown-up attitude ! How
refreshing it is ! While I have been on the shelf I have
heard many people discuss acting, actors alone con-
sider it an art."

I really wondered how I could ever have been "Me."
He looked like an impudent little tadpole.

"I tell you," said I, "it is because all men consider

384 MY REMEMBRANCES

they are adept at walking, talking, seeing, gesticulating.
But dancing is admitted to be an art 'the art of Terp-
sichore,' 'the poetry of motion' because few persons
can dance with the studied grace of the professional
dancer. Singing is called an art."

"Of course," said "Me," "you as an actor desire
acting to be looked upon as an art."

"Assuredly I do," said I. "And there is the difficulty.
It is hard for the player to speak for himself, a special
plea seems a specious plea."

"Your calling has made you distressingly flippant,"
said "Me."

Said I: "The last person who is permitted to have an
opinion concerning the art of acting is the actor. It is
admitted that he can know nothing about it. Still
you shall hear Coquelin, the French comedian, plead
pathetically:

In the first place what is art ? And what do we un-
derstand by it if not the interpretation of nature and
truth ? The poet has for his material, words; the sculptor,
marble and bronze; the painter, colors and canvas; the
musician, sounds. But the actor is his own material.
To exhibit a thought, an image, a human portrait, he
works upon himself. He is his own piano, he strikes his
own strings. He moulds himself like wet clay. He
paints himself. It is not because the actor may assume
the guise of a 'Frocisse' that you refuse to yield him
the same consideration which you would accord any
other artist. No, it is merely because he assumes a
character which is not his own and because in ceasing
to be himself you feel that he ceases to be a man. But
I deny that there is degradation since there is no true
abdication of personal dignity. The actor may indeed
assume a disguise, and it is this assumed character, not
his own, which receives the blows and mockery if need

I TALK TO MYSELF 385

be. But this disguise which he will doff ere long, he
enters into with heart and soul, with all his mind. It
is with his individual self that he makes you by turns
shiver, weep, or smile. The noblest terror, the most
pitiful tears, the tenderest smiles. He does not abdicate
the throne, he reigns supreme."

"Of course," said that wretched little "Me," "there
is a comedian pleading for his bauble. It is painful to
see him begging for consideration. I am sorry you went
on the stage. I wish you had entered the church. As
a revivalist, now, you would have had a fine opportunity.
There you would have been useful as well as ornamental."

"Peace!" I cried. "Listen to George Henry Lewes:

I have heard those, for whose opinions in other direc-
tions my respect is great, utter judgments on this subject
which proved that they had not even a suspicion of what
the art of acting really is.

People generally overrate a fine actor's genius and un-
derrate his trained skill.

Another general misconception is that there is no
special physique nor any special training necessary to
make an actor. Almost every young person imagines
he could act if he tried. There is a story of some one
who, being asked if he could play the violin, answered:
'I don't know, I never tried.' This is the ordinary
view of acting.

Acting is an art, but like all other arts it is obstructed
by a mass of unsystematized opinion calling itself crit-
icism."

"Ha!" said "Me," "now you're attacking the critics.
That always seems to me to be taking a mean advan-
tage."

I paid no attention to this interruption but warmed
to my subject.

3 86 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Of Edmund Kean, Lewes says:

Kean was a consummate master of passionate expres-
sion. People generally spoke of him as a type of the
impulsive actor. But if by this they meant one who
abandoned himself to the impulse of the moment with-
out forethought or prearranged effect, nothing could be
wider from the mark. He was an artist, and in art all
effects are regulated. The original suggestion may be
and generally is sudden and unprepared, * inspired/
as we say; but the alert intellect recognizes its truth,
seizes on it, regulates it. Without nice calculation no
proportion could be preserved. We should have a work
of fitful impulse, not a work of enduring art. Kean
vigilantly and patiently rehearsed every detail; trying
tones until his ear was satisfied, practising looks and
gestures until his artistic sense was satisfied, and having
once regulated these he never changed them. The con-
sequence was that he could act his part with the pre-
cision of a singer who has thoroughly learned his air.
One who has often acted with him informed me that
when Kean was rehearsing on a new stage he accurately
counted the number of steps he had to take before reach-
ing a certain spot, or before uttering a certain word.
These steps were justly regarded by him as part of the
mechanism which could no more be neglected than the
accompaniment of an air could be neglected by a singer.
Hence it was that he was always the same. Not always
in the same health, not always in the same vigor, but
always master of the part and expressing it through the
same symbols."

"You are quoting too much," said "Me" impatiently.

"I tell you an actor can't speak for himself," said I.
"I must confound you with authorities. Perception,
selection, arrangement, execution: these are the steps
of the artist in any art. These are the steps of the actor
in the playing of his part. 'All artists have an individual

I TALK TO MYSELF 387

style, a manner,* says Lewes. 'It is a fact, little under-
stood by imitators, that the spots on the sun in no
wise warm the world, and that a deficiency in light and
heat cannot be replaced by a prodigality of spots/ A
certain clever mimic had the good taste to perpetrate
a burlesque of Henry Irving at a club supper. Irving
complimented him and said: 'Excellent! excellent! Ex-
actly like me. Why don't you play my parts?' Why
indeed?"

"Me" sat there blinking at me like Poe's Raven
"never flitting, never flitting," but somewhat silenced.

I continued: "A theatrical manager once wrote a
volume to prove that acting was merely a collection of
tricks, and that if one could learn all the tricks of all
the celebrated actors one could exhibit or teach the art
to the multitude with exactness. This, of course, is as
though we should select all the mannerisms of all the
distinguished painters, and exhibit them in one painting,
or the styles of all the poets and combine them in one
poem. 'Not from without in, but from within out y '
speaks the artist. His mind informs and illuminates
his medium, not his medium his mind. On the other
hand, we should surely study the results achieved by the
great actors, the means by which they secured their
effects, just as one studies the old masters of painting
or the giants of literature. At last one will formulate
a style of one's own, as Robert Louis Stevenson relates
that by practising many styles he found himself. The
facets of individuality are infinite, but each can reflect
nature."

"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," said the wretched
"Me," who was leaning up against a Bible. "Tell me,
and speak the truth, why do people go on the stage?"

388 MY REMEMBRANCES

"Some to make a living, as men preach or write books
or sell pickles; some who are drawn to the drama as a
means of expression."

"Expression of what?" yawned "Me."

"Of themselves, their conception of beauty, of life,
of the ideal, as a vent for the imagination. As one sings
idly and without words, or dances without skill, or scrib-
bles verse, the spirit within is seeking an outlet, trying
to say something. With one it is a whistle, with another,
a symphony; with one, a mud pie, with another a cathe-
dral. One skips, another evolves a ballet; one shouts
for joy or abandons himself to anger, another writes a
comedy, a tragedy, or tries to act. But this acting is
no joke. For the journeyman who merely wants wages,
and has no further vision than so much a week, all is
well; but for the one who is called, and who is ready to
challenge fortune, that is different. I do not mean that
to be careless of payment necessarily indicates a great
artist, but that the pleasure experienced in artistic ex-
pression is so great that other payment is entirely sec-
ondary. For my part, although I had to make a living
out of acting, I was never concerned about financial
results. I had a fine time doing my work; I was en-
tirely engrossed in it; it quite possessed me every waking
hour. To practise my calling in all humility and to
feel myself become more expert, little by little, day by
day, became a passion with me, and at last to seek ex-
pression in the great roles of Shakespeare was a gratifica-
tion far beyond the possession of wealth. I can look
back on all the days of labor, and experiment, and prep-
aration, and effort, as on a kind of delightful intoxica-
tion; and I say that such passionate obsession, and joy-
ful abandonment and unselfish slavery, belong to art

