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 SEYMOUR HICKS
 
 SEYMOUR HICKS: 
 
 TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 OF AN ACTOR'S LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 HIMSELF 
 
 LONDON: ALSTON RIVERS, LIMITED 
 BROOKE STREET, HOLBORN BARS 
 
 1910
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 To that half of my profession who think I can't 
 
 act, and 
 To the other half— who I am certain can't. 
 To my enemies who say nice things of me. 
 To my friends who never do. 
 To those many critics who know nothing and 
 
 think I'm excellent. 
 To the few who know anything and think I'm not. 
 To the Patrons of the Drama who never pay. 
 To the one man who laughed at me and is now 
 
 under lock and key. 
 To the brave man who has parted with his 
 
 money for this book, and 
 To those who would always help me if I was 
 
 never in distress. 
 
 " Early to bed and early to rise, 
 Ain't a bit of good unless you advertise."
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 When a man sits down to write a book about him- 
 self, generally he does so from one of four reasons : sheer 
 impertinence ; a lack of humour; the hope of advertise- 
 ment; or because he knows that while writing little 
 about himself it gives him an opportunity to say a great 
 deal about other people. I frankly plead guilty to the 
 last two ; and having gone thus far on the road of truth, 
 let me push on yet another milestone. 
 
 You know my face, no doubt. I am not extraordinarily 
 proud of it. Is it possible that I know yours ? How 
 often, I wonder, have you paid good money to see me 
 make a fool of myself ? How often have I seen you do 
 the same thing in the stalls for nothing! Perhaps we 
 have never met, pictorially or otherwise; well, whether 
 we have or not, Seymour Hicks is now yours for two-and- 
 six; but in surrendering myself to you, you must not 
 imagine I am going to lay bare a great soul for thirty 
 copper tokens. As I have been working for twenty-four 
 years, that would only work out at a little over a penny 
 a year, and artist though I be, I know that the com- 
 mercial value of the body I am condemned to drag 
 through musical comedy after musical comedy (the 
 titles alone of which differ) is worth more than this.
 
 viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 But I do want to interest you ; and I feel that even if 
 my story is not an epoch-making one and does Httle 
 good, it will certainly do no harm, as a well-known actor 
 remarked when he was met by his friends, riding on 
 a half-a-crown-an-hour horse through the streets of 
 Manchester on a Monday afternoon, having hired two 
 little boys to point at him at intervals, and in audible 
 asides say : " Look ! if that ain't Mr. Burns who opens 
 to-night at the Theatre Royal! " 
 
 Not being gifted with the pen of a Gissing, or the 
 introspective descriptive powers of a Ryecroft, I will 
 endeavour in all cases to come to " my horses " as 
 quickly as possible and without too much over-elabora- 
 tion, as Samuel Phelps was never tired of advising the 
 youth of his day to do. For a long time I have 
 pondered of what I could write that might serve as a 
 lyric to the music of a railway train — or haply save you 
 buying a bromide at the nearest chemist's. Anecdotes 
 of others perhaps ? Misfortunes to myself ? For have 
 not the misfortunes of others always been greeted with 
 a smile of satisfaction from an assembled and uninvolved 
 multitude, even from the day when that Jewish humorist 
 Noah christened his one son Ham so as to give the 
 other brothers a lifelong laugh? But there, I don't even 
 know if Noah was a Jew — perhaps he wasn't, as we 
 don't hear of him living in the West End of any parti- 
 cular city. All I know about him is that he had a yacht 
 which he used instead of the then uninvented umbrella. 
 
 Misfortunes to myself or anecdotes of others or not — 
 I have determined that these pages shall be covered with
 
 INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 incidents connected with the many interesting people 
 I have known — and I hope I shall not be found pushing 
 myself too much in the foreground of what follows. The 
 literary merits of these pages are nil. The great art of 
 writing I unhappily do not possess, but if I succeed in 
 whiling away an odd hour for you, my object will have 
 been achieved, and I beg you look upon this brilliant 
 little pousse-cafe of other people's witticisms with a kindly 
 and indulgent eye.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS . 
 
 II. THE PROMPT BOX ... 
 
 III. ON THE ROAD .... 
 
 IV. AN ISLAND NIGHT's ENTERTAINMENT 
 V. THE KENDALS .... 
 
 VI. U.S.A 
 
 VII. THE SHIP AND THE DOCK . 
 
 VIII. JOHNNY TOOLE .... 
 
 IX. THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 
 
 X. HEARD FROM MY CORNER . 
 
 XI. FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 
 
 XII. THE BLIND BOW-BOY . 
 
 XIII. THE GAIETY .... 
 
 XIV. LIGHT AND SHADOW . 
 XV. FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAV lA . 
 
 XVI. THE VAUDEVILLE 
 
 XVII. ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS 
 
 XVIII. BY COMMAND .... 
 
 XIX. MIXED BISCUITS .... 
 
 XX. NATIONAL AND PERSONAL . 
 
 XXI. WHY shouldn't I . . . ? . 
 
 XXII. CURTAIN 
 
 INDEX OF NAMES
 
 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 
 
 1871. 
 
 Hicks. — On the 30th inst., at La Fontaine, St. Heliers, Jersey, 
 the wife of Capt. E. P. Hicks, of the 42nd Highlanders, The 
 Black Watch, of a son. 
 
 This was the first notice of myself ever written — ! ! ! 
 Mother and child did well. 
 
 It is customary, I believe, to begin a narrative of this 
 kind with a description of one's parents, one's brothers, 
 and all the members of a very ordinary household. 
 This I conceive to be the greatest mistake ; for if one's 
 father had been of interest to anyone but his immediate 
 circle, he himself would surely have been written about. 
 And of one's brothers, well, I am pleased to say I have 
 two, and that we are all horribly alike ... let us leave 
 them at that. Who cares that my grandfather had 
 so many medals that he was obliged to hang his odd 
 V.C. on the back of his neck ; that my male parent 
 was the only English officer in the 42nd Highlanders 
 for nearly a quarter of a century ; that I am more than 
 three-quarters an Irishman ; or that I took my mother's 
 
 s.H. i^
 
 2 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 maiden name as my Christian name ? All these things 
 are very tender to me, and they, with many others 
 less sacred, are locked away in a little box labelled 
 " Memories," to be peeped at only when there is no 
 one else by. And this is as it should be. Of course, 
 were I a genius, which I thank heaven I am not — or 
 soap and I would only have been on a nodding acquaint- 
 ance — and had my parents lived in two back rooms, my 
 father starving in the odd intervals that he did not 
 follow his profession of making seeds for strawberry 
 jam ; and had I been the prodigy that I ought to make 
 myself, aged four, rising each midnight like Beethoven — 
 or was it Sousa ? — answering the call that had come to 
 me of reciting the " Wreck of the Hesperus," in a 
 red flannel night shirt ; then I should not dream of 
 apologising for going into the most minute domestic 
 details. 
 
 I have pondered deeply how to begin these ramblings 
 of mine. One of a family of four, three boys and a 
 girl, my father, who had retired on half-pay through 
 ill-health, could only bring us up as well as his means 
 permitted, his income being never more than ;£'40o 
 a year. We lived comfortably in a small house in 
 St. Heliers, Jersey. Pocket money was very scarce and 
 new clothes few, for my good father's stock never 
 seemed to diminish. Patches of varied hues in the 
 nether garments that had been cut down were many 
 and daring in their contrasts. Personally, I did not 
 mind my Joseph-like appearance, and was content not 
 even to notice that other lads were similarly adorned. 
 But, of all the cruel things, give me a schoolboy who is 
 bent on hurting another. His is the very refinement
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 3 
 
 of cruelty. He can and does not hesitate to put the 
 salt of sarcasm into the open wounds of sensitiveness. 
 My patches and lack of funds were an admirable target 
 for some of my schoolfellows' endeavours, and the 
 childish tears I shed in those days took many a year to 
 dry. 
 
 Jersey in 1880 was a dear little place. The island 
 was full of poor ladies and gentlemen. I will not say 
 that the absence of duty on tobacco and brandy must 
 have proved the attraction, but everything else was so 
 cheap that retired army officers found it a kind of India, 
 where money went farther and appearances were not so 
 difficult to keep up. It was here that I first knew that 
 most delightful and beautiful of ladies, Lily Langtry, 
 whom, though I cannot claim to be a countryman of 
 hers, no one admires more than I do in all those lovely 
 islands. How often has her old father, Dean le Breton, 
 walked with me to school down the old hill of 
 St. Saviour's, on the top of which nestles the church of 
 the same name, where he was dean for so many years, 
 and in whose quiet little churchyard sleeps one of my 
 dearest friends, and one of the greatest gentlemen I 
 have ever met, dear Henry Kemble. 
 
 I have returned to Jersey in the later days, but I 
 doubt if it is ever wise to renew acquaintance with the 
 places that have given us deep emotions and great 
 pleasures. We all of us forget that it is ourselves, the 
 time and the circumstance, not the spot itself, that 
 have called forth something that was best in us. We 
 see the same sun — the grass that it beats on may be as 
 green — and the great trees perhaps only more wonder- 
 ful, but the voices that rang across the meadows to us 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 have long been hushed and we wait in vain for those 
 footfalls on the forest paths that we shall never hear 
 again. The market place ! The great streets ! The 
 harbour and big hotels ! ! ! Just to see them once 
 again ! I confess that I trembled with excitement and 
 longing, as I neared the home of my childhood. I 
 said to myself I would go here and there, I would see 
 where such and such a thing had happened, and I 
 would live those joyous hours all over again, older and 
 therefore better able to appreciate and think of them 
 alone. But it was not to be. The market, with its old 
 women in their white French caps, seemed tiny. The 
 great streets had shrunk. In the shops that I remem- 
 bered I saw bright and alert young men. " Is Mr. 
 So-and-so here now ? " I inquired. " Lor' ! no, sir," 
 came the answer. ** He's been dead and gone this ten 
 year ! " " And who are you ? " I would inquire. " I 
 am his son, sir," would come the invariable answer. 
 
 And I kept finding myself wandering through the 
 town, mentally shaving manly faces to try and find the 
 lads I had known so well, or dyeing silvered hair in my 
 mind's eye, trying to set back the clock a score of years, 
 to make the elderly matron the *' Miss " that I had 
 admired. I was a veritable Rip Van Winkle. " Are 
 we so soon forgotten when we are gone ? " Let the 
 man who has not stopped to realise what tragedy lies 
 in those few words return after long absences to places 
 that have known him. 
 
 Up a winding thoroughfare, once so imposing and 
 now so small, down a street and past a church, and here 
 was our house. In the front garden stands a small 
 cement fountain, a poor little thing covered with
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 5 
 
 nasturtiums. How well I remember the day that it 
 was set there, and how many the admiring glances and 
 words of praise that were showered on it. And the 
 memory of the conscious pride that we possessed what 
 the three other houses in the row did not came vividly 
 before me. On the front door of this granite villa was 
 the very lock my father had put there — a Yale lock. 
 The lady living in our house showed me its key, the 
 very key he had worn upon his chain. The hall passage 
 way seemed very narrow. Surely this was not where 
 I had lived ! I hurried through to the big drawing- 
 room where the minauls used to hang, and the other 
 rooms, from whose walls the black bucks' heads 
 had so often fallen for lack of camphor. Yes, they 
 were all there, but it was as a bagatelle board to a 
 full-size billiard table. Ah ! but the garden, that was 
 large ; was not the greenhouse one of the biggest in the 
 town ? Through the kitchen I must run to the green 
 gate and make sure. Why did I halt and stand 
 irresolute ? Was it because I had some strange feeling 
 that I should see the old gardener of by-gone years 
 bending over his roses, or nailing up the young peaches 
 to the southern walls ? Or was it that I felt it would be 
 impossible to open that wicket and not hear my father's 
 voice calling as he used to for us boys to come and help 
 him ? Surely I should see him as I knew him coming 
 towards me down the box-lined path and saying, " So, 
 my boy, you're home at last ! " just as he did when I 
 came back late from school. But the gate opened and 
 everything was still ; I let it close behind me, and it 
 was many a minute before I could move or speak. It 
 was, as with everything else, the same, but it looked so
 
 6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 small and poor. If my father could only have walked 
 down that path, and I could have said, " Come along 
 with me. There are many things you wanted and you 
 couldn't afford. Now I can give them to you ! " 
 
 I closed my eyes, and I saw before me the well-knit 
 figure of the powerful little soldier whom I had not 
 been permitted to know and grow up for. Was it my 
 imagination that he was smiling at me as I wept, as if 
 to reassure me that he was happier than I could ever 
 hope to make him ? I pray so. All the well-deserved 
 thrashings I had received were forgotten in that 
 moment. I only realised the sorrow of being too late. 
 I could only picture with dimmed eyes my mother and 
 the rest of our little family who have been sleeping 
 many a year in the peace of an island churchyard. 
 
 My school life at the Jersey College and at an Army 
 crammer's was, I fancy, much the same as any other 
 boy's. I studied little, I knew nothing, and was looked 
 upon as a joke, never shifting my position from the 
 bottom of the form year in and year out — indeed, I was 
 always in trouble. In fact, so regular were my canings 
 that, if I had an appointment after school in the 
 racquet court or playing fields, I always asked from 
 habit for ten minutes' grace, while I went to the Head's 
 study to take my nine on the hands with his curling 
 implement. My offences were only the outcome of high 
 spirits — rags in the dormitories, or assisting to trundle 
 the helmet of one of the twelve Jersey policemen down 
 a by-street, and the like. 
 
 I remember on one occasion, at the end of afternoon 
 prayers, hearing the usual old sentence come from the 
 Head : — " I want to see Hicks major, at four o'clock."
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 7 
 
 I walked into the book-lined room, and, as was my 
 custom, asked no questions, but simply held out my 
 hand. " Not to-day, Hicks," I heard come from behind 
 the desk I knew so well. " I wanted to let you know 
 that you can have a whole holiday to-morrow, as I 
 understand it is your birthday," and for the first time I 
 left the room not hurt, but a little disappointed ! 
 
 Undoubtedly the reason that I occupied my time in 
 every conceivable prank arose from the fact that I had 
 not the slightest desire to enter the profession chosen 
 for me. The work had no interest for me. I have 
 always had the greatest respect and admiration for the 
 Army, but never had the slightest inclination to join it. 
 The waiting-for-dead-men's-shoes aspect of it, even as 
 a boy, never appealed to me, and the prospect of having 
 to obey old gentlemen in cocked hats, simply because 
 nine-tenths of them had grown so old that they were 
 obliged to wear cocked hats, was one at which I 
 shuddered. 
 
 Consequently I went up for my " prelim." when 
 the time came, with no anxiety, as I knew it was 
 impossible for me to pass. Indeed, one of the 
 examiners told me afterwards that the only hope of a 
 commission that he could hold out to me at any time 
 would be one in the " Shoe-Black Brigade ! " He may, 
 perhaps, have been a little more severe than was 
 necessary, thanks to the ingenuity of a youthful joker 
 next me, who had, all unknown to me, filled in my 
 identification papers with untruthful, if humorous, 
 statements. Indeed, it became as certain to the powers 
 that were as to myself that while I might be an officer 
 of one sort or a gentleman of another, it looked almost
 
 8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 morally impossible for me to perform that very difficult 
 feat of becoming both at the same time. 
 
 I was now nearly fifteen, and the question of what I 
 was to be became a matter of grave consideration for 
 my poor mother, whose slender means hardly gave her 
 a wide choice. To tell the truth, I had longed almost 
 from the days when I was a tiny child to become an 
 actor. I may have inherited the taste from my father, 
 who was the crack low comedian in all the regimental 
 theatricals in which he appeared, always getting up, as 
 he did, the entertainments for the soldiers and their 
 charities. 
 
 Be that as it may, after having made my first 
 appearance at the age of nine years as Buttercup in 
 " H.M.S. Pinafore," I never thought of being anything 
 but a facer of the footlights. I was cast for this part at 
 Prior Park College, Bath, because I suppose I was " as 
 plump and pleasing " a person as the part demanded. 
 At that time, of course, the witty lines of the great 
 humorist who wrote them were to me unintelligible, and 
 I wondered why the house roared as I replied, in answer 
 to a question, " That is the idea I intended to convey." 
 But I have learned in later years that the lack of 
 knowledge of the author's meaning is not wholly 
 confined to schoolboys. 
 
 The theatre at Prior Park College was a permanent 
 one, and on revisiting it some time ago I found it to be 
 one of the best of its kind anywhere in England. 
 After " Pinafore" I became a sort of star, being always 
 cast for good parts, and having all my inclination 
 for the stage fostered by the priests. One old gentleman, 
 by the name of Shepherd, who taught me elocution,
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 9 
 
 had, I remember, a tantalising way of illustrating things 
 with fruit and other delicacies applicable to the word. 
 Many a time he would say "Open your mouth wide 
 and round your lips. Say ' orange.' Now open wide 
 enough to put the orange in your mouth," and he would 
 hold the orange up before my eyes. I would bravely 
 make the attempt, hoping I should be given the fruit 
 for my prowess, but no ! it always went back to its dish. 
 The old man committed suicide during my period of 
 tuition with him, and I have been so near doing the 
 same thing after listening to reciters that I often 
 wonder whether I was an accessory to his hurried 
 departure from this planet. 
 
 Wybert Rousby, who had the Theatre Royal, Jersey, 
 was the first actor I remember, and I used to think him 
 splendid. I have often followed him about the streets 
 wrapt in admiration — often have I been to see him 
 play in " The Battle of Jersey," a drama which was a 
 favourite in the islands, and often, too, in the tableau 
 of the well-known picture of the same name, where 
 Major Pierson is lying dying, while his black servant 
 points a gun at a woman and a boy in the Market 
 Place (the boy, by the way, being Mrs. Langtry's grand- 
 father); often did I (aged eleven), I blush to say, flip 
 peas from the upper boxes on to the dying Pierson, 
 who could only twitch his face every time the aim was 
 true — though Wybert used sometimes, when he was 
 dead, to open his eyes and look up with a " you-wait- 
 you-boys " expression, and we used to exit hurriedly. 
 I gather that his " Belphegor " and his " Man in the 
 Iron Mask," which I frequently saw him play, were 
 considered good second-class acting, though at one time
 
 10 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 in his career he looked like becoming a great star. He 
 had a very handsome face, but his height was against 
 him, he being short for a tragedian. In his later years 
 he at times used to love to tell his reminiscences over a 
 rather too flowing bowl, the consequence being that his 
 good wife put him on an allowance of 6d. a day. This 
 he told me, adding — " But, dear boy, do you know what 
 I do ? I save it all up, and then spend the lot on old 
 Scotch ale on the Saturday." He was a fine, if rather 
 ranting type of the old melodramatic actor, and I often 
 think of him with many an affectionate remembrance. 
 
 It was directly after I had been ploughed for the 
 service that I repeated what I had been so often 
 forbidden to say, that I intended to go on the stage. 
 This suggestion, as always before, was immediately 
 knocked on the head, and instead I was sent off to 
 start life in London as a wine merchant's clerk, with 
 no salary and an allowance of is. ^d. a day to pay for 
 my train fares and buy my lunch. 
 
 Oddly enough I found myself in Leadenhall Street in 
 the offices of Frederick Toole, a nephew of one of the 
 kindest of men, J. L. Toole, whose company I was 
 afterwards to join for such a long and happy time. 
 I loathed that office, but was there not a good 
 omen in my being sent into the wine trade ? Did not 
 Henry Irving commence as a wdne merchant's clerk, 
 and did not the great Garrick himself assist his brother 
 in his wine business off the Strand ? The thought of 
 this helped me a little, but oh ! the life ! ! Making out 
 trade accounts, assisting in the cellar to bottle cheap 
 clarets, and taking out pockets full of metal discs made 
 to represent sovereigns, with " Toole's Whiskey is the
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS ii 
 
 best " on the one side, and the price of the delectable 
 liquor on the other, with instructions to leave them in 
 all public places whenever an opportunity occurred ; a 
 coffee and a bun for lunch, and then home dog-tired for 
 dinner at seven. That was the day. What a nightmare 
 it was ! I endured it for six weeks, doing everything 
 possible I could think of to get discharged. At last I 
 was successful, and I was pitched out neck and crop as 
 a boy who could never hope to succeed, for (idiot that I 
 was) I had signed bills of lading to get quantities of 
 champagne out of bond instead of port. I wonder if 
 it has ever occurred since to the kind-hearted wine 
 merchant in whose employ I then was that his young 
 clerk had done it purposely. 
 
 Discharged with ignominy ! This of course led to 
 the discussion of my future all over again. Failed for 
 the Army. Failed in the City. My mother realised 
 that her swan was a very inferior duck, and it was on 
 the occasion of my unworthiness being thrust down my 
 throat with more than usual severity that, losing my 
 temper, I said " Home or no home — money or no 
 money — I am off to be what I have always set my 
 heart on since I was a little child — I'm off to be an 
 actor." 
 
 The storm burst in all its fury. Relations eyed me 
 with a look I have seen on men's faces when they watch 
 the prisoner leave the dock for Portland ! Perdition ! ! ! 
 that was the terminus for which I had taken a single 
 ticket ! ! ! But the stage was my destination, perdition 
 or no. Five-and-twenty years ago a gentleman, to use 
 a much misapplied word, was rare'on the stage. Nowa- 
 days gentlemen hover round it as thick as May-flies
 
 12 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 on a Hampshire stream, and the majority of them, I 
 grieve to say, are extremely bad actors. 
 
 But this is by the way. The moment arrived. I was 
 turned out of my home with the few clothes I possessed, 
 and no money, the hope being, as I learned afterwards, 
 that this would bring me to my senses. The first 
 sensation of being alone in London without a penny, 
 but my own master, and about to become what I had 
 so longed dreamed of, an actor, was to me extraordinary. 
 Fifteen years of age, no knowledge of the world, eight 
 weeks' acquaintance with London, and not a soul to 
 whom I could apply. "What was to be done ? First of 
 all, I set to wondering where I should lay my head that 
 night. 
 
 Rich relations I had, living in Kensington. My pride 
 would not allow me to approach them. No. I sat 
 down on a bench in Hyde Park, and I then suddenly 
 bethought me of an old servant of ours who, after many 
 years of hard drinking and bad cooking, kept a lodging 
 house in Cornwall Road, Bayswater. Thither I tramped, 
 and poured out my woes to the good-natured creature, 
 who at once offered to give me a helping hand. The 
 kitchen sofa was placed at my disposal, and the scullery 
 sink pointed out to me as a substitute for the Turkish 
 bath. Poor soul ! it was the best she had to offer, the 
 rest of the house being let in floors to impecunious 
 tenants, who left her religiously alone to her libations. 
 Move one. I had a roof above me and a horsehair sofa 
 beneath, over which there hung a cheap German print 
 of the meeting of Wellington and Bliicher after the 
 battle of Waterloo. 
 
 And now, move two was to find someone connected,
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 13 
 
 no matter how remotely, with the theatrical profession. 
 I racked my youthful brains, and remembered that a 
 Mrs. Pratt Barlow, who was an old friend of my family, 
 had a son in Baker Street, and that he was a theatrical 
 acting-manager — whatever that meant. 
 
 The next morning I therefore sallied forth anxious 
 and expectant, to call on him and see what would come 
 of my visit. I found the house and was ushered into a 
 top floor room, where, sitting in an armchair with his 
 feet on the mantelpiece, I found a clean-shaven young 
 man (clean-shaved ! An actor ! My heart bounded ! !) 
 smoking a pipe. He was coatless, but wore the most 
 wonderful green waistcoat, crossed and re-crossed with 
 bright yellow stripes, that I had ever looked upon. 
 Again my story was told, the end of it being that this 
 young man, whose stage name I found to be Lilford 
 Arthur, told me that he was ** managing a show for 
 Charles Warner at the Grand Theatre, Islington, for a 
 fortnight, and if I were intent on making a fool of myself, 
 he, for my own people's sake, would help me to that end." 
 
 Away we went in a hansom, one of the few I had 
 ever been in, to the dingy old theatre in Islington, 
 christened by some humorist " The Grand." I found 
 myself jostled through a narrow door, and down on to a 
 dark and dirty stage, lit only by what I afterwards learnt 
 was a " T " piece, which consists of a few gas jets flaring 
 from a piece of straight iron piping. Crowds of dirty- 
 looking men stood about, waiting to be chosen as supers 
 in the next production, and I was told to wait with 
 them while my guide, philosopher, and friend would find 
 out from the prompter what could be done. 
 
 While waiting, sundry complimentary remarks were
 
 14 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 flung at me by my motley comrades, one I remember 
 being to the effect of " What does a toff Hke you want 
 to go on the stage for, taking the bread out of other 
 people's mouths ? Pipe 'im, Bill, he's got on a clean 
 shirt ! " 
 
 But their gibes were unheeded, my fate was trembling 
 in the balance. I could see a discussion going on in 
 the prompt corner. I did not wait long. A boy about 
 my age, with a bright smiling face, came up to me and 
 said, " Are you Hicks ? " I said that was my misfortune, 
 and he said, " Well, my name's Matthews — A. E. 
 Matthews. I'm the prompter, and you can start 
 supering if you like." 
 
 Like ! I nearly embraced him on the spot. " You 
 can only have one shilling a night," he said, "but if you 
 can do a small part, they'll probably give you a bit 
 more." 
 
 The moment I was engaged' I was a professional 
 actor, and the thought of that more than the money 
 made me as grateful to him for his words as I have 
 ever been in my life to anyone. 
 
 The rehearsal began. I was chosen with other supers 
 to be a guardsman, a convict, and a gamekeeper, and 
 several other highly important portions of different 
 crowds. Then a call came for those who could speak 
 lines. My friend Matthews stood with a packet of 
 brown paper covered "parts" in his hands scanning us 
 closely, looking, as I have often done since, for some 
 gleam of intelligence on the faces of small-part young 
 men, and he called for those who could speak lines. 
 To-day Matthews says that the words were hardly out 
 of his mouth before I had taken at least nine parts out
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 15 
 
 of his bundle. Be this true or not, I remember that I 
 did enact six different characters, and that I did speak 
 some odd lines, no doubt very oddly. But Matthews 
 helped me and showed me many kindnesses, and no one 
 rejoices more heartily than I do at the great success he 
 has achieved to-day in the parts in which he stands 
 without a rival. In those days he, too, had only just 
 commenced his career, and, exchanging confidences, we 
 became fast friends. When he knew my circumstances 
 he took me home to his mother's house and gave me 
 meals, for which I was then, and am still, very grateful. 
 
 On the stage everything was strange. The play was 
 a revival of " In the Ranks," and was being put on in 
 great haste. Everything was a rush and a scurry, there 
 was no time for the courtesies of the modern London 
 production. It was " Hurry up," " Get on," " Get off," 
 and " Why the devil aren't you quicker? " — every day 
 for ten days. 
 
 The first words I ever spoke on the stage were to 
 Charles Warner. I had, as a postman, to deliver him 
 a letter through a lattice window. I was unable to 
 open it, it being jammed and minus a latch, so deftly 
 pushing my fingers through one of the pieces of open 
 work trellis, meant to represent glass, I opened the 
 window and spoke my line — " A letter for Mrs. 
 Drayton." Warner was out of temper that morning, 
 a chronic condition, I afterwards learned, of all actor 
 managers with small-part people, and called me an 
 infernal idiot, asking me if I generally opened windows 
 in that way in my own home — if I had a home. He 
 little knew how nearly he touched me — my home was 
 a horsehair sofa, a German print, and a sink. I tried
 
 i6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 to explain, but the artistic temperament loathes 
 explanations, and so I let it go at that, and felt for 
 quite an hour that my career was over. However, the 
 great night came, November nth, 1887, and I arrived 
 very early at the theatre, with a lot of confidence and a 
 little make-up, and inquired where I dressed. Under 
 the stage, I was told, and accordingly down I went to 
 find myself in a veritable piggery. All about me, with 
 their clothes, which had been soddened with a day's 
 rain, in front of them in bundles, were the sandwich 
 men who had been walking the street that day adver- 
 tising the drama. At night they were to be guardsmen, 
 yokels, villagers, guests, and so forth. I shall never 
 forget that moment. I took my place among them on 
 a bench, and did as they did, changed my clothes for 
 those I had to appear in on the stage. If anything 
 could put a budding Thespian off his job, this I think 
 would have done it, but I faced it as unflinchingly as 
 Kean did the road from Penzance to Bath. My kind 
 friend Matthews gave me hints as to make-up, and on 
 hearing where I dressed moved me on the second night 
 into a room with some old actors, high up in the flies, 
 which was better, though the heat was stifling, owing 
 to the gas battens that grilled and sizzled all about us. 
 Never was I prouder than on that evening ; every 
 incident of it is engraven on my memory. Whether as 
 a soldier who cheered Warner for taking the Queen's 
 shilling at the end of Act II., or as a convict leaving 
 jail, I was enthusiastic and elated. I had made the 
 great plunge. Only one thing struck me as funny that 
 night ; I found myself leading a procession of betrothed 
 lads and lasses from the village church, with a poor
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 17 
 
 lady literally older than my mother, who was on the 
 eve of giving to good Queen Victoria another loyal 
 subject. I can hear the music now that she and I, in 
 our Paul-and-Virginia-like love, danced to. 
 
 This first fortnight of my career was by no means an 
 amusing one, though the old cook whose kitchen I 
 adorned was generally too poor to buy food or too 
 intoxicated to know the want of it ; and being quite 
 without funds of any kind, a cup of tea in the morning 
 and a piece of bread and butter was about all the food 
 I had during the day till night came on. But I was an 
 actor ! and what cared I ? The way I used to manage 
 was to set aside -^d. a day, and walk in the after- 
 noon from Bayswater to Islington. The piece over, 
 I went to the nearest potato can stall, and filling my 
 pockets with the largest and hottest I could choose, 
 started on my walk back home, arriving there in the 
 small hours. It was November, and the friendly potatoes 
 kept my hands warm, and then, Fregoli-like, turned 
 themselves into the most wonderful of suppers. 
 