I TALK TO MYSELF 389

alone. Here one lives in the realm of the imagination
with the poets and the seers and treads upon the clouds.
The cant that Shakespeare is not to be acted is non-
sense. The pleasure obtained from reading is not com-
parable to the pleasure experienced in actually imper-
sonating. The imagination is exercised to an even greater
extent in acting than in mere contemplation. I am not
speaking of the gratification of the auditor, that is a
separate matter. I mean the experience of the player.
A man who can act, experiences an added exaltation
over and above that of the simple reader. To passively
absorb the poet's thought is a small satisfaction com-
pared to the elation of acting greatly a great part,
and conducting the emotions of an assembly as one
conducts a vast orchestra. Shakespeare's plays were
written by an actor for actors to act. They are an in-
spiration to the player, and, well acted, an inspiration
to the auditor. Here is enough reason that a man or
woman of intellect should go on the stage. To love
Shakespeare is to love the best in literature. To im-
personate Shakespeare's heroes and heroines is to enjoy
the poet to the greatest possible extent. Similar grati-
fication is, of course, obtainable from minor dramatists
in a minor degree. Most actors would play Shakespeare
if they could. The reasons for not doing so are the
amount of labor and study demanded, for one must give
the best or fail; and the fact that much must be sacri-
ficed and foregone while striving for success. Failure
must be faced and endured and excellence secured by
slow degrees; confidence in one's ability established by
many repetitions of great excellence; every resource of
nature and art garnered with untiring industry and love
and care. All are not willing to wait and serve. There

390 MY REMEMBRANCES

are minor prizes more easily won. In these days, too,
an actor with this ambition must back himself financially.
When Booth and the Shakespearians of his day went
forth, an ambitious player could adventure without
serious expense. He could easily engage a company of
eager companions, knights errant, each one of whom
would provide his own costumes to the last detail. All
scenery and properties were supplied by the theatres of
each city wherein he was to play; the expense of trans-
portation was limited to railway fares. Bad business
entailed small loss. Therefore, in those days, we had
many actors and actresses exploiting the plays of Shake-
speare. Now, when he who would impersonate the Shake-
speare heroes must provide costumes for a company of
principals and supernumeraries numbering a hundred
or more, purchase an elaborate scenic equipment for
each play, carry a staff of expert stage-hands, carpenters,
lightmen, property and wardrobe people, and musicians,
the venturing forth in Shakespeare is a serious invest-
ment. No manager will back an actor in such an enter-
prise, and how shall the actor try his wings and prove
his worth in the great roles ? He must win the sinews of
war elsewhere and then back himself. This was my
plan. For years I worked at modern comedy and farce
and melodrama and romantic drama to save the money
wherewith to produce * Hamlet/ When I announced
this intention three or four witty things were said, and
my well-wishers looked extremely miserable. The ex-
pense of running my company with a repertoire of nine
Shakespeare plays was between four thousand and five
thousand dollars a week before I myself could make a
penny of profit. Each new production would cost be-
tween fifteen and twenty thousand dollars."

I TALK TO MYSELF 391

"Nobody is questioning you on this subject," sighed
"Me "wearily.

"I am talking to myself," I replied. "A national
theatre will continue to be a dream until it is realized
on the sane and simple lines of supplying the stand-
ard classic drama, Shakespearian and others, to the
poor and uneducated at a nominal price. Three mil-
lion dollars would build a national theatre in Wash-
ington. Endow it with an income of an hundred thou-
sand a year, and enable it to produce a classic repertoire
for the benefit of the multitude at an admission fee of
from ten cents to fifty cents, the object being to plant
broadcast an understanding and love for the best in
dramatic literature. Such a theatre would elevate public
taste, educate actors in the noblest exercise of their art,
and hold up to native dramatists a perpetual example
of form and style and standard. This company, play-
ing from thirty to forty standard plays, could perform
in all the principal cities each year at ten to fifty cents.
By raising public taste, attendance at other good plays
would be increased, a school for fine acting and oratory
would be provided in the national capital. The poor
and the uninformed would be constantly provided with
the best examples of drama at a nominal price, or, as
Matthew Arnold expresses it: 'It will not try to teach
down to the level of inferior classes. It seeks to do away
with classes, to make the best that has been thought and
known in the world current everywhere, to make all men
live in an atmosphere of sweetness and light ... to
make sweetness and light prevail.'

"If some such plan is not adopted the standard drama
must die. Actors cannot afford to practise it; managers
will not risk their money. This drama depends for

392 MY REMEMBRANCES

success on fine acting. Fine acting is the result of prac-
tise and cultivation and ceaseless effort to train and
perfect expression of voice, gesture, eye, and mind. All
the scenery in the world will not set before you the
heroes and heroines of Shakespeare. One great actor
is worth all the paraphernalia on earth. Let us have
a national theatre to satisfy the hunger of the poor, not
to be a toy added to the superfluous playthings of the
rich. All the precepts in the world cannot teach the
art of acting. One must act to learn to act, as one must
dance to learn to dance, or speak to learn to speak.
Theory is useless without practise, and practise can
only be secured on a stage before an audience. It has
been said: 'In the theatre those who can act, act;
those who can't act, teach acting/ This may not be
entirely just. But it is certain that there is much lead-
ing of the blind by those who are in need of spectacles.
The national theatre shall provide a school where every
distinguished native and foreign star shall be asked to
discourse on his theory and practise, as in the Royal
Academy Schools of Design in London each month a
royal academician superintends the instruction of the
pupils, thus giving them the advantage of all styles, all
experience, all methods from which to form their own
conclusions, and adjust their own vision that they may
perceive nature through the eyes of many masters.

"To learn how to think, to avoid tricks, to express
from within out, to steadily and patiently labor toward
light and understanding and accomplishment these can
be acquired, given opportunity and instruction.

"The education of an actor in his craft is now entirely
a matter of accident. Years are wasted in extraneous
endeavor, in waiting about for an opportunity to prac-

I TALK TO MYSELF 393

tise, in doing work that is almost worthless to the partic-
ular individual. Personally I wasted five years looking
for a chance to grow; five golden years, from nineteen
to twenty-four, when I was eager to work each moment
of the twenty-four hours and could only find employ-
ment which was but slightly helpful to the purpose I
had in view. When at last I made the opportunity I
craved, after waiting twenty years, I had to begin to
learn all over again new methods, new expression, new
carriage to fit me for the work I had now to do. I
had acquired so many wrong ways of doing the thing
that it was time to cease work before I had fairly
begun.

"It is most interesting and romantic to read of the
difficulties encountered and overcome by Kean, Irving,
and other great actors, also the comment is picturesque
that obstacles beget solutions and prove the mettle of
a man, but hearts are broken at this game as often as
strengthened; great artists are slain as well as evolved
by such a struggle. Who would not have had Chatter-
ton and Francis Thompson dealt with more gently by
fate ? Might not Edmund Kean have been even a
greater artist than he was had evil fate not wrung from
him the tragic cry: 'If I succeed I shall go mad' ? Is it
not sad that genius cannot be planted at once in the soil
where it may gather to itself all the glory of the earth ?

"I read some time since that a French painter, having
arranged an exhibition of his works, which represented
a lifetime of endeavor and, contemplating his paintings
on the night before the exhibition, was suddenly over-
whelmed with such dissatisfaction that, seizing a knife,
he destroyed every canvas, and cried out that he must
begin to learn again. 'Ah !' said I to myself, 'if I could

394 MY REMEMBRANCES

begin again now!' How is he fortified who perceives
his own errors ?

"Said the physician to the philosopher: 'You have
only a week to live.'

"Ah!' replied the sage, 'then it is time I began to
study Sanscrit.'

"The divine fire of genius cannot be ignited at will,
but the weapons to be wielded by talent, and which
even genius must keep keen and bright, may be shar-
pened and polished, and handled with skill even by those
who are not inspired. Harsh, throaty, or nasal voices
can be made musical; vile enunciation can be made
perfect; awkward bodies and limbs can be made grace-
ful; restlessness can be trained to repose; even taste
and tact and observation of color, form, and sound can
be quickened and cultivated. These transformations in-
dustry and opportunity may accomplish. These the na-
tional theatre can supply.

"Surely Betterton had genius, yet Colley Cibber says
of him, describing his exhaustive care: 'The least syllable
too long or too slightly dwelt upon in a period depreciates
it to nothing, which very syllable, if rightly touched,
shall, like the heightening stroke of light from a master's
pencil, give life and spirit to the whole.'

"Says Shakespeare of the dramatic poet, 'Set down
with as much modesty as cunning'; of the actor: 'Ac-
quire and beget a temperance that may give it smooth-
ness.'

"'He must, therefore, select from out the variety of
passionate expression,' says Lewes, 'only those that can
be harmoniously subordinated to a general whole. He
must be at once passionate and temperate; trembling
with emotion, yet with a mind in vigilant supremacy

I TALK TO MYSELF 395

controlling expression, directing every intonation, look,
and gesture. The rarity of fine acting depends on the
difficulty there is in being at one and the same moment
so deeply moved that the emotion shall spontaneously
express itself in symbols universally intelligible and yet
so calm as to be perfect master of effects, capable of
modulating voice or moderating gesture when they tend
to excess or ugliness.*

" All this the actor must * acquire and beget ' 'with as
much modesty as cunning.' We may not be born to
genius, but we may acquire supreme skill. 'The second
stroke upon the anvil* is demanded by every muse.
The flashes of lightning which Hazlitt said Kean shed
on the meanings of Shakespeare are as much the prod-
uct of painstaking labor as was Keats's blaze of inspira-
tion which suddenly evolved the words, 'A thing of
beauty is a joy forever/ from his first draft: 'A thing of
beauty is a constant joy/ The cultivated ear, the labor-
ing mind, the restless hand these from imperfection
find perfection out."

"More matter with less art," said "Me" exhibiting
an aptness of memory appropriate and irritating.

"Hear me!" I cried. "Again I will quote, for I am
aware that I am no prophet in my own family. Hear
Robert Ingersoll, the lovable, the wise, the liberator of
mankind, the advocate of happiness, the champion of the
stage "

"Who was he?" muttered "Me."

"The great agnostic," I replied.

"What is an agnostic?" said "Me."

"In this case, one who believes in the Divinity of
Man," said I. "Hear him and be still:

" ' Most people love the theatre. Everything about it

396 MY REMEMBRANCES

from stage to gallery attracts and fascinates. The
mysterious realm behind the scenes from which emerge
kings and clowns, villains and fools, heroes and lovers,
and in which they disappear, is still a fairy-land. As
long as man is man he will enjoy the love and laughter,
the tears and rapture of the mimic world.

"'Nearly all the arts unite in the theatre, and it is the
result of the best, the highest, the most artistic that
man can do.

"'In the first place, there must be the dramatic poet.
Dramatic poetry is the subtlest, profoundest, the most
intellectual, the most passionate and artistic of all.
Then the stage must be prepared, and there is work for
the architect, the painter, the sculptor. Then the actors
appear, and they must be gifted with imagination, with
a high order of intelligence ' "

"Ha, ha!" said "Me," "that makes me laugh."

"Silence, image!" I cried. '"They must have sym-
pathies quick and deep, nature capable of the greatest
emotion dominated by passion. They must have im-
pressive presence, and all that is manly should meet and
unite in the actor; all that is womanly, tender, intense,
and admirable should be lavishly bestowed upon the
actress. The great actor must be acquainted with the
heart, must know the motives, ends, objects, and desires
that control the thoughts and acts of men. He must
be familiar with many people, including the lowest and
the highest, so that he may give to others clothed with
flesh and blood the characters born of the poet's brain.
The great actor must know the relations that exist be-
tween passion and voice, gesture and emphasis, ex-
pression and pose. The great actor must be a master
of many arts

I TALK TO MYSELF 397

"'To produce a great play and put it worthily upon
the stage involves most arts, many sciences, and nearly
all that is artistic, poetic, and dramatic in the mind of
man

"'In the dramatic world Shakespeare stands alone.
Compared with him, even the classic is childish

"'The great dramatist is of necessity a believer in
virtue, in honesty, in courage, in the nobility of human
nature

"'No one has ever yet seen any play in which in his
heart he did not applaud honesty, heroism, sincerity,
fidelity, courage, and self-denial; never. No man ever
heard a great play who did not get up a better, wiser,
and more humane man

"'Only a few years ago our dear ancestors looked upon
the theatre as the vestibule of hell, and every actor was
going "the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire."
I have lived long enough to hear the world that is, the
civilized world say that Shakespeare wrote the greatest
book that man has ever read; I have lived long enough
to see actors placed with the grandest and noblest, side
by side with the greatest benefactors of the human
race

"'The greatest man of whom we know anything de-
voted his life to the production of plays.

'"The basis of society has been the dollar. The lit-
erary man was a servant, a hack; why was this ? He
had no money.

"'Mozart was forced to eat at the table with coach-
men, with footmen, and scullions. He was simply a
servant who was commanded to make music for a pud-
ding-headed bishop. The same was true of the great
painters, and of almost all other men who rendered the

398 MY REMEMBRANCES

world beautiful by art and who enriched the languages
of mankind. Now the literary man makes money.
The man who can now paint a picture for which he re-
ceives from fifty to fifty thousand dollars is necessarily
respectable. The actor who may realize from one to
two thousand dollars a night or even more is welcomed
in the stupidest and richest society. Many people
imagine that he who amuses them must be lower than
they; this, however, is hardly possible/'

Here "Me" opened his goggle eyes really his like-
ness to Poe's Raven was revolting. "The stage is im-
moral," he mumbled, "and is going to the dogs."

"Prophet!" cried I. "Thing of evil ! Prophet, photo-
graph, or devil, listen !

"'I believe that everything in the world that tends
to make a man happy is moral; anything that bursts
into bud and blossom and leaves the fruit of joy is
moral.

"'The stage has taught the noblest lesson, the highest
truth, and that is, it is better to deserve without receiv-
ing than to receive without deserving, better to be the
victim of villainy than to be a villain, better to be stolen
from than to be a thief/ '

"I have just been thinking," said "Me," yawning,
"an agnostic means a man who doesn't know."

"Well?" said I.

"Well," continued the blinking "Me," "from what
you have just read I am convinced that that definition
is correct."

"Miserable daguerreotype!" I cried but the limp
bundle in my grasp was fast asleep. I had wasted my
wisdom.

I thrust "Me" back in his frame and went to bed.