 It was by the greatest good fortune that I did not 
 meet my death at the old Grand Theatre, Islington. 
 On the night of the tenth performance, when the 
 curtain had fallen, I started to take off my make-up as 
 usual with some cocoa-butter. " Laddie," cried one of 
 the actors in the room, " open your hands and take it 
 off with this. Cocoa-butter's no good." And accord- 
 ingly I did as I was told. A liquid was poured into 
 my palms, I dashed it straight on to my face, and 
 rubbed it well into my eyes. It was spirit-gum, which 
 is composed mostly of turpentine. The joke was a poor 
 one, the pain was excessive, and it was a good two 
 
 s.H. C
 
 i8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 hours before I was able to put on my hat, and with 
 streaming eyes try to find my way down a darkened 
 staircase. 
 
 After groping about carefully I at last reached the 
 stage, to find it in pitch darkness, there being no light 
 of any kind except the glimmer of a small pilot in one 
 of the front battens. I wandered about for some time 
 stumbling against pieces of scenery, dress baskets, 
 and stage furniture, and eventually found my way to a 
 green baize swing door that I knew led into a passage, 
 at the end of which the street stage door was situated. 
 I passed through, walked on, reached the door and 
 turned the handle, only to find it locked. I shouted 
 again and again, but no one answered. Then the 
 truth dawned upon me. If the watchman was not on 
 his rounds in the front of the theatre he must have 
 gone home, and I was alone in the vast building. 
 Never before or since have I had such a sensation. I 
 shouted again. I kicked the door with all my might in 
 the hope the noise would reach some passer-by in the 
 street, but the only sounds I got in reply were my own 
 words echoed back to me through the empty corridors. 
 
 I am bound to say that my tweed clothes suddenly 
 became transformed into one of W. S. Gilbert's suits 
 of blue funk. Narrow passages in the dark are the 
 most uncomfortable of all places. If anything passes 
 you it has to pass so very close. So I began to feel my 
 way along the wall back to the stage. By this time I 
 had got into such a state of nerves that I expected each 
 time I put my hand out to find it in the face of some- 
 one coming in the opposite direction. I knew that 
 sometimes supers have been found asleep in the cellars
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 19 
 
 of the theatre, and it did not take me very long to be 
 quite certain that not only was there a man, or men, 
 somewhere in the darkness, but that they were 
 desperate characters, and knew that I was at that 
 moment groping along that particular wall in fear and 
 trembling. 
 
 I now moved very quietly, kicking myself hard for 
 having been such an idiot as to have shouted as I had 
 done. At last I pushed against the pair of green baize 
 swing doors again, and I found myself on what I knew 
 to be the stage itself. I stood perfectly motionless in 
 the vague hope that I might see a friendly lantern 
 moving about in the front of the house. But every- 
 thing was still. One, indeed, could have taken handfuls 
 of silence out of the blackness, it was so intense. The 
 small remains of my fifteen and a half years' old 
 courage had now completely bidden me a good-night, 
 and the only question in my mind was as to where I 
 should be safest when the blow was aimed at me, for 
 that my time had come I had now no possible shadow 
 of doubt. Even to-day I would far rather take a good 
 thrashing, in the broad daylight, from a six-foot navvy, 
 than remain in doubt in the dark as to from what point 
 of the compass I was to be struck at ; and on this 
 occasion I felt I was to die on an empty stomach, for of 
 course I had been unable to turn my 3^. into the usual 
 wonderful baked potatoes. 
 
 After some thought I determined to get my back to a 
 wall and sit on the floor for the night. This, I felt, 
 would attract the least attention from the eyes that 
 were watching me, and it would be uncomfortable 
 enough to keep me awake. No one who has never been 
 
 c 2
 
 20 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 shut up in a theatre can reaHse what a grim place 
 darkness can make it. A neighbouring clock struck 
 one ; I had a good six or seven hours before me. 
 
 I waited and waited, and then I heard what, to my 
 acute ears, sounded like a charge of cavalry. Crash ! 
 bang ! something had fallen. A cold sweat of relief 
 broke out on my forehead as I heard a faint meow ! 
 It was only the theatre cat holding a midnight revel. 
 I am continually being chaffed for perspiring on the 
 stage when I dance. That cat is to blame. In one 
 brief moment it turned a provision of nature into a 
 habit. All through the night I was on the jump. In 
 the days before electric light was in general use, all the 
 theatres were lit by thousands of gas jets, the battens 
 over the stage being of wood covered with thin sheetings 
 of iron, holding practically all those lights by which the 
 stage was illuminated. Towards two o'clock in the 
 morning the process of their cooling commenced. 
 Bang ! bang ! bang ! cried one. Crash ! shrieked 
 another. For an hour these iron monsters became 
 almost human in their savage groanings. For all I 
 knew, they may have been cursing the quantity of bad 
 actors they were condemned to look down upon each 
 evening. If this was the case, I don't think their noise 
 was half enough. But, oh ! it was a nerve-wearing 
 affair that weird night. 
 
 I must have fallen asleep, for I was awakened at 
 seven o'clock by the dirtiest-looking woman I ever 
 remember to have seen in the early morning. I 
 asked who she was. She told me she was a cleaner, 
 and when she found out how I came to be locked in all 
 night she confessed to me that she was the bride of the
 
 BIRTH, BOTTLES AND BUSKINS 21 
 
 night watchman, who had left his post to be at home 
 with one of their children who was very ill, and implored 
 me not to say anything about it lest her husband should 
 lose his job. Needless to say, I did not. But I thought 
 a lot, for the very next night, two hours after the per- 
 formance was over, the Grand Theatre, Islington, 
 caught fire and was burned to the ground. Had the 
 actor who gave me the spirit-gum postponed his joke 
 for twenty-four hours, I should have been roasted more 
 successfully than I have ever been since by my critics. 
 
 This fire, although it was no doubt a serious affair to 
 the proprietors, was far more serious to me. They were 
 insured, but my los. a week had come abruptly to an 
 end. Another start had to be made — but where ? My 
 trusty Matthews suggested my going down to the old 
 Olympic Theatre, in Wych Street, where my friend 
 Lilford Arthur was managing for Mr. Yorke Stephens, 
 so off I went. I saw him, and he said he was sorry 
 that there was nothing he could do for me at the 
 moment.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 
 
 Two or three days elapsed, during which time I had 
 been to all the theatrical agents, and with unblushing 
 effrontery had entered my name on my old friend Mr. 
 Blackmore's books as a thoroughly competent dancer, 
 fencer, and singer, etc. ; in fact, I think the only 
 specialities for which I professed no aptitude were 
 tight-rope walking and snake charming. 
 
 Things were beginning to look black. Food was 
 scarce. My old cook was too tipsy to know or care 
 whether the Grand Theatre had been burned or not, 
 and so, with a courage born of hunger, back I tramped 
 to the Olympic to see Mr. Arthur. He had not come 
 that morning, but I was told to wait in his office. I 
 had not been long there when a cheery, good-looking 
 man hurried in and asked me what I was doing. 
 "Waiting for Mr. Arthur," I replied, "to start work 
 for him." Those last five words settled my fate. Mr. 
 Yorke Stephens, for it was he, construed them into 
 meaning that I was engaged and waiting to start work. 
 I had meant that I was waiting in the hope of being able 
 to start work. He flung me a large bundle of letters, 
 saying, " Mr. Arthur is not well to-day ; you had better 
 do my letters and things instead." In a second my coat 
 was off, and I found myself answering the door, running 
 messages, and then sitting down to write out compli- 
 mentary tickets by the hundred. In five or six hours I
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 23 
 
 wrote the words " Pass two " and ** Complimentary " 
 more often than I have ever done since for the most 
 successful play that I have ever been connected with. 
 
 Two days passed, and Mr, Arthur returned. " Hello ! " 
 he said, when he saw me working, " what on earth are 
 you doing here ? " "I am working for Mr. Stephens," 
 I replied. " Oh ! are you ? " he said ; " then have a go 
 at these." And again I was buried under an avalanche 
 of letters, answering questions, sending messages, and 
 in fact finding myself that very important person, keeper 
 of the ante-room to a manager's office. 
 
 Two weeks went on in this way. How I lived at that 
 time I hardly know. Tea and bread-and-butter, and a 
 long walk to and from the theatre, was all I had to 
 keep going on, except my youth and an ambition that 
 would have vaulted the moon, when one morning Mr. 
 Stephens said, " What is your salary, Hicks ? I don't 
 see you down for anything." And then the truth came 
 out. They laughed heartily, and, as I had worked hard, 
 not only approved of my engaging myself, but gave me 
 15s. a week as a start. 
 
 And then I begged to be allowed to go on the stage 
 in any capacity. Well, they'd see. The end of their 
 seeing was that I became the call-boy at an extra los., 
 and thus at a bound I was in possession of 25s. a week, 
 enough to eat and live on, and even to go by bus to 
 and from the theatre. This was in November, 1887, 
 and with the exception of four weeks, I have never been 
 out of an engagement for four-and-twenty years. With 
 a practical permanency now assured, my first move was 
 to acquaint my mother with the fact that I could keep 
 myself. She received me with open arms. Poor dear !
 
 24 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 she had worried her Hfe out about me, and I verily 
 believe she would have allowed me to start making 
 counterfeit coins in the back drawing-room rather than 
 let me leave home again. All this great good fortune 
 had come within five weeks. Though my hours began 
 at nine-thirty in the morning, and finished when I got 
 home in the small hours of the next day, had I not 
 health and strength, and above all, was I not in my 
 wonderful and splendid profession ? 
 
 The luck of the Olympic now changed. E. S. Willard, 
 a young actor who had taken London by storm as 
 The Spider in " The Silver King," came to star with 
 Henry Neville in the revival of "The Ticket-of- Leave 
 Man." I was promoted to under-prompter and given a 
 few lines ; and so, shaking the dust of the office from 
 my willing shoes, I began the life I had longed for — 
 behind the curtain. And what a lot there is to be 
 learned at the prompt table ! There you can watch the 
 working of big minds ; all their alterations are filtered 
 through the prompter's brain into the prompt-book. 
 He gets to learn the reason why things are done. I 
 think I learned more in the two years I was doing this 
 than ever afterwards. 
 
 Henry Neville of course played his original part of 
 Bob Brierley, and how the house used to rise at his 
 truly magnificent performance, and how kind too and 
 gentle he was to all us midgets who served in even the 
 most humble capacities ! And Willard ! He was my 
 dramatic god. To me he has always been, and always 
 will be, a joyous, affectionate, and instructive remem- 
 brance. I worked for him in production after produc- 
 tion, sometimes under great difficulties, and sometimes
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 25 
 
 meeting with his displeasure. But irritability is 
 excusable in a man who has not quite reached his 
 position, and is waiting for a public to shout " All 
 right " when he has passed the post. I remember well 
 his once slapping my face. It was on the first night of 
 " The Ticket-of- Leave Man." There was more than 
 the ordinary excitement among the audience as to 
 whether he would again make good, this being his first 
 starring engagement, I think, after leaving Wilson 
 Barrett ; so that when he stepped on to the stage as 
 The Tiger, made up in a silver crape-hair beard, the 
 house fairly shouted at him. But he had not gone 
 very far when there were slight titterings from the stalls 
 and whisperings from the other parts of the auditorium. 
 He grew slightly uneasy, and then, from where I stood 
 in the prompt corner, I discovered what had happened ; 
 his beard had become unstuck from his left cheek and 
 was hanging down below his necktie. I endeavoured 
 to draw his attention to the fact, but he would not look. 
 In my anxiety for my idol, I tried coughing, stamping, 
 and various other devices, all of which failed. I then 
 in my eagerness to help him picked up a ginger-beer 
 bottle and began tapping it with a piece of iron, and 
 continued this throughout his big scene. What he 
 must have gone through I can understand now. The 
 curtain fell on the act, and as I stepped towards him 
 he boxed my ears — I wonder he did not kill me. When 
 the play was over, and had ended in a triumph for him, 
 I explained as well as I could, and he was more than 
 sorry for his loss of temper, which was amply justified. 
 There should be no law against the murder of 
 prompters who fidget. The first line I ever spoke in
 
 26 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 London was on this occasion, and I was fined a 
 shilling for gagging it. I had to exit as an office-boy 
 saying, " Good-day, sir, I shall be back in an hour ; 
 I'm going to have a game of billiards." The slang 
 catch word of the town at the time was " good old " 
 everything, and being certain to get a laugh, as I felt, I 
 said, " Good-day, sir, I'm off to have a good old game 
 of billiards." The house roared, and I got fined a 
 shilling. This taught me a lesson, and from that day 
 to the present time I have always felt that gagging 
 is a most reprehensible practice, and I hope all will 
 avoid it — as I do ! 
 
 This first performance was full of happenings. An 
 old actor who was playing the part of Mr. Gibson, the 
 banker, in the scene of the burglary, rushed on to the 
 stage in the last act, tripped up, fell on his face, and in 
 the flurry and excitement shouted, " Help ! help ! the 
 cash-box is open and the safe has gone." This caused 
 great fun and amusement in the gallery. But the most 
 amazing and touching thing which occurred that night 
 was when a dear old actress. Grannie Stephens, just 
 before going on in a front scene, was told at the side of 
 Mr. John Clayton's death, which had occurred in Liver- 
 pool. She was one of his oldest friends, and was 
 moved beyond expression. Poor old lady ! she was a 
 great age even then, and the shock so unnerved her 
 that in the middle of one of her long speeches, in which 
 she was getting roars of laughter for scolding Green 
 Jones about his trotters, and Miss St. Every Monkey, 
 as she called Jones's sweetheart, about her marriage, she 
 burst out crying, and looking at the audience said, 
 *' Oh ! ladies and gentlemen, I can't go on ! Poor John
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 27 
 
 Clayton is dead ! " It was very pathetic. I think this 
 was the last time she ever appeared. 
 
 1887 was just at the end of the lesser palmy days. It 
 was at this time that every piece which was perpetrated 
 by any kind of author was tried at a matinee. I often 
 prompted four new productions a week — all of them 
 running one consecutive performance, ninety-nine per 
 cent, never having the smallest chance of getting into 
 an evening bill. Strangely enough, these pieces were 
 nearly always played by the same group of actors and 
 actresses ; a little coterie who had not the luck to be in 
 continuous work at night. 
 
 If any stranger was seen about the stage, it was five 
 to one he was making arrangements to book the theatre 
 for an afternoon performance. It was owing to this — 
 and I know he will forgive my telling the tale — that 
 my old friend Bassett Roe, who was always the pink of 
 courteous attention to everyone with whom he came in 
 contact, drew from some wag the remark : " The 
 reason dear Bassett takes his hat off to every servant 
 girl he meets is because he thinks that some day she 
 may be giving a matinee." Certainly the strangest 
 people did appear, never to be seen again after their 
 one afternoon. 
 