I TALK TO MYSELF 399

'Lo ! Virtue triumphs Evil dies,
The curtain falls, the play is o'er.
Behold ! the wisdom of the wise,
How weak true lovers love before
See laughter loud, and tears galore,
Have swayed alike the fool and sage:
When lured by him to Fancy's shore
Who 'struts his hour upon the stage.'

'The lights are out 'mid smiles and sighs
The throngs into the darkness pour
Into the land of memories
Fade tales of Fame and Fairy lore;
Of love and longing, peace and war.
Is this the end of all his rage ?
Is he a shadow, nothing more,
Who 'struts his hour upon the stage'?

'The painter from his canvas cries
To this new day from days of yore.
Do all the minstrels' melodies
Die with the life from which they soar ?
Parchment and stone the learning bore
Of other times from age to age
Shall he pass, as the winds that roar,
Who 'struts his hour upon the stage'?

'To soothe the sorry and the sore;
To be the weary's hermitage;
Shall this not be some payment for
Who 'struts his hour upon the stage'?"

XLI
UP THE CHIMNEY

SAID my fairy godmother, who is responsible for these
pages: "There is no talk here about your own acting."

Said I: "There shall not be, and for these weighty
reasons: Acting, if it speaks at all, leaves nothing to be
said. If it is still-born, the less said of it the better.
Also I have observed of the greatest actors of my time
Jefferson, Irving, McCullough, my father, Barrett,
Tree, even Edwin Booth that, although they con-
tinued industriously to act, many persons, in the theatre
and out of the theatre, who were not acting insisted
that those who were acting could not act; so that the
curious condition existed that, while the informed, but
unemployed and inactive, proclaimed that the acting
ones could not act, the uninformed but employed and
active were constantly and successfully acting. That
is to say, those who could act did not, and those who
could not act did. I have ever been one of those who
cannot act, and yet do act, which, being admitted, makes
comment on my own acting needless."

"Still," persisted my fairy godmother, "you must
have some estimate of your own work."

"I have," said I.

"As for instance?" queried my fairy godmother.
"What were your best achievements?"

"King Lear, Coriolanus, Cardinal Wolsey, Richard
the Third-

"Stop!" said she. "You have never played these

characters."

400

UP THE CHIMNEY 401

"Never! "said I.

"How, then, can they be your best work?"

"One's execution," I replied, "never comes up to
one's conception. It is so with a sculptor, a painter,
a poet, also an actor. The figure that imagination bodies
forth so far exceeds in beauty, truth, and grandeur the
actual achievement that the thing done is puny to the
thing undone."

"But those parts you have played ?"

"Hideous disappointments, all of them! Crippled at
birth, bereft of half their promised perfections, never to
be contemplated without regrets ! But for the songs
never sung, the pictures never painted ! Yes, I must
say I was the best King Lear I ever heard of; the best
Wolsey, Coriolanus, and Richard, Othello, lago, King
John, Brutus, Cassius "

But I was talking to the air, my fairy godmother had
fled up the chimney.

"The swallows fly beyond the setting sun
Seeking the shelter of a kindlier shore
To such fair haven, now my work is done,
I, too, would steer nor venture evermore
Arise, dear heart ! and hasten haste before
Our wings are broken and our weak eyes shun
The cloudless skies away ! away ! where none
Shall vex the quiet that our souls adore-
Not all the gaudy trappings we have worn
Nor all the glitter of the gallant throng
Whose shouting drove our argosy along,
Outshines the beauty of a summer morn
Outsings the music of the throstle's song
To some sweet solitude at evening borne."

LESSEE AND MANAGER

JOSEPH LEONARD

WTho public arc respectfully informs I, that this Establishment will open for the

DDH-AM-A/riO SZE^SOINr,

ON MONDAY EVENING, NOVEMBER FIRST, 1852.

DRE5S OIROLE AWD PARQtJETTE 50 CENTS

THE SECOND, OR FAMILY OIROLE, 85 CENTS

THIRD CIRCLE OR GALLERY . . . 25 CENTS

PRIVATE BOXES SINGLE TICKET, $1.00

Doors open at half-past 6

Curtain will rise at 7 o'clock.

Th<' llux ortlr'0 will he open from 10 o'clock ovury Mnrnliiir, ;IIM| Ticket* cnn IM< priM-iiirtl 'inv tlmf>
i)vl;ii: 111)' day. Ticket* mnv be purchased fur any Pcrfoniiaiict' ilurlng tlic ucck, ami ict* srcim-d. No
M-iK'y tnkon nt the door. Chock* not tnuwferabi.

'wSKASOS TK'KKTS MAY UK HAD ON AFI'UOATIOX AT'TIIK IJO.V

Stage Manoger . r ....... Mr J. B. Wright Box OlKco Kc^or ...... Mi H. \V. Fenno

Treaurer ................... W.Ellison DJnctor of Pantomimes ........ K. Stilt

Deputy Si ago Manager / H , . Mat-hini^t ---- ................ J.T.Gill

and PnMnpter, > * Co turner ............ ....S.D.Johnson

c Artut ...... . ........ J. E. Hayes Ballet Muter ..... . ............. 8. Lake

Leader of Orchestra and ) T Properties . ................... J. IM ring

Director of Music, ** Holtowiy

ACT DROP. DESIGNED AND EXECUTED BY.'.-.-.-.'.'.'.-.'.'.MR J. E. HAYES

IVIIT.

FIKST AI'l'KAISANCr. IN AMI KICA

- A Nil --

Topular IKIKUMIHO, fioni tl.c l.i'it.lon TluMtros.

Wlli !< pcrronnr.! Ilic Stcrllii}; Ci-m.-ily hi .', H.-IK

THE HEIR. .AT LAW.

WIIITTKS 1Y

Daniel Dowlas, Baron Duberly,

Mr W. H. Curtis

Dr Panglos* Mr Douglas Stewart

(From HIP Thontrr Hoyal. lUriuliiu'ium, Ills iii>t
aj>i>mr:mci' In America )

Dick Dowlas Mr Piior

StetdfaU Mr J. M unro:>

/kid Horacipun Mr F. 8. Buxton

Kenrick Mr S- D. Johr son

: DOLMAN, TIIK vorji(.i:i{.

llrnry Murelaml Mr Aiken

John. Mr C>. Johnnon

Waiter at Motel ...Mr Philips

Waiter sit Blue Boar Mr Knowlton

Cicely ||omei|iuii Mr* W. II. Smith

Lady Dut.erly Mrs An-hbold

(From UIP Lonilon Tliratrr*.)
Cnrolino Mr* Prior

Durlur tin- !-. c-i;in;:,

K1KHT AlM'KAItANCK IN AMI ItlCA

- AXH-

The Popular Dinmcnsp, fium 11. c- l.oiMoii Tli.

Will !( perf'irme.l tin- Sterling C.MP..-I! ,:i '. m i-. <

THE HEIR. AT LAW.

AV1MTTKN 11V (iKOUlU: COI-MAN, TIIK Yor.Vt.Ki:.

Daniel Dowlas, Baron Duberly,

Mr W. H. Curtis

Dt Punglns* Mr Douglas Stewart

(from tho Theatre Hoyal. IMnnlniilium, Ms tint
a|i|>mr:uico hi America )

Dick Dowlas Mr Tuc.r

Steadfast Mr J. Munro-.'