 This matinee vogue gave amateur authors an oppor- 
 tunity of paying to see their absolute rubbish played by 
 professional actors ; and that abomination of abomina- 
 tions, the amateur actor and actress, would constantly 
 have the impertinence to appear in any classic part 
 they fancied, supported by a first-class professional 
 company, whose lack of means in most cases obliged 
 them to subject themselves to this, the greatest of
 
 28 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 indignities. As may be supposed, most of these per- 
 formances were put on anyhow, and so many amusing 
 things occurred at them that if ever we were dull or in 
 doubt as to how to spend a happy afternoon, it became 
 the fashion to go and have a good laugh at some 
 amateur's Hamlet, or at the atrocious rubbish labelled 
 a " New and original play in four acts." I remember 
 one poor soul who played Hamlet, with all the best 
 actors in London to support him, his only recom- 
 mendation for the part being a rather fine narrow 
 forehead and a receding chin. He was the son of rich 
 parents, his father having made his money in a very 
 large carrier's business. The matinee must have cost 
 £500 in salaries alone. The laughter began at 
 Hamlet's entrance, and continued merrily throughout 
 the afternoon, a mighty roar arising when the King 
 (was it by accident or design ?) misquoted his lines to 
 the Queen, and instead of saying, " Full thirty journeys 
 hath the sun and moon," etc., substituted for them, 
 " Full thirty times has Pickford's van gone round." A 
 week later the melancholy matinee-giver started for 
 Australia, and threw himself overboard in the Bay of 
 Biscay. Sad though his end, it is a step which all 
 amateurs should seriously think of taking — though, if 
 possible, before and not after their appearance. 
 
 It was about this time that another of these lunatics, 
 disporting himself as the Moor of Venice for one 
 performance, was advised that no real artist ever played 
 Othello unless he blacked himself all over. This he 
 religiously did, but I am bound to say he had more 
 presence of mind than many an old hand would have 
 had when he found himself in a difficult position, for
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 29 
 
 on the great day at the end of one of the scenes, the 
 words failing him altogether, he, with the utmost cool- 
 ness, simply put one hand on Desdemona's head, and 
 pointing to Heaven with the other, said, " More I 
 cannot tell you, child ! But there is One above who 
 knows all. Ring down ! " The humour of this sort of 
 thing may not appeal to the layman, but it helps con- 
 siderably to lighten the lot of the poor professional. 
 
 The motto of the amateur seems to be, " It is better 
 to have had a frost than never to have played at all." 
 
 To me he always has been, and always will be, a red 
 rag. I resent their playing at my work because they 
 can manage to buy a wig and learn a few words. They 
 never realise that the art of acting is as difficult as any 
 of the arts, and they choose it gaily as the vehicle for 
 their incompetence ; though they never dream of bu3ang 
 brush, paints and millboard — the use of these being no 
 more difficult, the only diff"erence being that they leave 
 a smudge and dirt on the painter's canvas, and convey 
 nothing, while on nature, although they convey even 
 less, there is no record of their outrage. " What do 
 you think of our Amateur Club ? " said an enthusiast 
 to W. S. Gilbert. " I think they are not so much a 
 club as a bundle of sticks," said the master of repartee. 
 
 In mentioning amateurs, I speak of that vast majority 
 who like to paint their faces in aid of mythical charities. 
 I do not, naturally, include such an actor as Mr. Alan 
 McKinnon, who, had he chosen to become a pro- 
 fessional, would have made a great name for himself ; 
 or, indeed, of many of the Old Stagers Dramatic Club 
 who, with their excellent art, delight the audiences they 
 play to each year at Canterbury.
 
 30 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 But the others — oh ! most of the others ! ! ! 
 
 Good amateurs are as hard to find as the village 
 drunkard who does not insist on impressing upon you 
 that his ruddy nose is caused by indigestion and not by 
 alcoholic pleasantries. 
 
 The way productions were dodged together in those 
 days cannot better be illustrated than by describing a 
 matinee performance we gave of " Macbeth " at the 
 Olympic. This tragedy was given by a Mrs. Conover, 
 who went on for Lady Macbeth and engaged Mr. 
 Willard to play Macbeth. " Held by the Enemy" was 
 in the evening bill at the time, and as we were short of 
 Shakespearean sets, I conceived the idea of utilising for 
 the matinee performance some of the scenery we used 
 at night time in the drama. This we did, and the 
 modern drawing-room scene of Act H. in " Held by the 
 Enemy " became the dimly-lighted " Banquet Hall of 
 Macbeth " and the same scene later, upside down, with 
 the curtains off, became *' The Battlements by Moon- 
 light." 
 
 Very few of the actors knew much about the 
 Immortal Bard's intentions on that afternoon, and in a 
 daily paper the next morning that prince of critics, 
 Clement Scott, gave me my first notice. He wrote in 
 finishing his column : — 
 
 " And the prompter, although seen at rare intervals, 
 soon became a favourite with the audience." 
 
 In after years at the Court Theatre, I remember well 
 he wrote of me as follows : — 
 
 " A young gentleman by the name of Hicks played 
 the part of the other brother. No doubt he will become 
 a real idol of the public, for he shouts so loudly that
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 31 
 
 they will always be able to hear him by standing out- 
 side on the pavements and will never be obliged to pay 
 to go in and see him." 
 
 Scott could be cruel, but many actors to whom he 
 did great services quite forgot in the days of his troubles 
 with them that he could also be kind. Few critics 
 knew so much about acting — none more. And he did 
 not do what so many critics are so fond of doing — damn 
 the player's method without pointing out the remedy. 
 I had the pleasure of knowing him very well. He was 
 a very tender-hearted man ; and it was this trait in his 
 character that really led him into fights and discussions 
 and partisanships which ultimately ended in his going 
 to America, much to the loss of the English stage. He 
 was a man of moods, and was apt to get hysterical and 
 go either to one pole or the other — flaying alive, or 
 caressing to death. He did some playwriting, and the 
 story is told of his adaptation of " Denise " which, true 
 or not, is amusing. 
 
 It had been in the hands of several London managers, 
 each having it as his property for a considerable period, 
 and each in turn paying a considerable sum of money 
 on account of fees, which became forfeit to Scott on 
 non-production. At last Augustus Harris took an 
 option on it, he paying -^200 on account of royalties. 
 Being in want of a piece, Harris decided that he would 
 try the play at once. A friend of Scott's got the news 
 first hand, and rushing to the author's house, shouted : 
 " All my congratulations, old man ; Harris is going to do 
 your play ! " 
 
 "Is he, by George!" said Scott. "Then I am 
 ruined ! "
 
 32 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Of course, there were occasionally good matinee 
 productions, but they were few and far between. One, 
 I remember, was of an historical drama that went 
 smoothly enough until almost the very end of the last 
 act, when there came one of the biggest laughs I have 
 ever heard in a theatre — a laugh, of course, that was not 
 intended by the author. The house was full of actors 
 and actresses who would be perhaps quicker to see the 
 humour of the situation than others, as the loss of a 
 " property " created it, and the loss of words or of 
 important properties generally is the form that an 
 actor's nightmare takes. 
 
 The scene was a dungeon, and in it chained to the 
 wall was a Royalist hero on the eve of execution. The 
 heroine entered to bid him farewell for the last time, 
 and a scene was enacted between the pair in which the 
 withers of the audience were wrung, watching as they 
 did the breaking of two hearts and the parting of a 
 devoted man and woman. The main object of the 
 heroine's arrival, in addition to saying farewell, was 
 that she brought for her lover's use a small phial of 
 poison which would cheat the hangman on the morrow 
 and spare him the indignity of a public execution. In the 
 nervousness of a first performance, however, the lady 
 who played the heart-broken girl forgot this part of the 
 plot entirely, and left without handing over the all- 
 important means of escape. The actor realised her 
 mistake when it was too late. She had gone ; in vain 
 he called for her return, but she came not. In vain he 
 walked to the prompt corner, but, as is usual when a 
 prompter is really wanted, he was not there. The 
 situation was a hopeless one, and he stood in the centre
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 33 
 
 of the stage, beginning his last farewell to the world 
 without the faintest notion of how he was to get out of 
 it. No sword, no gun, no poison, no anything. The 
 actors and actresses in the audience were quick to see 
 his dilemma, and waited with sympathetic eagerness to 
 see what he would do. The inspiration of genius came 
 to him, and with tragic intensity he declared : 
 
 " And so to-night I die. Yes. Never, oh ! never 
 shall it be said that the last of the De Courceys fell by 
 the hand of the paid executioner ; no, never ! never ! " 
 And suddenly, with a convulsive twitch of the head 
 and the raising of his arm, he cried, " Ah ! Thank 
 Heaven ! I have broken my neck ! " and fell prone. 
 
 The play was ended. It is not unlike the story of the 
 actor who in a scene of an escape from Portland, to his 
 horror found that there was no warder, as there should 
 have been, to shoot him dead as he made his bold dash 
 for liberty. The play depended on this warder's gun 
 being fired. The actor, as in the previous story, had to 
 die, so throwing up his arms, he, too, fell lifeless, crying 
 '* Ah, shot, shot ! and by an air-gun ! " 
 
 Things equally ridiculous, though necessary, were 
 always occurring — audiences expressing themselves with 
 no uncertain voice and no hesitation to be personal. I 
 remember myself playing the part of the Doctor in 
 " Heartsease." Grace Hawthorne was the Camille, 
 and — I hate to say so — she was by no means good 
 as the consumptive heroine, a fact that the audience were 
 not slow to recognise ; so that in the last act, when she 
 lay dying, and her maid Ninette turned to me and said : 
 
 '* Doctor, is there any hope ? " And I replied : 
 
 " She will be better in the spring," a voice from ^he 
 
 S.H. D
 
 34 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 gallery rang out clear and bright, " We 'ope to Gawd 
 she will, gov'nor." (Loud cheers.) 
 
 Talking of audiences making personal comments, I 
 remember hearing at the Richmond Theatre, not many 
 years ago, a remark from the pit which made me laugh 
 and amused the house enormously. A gentleman who 
 was playing the part of the Cardinal in " Under the 
 Red Robe " was extremely bad, and the audience 
 had been fidgety throughout the evening, and were 
 thoroughly conscious they were witnessing a most 
 inferior performance on the gentleman's part. At the 
 end of the last act all the characters in the play attack 
 the Cardinal, and he, finding himself alone and without 
 power, turns on his tormentors, crying, "Am I then 
 only a howling pelican in the wilderness ! " A man in 
 the pit rose, saying, " Oh ! is that it. I've been wonder- 
 ing what the hell you were all the evening." 
 
 In the early days of 1888, with Henry Irving at the 
 Lyceum, Wilson Barrett at the Globe, and a big drama 
 company at the Olympic, a regular nest of what were 
 termed the " legits." (that is, serious actors) were always 
 to be found forgathering at the east end of the Strand. 
 I frequented a little restaurant in Holywell Street in 
 company with the younger members of these three 
 theatres, and it must have been ridiculous to have seen 
 us, although of course we were all thoroughly uncon- 
 scious humorists. The young men in each theatre 
 were all from top to toe the image of their respective 
 leading actors. 
 
 The stamp on the Lyceum youths was immense. 
 Aged from eighteen to twenty-three, most of them 
 cultivated the halting gait, the muffled tones, the long
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 35 
 
 hair and drooping hands of their great chief. They 
 flung themselves into the restaurant and across the 
 couches in pieces, ordered the waiters to hurry the 
 dinner (a is. 3^. ordinary with claret) " with all haste," 
 and by the time the sweets were reached they were 
 ordering their cheese in blank verse. 
 
 I was one of the few representatives of the Olympic, 
 and I was an exact replica in miniature of Willard. 
 My hair was grown long at the back, dragged away from 
 the left temple, my chin was well pushed forward, and 
 the deadly frown of the famous heavy man shadowed 
 my quite inoffensive face. A very high collar, a broad- 
 brimmed hat, with an Inverness cape, to which I had 
 added a replica of his Malacca cane — and the get-up 
 was complete. I sailed into this restaurant with the 
 somewhat lurching walk and rolling head that he, I 
 think, assumed a little in those days, and ordered food 
 as if I were planning the robbery of the restaurant's 
 dripping-dish that night " when all was dark." Our one 
 aim was to be taken for actors. I never went anywhere 
 without some sixpenny books of French's plays in my 
 hand, and loved it if the occupants of a third class 
 carriage on the Underground looked and nudged each 
 other — whispering, " An actor ! " 
 
 The Wilson Barrett division were less artistic looking, 
 perhaps, than the penny Lyceum tragedians, but they 
 were the Beau Brummels of Holywell Street to a man. 
 With curly hair falling in well-arranged, impromptu- 
 looking clusters, with bunches of gold seals on their 
 fobs, and staccato voices, they were indeed a funny 
 crew. 
 
 To-day one sees the budding Trees filing out of the 
 
 D 2
 
 36 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 stage-door of His Majesty's, but absent-minded though 
 they try to appear, with their voices a cross between a 
 bad attack of laryngitis and a Solomon Eagle with a 
 Dutch accent (of course, bearing no real resemblance to 
 Beerbohm Tree whatever) they are nothing like as 
 eccentric as we were in our day. How the man supplied 
 the dinner for us at is. ^d. a head, I can't conceive. 
 Soup, a piece of fish with yellow sauce and three capers 
 on it, etc., etc., joint, veg., and sweets — I can smell it 
 all now ! It is true he sold articles of a different nature 
 on the other side of his premises, the waiters being 
 experts in French literature as well as attending to our 
 wants ; so perhaps the swings paid for the roundabouts. 
 One-and-threepence certainly couldn't have given him 
 a large profit on five courses, with cheese. Many who 
 afterwards had the good luck to be unsuccessful, or 
 have become their own managers, poor devils ! were 
 among that company. 
 
 Martin Harvey, Jimmy Welch, and another, who 
 shall be nameless, with a sable coat he was so proud of 
 that he wore it through the entire summer and used to 
 punt in it on the river on Sundays, and dozens of 
 familiar names to-day recall the young men of that 
 time. Mind, those I have mentioned by name never 
 imitated their managers — I want that to be distinctly 
 understood, or I shall see libel actions looming round 
 from half the solicitors' offices in London. 
 
 Six months flew by, and " The Ticket-of- Leave Man " 
 came off. Many new plays were produced, among 
 them being a gloomy affair called "Christina," and 
 it was at one of the last rehearsals of this piece that 
 I was dismissed from the theatre by one of the authors.
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 37 
 
 Standing with a white flag upon a narrow spiral stair- 
 case, it was my duty to signal to the flyman to let go 
 the cannon-balls that run into the thunder-box. On 
 the night in question I gave the signal — bang went 
 the cannon-balls, but the wood of the box being old 
 and rotten they smashed through it. Down came two 
 of them on the staircase on which I stood, and while 
 I was busy saving my life another cue went which 
 I was unable to signal. The furious author refused to 
 allow the rehearsal to proceed until I was turned out 
 of the theatre as an incompetent idiot, and as this 
 gentleman had money in the production, out I had 
 to go. 
 
 On my way to the dressing-room, holding together 
 a broken heart and knowing that I had been treated 
 most unfairly, I saw Mr. Willard's dresser being dis- 
 charged for drunkenness. Here was a chance ! Any- 
 thing rather than leave the theatre ; and I begged 
 Mr. Willard to give me the job. At first he wouldn't 
 hear of it, but my entreaties at last prevailed, he feeling 
 as I hoped, that being in the theatre as anything might 
 get me my old position again. And we were right, 
 for I had only been his dresser for two nights when 
 the management sent for me. I don't say it con- 
 ceitedly, but I had become very useful at the Olympic. 
 I was there all day, early and late, and worked like 
 a slave, so I was missed. " Ask Hicks " had become 
 a sort of catch-word for people ; and now there was 
 no Hicks to ask, so I was sent for, and, explaining 
 about the cannon-balls, found myself doing all the old 
 routine in which I was learning my business. 
 