Zokicl Homopun Mr F. S. Uuxton

Kenrick Mr S. D. Johnson

Ili-nry Mori'land Mr Aikeu

John Mr * ' . Johnson

Waiter at Hotel v Mr Philips

Waiter at Blue Boar Mr Kuowlton

Cic-ly Homespun Mrs W. H. Smith

Lndy DuV.erly Mrs Are.hbold

(From tho Loiiilon Tlicatros.!
Caroline .... .Mrs Prior

Darin;; tliu KA ciiin^,

NATIONAL THEATRE WALTZ FULL ORCHESTRA

COMPOSED AM) AKHANOKD 11 Y Mil J. HOLLO \V AY.

\A TIONAL MEDLEY O I Kit Ti-HK ~. HI HAS

OVERTURE "IL PIR.iTA" HKLI.IM

I'rtvlous to llii-

i\r^v3

Written by W. O. EATON, Esq. . . .\Vill be spoken by Mr W. M. LEMAN.

MEItLKY D. 1 *CE (Pupil nf Mr S. Lake) MISS I I v.\ ) IK) it . l ni>

POLISH DANCE MAD'LLE FALSER

To con.-1'.iile willi tti.- Aihnlrvd Kar. o, .-inttli.!

PCI

W1UTTEN liY J. M. MOItTON. KSij.

Squire Fallow field. . . . . .Mr W. II, Curtis Mis Chesterton. . .(1st appcaiancc in

Major Frankman Mi V. Hayes Boston) Miss Bertha Lewis

Peter Paternoster MrS. D. Johnson Luey .....' Ut appearance in Boston)

John Dobbs Mr Douglas Stewart I Miss Cornelia Jefferson

John Mr G. Johnson |

CT Engagements hmrc been nude with EIVIUVENT STARK, who will appear
dating the 8eaon

vAn rltk-lrnt Police will be always attached to the KMnMlihrncnt. Tho Home will i.p wrllxannnl
Md reaUiaUd. Kntrancct anil KxlUare numrrou*. c nvcnlrnt and rparmi> to every part oflhr Houw.

NOTICK.-AH l'rron r rrqorto4 not to deliver any article for the Theatre without mi Order n>ued
by the 3ta Manacer or TreMurer.

NOTICK. Oantand Dover 8trt. Oambrldce. Roxbiirv, Charliitown and Sooth Uottou Umnlbuaira
wlUbcIn ttmdancv at th- cloee of the Perfttcmancc t" . <jnvrr PaawDKen to the above plocr*.
rr>vtng>rTrate<brOUCaakM(e will leave *tl 4pa*tll Kv.-rr Kvenlog, (i-xcept SatnrJay.)^
MwluB^ rrrM-MalMLUw' UallJIng*, i m r <.! IK.,tr>i an.V I rrmoat tMrrtU- "~"

INDEX

Abbey's Park Theatre, 225.

Abyssinia, King of, 142.

Academy of Music, Baltimore, 272,

273-
Acting, the art of, 381-387; a means

of expression, 388; pleasure in, 388,

389; Shakespearian roles, 389, 390.
Actors, statute of 1572 concerning,

378; education of, 392-395; Inger-

soll on the qualities of great, 396.
Adams, Edwin, 191.
Adams, Maude, 303-313; her keen

criticism, 307-309.
Adriatic, the, 251.
AH Khan Badahur, 135.
Archer, Belle, 296.
Archer, Herbert, 188.
Armstrong, 274, 275.
Art and Artists, Captain Stewart's

definition of, 21.
Aspiration, 16, 17.
Atkinson, Captain, 219-222.

Baltimore, 272-274.

Barrett, Lawrence, 179, 400.

Barrie, 360.

Belasco, David, 294, 296, 358.

Berntsen, Mina, 233.

Betterton, 394.

Bettoli, Signor P., 129-132.

Biggs, the butler, 26, 27, 77, 163.

Birmingham, 6, 248.

Birthday party, "Ta's," 52-58.

Bispham, William, 338.

"Blesseds, the," 6, 85-93.

Booth, Edwin, his premonition of Mrs.
Booth's death, 147; 246; announce-
ment of death of, 258; photograph,

332; genius, 333; asked to be god-
father to E. H. Sothern, 333, 334,
336; his impersonation of Hamlet,

337; letter to William Bispham,

338; 373, 39, 4o.
Boston, 235-247, 363.
Boston Museum, 224, 227, 229, 230,

237, 238, 240, 363.
Boston Museum Company, 230, 236,

238.

Boucicault, Dion, 156, 179.

"Box and Cox," 299.

Brooklyn, 273.

Brooks, Bishop, 244, 246.

Brown, Mr., 231.

Bryant, Dan, 182, 185.

Buckstone, Mr., 174, 175.

Buffalo Bill, 301.

Bunce, Frank, 293, 297, 298, 334.

Burgett, Gus and Tillie, 86-88, 90.

Burton, Lady, her life of Sir Richard
Burton, 136-141; Burton's mes-
meric power over, 140; her mar-
riage foretold by gypsy, 141; reap-
pearance after death, 141.

Burton, Sir Richard, affection of Cap-
tain Stewart for, 136; creed and
motto of, 137; tributes to, 137-
139; his pilgrimage to Mecca, 138;
journey to Harrar, 138; influence
on Captain*Stewart, 140; mesmeric
powers of, 140; ability to read
hands, 141; love of children, 141;
his favorite books, 142; verses to
fame written by, 143 ; love of jok-
ing, 143-

Butcher boy, the, 1 8, 19.

Byron, Henry J., 199.

Cain and Abel, 29.

"Called Back," 275.

Cantellabiglie, 184, 187.

"Cedars, The," garden at, 86.

"Ceiling people," 346, 347.

"Celebrated Case, A," 358, 359.

Century Magazine, 338.

Charley, Uncle, 96, 97.

Charter House, London, 299.

Chatterton, 393.

Chicago, 256, 275, 276.

"Chinese Gordon," see C. G. Gordon.

Chivey, Squire, 196.

Cibber, Colley, 394.

Clapp, Mr., 230.

Clarke, John S., 92, 93.

Clarkson, Mr., 283.

Claxton, Kate, 178.

Clothes, influence of, 32-42.

403

4 o 4

INDEX

Cocos Island, King of, 126.

Coghlan, Charles, 283.

Coleman House, the, 362.

Collectors, 335.

Cone, 178.

Congreve, 379.

Connor, Mr., 345.

Conried, Mr., 311-313.

Contemplation, 65-74.

Cook, George Frederick, 236.

Cooks, 278.

Copeland, Harry, 179.

Coquelin, quoted, 384, 385.

Costumes, 252.

Couldock, Mr., 177, 264-266.

Coulter, Frazer, 277.

Craeger, 344.

"Crushed," 274.

"Crushed Tragedian, The," selection
of a type for, 199, 200; how the cos-
tume was secured, 200-206.

Cushman, Charlotte, 335.

"Cymbeline," 259.

"Damon and Pythias," 253.

"Dancing Girl, The," 363.

Darwin, 377.

Dauvray, Helen, 277, 293.

Davenport Brothers, 339.

"David Garrick," 192-198.

Davis, Richard Harding, 301.

De Beringhen, 252.

"Deep grief is still," poem, 31.

Derby, Lord, 137.

Detroit, 252, 256.

Devonshire, the house in, 90.

Dickens, Charles, 349.

Dillingham, Charles, 363.

Dinner-party, practical joke, 184-187.

Dogs, Death and Trap, 293, 295, 297.

"Don Quixote," poem, 134.

Doran's "Their Majesties' Servants,"

378.

D'Orsay, Count, 187.
Douglas, Annie, 276.
Dramatists, Elizabethan, 379; Inger-

soll on, 397.