 The piece was a failure, but I remember one thing
 
 38 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 about it. I played an old retainer of seventy who 
 preceded Mr. Willard on his first entrance, saying, 
 " This way, down the path, Count." I had a most 
 elaborate make-up — older, I suppose, than Methuselah. 
 While we were waiting Willard said, " Great goodness ! 
 are you made up as a bit of cheese ? " This was a bit 
 of a damper, but the entrance was at hand and there 
 was no time to alter anything. I got my cue, hobbled 
 on to the stage, and the audience, thinking the 
 eccentric-looking little old man was Willard in a new 
 creation, cheered and cheered and applauded till the 
 rafters rang. The temptation was too great for me; 
 in all probability I should never hear anything in my 
 life like that for myself — I bowed my head and took 
 the reception. When Willard did come on there was 
 a yell of laughter, the audience seeing their mistake 
 and being very much amused, I suppose, at my 
 impertinence ! I need hardly say the next evening 
 I followed, instead of preceding, the leading actor. 
 
 The round of each day and night for my year or so 
 at the Olympic was much the same : rehearsing all 
 morning and afternoon and playing and prompting in 
 the evening. Work had become a habit, and from a 
 habit grew to be the greatest pleasure as, thank good- 
 ness ! it has always remained. Talking of habit, I 
 remember Wilson Barrett telling me a story of an old 
 call-boy of his who retired from that post through being 
 unable to run up and down the stairs quickly enough 
 at the age of fifty. He went into the undertaker's 
 business and became a mute. His place at funerals was 
 always immediately behind the hearse. One day, as the 
 funeral procession wended its mournful way, a German
 
 THE PROMPT BOX 39 
 
 band struck up in a side street. The call-boy heard 
 it, and absent-mindedly opening the hearse door called 
 " Overture and beginners, please ! " This sounds, like 
 most women, "almost too good to be true," but the 
 story is not bad and does not deserve the usual " And 
 did he ? " at the end of it.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ON THE ROAD 
 
 After we finished at the Olympic, Yorke Stephens 
 and most of the ordinary London company started 
 on a long provincial tour. I was sent off as assistant 
 stage-manager, playing quite important parts, my 
 salary having been now raised to one pound ten 
 shillings a week. The novelty of travelling, the 
 constant change and the greater responsibilities opened 
 up quite an exciting time. But in the provinces of 
 England in those days (it may not be so very long 
 ago, perhaps five-and-twenty years) the actor was 
 looked upon not only with indifference but with 
 absolute contempt by the majority of the landladies, 
 whose custom it was not to take in "professionals," 
 as we were termed. Many and many a time in look- 
 ing for lodgings I have been asked the question, 
 " From the theatre ? " and the reply being in the 
 affirmative, bang went the door in my face. 
 
 There is an old story of the earlier days that on the 
 approach of a troupe of travelling actors journeying by 
 road into a town, a cry would go up, " Hi, mother, 
 take in the washing, mummers be coming ! " But this 
 I doubt. The vision of a country clothes-line has never 
 caused me even the smallest tremor of excitement. 
 
 Provincial lodgings are desperate things. On arrival 
 the landlady, a red-faced, portly woman, with bare 
 arms, asks you to call her " Ma." Why, I have never
 
 ON THE ROAD 41 
 
 quite been able to understand. More than often she 
 shows you a photograph of an extremely plain young 
 lady in tights, with legs that make you wonder if there 
 is ever a time when asparagus is not in season, and 
 exclaims proudly, "My Annie." "My Annie," it 
 appears, has been the great success the year before at 
 the local pantomime as one of Sinbad's club friends, 
 it having been voted by the entire town that the way 
 Annie had said " And I," when Sinbad said " I vote 
 a B. and S.," was a thing that would not be forgotten 
 for many a long day in Sloshem-on-the-Push. 
 
 Unless you want to annoy a provincial landlady, and 
 make her in her anger surprise you by giving you a clean 
 plate, you must always call her " dear." I suppose the 
 lack of attention on their husbands' part must be made 
 up for to these worthies by the affectionate demonstra- 
 tions of their lodgers. There is always a visitors' book 
 in theatrical lodgings, with fearful and wonderful 
 quotations in it and recommendations to try " Ma's 
 Cottage Pie," or " This is home from home," etc., 
 and from cover to cover the careful and minute 
 descriptions and addresses of the persons who describe 
 and recommend " Ma " make one rather wonder 
 whether the book is used for " Ma's " benefit or as a 
 record of the visitors' own whereabouts and triumphs, 
 should some manager happen to open it. 
 
 The only appreciation of a provincial lodging that 
 I ever saw with real delight was one line over the name 
 of Charles Brookfield. It read : 
 
 •' Quoth the raven " 
 
 The landlady to this day does not know its meaning.
 
 42 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 and shows it proudly, thinking it is probably the catch- 
 word of a topical pantomime ditty. 
 
 Some of these keepers of theatrical lodging-houses 
 have a trick of either pilfering in all the smallest ways 
 possible or of breaking china and ornaments and 
 putting them down on the bills as the lodgers' work. 
 One old actor, John Howell, with whom I lived, and 
 who is chiefly remembered because when he went to 
 America he advertised his address in the Era newspaper 
 as " Atlantic Ocean clear, please," invariably travelled 
 with six mustard tins. The first time I saw them I 
 asked their use. " One moment, laddie," he replied, 
 "and I will show you." In these tins were various 
 things : tea, coffee, sugar, etc. " You note these 
 comestibles. Well, laddie, I have a feeling that this 
 week we shall be robbed, and I am going to test her 
 nibs," meaning the landlady. Round the room he 
 went and caught six flies, putting one into each tin 
 and replacing the lid. " Now, laddie, we will go out 
 for a walk, and on our return, should one of those flies 
 have escaped, never, laddie, will there have been heard 
 such a row in any lodging-house in the kingdom." 
 
 Baths, too, are things which are not considered 
 absolutely indispensable in many of the northern towns. 
 I remember at Hanley complaining that there was no 
 warm water, and that my bath must be brought punc- 
 tually at nine every morning. The landlady looked at 
 me and said, " A bath every morning, lovey ! You must 
 get mighty dirty at the theatre every evening to want a 
 tub every day. Eh, lad, theatre must be worse than 
 coal mine ! " 
 
 Sometimes I lived on tour with three other men, and
 
 ON THE ROAD 43 
 
 by clubbing together I managed very well on a pound 
 a week. Each took it in turn to cater. I, however, 
 was only allowed to do this for one week ; economy 
 even in those days was not my strong point, and I 
 nearly ruined the household by giving them a joint a 
 day, instead of making Sunday's dinner "appear again," 
 as the old chairmen at the music-halls used to cry to 
 their patrons. Talking of those extinct functionaries, 
 I remember once hearing a Lord Chesterfield of the 
 hammer sticking to his guns, on an occasion when an 
 artiste had thoroughly displeased the audience with her 
 first effort. She had left the stage to cat-calls and 
 other tokens of our English audiences' appreciation, 
 when the chairman cried, " Miss de Vere will appear 
 again, ladies and gentlemen." This provoked more 
 adverse criticism, during which a man in the pit rose, 
 and amidst the din shouted, " Miss de Vere is an ugly, 
 drunken devil, and she can't act, sing, or dance for 
 nuts! " The chairman turned, bowed politely to him, 
 and without comment replied, " Nevertheless, she will 
 appear again." Nevertheless ! It was immortal ! 
 
 "With my living expenses at about 23^'. I now found 
 myself able to squander fourteen sixpences a week. 
 And really, looking back on those days, I often think 
 how many of us in after life ever get so much ahead of 
 the game, as to be able to live like fighting cocks and 
 still be able to put away a quarter of our incomes. 
 
 Ah, those times of freedom from responsibility ! they 
 were happier days than we imagined. Then a theatre 
 of one's own was what we prayed for — to-day, the same 
 prayer, but that it may be someone else's. 
 
 How anyone with the ability to earn a fine, steady
 
 44 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 salary all the year round can be so insane as to barter 
 away peace of mind for the sake of seeing his name 
 a little lower or higher up on a poster is to me in- 
 credible. The only financial alteration in position of the 
 actor who goes into management is that he discusses 
 with his partners phantom profits — profits that enter a 
 box-office like a wraith and stalk through the theatre 
 till they reach the production account, and then dis- 
 appear into the night leaving no trace of anything 
 tangible behind him. If a man is a manager — let him 
 manage. If he is an actor — let him act. The latter is 
 the more difficult, but if a combination of the two is 
 attempted it generally ends in the poor fellow giving 
 early morning performances to a syndicate of Scotch 
 gentlemen, acting hard to them off the stage, and doing 
 little but manage to get through his part on it. Even 
 if the finances by some accident are satisfactory for a 
 time, the worry flung at him from all quarters the 
 moment he takes up the reins of management will 
 compel him to alter his choice of characters. " Eton 
 boys " no longer must be his, but " staid old gentle- 
 men," for he will find he has as many lines on his face 
 as he has been used to in his parts. 
 
 "Oh, blessed sunshine!" "Oh, glorious river!" 
 "Oh, rippling seas ! " " Oh, dearest wife and heavenly 
 child ! " Fancy how many of us have been obliged to 
 forego all your delights, simply because we have elected 
 to see those awful words, " Under the management of" 
 over our names. Let the speculator who gets his 
 pleasures and fresh air by breathing deeply into his 
 pass-book, manage. He wants no exercise to keep him 
 fit. He can get into a bath of perspiration every
 
 ON THE ROAD 45 
 
 morning by reading last night's receipts. Leave him 
 to it, then, and be happy. As a rule, theatrical backers 
 are tricky, unpleasant people, whose description might 
 be put into children's geography books as " A large 
 body of gentlemen not entirely surrounded by money." 
 
 The thing that struck me most about the regular 
 provincial actors whom I knew was, in most cases, their 
 absolute indifference as to whether they ever appeared 
 in London or not. For nearly fifty-two weeks year in 
 and year out they journeyed from town to town quite 
 contentedly, and indeed holding, I daresay quite rightly, 
 the London actor in contempt, as cramped in his 
 methods, and feeling that the breaking of a teacup in 
 some tragic scene was about the most violent emotion 
 he was capable of. 
 
 The real old high-falutin' actor one reads about, with 
 curly hair and a fur coat composed of real rat trimmed 
 with cat, was not in existence when I went on the stage 
 (was he ever, I wonder?), though there certainly was a 
 type to be met with in the provinces at this date not 
 to be found now. 
 
 I remember well an old-timer who, like one of Caleb 
 Plummer's toy horses, was as near nature as one could 
 get for 8^., holding forth grandiloquently in the bar 
 parlour of the " Peach Tree" public-house, Nottingham. 
 
 The bar parlour of any hotel near the theatre was 
 the actors' clubland in those days, and it was here on 
 the Sundays that all the professionals forgathered, the 
 old ones to discuss their future plans, the young ones 
 to listen — as I did — deeply interested in the glories of 
 the past. I supplied as my share of the evening's 
 amusement as much as my pocket would allow me, for
 
 46 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the libations which are most necessary to the smooth 
 running of any old actor's story. The friend I men- 
 tioned went by the sobriquet of "Dingbats" Milson. 
 Dingbats was the slang for feet — Milson having a pair 
 of somewhat wayward ones, so much turned out that 
 they looked as if they hadn't been on speaking terms 
 for years. He stood leaning on the bar polishing it 
 like an expert, and reeled off stories of triumphs in 
 the forties. 
 
 All these things struck me as wonderful, and timidly 
 I asked Mr. Milson if he had ever played Hamlet. 
 " Hamlet, laddie, Hamlet — a thousand times ! Ah ! and 
 what a cast we had at Motherwell, a town in Lancashire 
 — laddie, they speak of my performance there on the 
 street-corners to this day. Ah ! what a cast. The 
 Dane : Your humble servant, myself. Claudius, King 
 of Denmark : Griegson — every inch a king. Gertrude : 
 by the lady who honoured me by bearing my name. 
 The Ghost : Parkins — stately Parkins, when not in 
 liquor. Laertes : Courcell, good man and true, deadly 
 to the softer sex. The Digger : Watson — genial Watson 
 — humour personified ; and the fair Ophelia — by the 
 lady who at that period of my career was living with 
 me. Ah ! that was a cast if you like, laddie ! Thank 
 you, my boy, since you press me — I'll take a gin and 
 peppermint " ; and the rolling tear that had gathered no 
 moss for many a day made its entrance, soon to be 
 lost to view in an ample, though discoloured, shirt front. 
 
 They were fine old champions of a bygone day — 
 these hardy swashbucklers of the early fifties ; their 
 harmless exaggeration was amusing, and in no way 
 detracted from their many lovable and generous
 
 ON THE ROAD 47 
 
 qualities. One old tragedian I knew well, who, in 
 his time, had played many parts, managed to save 
 enough money to settle down in his native town of 
 Leicester, and buy for himself a little business — selling 
 for a living all kinds of goods, including things as 
 widely different as tobacco and quack medicines. 
 
 One of his specialities was what he advertised as his 
 " Elixir Dramaticus," and his description of it was to 
 me most amusing reading ; it was worded in this way : 
 
 ELIXIR DRAMATICUS. 
 
 The proprietor respectfully directs the attention of the dramatic 
 profession to his wonderful Elixir Dramaticus, of which he is the 
 sole inventor and proprietor. This marvellous preparation is 
 warranted to cure — 
 
 Pains in the back. 
 
 Dimness of sight. 
 
 Loss of memory. 
 
 Fear of bad parts. 
 
 Incapacity for acting. 
 
 No desire for curtain calls. 
 
 Horrors of early rehearsals. 
 
 Indifference to cues. 
 
 Dread of stage waits. 
 
 Blushings on meeting your manager. 
 
 Avoidance of the lime light. 
 
 No wish for the centre of the stage. 
 
 Insanity. 
 
 Death. 
 Price one shilling and three halfpence. 
 Try it to-day. Next week you may get your notice. 
 
 The only other cure I know of for the above ailments 
 peculiar to the actor is, full salaries for matinees — I 
 hope they always get it.
 
 48 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 My life as assistant stage-manager on tour was no 
 great catch. In the country theatres, ** You can't have 
 it " seemed to be the stock phrase, and every Monday 
 it was the prompter's duty to journey round the town 
 to various emporiums and try to borrow suites of 
 furniture, pictures, etc., for dressing the scenes 
 with, armed only with some free seats to be given for 
 the loan. 
 
 The keeper of an old furniture shop at Birmingham 
 said to me once : " You want a suite of old oak, do 
 you ? " " Yes," I replied. " And you will give me two 
 pit tickets for nothing ? " " Yes," I replied again. 
 " Well, if you don't get out of my shop, I tell you 
 what I'll do." " What ? " I inquired. " I'll turn 
 you towards the setting sun and kick you in the east" 
 — which immediately made me follow the old stage 
 directions of " Exit cautious through gap in hedge." 
 