"Duke's Motto, The," 236, 239.
Dunchurch, 94; the school at, 95-100,

105; the Tuck Shop at, 96.
Dundreary, Lord, 85, 172-177, 241,

328.

Earp, the barber, 222-224, 228.
Edward, King, 341, 361.
Empire Theatre, 359.

Fairy-godmother, 3, 6-9, 322, 325,
400.

"Fame pointed to a grisly shore,"
poem, 143.

Farnie, 270, 271.

"Favette," 277.

Fergus I, 128.

Field, Mr., 224, 239.

Fife House, London, 136.

Fisher, Mrs., boarding-house kept by,
224, 232, 239.

Fishing excursions, 91, 248-250, 290,
368, 369.

Fitzaltamont, De Lacy, 199, 200.

Flockton, Charles P., personality of,
314; a great horseman, 315;
method of ordering provisions, 315,
316; dinner cooked by, 317; the
accident to, in "The Victoria
Cross," 318; self-sacrificing devo-
tion to friend, 318-320; 321.

Florence, William J., 325, 368.

"Flying Dutchman, The," 315.

"Flynn of Virginia," 191, 192.

Forrest, Edwin, 257, 335.

Forsyth, Kate, 256.

Fort, Mr., 272.

Fortunate Islands, the, 23.

Freeling, 96, 97.

French & Son, 173.

Friendship, 370.

Frith, W. P., 198.

Frohman, Charles, last words of, 358;
letters from, 358, 360; illness, 359;
contracts made with, 361-365; crit-
icism of performance of Shakespeare
roles, 364; sound business princi-
ples of, 365-367; sincere tributes
to, 367.

Frohman, Daniel, seeking an engage-
ment with, 260-264; produces
"The Highest Bidder," 292-300;
"Lettarblair," 323-326; "If I
Were King," 328, 329; 333, 361-365.

Gaiety Theatre, London, 299.
Garden Theatre, New York, 325.
Garrick, David, shoe-buckles belong-
ing to, 198, 341, 345; walking-stick,

341,345; 38i.
Gatti's restaurant, 22.
Gautier, Theophile, quoted, 139.
Georgina, 173.
"Gladiator, The," 254.
Globe, London, account of Captain

Stewart's encounter with a ghost,

129-132.

INDEX

405

"Gods of yesteryear are fled, The,"

poem, 82-84.

Golden Square, London, 210.
Gordon, Charles George ("Chinese

Gordon"), 17, 119; home for boys

founded by, 141; contempt for

death, 142; 143.
Gramercy Park Hotel, 218, 222.
Greenock, 196.
Gregory, Captain, 277.
Grief, stillness of, 28, 29.
Grossman, Mrs., 334.

Haidar Indians, 123-127, 135.
Halifax, Nova Scotia, 148, 152-160.
"Hamlet," 332, 337, 364, 370, 380,

39-
Hamlet (the character), 306, 332, 333,

337-

Hammerton, Jack, 295-298.
Hardcastle, Miss, 155.
Hare and the tortoise, the, 14, 19.
Harrar, Sir Richard Burton's journey

to, 138.

Harris, Doctor F. A., 369.
Harrison, Alfred A., 95, 97, 99.
"Hasty Pudding Club," the, 237.
Hate, stillness of, 29-31.
Haworth, Joseph, 238, 239, 272.
Haymarket Theatre, London, 85, 92,

94, 167, 174, 175, 210.
"Hazel Kirke," 264.
Hazlitt, 395.
Heatherly's school of painting, 209,

210, 213.

"Heir-at-Law, The," 224, 231.
Henderson, Alexander, 270.
Herald, the New York, 172.
Hermit, the, 3, 4, 332.
"Highest Bidder, The," 293-299, 361,

362.

Hook, Theodore, 187.
Horticultural Hall, Boston, fair in,

246.

Howard Athenaeum, 224, 232.
Howard, Bronson, 277, 362.
Hugh, Uncle, see Captain Hugh Stew-
art.

"If I Were King," 328-330, 364.
Imagination, 346-350, 383.
Ingersoll, Robert, quoted, 395-398.
Irving, Sir Henry, 314, 339, 366, 393,

400.
Isherwood, scene-painter, benefit for,

149-152; his speech, 150.

Jefferson, Charles, 89.

Jefferson, Joseph, visits E. A. Sothern
at Kensington, 89, 90; account of
Lord Dundreary, 172-174; 177,
230, 246; recommends "Lettar-
blair," 325; 400.

"Jessie Brown," 156-159.

Johannes, Count, 199, 200.

Johnson, 125.

Johnson, the coachman, 79, 163, 164.

Jokes, practical, 182-187.

Kean, Edmund, hooted from stage,
2 3 r .235, 236, 239, 240; sword be-
longing to, 335; a master of expres-
sion, 386; 393, 395.

Keats, 395.

Keene, Laura, 171-173, 183.

Kelcey, Herbert, 323.

Kensington, 89, 161, 165, 210, 341.

Key, Captain, 114, 115.

Khartoum, 119, 123, 142.

Kirke, Dunstan, 264.

Kitchen, the, 10.

Klanert, James, 344.

Knightsbridge barracks, 112.

Labertouche, Mr., 342.

"Lady of Lyons," 329.

Lamb, Charles, 332, 337, 380, 381.

La Tappy, Monsieur, 209-215.

Laughing parties, 305.

Laura Keene's Theatre, 171, 172.

Lawrence, Arthur, 342-344.

Lee, Phillip, 184-187.

Leigh's Academy, 209.

Leland, Charles, 274.

LeMoyne, 294, 296, 297.

Leonard, Mr., 224, 231.

"Lettarblair," 319, 322-328.

Lewes, George Henry, quoted, 385-

387.

Listen, William, 341, 344.
Litton, Lettarblair, 322.
Liverpool, 102.
Lodge, Sir Oliver, 147.
London, 85, 250, 270.
"Lost," 275.

Love, stillness of, 29-31; 78-82.
Lover's Lane, 79.

Low Steamship Agency, E. H., 300.
Lucius, 251.

Lucknow, the relief of, 156, 159.
Lusitania, the, 358, 361.
Luther, Martin, 379.
Lyceum Theatre, 292-298, 323, 334,

362.

406

INDEX

McCarthy, Justin, 141, 328-330.

McCullough, John, 179, 191, 192, 244;
plays produced by, 251; 252-255;
illness and death of, 256-259; 345,
400.

McGonegal, Mr., 258.

McGregor, Randall, 156.

McVicker's Theatre, Chicago, 204.

Mabbitt, Mrs., 279-284.

Macaulay, quoted, 383.

Macready, 373.

Madison Square Garden, 199.

Madison Square Theatre, 264.

Malaprop, Mrs., 246.

Malvolio, 364.

Mann, Louis, 275.

Mansfield, Richard, 270, 271, 335.

Margate, 91.

Marlowe, Julia, 359~3 6l 3 6 3, 3 6 4-

Marsh, Fanny, the cook, 10, 52, 78,
104.

Marshall & Snellgrove, 174.

Match-box, mystery of the, 341-344.

Maude, Cyril, 275.

Mauritania, the, 159.

Mecca, Sir Richard Burton's pilgrim-
age to, 138.

"Merchant of Venice, The," 364.

Merrington, Marguerite, 319, 322,
324-328.

Messenger-boy, the London, 299-302.

Micklejohn, Detective, 47-50.

"Midget, Mrs.," 303-313.

Miranda, 7-9.

"Mona," 277.