 Many are the shifts to which the poor stage-manager 
 on tour is or was put at nearly all but the very best 
 provincial theatres. Most of the second-rate houses 
 were run by a stage staff consisting of a stage carpenter 
 and his family, — the gas man's only qualification for 
 his post being that he was the carpenter's nephew. 
 
 There is practically no management even to-day in 
 the provincial theatres, with the exception of about 
 half-a-dozen, the best by far of these being Mr. Chute's 
 house at Bristol. They are in the hands of theatrical 
 speculators, who, as long as they can manage to pay a 
 dividend of any kind to their shareholders, made out of 
 some dozen bookings of London stars in every year, 
 allow the theatre for the other forty weeks to take care 
 of itself. Some day, I suppose, the London managers
 
 ON THE ROAD 49 
 
 will wake up to the fact that they are the heart pump- 
 ing the blood into the provincial arteries, and instead 
 of being dictated to by " les juifs syndicats,'' will go on 
 tour on their own terms, or leave the provincial Crysos's 
 to starve, as they certainly would do if the big attractions 
 were withdrawn from them. 
 
 I well remember the hall at one small town in which 
 we were appearing being situated above the premises of 
 a large general provision dealer's. The drama we were 
 presenting had as its big sensation a river scene, for 
 which we travelled a huge indiarubber tank capable of 
 holding enough water two feet deep for boats to float 
 on. During the second performance of the play — at 
 this particular place of entertainment — the tank sprang 
 a leak and the water flowed out on to the stage, and 
 took a great deal of management to mop up. In the 
 middle of the proceedings I was told to go down at 
 once into the shop below and ascertain what all the 
 disturbance was — for disturbance there was of no 
 common kind. The act had just finished, and rushing 
 downstairs I found the keeper of the premises, who I 
 knew from his accent must be a German called Murphy 
 from Chicago, in the middle of an excited group of 
 customers. I inquired what was the matter. " Matter ! " 
 he shrieked, and turning on me he pointed angrily to 
 the ceiling ; " the matter is that your damned drama is 
 leaking into my shop." It was quite true, and what we 
 had to pay him for his biscuits which had become sop, 
 and other edibles which were floating gently round the 
 counters on a summer cruise, was more than the gross 
 receipts for our performance. 
 
 S.H.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN ISLAND night's ENTERTAINMENT 
 
 The ordinary actor's life in the provinces is an 
 appalling affair. Even to-day the young men can 
 learn little or nothing there, most of the older members 
 of the company being quite incapable of showing them 
 anything, and I was heartily glad, after travelling for a 
 year and a half, to find myself once more in London 
 rehearsing at the old Princess's Theatre in Oxford 
 Street. 
 
 The Princess's Theatre at the period was under the 
 management of Mr. W. W. Kelly, of " Royal Divorce " 
 fame, who was running that perennial drama on its 
 first production most successfully. 
 
 Kelly was a wonderful showman, brave and cheerful 
 under circumstances which would have made most men 
 tremble, and fighting tremendous odds with a good 
 humour and courage that it was impossible to behold 
 without admiration. It was he who when the receipts 
 fell so low that the great Cinquevalli could not have 
 balanced the accounts and all concerned felt the end 
 had come, invented with a flash of genius the " transfer 
 system," a move which saved a disastrous situation and 
 enabled him to keep the theatre open for months and 
 months. His system was based on the contention that 
 it is better to have a lot of people in an audience who 
 have paid something, no matter how little, than to sell
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 51 
 
 the seats at their proper prices and play to empty 
 benches. He therefore divided London into districts 
 and sent every householder free seats to come and see 
 the new drama — I forget its name. Thousands and 
 thousands of tickets were despatched, and from all 
 parts of London playgoers hurried to avail themselves 
 of Kelly's generosity. 
 
 On arrival at the theatre, if they were in possession 
 of a gallery pass they were informed that the gallery 
 was full, but that they could have an excellent seat in 
 the pit if they would pay gd. to transfer. This offer 
 was in all cases gladly accepted, and as this method 
 was adopted from pit to upper circle, from upper circle 
 to dress circle, from there to the stalls, and from the 
 stalls to the boxes, the theatre night after night was 
 packed, and with people who were happy to be seeing 
 a big entertainment for a small fee, getting as they did 
 so a much better seat than the one they had been sent 
 for a quarter of its real price. 
 
 It was a splendid showman's move, and one that 
 gave the astute manager time to breathe and look 
 round. Mr. Kelly is very successful now, and I am sure 
 he will laugh at this memory of old times. Many are 
 the stories told of him ; he had a quick tongue and an 
 optimism that always inspired everyone with the feeling 
 that the next venture was bound to be all right. 
 
 I remember laughing heartily at a sally of his. He 
 met one day in the street his then leading man, Murray 
 Carson, who was playing Napoleon in London in " The 
 Royal Divorce." Kelly had got an idea into his 
 head that Carson was taking himself a little too 
 seriously and was beginning to play the Emperor off 
 
 E 2
 
 52 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the stage as well as on it. " Halloa, Carson," he 
 called to him ; " have you heard the news about Hyde 
 Park?" " No," said the unsuspecting Carson. "They've 
 shut it up," said Kelly. " Have they, why ? " inquired 
 the actor. " Heath has hired it to make a hat for you," 
 and he walked away. 
 
 One of the best things he ever did from an adver- 
 tising point of view was with some lions that he used 
 in his production of " Theodora." He was billed to 
 produce the piece in Manchester, and journeyed there 
 a week ahead of his company, taking with him his 
 quartette of forest kings in a great iron cage. This on 
 arrival he had wheeled to the back of the stage, saying 
 that the animals were nice and quiet and would annoy 
 no one. In the evening the piece, which was " Sweet 
 Lavender " and depended on its quiet and charm, was 
 going splendidly, when suddenly in one of the most 
 delightful of the scenes the furious roarings of the 
 caged lions rang through the house. The actors 
 paused, and the startled audience rose inquiringly, a 
 commotion commenced which began to assume serious 
 proportions, when the figure of a tall man wearing a 
 sable coat and a diamond ring (and of course other 
 things) strode authoritatively into the stalls and, 
 turning his back to the stage, addressed the crowded 
 theatre. " Ladies and gentlemen," he said, in his 
 strident voice with its American twang, ** there is no 
 cause for alarm ; it is only Kelly's lions who are 
 appearing here in ' Theodora ' next week." 
 
 The play then continued, to be accompanied by 
 roars at the back as well as in front, with the result 
 that the incident was talked of all over Manchester on
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 53 
 
 the following day, and Kelly did a bumper business 
 the next week. 
 
 And talking of this manager of my early days carries 
 my mind again to Grace Hawthorne, once his leading 
 lady. She had been appearing as Josephine, Empress 
 of the French, for some three hundred performances at 
 the Princess's, and decided to go one night in her queenly 
 robes to adorn one of the late Sir Augustus Harris's 
 Cogent Garden Balls. 
 
 It happened on this occasion that the world-famous 
 wig-maker, Sir William Clarkson, had decided to 
 delight London by disporting himself at the ball as a 
 blue Romeo. Clarkson's legs at all times give an 
 excellent imitation of the Marble Arch, and in silken 
 hose are a picture that only the brush of a Titian could 
 do justice to. He was talking a good deal of French 
 on this evening — Clarkson always talks French in 
 London and English in Paris. 
 
 During the ball the Hairy-Fairy William, as the 
 bluest of immortal lovers, became the constant atten- 
 dant of the Little Corporal's unhappy wife, and a 
 quaint picture they made. She at four in the morning, 
 with a tired crown tilted well over her Royal eyebrow ; 
 Romeo, leaning against the bandstand, feeling, I 
 suppose, also the effects of his strenuous Italian night. 
 I walked towards these historical personages intending 
 some small courtesy, but I retired feeling I was intrud- 
 ing on some confidence, for as I approached I heard 
 Romeo sigh : " Ah, your Majesty, don't treat me as a 
 perruquier ; treat me as a brother professional." 
 
 Clarkson, later in the evening, was handed Juliet's 
 prize in mistake. All this he has laughingly denied to
 
 54 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 me, but I can vouch for the story, and it is not more 
 far-fetched than many that are told of this celebrity, 
 and which I think he slyly rumours abroad himself, 
 pretending they are inventions of the enemy. 
 
 Of Mr. Clarkson's father the story is told that when 
 Buckstone sent him down to superintend the dressing 
 and making-up of some theatricals at the school where 
 his sons were, he returned to the Haymarket to let the 
 comedian have news of the success of the performances. 
 ** Well, Mr. Clarkson," said Buckstone, " how did the 
 play go ? " " Oh ! an enormous success, Mr. Buckstone ; 
 you couldn't see a join." A join, I may mention for 
 the beneiit of the uninitiated, is the line made by the 
 scalp of a wig on the forehead. It was the present 
 knight of the curling tongs who, on hearing of the 
 death of a rival perruquier, put all the wigs at half- 
 mast on their stands and dressed his windows in crape 
 hair. 
 
 But to return to the Princess's. " The Royal 
 Divorce " ended, and the next production, although it 
 had no direct influence on my future in London, really 
 altered all my plans, owing to a difficulty which arose 
 in connection with it when it was sent on tour. The 
 drama was a nautical one, called *' True Heart," an 
 excellent play of *' The Harbour Lights " type, by that 
 charming writer Henry Byatt, which deserved to have 
 succeeded far better than it did. 
 
 It was during the rehearsals of this play that I had 
 occasion to go the manager's office with a message, and 
 while waiting, I heard at the far end of the room, which 
 was a very large apartment, one of the sweetest voices I 
 had ever listened to. I turned around and saw a girl
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 55 
 
 standing with her back to me, looking at a poster of 
 " Arrah-na-Pogue," which I gathered from the conversa- 
 tion was a new one, and discussing its merits and its 
 Hkeness to the original. The light from a window 
 opposite her was falling full on her face, and I thought 
 to myself, as I looked at the back of a head smothered 
 by a wealth of pretty fair hair, that if the owner of the 
 daintiest of dainty figures before me had a face that in 
 any way matched her other charms, she must be some- 
 one very lovely. 
 
 I listened to the little quiet silvery voice I heard at 
 intervals making a few criticisms of the picture on the 
 wall, and when the owner of that voice turned and 
 looked at me before passing through the doorway, I 
 saw one of the prettiest and most gentle women I had 
 ever looked upon. It seemed to me that I was in the 
 presence of some fairy elfish thing. She was quite 
 unlike the usual style of actress I had up to then 
 known. Her manner was very self-possessed and 
 businesslike, and with only a casual look at the poor 
 theatre prompter, there passed out of the room one 
 whose eyes I was not destined to look into for five long 
 years. 
 
 They were the beautiful eyes of Ellaline Terriss. 
 How many a thousand times have I looked into them 
 since that day, always and ever to find comfort and 
 happiness in them, and a goodness shining from those 
 windows of a soul that has never known an unkind 
 thought or done anything but good actions to any 
 living creature. If we had either of us had the smallest 
 inkling that day of what might be, I wonder what sort 
 of feelings would have been in our minds ! It is
 
 56 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 strange to look back upon. A dingy office, two people 
 to meet and part as strangers who were to come 
 together later, and live their entire lives on and off the 
 stage together, sharing a thousand joys, and comforting 
 each other in the dark hours that, alas ! are for the 
 poor player as well as his kind patrons. 
 
 But my thoughts are running away with me, and 
 marrying me too early in these reminiscences ; for the 
 memory of my first sight of the woman who has done 
 everything for me so fills my mind that it is difficult to 
 write of other things easily. 
 
 The London run of " True Heart " had not been a 
 long one, and the company started out for the provinces. 
 They had only been away for a few weeks when it was 
 discovered that through some mistake the drama had 
 been booked at two theatres in the same week. As 
 there was only one company, and neither theatre would 
 give way, my management was placed in a very serious 
 fix. It meant either getting an entirely new company 
 with scenery and effects, or paying a heavy forfeit for 
 closing one of the two theatres involved. 
 
 In despair they turned to me — I was the sort of 
 head cook and bottle washer of the establishment — and 
 asked me, as I knew the play so well, if I could rehearse 
 a scratch company in a week, and dodge up some sort 
 of local scenery at the Theatre Royal, Ryde, and get 
 them out of their difficulty. I said of course I could, 
 and I even volunteered, as I knew the words, to play 
 the sailor hero myself, feeling certain that I should run 
 the original, that fine actor Leonard Boyne, very close. 
 
 My offer was accepted : I was to be a leading 
 actor for the first time in my life ! Everything was
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 57 
 
 accordingly left in my hands, and I was given and 
 rehearsed a very indifferent lot of cheap artists with 
 which to paralyse Ryde. 
 
 The only other man who knew anything about the 
 play was the son of Sir Morell Mackenzie, H. H. 
 Morell, who at that time was starting his career as an 
 actor. His knowledge of stage management was 
 limited, but he offered me all the assistance in his 
 power when we reached our destination without a stitch 
 of scenery to mount an elaborate nautical drama in 
 twelve scenes. 
 
 Nowadays to do this, one would feel as if one were 
 trying to win the Derby on a donkey ; but not so at 
 nineteen years of age. 
 
 We arrived at Ryde early on the Monday afternoon, 
 full of hope and a severe attack of youth, and 
 immediately went to the theatre to * vamp,' as it is 
 termed, the production, i.e., throw together anything 
 and everything and make a show somehow. To dash 
 through the stage door and begin drilling the stage 
 hands was my first thought, but I was horrified when I 
 was told that the stage carpenter would not be back till 
 four in the afternoon, as he had gone to win the high 
 jump at some sports near Freshwater. 
 
 I then inquired for the gas man. Ah ! he had taken 
 his wife to Portsmouth to see the great Naval Review. 
 I then asked for the property man. " Oh ! " came the 
 reply, " the gas man does the properties." Well, where 
 were all the stage hands ? " Oh ! " said my friend, 
 " I'm one, and my mate has gone with his kids to see the 
 stage carpenter win at the sports." Here was a pretty 
 how-do-you-do ! Only one man to do everything !
 
 58 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 We had nothing, and our great sensation scene was 
 a storm at sea and the saving of the heroine from 
 a foundering steamer by the hero in a Cornish Hfeboat. 
 The hfeboat was the only thing that had been sent 
 from London. I inquired if it had arrived safely. No, 
 came the answer. " These 'ere two swinging water 
 rows has come, but I ain't seen no lifeboat." 
 
 Morell and I stood aghast. Something, however, 
 had to be attempted, so I asked my companion in 
 distress if he was game to set to work with the scene- 
 shifter and myself and have a dash at ringing up that 
 night. Most decidedly he was, and in no time our 
 coats were off, and we began searching for the various 
 interior and exterior sets that the theatre stock scenery 
 possessed. 
 
 I may mention that while I was a very ordinary sort 
 of person, Morell, whose line of business was " the stage 
 swell," was a young man who was always dressed fault- 
 lessly off the stage also. He stood six feet odd, wore 
 the highest of collars and the smartest of boots and 
 clothes, so that his appearance after an hour's rummag- 
 ing in the dirtiest of scene docks was a thing never to 
 be forgotten, but he stuck to it like a Briton, and by 
 two in the afternoon, the three of us having been 
 slaving for five hours, had made enough scenery into 
 packs to represent the Baronial Hall, the Village 
 Green, and all the various well-known scenes of a big 
 melodrama. 
 
 But we were now hopelessly stumped for the wreck 
 scene and the lifeboat. The only thing I could think of 
 was to hire a skiff and paint it white with a deep blue 
 line on it and hang a buoy on the bow. But where was
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 59 
 
 a skiff ? Our scene-shifter told us we might manage to 
 hire something in the harbour, so leaving him to paint 
 some canvas and the aforesaid blue line, which I intended 
 nailing on the boat when it arrived, Morell and I ran to 
 the beach to see what we could find. 
 
 By this time we looked like a pair of tramps, Morell 
 not having even a veneer of Harley Street left on his 
 usually immaculate appearance. Oh, joy ! there were 
 two skiffs, high and dry, but not a soul in sight. We 
 gathered from an old man that they belonged to Tom 
 Somebody, who was sailing a pleasure-boat at [the 
 Review. The only thing to be done was to take French 
 leave. This idea Morell fell in with, and we untied the 
 boat and hauled it up the slip to the road. Then we 
 were again checkmated. How was it to be got to the 
 theatre ? Magnificent ! I espied a cart full of mortar. 
 In no time we had emptied it and put the boat on it. 
 
 Morell and I wheeled it through the town to the 
 theatre. The usual boys followed, jeering and pelting 
 us with stones. But we reached the stage door with 
 our prize, nailed on the now ready canvas, and behold, 
 we had a lifeboat that could live in any stage sea ! 
 
 The two swinging pieces of canvas that represented 
 waves were hung to the flies by four wires, and with a 
 back cloth painted to represent the sea (unfortunately, 
 on a very calm night, though, with a view of a pavilion 
 pier in the distance), our storm scene was complete. 
 Some pounds of rice and a good deal of noise, and we 
 should no doubt raise the audience to unparalleled 
 enthusiasm when the time arrived. 
 
 It was nearly five, and the carpenter and the gas-man 
 appeared, the carpenter having lost the high jump, and
 
 6o SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the gas-man — well, the worse for drink owing to his 
 master's defeat. We worked on till six, getting things 
 into some sort of order. At six we rehearsed the band, 
 and at seven, with doubting hearts, we started to make 
 up, Morell for the villain of the piece, myself for the 
 hero. We had neither of us prior to this played any 
 part longer than fifty lines in our lives. 
 
 The rest of the company I had kept rehearsing under 
 the stage all day, visiting them when I could, cheering 
 on my troops and seeing that they were word perfect if 
 nothing else. The piece began and all went well with 
 the first act, the audience, which was a fairly large 
 one, applauding the time-honoured sentiments expressed 
 by the virtuous heroine. 
 
 But the second act was not quite all that it might 
 have been. The opening scene was one in which Morell 
 was detected by me drugging a cup of wine, which I 
 was about to drink. A hand-to-hand fight was the 
 result, at the end of which I was arrested for striking 
 my superior officer. But the fight on this night 
 provoked such merriment that the arrest when it did 
 come was altogether passed unnoticed by the audience. 
 
 Morell was as thin as a lath and towered head and 
 shoulders over me, while I in a naval captain's undress 
 uniform looked like a very nice little midshipman home 
 for the holidays. It is hardly to be wondered at then 
 when I said, " You villain, I'll break every bone in your 
 body," and seized him by the throat, standing on tiptoe 
 to do so, that the house saw the fun of it and began 
 making remarks. 
 
 The fight began in real earnest — there is nothing so 
 difficult to do as a good stage fight — and we being
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 6i 
 
 absolute novices lost our heads. Over went a table, 
 then a chair, and we rolled over and over on the floor 
 doing anything we thought of. We regained our feet, 
 and this was the cue for shouts from the pit to Morell 
 of " Give the boy a chance; go on, get on your knees, 
 long 'un." This, unfortunately, Morell did ; he was 
 then about my height and I attacked him furiously. 
 
 By this time the audience were yelling, and we being 
 unable to finish the encounter as it should have been, 
 I left the stage, rang the curtain bell and returned at 
 once, saying to Morell, ** We shall meet again." 
 
 This ended the scene. We stood and looked at each 
 other hopelessly, and listened to the noise of which we 
 had been the innocent cause in front, when a policeman 
 put his hand on my shoulder and said he wanted a word 
 with me. I told him at once that he was dressed for the 
 wrong act, and must go and change into a marine for the 
 ship scene. " I ain't no marine," he said — " never was. 
 I've come to arrest you for stealing a boat." I begged 
 him to let me continue the play, and I would explain all. 
 This he said he would stretch a point and do, but he 
 meant keeping an eye on me all the same, and so he did 
 till the end of the evening. Everywhere I went the 
 policeman followed. In my love scenes, there he stood 
 watching me from the cottage window. In all the 
 bigger scenes, one of which I remember was laid in 
 Egypt, there stood the policeman as part of the British 
 admiral's staff, and even on the Cornish beach at the 
 end of the play there stood the guardian of the peace, 
 looking at me and following me off the stage whenever 
 I made an exit. 
 
 We had reached the end of the third act, and I was
 
 62 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 hurrying under the stage, still followed by my keeper, 
 when I came across the low comedian and the second 
 heavy man having a violent quarrel. It appeared that 
 the low comedian had borrowed 7s. 6d. from his friend 
 and instead of repaying it had offered to do a caricature 
 in black and white of him and so wipe off the debt. 
 This was not acceptable, and hence the scene. I 
 implored them to settle their differences afterwards ; I 
 told them that the end of the act was at hand, that they 
 were both in it, and that they had only just time to 
 run up on to the stage. They, however, took not the 
 slightest notice of me, but, continuing their quarrel, the 
 low comedian struck the second heavy man, who 
 jumping up, instead of returning the blow, gave his 
 opponent into the policeman's custody for assault. The 
 policeman, from habit, seized the comedian, and whipped 
 out a note-book asking for names, etc. 
 
 In the scuffle I was able to get up the stairs, and 
 when I did so I found the stage empty, the audience 
 shouting and the curtain still up, the hero (myself) 
 and these other two important characters being nowhere 
 to be found ; and the other artists being unable to say 
 anything, had walked off the stage one by one. I did 
 not know what to do, when Morell entered to me, trying 
 to help things out. I said, " Ah ! we have met again ! " 
 " That's right," yelled the audience in delight ; " have 
 another go at him, little 'un." 
 
 I hoped now that the company would return to the 
 stage and play the situation as written, but not one of 
 them put in an appearance. Instead, the policeman 
 stalked on to me, dragging the comedian by the scruff 
 of the neck from under the stage. " Go away," I
 
 AN ISLAND NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT 63 
 
 whispered frantically to him. " Not me, guv'nor ; I've 
 got your friend and I'm going to take you." Morell, 
 dumbfounded, bleated out, " What for ? " " For steal- 
 ing a boat, guv'nor, that's what for." The idiotic 
 policeman had inadvertently made a dramatic situation 
 himself, and the carpenter rang the curtain down on it 
 to the bewilderment of the people in front. 
 
 What they thought was going on I've often wondered. 
 Of course nothing had been suggested in the play up to 
 that moment about any boat, let alone my wanting to 
 steal one ; and how a sailor could steal a man o' war, 
 which the policeman's line must have conveyed to the 
 house if it conveyed anything, I have never yet been 
 able to fathom. 
 
 The evening ended as of course it had to end, in 
 chaos. It was the comedian's duty to fire the rocket 
 apparatus to the sinking ship ; he, however, being 
 locked in a dressing-room was unable to perform this 
 act of heroism, so in despair I put on a moustache and 
 a suit of oilskins and spoke all his lines, saying, " Ah ! 
 there is Jack (that was my name). See ! he is steering 
 the lifeboat with Nell Carlyon (that was the heroine) in 
 it safe and sound." 
 
 I rushed off the stage, jumped into the boat, tearing 
 off the disguise as I did so, and entered as the hero to a 
 round of applause. In a moment this was turned to 
 cat calls, for the wheels of the mortar-cart on which the 
 boat was still fixed came a good foot and a half above 
 the swinging waves and gave the entire show away. It 
 was a terrible night — one I have dreamed of, but the 
 like of which I have never encountered. 
 
 When the curtain fell, when the policeman had at
 
 64 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 last been squared, and everything connected with the 
 boat explained, I sank down utterly exhausted, having 
 failed in the impossible. Morell and I nearly cried, 
 and were discussing if it were wise to open the theatre 
 on the next night, when a knock came at the dressing- 
 room door, and a kindly-looking old man, with white 
 hair, his face beaming with amusement, said, " My 
 name is Arthur Cecil. I have seen the performance 
 to-night ; it was capital fun ! "
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE KENDALS 
 
 Arthur Cecil, who at that time was in the zenith of 
 his London success, was on a holiday in the Isle of 
 Wight, and his strolling into the theatre that evening 
 altered my whole life. He was good enough to say that 
 he thought I had every prospect of succeeding in my 
 profession, and he would give me a letter to his friend 
 Mr. Arthur Chudleigh, who was then managing the 
 Court Theatre, London, with Mrs. John Wood. This 
 letter I duly received, and directly the week was over I 
 hurried off to the Court Theatre with it and inquired 
 for the manager. I was very frightened, I remember, 
 expecting to see some hard-faced gentleman appear, 
 when to my surprise a chubby-faced young man of 
 about eight-and-twenty opened the door and said, 
 " HuUoa ! so you're the kid Arthur Cecil says can act. 
 Well, I can do nothing for you at present, but I'm 
 going to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Kendal ; they 
 want someone for all their boys' parts to go to America. 
 Come along here to-night. And if you like we'll go and 
 get some lunch." 
 
 This was my first interview with one of my very 
 greatest friends, and we often look back on it now, he, 
 whenever I do a new production, saying, " The imper- 
 tinence of your producing anything ! I remember you 
 as a meek, servile youth twisting your hat round and 
 
 s.H. F
 
 66 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 round, and keeping your place in front of your betters. 
 Now, here you are talking to me on an equality, you 
 tyke ! I wish I'd had you out of the office that day I 
 first saw you; I would, too, if I'd known you were 
 going to annoy the public as you have." And on he 
 rattles to-day, if anything more inconsequently and 
 more like a schoolboy than ever, although twenty years 
 and more have passed over his head since our first 
 meeting. 
 
 Nothing will ever alter one of the dearest and best- 
 hearted fellows that breathes ; even when he is worried 
 over some new venture he is a delight to watch. Many 
 a time have I seen him on a first night, when he has 
 not been over-sanguine as to his new piece, welcoming 
 the critics into his theatre, saying, " Walk up, my lads, 
 the piece is pretty rotten, but I daresay it will do for 
 you ! " He is the most independent specimen in our 
 business, and never hesitates to tell playfully all and 
 sundry, great and small, what he thinks of them, be it 
 good, bad, or indifferent. 
 
 That night I was taken before Mr. and Mrs. Kendal 
 for inspection. I had the rule run over me, and the end 
 of it was I was engaged to play " the boys' " parts at 
 £6 a week and to sail for New York in a month's time. 
 No money could bring the feeling of overwhelming joy 
 I experienced when I signed that engagement with that 
 great artist and wonderful actress which was for a year 
 certain and an option on my services for a following 
 year at ;^8 a week. 
 
 I was now an absolute millionaire, and I felt that 
 financially I had reached the maximum my work would 
 ever command. From los. to £6 in three and a half
 
 THE KENDALS 67 
 
 years ; it was wonderful ! and I believe for one inflated 
 moment I began to feel I was a real artist. This is a 
 dangerous thought at any time and one that has wrecked 
 many a promising career. If I ever did have any 
 sneaking desire to tickle my artistic temperament into 
 anything but that which it should remain — a dormant 
 and forgotten partner — Mrs. Kendal soon convinced me 
 that the last thing any real artist did was to talk art, 
 walk art, eat art, and drink art. Show me the man who 
 talks acting from the art end of the telescope and I will 
 show you one of life's successful failures — an actor with 
 his limitations as clearly defined as are the Plimsoll 
 marks on a ship's hull, and, what is far sadder and less 
 excusable, a bore of the worst kind. 
 
 It is only when men have no fear of catching cold 
 through an overdraft at their bankers that they should 
 dare to talk art. For then we can punish them by 
 borrowing their money. The owls that label themselves 
 artists, who, alas ! are becoming all too common, are 
 hatched into life by those colossally impertinent incuba- 
 tors the " schools of acting." Smith from Peckham 
 herds with Miss Jones of Tooting, and Brown from 
 Brixton, with these two as a background, is looked 
 upon in the school as a rising Salvini because at the last 
 audition he gave an entirely original reading of those 
 famous lines : — 
 
 " Mary had a little lamb, 
 
 For which she didn't care a bit; 
 
 And the truth to tell of Mary, 
 
 The lamb didn't care a bit for Mary." 
 
 Oh ! you professors of elocution, you " masters " of 
 
 F 2
 
 68 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 one of the most difficult of arts — how dare you ? — you 
 naughty boys ! — how dare you endeavour to teach these 
 poor youths how to succeed by schooling them in the 
 methods in which you yourselves have failed ? How dare 
 you teach the young idea how to shout ? If you were 
 all really honest you would say to them, " We teach 
 because we want money, but we don't believe very 
 much in it all. If you like to come to us, knowing this, 
 put down your guineas, open your narrow chests, push 
 forward your truant chins, and we'll help you to make 
 idiots of yourselves every day from lo till 4 " — that's 
 fair enough ; but to encourage some of the poor 
 wretches who have come to me for engagements from 
 your schools, having as much aptitude for the stage as 
 a blind kitten in a pail of water, is alike cruel to them 
 and unfair to the old actor, whose only means of eking 
 out a living is by supering or taking the tiny parts 
 which are now handed to the youth or young lady who 
 has duly qualified and pleased certain " actors (?) " who 
 teach, and who, when they come to rehearsal themselves, 
 have to be shown nearly everything. 
 
 One poor young woman came to me once and begged 
 for an engagement. Her appearance was the most 
 unlikely on earth. She was possessed of an indiarubber 
 backbone and had a gentle, timid manner wedded to a 
 shuffling gait, so I made polite excuses ; but she would 
 take no refusal. I must hear her recite, and out of pity 
 more than anything else I listened. 
 
 To her qualifications as an elocutionist, she had added 
 a slight hare-lip, with the help of which she waded 
 steadily through the balcony scene from " Romeo and 
 Juliet " with parrot-like incorrectness — much as that
 
 THE KENDALS 69 
 
 horrid thing the child-reciter does when, in saying " I 
 heard the whistle and I saw the smoke," it puts its 
 right hand over its eye on the word " heard " and its 
 left hand over its ear on the word " saw." 
 
 When she had concluded I asked her where she came 
 from, and she mentioned a well-known school of acting. 
 ** Really," I said, " and how long have you been there ? " 
 
 " Three years," she replied ; " and Mr. says I am 
 
 now an actress. You've heard me as Juliet, but I 
 want to tell you that I am equally good as the Nurse." 
 