Morton, Madison, 294, 299, 301.

"Much Ado About Nothing," 364.

"Mutes," 26, 27.

Mysore, Sultan of, 135.

National Theatre, Boston, 224, 231,

232.

National theatre, plea for a, 391, 392.
Neilson, Adelaide, 184, 210, 335.
New Orleans, 178, 179.
New Theatre, the, 366.
New York, 182-184, 187, 272-275,

278.

Newburg, 135.
Nursery, the, II.

O'Connor, John, 210, 211, 214, 217.
'Oh, such a little while," poem, 321.
'Oldest, Mr.," 303-313.
'One of Our Girls," 277.
'Othello," 25 1, 257, 258.
'Our American Cousin," first pro-

duction of, 171-173; incidents in
history of, 174-177; great success
of, 175; 178,180,355.

"Out of the Hunt," 270.

Overall, 179.

Pangloss, Doctor, 224, 231.

Paxton, 317.

Pemberton, T. Edgar, 244.

Peters, 47-50.

"Pippins," 240, 241.

Players, see Actors.

Players Club, 236, 334.

Plays, 366, 379, 380.

Pointer, the coachman, 33, 34, 39, 40,

52, 53, 103-105.
"Police Fund Benefit," at Baltimore,

272.

Policeman, the London, 32.
Potter, Paul, 317.
Prayers, 27, 28.

Prince Edward Island, 120, 321.
"Prompter's Box, The, 199.

Queen Charlotte Islands, 124, 126,
I3S-

Raleigh's "Essay on Style," 379, 380.

Ramsgate, 88.

Rangeley Lakes, the, 91, 368.

"Rasher," 59-64.

Raymond, John T., 91, 92, 148, 153,

IS4, 179-

Rebecca, the nurse, 14, 16, 19, 25-28,
39-42, 70, 77, 101, 104, 105, 163.

Reciting, 191, 195.

Reece, Robert, 294, 299-301.

"Richard III," 255, 256.

"Richelieu," 252.

Richelieu (the character), 257, 258.

"Rip Van Winkle," 89, 90.

Robert II, 128.

Robertson, Tom, 192.

Roderigo, 251.

Rogers, Henry M., 369, 374.

" Romeo and Juliet," 306, 364.

Royalty Theatre, London, 268, 269,
271.

"Ruffian Dick," see Sir Richard Bur-
ton.

Ruggles, James, 218-222.

Running, pleasure of, 14, 15, 18, 20,
22.

Saint Bartholomew, hospital of, 216.
Saint Charles Hotel, Baltimore, 179.

INDEX

407

Saint Paul's Church, Boston, 245.

Sala, George Augustus, 348.

Salvini, Alexander, 315.

"Sam," 225.

San Vernanzio, the haunted church in,
129-131.

Sanger, Eugene B., 300-302.

Scene-painting, 210, 217, 218.

"Scenes and Studies of Savage Life,"
123, 124, 127.

Scofield, Mr., 275.

Seymour, William, 239.

Sfea House, Chicago, 275.

Shackford, Captain John, 351-35$.

Shakespeare's plays, 364, 379, 380,
381; inspiration to player and audi-
tor, 389; cost of producing, 390;

397-

"She Stoops to Conquer," 155.

"Shenandoah," 362, 363.

Sheridan, 183.

Sherman, General, 255.

Shy lock, 364.

Silverman, Rabbi, 367.

Simpson, Doctor, 176, 177.

Skull, the, 331.

Slaughter, Walter, 268, 269, 275.

Smiles's "Self-Help," 97.

Smith, Mr. and Mrs. James Crucifix,
248-250.

Smith, John P., 273, 274.

"Smuggler Bill," 88, 89.

Snelling, Mr. and Mrs., 5, 17, lot,
104, 105.

Snuff-box, mystery of the, 344, 345.

Sothern, E. A., love of children, 6;
discovers a fairy godmother, 6, 7;
holidays at Ramsgate, 88; an en-
thusiastic fisherman, 91; takes part
in minstrel show at Margate, 92;
manager of Haymarket Theatre, 92;
family outings with J. S. Clarke, 92,
93; engages a cook, 94; love of
hunting, 94; marvels at son's learn-
ing, 101-103; takes theatre in Hali-
fax, N. S., 148; meets with financial
disaster, 148; undertakes to lecture
on the drama, 148; proposes bene-
fit for scene-painter, 149-152; be-
sieged by creditors, 153, 154; Ad-
miral Stewart brings relief to, 154,
155; wears Highland officer's uni-
form as Randall McGregor, 156,
and is embarrassed by large head-
piece, 158, 159; a somnambulist,
161-170; drops name of Douglas
Stewart, 171; enlarges and im-

proves the part of Lord Dundreary,
172-174; painstaking genius of,
174, 198; incidents of English en-
gagement in "Dundreary," 174-
177; member of stock company in
New Orleans, 178; extracts from
letters of, 178; memoranda found
in coat pocket, 179-181 ; some prac-
tical jokes played by, 182-187; a ^~
fectionately remembered by many,
187-190; dislike of reciting, 191,
192; plays scene from "David Gar-
rick" at dinner-party, 193-195; a
generous critic, 195; gives son first
lesson in acting, 195, 196; his por-
trayal of David Garrick, 197, 198;
selects type and costume for De
Lacy Fitzaltamont, 199, 200; stud-
ied for ministry and took up study
of medicine, 216; leaves choice of
professions to sons, 216-218; dis-
putes with James Ruggles, 218-
222; disastrous failure in 1852,
224, 225, 231; letter applying for
position at National Theatre,
Boston, 231; plays in Howard
Athenaeum, 232; home in Boston,
232; lifelong friendship for Mrs.
Vincent, 232-234; annual visit to
Boston, 233, 240; takes wild ride in
cab, 241, 242; visits poor as Grand
Duke Alexis, 242, 243; lovable per-
sonality of, 243, 244; goes to Yar-
mouth on fishing excursion, 248-
250; death, 251; study of magic,
339, 340; match-box presented to
by Prince of Wales, 341; his snuff-
box, 344; bronze statue of, 341,
346; many friendships of, 351;
story of ball and children's party at-
tended by, 352-355; story of farmer
and wife entertained by, 355-357;
368, 369, 400.

Sothern, Mrs. E. A., 29-31; rescues
street urchin from tormentors, 32-
36; 85; Admiral Stewart's offer of
help to, 152; slippers embroidered
by, 152; faith in Admiral Stewart
justified, 154, 155; plays Georgina
in "Our American Cousin," 173;
adapts drama from the French,
179; 224.

Sothern, E. H., ambition to become a
hermit, 3, 4; called, "Goggles," 3;
earliest recollection, 4; school-days
at Snelling Academy, 4-6; influence
of fairy godmother, 8; makes friend

408

INDEX

of an enemy, 10-13; passion for
running, 14, 15, 18; idea of heav-
en, 16, 17; wins a race, 18, 19; in
the art gallery, 20-24; considers
suicide, 25; learns about "mutes,"
26, 27; prayers, 27, 28; is taken
to church, 29: impression of
stillness of grief, hate, and love,
28-31; inquires about equality,
36-42; his brother's birth, 45, 46;
first contact with disobedience, 59-
64; learns about the music of the
spheres, 65-74; feels pity for suf-
fering of others, 69-72; inquires
about love, 78-81; first romance,
87; earliest recollections of father,
85-93; holiday at Margate, 91, 92;
school-days at Dunchurch, 95-100;
receives prize for drawing, 97; first
recollection of Captain Stewart,
113; fascination of old sea chest,
122, 132-134; affection for Cap-
tain Stewart, 143; in Halifax har-
bor on Mauretania, 159; nursed on
many knees, 177; birthplace of,
*?8> 179; first lesson in acting, 195,
196; story of seafaring man's en-
thusiasm for, as Squire Chivey, 196,
197; studies French with M. La
Tappy, 209-215; takes lessons in
painting, 209-211, 213; in Spain,
211, witnesses a murder, 214; given
freedom to choose profession, 216;
tries scene-painting, 217, 218;
chooses acting as profession, 223-
225; plays the cabman in "Sam,"
225-227; joins Boston Museum
Company, 227, 230, 236, 238; mis-
givings on arrival in Soston, 235;
at Mrs. Vincent's, 237; meets Wil-
liam Warren, 238, 239; plays in
"The Duke's Motto," 236, 239; re-
ceives no salary, 239, 240; goes
fishing at Yarmouth, 248-250; re-
turns to America with John McCul-
lough, 251; plays in McCullough's
company, 251-256; receives news
of father's death, 255, 256; seeks
engagement with Mr. Frohman,
260-264: failure of play written by,
272-274; writes a love-song, 268-
270, and receives reward, 275; in
Chicago after discouraging experi-
ences, 275; offered engagement in
New York, 275-277; successful in
character of Captain Gregory, 277;
years at the Lyceum Theatre, 292;

success in "The Highest Bidder,"
294-298; introduces messenger ser-
vice into London, 298-302; nick-
named "Mr. Oldest," 303; his
laugh, 304-306; plays in "Lettar-
blair," 322-328; plays "If I Were
King," 328-330; finds skull in
churchyard, 331; Booth unwilling
to act as godfather to, 333, 334;
sees Booth play "Hamlet," 333,
337; pride in ownership, 336; me-
mentos strangely returned to, 340-
546; entertained by Captain Shack-
ord, 351, 352; refuses offer of part
in "A Celebrated Case," 359; busi-
ness transactions with Charles
Frohman, 361-365; in Shakespear-
ian roles, 364; value to, of friendly
criticism and encouragement, 370-
373 ; estimate of own work, 400, 401.

Sothern, Mrs. E. H., 359-361, 363,
364.

Sothern, George (Sam), birth of, 45,
46; baby language of, 43-46; helps
solve theft mystery, 46-51; has a
birthday party, 52-58; imaginary
playmates, 347; enjoys "Smuggler
Bill," 89; plays "Rip Van Winkle,"
90; at Snelling Academy, 101-105;
at Dunchurch school, 97-99, 105,
106; no dawdler in his studies, IOI-
108; brings a cook from England,
278; method of routing opponent
in argument, 285-290; enjoys fish-
ing, 291; his dogs, 293; work on
"The Highest Bidder," 295; sug-
gests sending messenger to London,
300-302; receives lost match-box
from farmer, 343; finds statue of
father, 346; contracts for "The
Highest Bidder," 362.

Sothern, Lytton, 46-49, 85, 178, 196,
224, 232, 342.

Sothern's Lyceum, 148.

"Sothern's Varieties," 178.

Spain, 211.

Spies, Mr., 272.

" Spring-heel Jack," 161, 163-165, 170.

Sproat, G. M., 123, 127.

Staples, Caroline, 245, 246.

Stevenson, Robert Louis, 387.

Stewart, Sir Donald, 119.

Stewart, Douglas, 171, 183, 184, 231,
248.

Stewart, Sir Herbert, 119.

Stewart, Admiral Sir Houston, 148,
152, 154, 155, 160.

INDEX

409

Stewart, Captain Hugh Robert
Newburg, 15, 17; on art and
artists, 20-22; his philosophy of life,
22-24; tells strange tales of self-
destruction, 25, 26; on gentle and
common folk, 38, 39; tells about
music of the spheres, 65-68, 72, 73 ;
talks about Cupid, 75-78; about
love, 78-81; love of children and
distrust of older people, Hi; his
dog and horse, in, 112; plays ship-
wreck with the children, 113, 114;
his capture of Commissioner Yen,
114, 115; home of, 115; dog-ken-
nel and dog-cart invented by, 115,
116; dexterity in packing up, 116,
118; official record, 117; his expe-
dition to rescue "Chinese Gordon,"
119; illness and death, 120; a ver-
itable Don Quixote, 121; photo-
graph, 122; sea chest of, 122, 132;
extract from log-book, 123; resi-
dence among Haidar Indians, 123-
128; encounter with ghost, 129-
132; adventurous life of, 132, 133;
ancestry, 135; his affection for Sir
Richard Burton, 136, 143; influ-
ence of Sir Richard Burton on, 140;
solves mystery of nightly visitor at
Kensington, 166-170; wrestles with
Captain Atkinson, 218-222.

Stoddart, J. H., 148, 153, 154, 177-

Sturtevant House, the, 259, 274.

Sun, the Baltimore, 272, 273.

"Suspense," 179.

Sutton, Sir Thomas, 299.

" Swallows fly beyond the setting sun,
The," poem, 401.

"Ta," see George Sothern.

Tame, Sarah ("Kluklums"), the

nurse, 43-45, 47-55, IO 5-i7 ;
"Taming of the Shrew, The," 364.
Taylor, J. G., 270, 271.
Teasle, Lady, 246.
Telepathy, experiences in, 147, 148.
Theatre, the, business of, 365, 366;

national, 391, 392, 394; Ingersoll

on, 395, 396.

Theatre Royal, Birmingham, 248.
Thompson, Francis, 393.
Tippoo Sahib, 135, 136.
"Topsy," favorite mare, 164, 169.
"Trade," 294, 299, 361.
Trap, the dog, takes manuscript to

theatre, 293; 297.

Tree, 400.

Trinity Church, Boston, 231, 244,

246.

"Tristram Shandy," III.
"Twelfth Night," 30, 210, 364.

"Victoria Cross, the," 317, 318.

Victoria, Queen, 361.

Vincent Club, 246.

Vincent Hospital, 231, 244-247.

Vincent, Mrs., 177, 224, 236; honored
and loved, 230, 23 1 ; lifelong friend
of E. A. Sothern, 232, 233; chari-
ties of, 233-235, 242; household,
237; introduces E. H. Sothern to
Boston Museum Company, 238;
has an amazing adventure, 241,
242; receives homage of friends,
244; death, 244; hospital as me-
morial to, 244-247.

"Virginibus," 252.

Walcot, Mrs., 177.
Wales, Prince of, 341, 342.
Walker, 99.

Wall, Horace, 196, 199; secures cos-
tume for "Crushed Tragedian,"

200-206.
Wallack's Theatre, New York, 153,

156, 273.
Warren, William, 177, 230, 232; idol

of Boston, 238, 239; his jubilee,

244.

Washington, 254.
Washington Square, 278.
Weston, Edward Payson, 199.
"What music wakens the drowsy

noon?" poem, 73.
"When cruel Fate or weight of years,"

song, 269.

White Dog Island, 123.
"Who struts his hour upon the stage,"

poem, 399.

"Whose Are They," 272-274.
Williams, Fred, 323, 324.
Wilson, Katherine, 110-313.
Windsor Castle, 136.
Winter Garden, New York, 337.
Wit and humor, 182.
Wolf, Ben, 368.
Wycherley, 379.

Yarmouth, 248-250.

Yeh, Commissioner, 114, 115.

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