 Poor thing ! Three years of wasted endeavour ! One 
 could have told her in the first three minutes of that 
 time that she might make an admirable mother, but that 
 is as much as one could say with certainty of any woman 
 with her physique. 
 
 I don't know now what qualifications a stage aspirant 
 wishing to enter a school has to possess, but a story 
 which is a good one is told of the early days of Herbert 
 Beerbohm Tree's Academy. It was the custom that all 
 candidates for the school should recite or read before a 
 board of experts so that it might be decided if they were 
 quite unfit to join the " school." I believe a club foot 
 was a drawback, and — unless it was hereditary — lame- 
 ness was deemed a sufficient reason for not letting an 
 individual show the experts his tricks. 
 
 It was the custom that before coming forward each 
 young man paid a guinea as an examination fee, which, 
 if he seemed hopeless and was judged unfit after reciting 
 to come into the magic laboratory where the virgin ore 
 was to leave the dramatic experts' crucible as pure gold, 
 was returned to him, and he left the room with a few 
 kind words.
 
 70 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 It is related that on one of these occasions Mr. Tree, 
 to encourage the somewhat timid collection of lads and 
 lasses who had come up for examination that particular 
 day, rose, and telling them not to be frightened, recited 
 a passage from " Hamlet." 
 
 Immediately on his finishing a humorist who was 
 sitting on the committee of taste called him up and 
 handed him a guinea, saying he could hold out no hope 
 to him under any circumstances. 
 
 Needless to say, this never occurred, but if many of the 
 actors I know were given a guinea for not being able 
 to act whenever they asked the question as to their 
 qualifications, what a really large quantity could keep 
 continually asking with a certainty of remuneration ! 
 
 In speaking of teachers of elocution I do not include 
 that splendid artist Rosina Filippi, who has much the 
 same power as Mrs. Kendal. She was with us off and 
 on for many years, but never opened in a play that she 
 did not want to be off to some new production. Hard 
 work and not long runs being her hobby, this earned 
 for her the nickname of " Resigner Filippi " instead of 
 Rosina. Nor do I allude to Elsie Chester— a fine 
 actress, from whom a mine of information is to be 
 obtained. 
 
 But to return to Mrs. Kendal. I don't know what 
 her views are on schools, but I do know that there 
 never has been anyone so opposed to the cant and 
 humbug side of the theatrical profession as she was. I 
 have often heard her talk of her early days, born, as she 
 said, practically in the theatre, and weaned on grease- 
 paint. Having been in her profession from infancy, 
 woe betide any charlatan with long hair, abstracted
 
 THE KENDALS 71 
 
 manner and a minimum of desire for the sponge, who 
 crossed her path if she was not in too good a temper. 
 
 Once when one of this type was rehearsing the part 
 of the Due de BHgny in " The Ironmaster," Mrs. Kendal, 
 to whom I was devoted and whose twinkle of an eyelash 
 I had grown to understand, watched him very quietly 
 for some time and becoming, as well she had cause to 
 be, dissatisfied with his methods, leaned across and said 
 quietly : " Mr. Smith, may I ask if you are going to 
 play the scene like this at night ? " 
 
 "Oh no — no, Mrs. Kendal," came the answer; 
 " but I cannot do justice to my work without an 
 audience." 
 
 I shall never forget the look that flashed out of the 
 two little brown eyes of that inimitable artist at this. 
 "Oh, you can't, can't you!" said she; "then you shall 
 have one now to help you, as I want to see what you are 
 really going to do ; it will no doubt be most instructive. 
 Go, someone, and fetch Mr. Smith an audience — run out 
 and get some little boys and put them in the pit, so that 
 Mr. Smith may do justice to his work ! " 
 
 Out went messengers into the highways, and nothing 
 would induce her to let the rehearsal proceed until her 
 orders had been obeyed. After waiting ten minutes, 
 that seemed ten years, some dirty little urchins were 
 procured, and when they were comfortably seated in 
 the front row of the pit Mrs. Kendal said : " Now then 
 we can go on — Mr. Smith has got his audience, and 
 will be able to do justice to his work." The actor left 
 the theatre hurriedly, and indeed left the company for 
 good a fortnight later. It was very hard, perhaps, but 
 it was none the less unpardonable on his part to add
 
 72 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 insult to injury by rehearsing badly and then excusing 
 his work by trying to whitewash it in the art bucket. 
 
 But what a mistress at rehearsal she was ! Nothing 
 escaped her — she was one of the very finest stage- 
 managers it was possible to conceive. She rehearsed 
 every part in the play if necessary, and showed men, 
 women and children equally perfectly. I have seen her 
 snatch a hat and stick out of a man's hand and enter, 
 playing either a fop, an angry husband, a hero or a 
 villain better than the actor cast for the part could ever 
 hope to portray him. No one ever taught children so 
 well — no living person to-day ever knew the stage 
 better. How often have I heard her say : " Act ! How 
 can you hope to act, my dear Hicks, before you know 
 how to walk the stage ! " The walking of the stage I 
 may mention is a most difficult, necessary and neglected 
 art, and she taught me to walk it and taught me all I 
 know — which may not be much, but it is not her fault. 
 She used to frighten me to death ; I was conscious that 
 she knew everything, and she never spared me except on 
 rare occasions. " Why did you move then ? " was a 
 thing she often said, and if the reply was " I don't 
 know," she would rap out, " then for Heaven's sake 
 keep still unless you have a reason." And her remarks 
 on stage pauses too were illuminating. Her motto was, 
 " Never pause on the stage unless it is necessary ; but if 
 you do pause, pause for an hour if you want to." 
 
 If any woman deserves to be recognised as a great 
 exponent of a beautiful art Madge Kendal does. It 
 almost makes me a rabid upholder of the militant 
 suffragette to feel that because a woman isn't a man 
 she cannot receive recognition for her life's achievement.
 
 THE KENDALS 73 
 
 Oh ! for the days of an " art order of merit " — such as 
 France has thought of for her brain workers. Only a 
 small piece of ribbon for something well done. How 
 doubly precious it would be, from the fact that the 
 Mayor of Mudville, who becomes a knight for having 
 handed a cup of tea to royalty on a village railway 
 station, will never be able to receive it. Would that 
 for my profession tired Prime Ministers could think of 
 something different than the weary sigh of, " Oh, give 
 him a knighthood ! " 
 
 " Last nights London," which looks so unpleasant 
 across a theatre bill, would certainly look better if it 
 were spelt with a " K." Perhaps some day the princes 
 of my art will no longer be extinguished by finding 
 themselves cheek by jowl with the intellectual purveyor 
 of pig iron, or Sir Loin the butcher, and Sir Osis the 
 inventor of a patent liver medicine. An honour given 
 in such company makes a man wonder if he hasn't been 
 born a gentleman and died an actor. 
 
 Ah ! Mrs. Kendal — " Ma K." as we younger members 
 secretely and affectionally called you — when shall we 
 see your like again ? you with your kaleidoscopic moods 
 — you who were as changeable as an April day, who 
 charmed and frightened, angered and delighted by your 
 fascinating uncertainty — I lay my homage and my grate- 
 ful thanks at your pretty feet. Come back to the stage, 
 for your mantle lies where you left it, and the moth will 
 be m it before any are found fit to pick it up or try to 
 pin it on their all too unworthy shoulders !
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 U.S.A. 
 
 The company I was in late in 1890 which sailed 
 for America with the Kendals was a very fine one. It 
 was the second big English combination that had visited 
 the States, Henry Irving's tour of "Faust" being its 
 immediate predecessor. The passage out to New York 
 was extremely rough, and on the night set aside for the 
 usual concert in aid of a sailors' charity some uncon- 
 scious humorist sang pathetically the well-known 
 ballad, " Hard times outside the cabin door." As 
 many and varied were the appliances for the alleviating 
 of sea-sickness to be seen along every passage way, it is 
 hardly to be wondered that a sickly smile lit up the 
 faces of those who had left their berths to be present at 
 the entertainment. 
 
 Our repertoire consisted of fourteen pieces, many by 
 Mr. Pinero and the rest by all the foremost authors of 
 the day. I was in every play, and really had some 
 splendid parts — the gipsy in "-The Squire," the boy in 
 "The Scrap of Paper," Henry de Flavagnol in "The 
 Ladies' Battle," Faubert in " The Money-spinner," etc., 
 etc.— and we marched on New York with hopes of 
 victory which were justified beyond all expectation. 
 " The Scrap of Paper " was the opening attraction at 
 the old Fifth Avenue Theatre. At the end of the first 
 performance the audience rose and waved handkerchiefs
 
 U.S.A. 75 
 
 and programmes and shouted themselves hoarse, not- 
 withstanding the fact that the piece had been a great 
 success at Wallack's with American stars in it. This 
 night set the seal of success on the entire enterprise, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Kendal making a great fortune in America. 
 The seats for all performances were sold in many towns 
 at enormously increased prices. As an instance, and 
 not an unusual one, in Chicago I remember the 6s. seats 
 fetched as much as ■£'^. 
 
 Theatrical America twenty years ago was not what 
 it is now. The interchange of actors with Great 
 Britain had not commenced then. For every one 
 American actor in England there were a hundred 
 English ones in New York, and on arrival we were 
 anything but popular with our American confreres. 
 Indeed, in those days the ordinary American man in 
 the street generally disliked English people and lost no 
 opportunity of passing remarks at their expense. The 
 saying then was that " the only good Indian is a dead 
 Indian " ; we altered it into " the only nice American is 
 the travelled American." 
 
 But twenty years have come and gone. To-day 
 Americans have all travelled. To-day they are all nice 
 to us whether they have visited our shores or not. I 
 haven't had the pleasure of acting in America for some 
 seven or eight years, so I can't speak of their stage of 
 to-day from personal experience ; but what a splendid 
 set of actors there were in the States in the early 
 nineties ! The Stoddarts, the Lewises, the Gilberts, the 
 Drews, Sothern, Edwin Booth, Jefferson, Barrett, 
 Florence, Mansfield, etc., etc., were alive, and enough 
 more if they were all mentioned to cover reams of
 
 76 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 foolscap. I have always thought the American stage, 
 in general, was miles behind ours in the delicacy of 
 production, in leading men, juvenile young men, leading 
 ladies, and ingenues ; but in character actors, comedians, 
 strong actors, eccentric comedians, musical comedy 
 artists, dancers, and specialty actors, we are and never 
 have been anywhere near our American brothers and 
 sisters. 
 
 But I am digressing. It would be an impertinence 
 on my part to say anything of the great people I had 
 the privilege of watching act in America in those days, 
 and as my impressions of the United States are of no 
 interest to anyone, I will confine myself to jotting down 
 recollections at random of the theatrical happenings to 
 myself or those I met in my business there. I would 
 however warn the unsophisticated not to take too 
 seriously the steamer acquaintance who asks you to 
 stay with him at his home for six months in Phila- 
 delphia, Pa., impressing on you the fact that his 
 " mother is a lovely woman, sir, and would just adore 
 to see you walk right in. Our house is yours." This 
 class of Statue-of-Liberty impulsiveness merely means 
 " Good morning ; you are looking] very well to-day," 
 and, begun at Sandy Hook, is forgotten by the time the 
 Custom House eagles have ruined your new summer 
 underwear. 
 
 The part I played in " The Scrap of Paper" in New 
 York was that of Archie Hamilton, the boy in the Eton 
 jacket. Even in those days I had a very deep voice, 
 and one paper in its criticism of our first night said : 
 " The performance was a memorable one, but it is a 
 pity the Kendals have brought over a middle-aged man
 
 U.S.A. ^^ 
 
 to play Archie when we have so many clever boy actors 
 on this side ^ho would be glad of work." This amused 
 us considerably, but the fact was I was really to blame, 
 for b^ng as I was inexperienced, I did not know the 
 difference between comedy anger that helps to raise 
 more laughter, and an indignation that although real 
 in itself was of such an intense kind as to kill the 
 comedy proportions of the scene, checking the merri- 
 ment of the audience at intervals in its abruptness, and 
 spoiling the continuity of Mr. Kendal's fun in the 
 amusing duel of Act II. altogether; but I was very 
 young, and Mr. Kendal was very kind and he knew 
 that I tried hard to correct my errors. 
 
 I have never been a favourite with the Press, generally 
 getting either bad notices or very qualified praise, no 
 doubt most justly. I remember saying so to Charles 
 Wyndham once, and he comforted me by remarking : 
 "You ought to see my notices when I first played David 
 Garrick. They call it my triumph now, but the same 
 performance when I first played it was received more 
 than lukewarmly. Don't worry ; when you begin to 
 get good notices be careful." I have never had to be 
 careful yet. 
 
 I remember Miss Ellen Terry saying to me " Oh ! 
 how tired I am of the papers calling me charming, or 
 saying that my performances are full of the Terry 
 charm ! Oh, my ! I wish they'd try and think of 
 something else." 
 
 As regards myself, the criticisms on me I think are 
 set up in permanent type in most newspaper offices. 
 They generally say " His amazing vitality," or " His 
 irrepressible and somewhat tiring efforts," or " He
 
 78 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 seemed to perspire more than usual on this occasion " ; 
 — a notice of this kind drawing from Mr. Pinero the 
 remark of " Seymour, I'm not sure they are wrong. 
 If I were you I should not advertise ' Doors open at 
 eight,' I should alter it to 'Pores open at nine.'" 
 "Which is much what Henry Irving said to Richard 
 Mansfield, when that actor, asking him on a very hot 
 night what he thought of his Richard III., Sir Henry 
 with a twinkle in his eye said, " Well, my boy, your 
 skin acts well — Have a cigar ? " 
 
 The great actor delighted even as much as his bosom 
 friend J. L. Toole in a little harmless teasing, an 
 operation in which for delicacy and point he stood 
 unrivalled. What could have been better than when 
 after witnessing the performance of "The Village 
 Priest " at the Haymarket he went round to smoke a 
 cigar in Mr, Tree's dressing-room. And sitting there 
 for some half-hour he spoke of everything but the play. 
 When at last Tree, anxious to know what the great 
 man thought of the evening's entertainment, inquired, 
 " Well, and how did you like the piece ? " Sir Henry 
 said, " Er — er — I thought Allan was good." That 
 excellent actor Charles Allan on this evening had 
 played a sergeant of gendarmes in the last act, and had 
 but one entrance and one exit, and had spoken but one 
 line. He waited half-an-hour to perpetrate his little 
 joke, and this being successful, was unqualified in his 
 praise of one of the most splendid performances of the 
 lessee of His Majesty's. 
 
 It was Sir Arthur Pinero who, during his acting days 
 as a member of Henry Irving's company, scored off his 
 chief rather heavily. There used to be a Lyceum
 
 U.S.A. 79 
 
 tradition that very few of the actors ever found 
 themselves able to get to the centre of the stage, and 
 that many a long speech was reduced to the smallest 
 possible length. Pinero one day was sitting at 
 rehearsal on a piece of profile scenery. Henry Irving 
 seeing him said, " Get up, my boy, get up. You'll cut 
 yourself." " Oh ! that will be all right, Mr. Irving," 
 said the great dramatist ; " we are accustomed to 
 having our parts cut in this theatre." 
 
 I think it was on the stage of the old Fifth Avenue 
 Theatre that Sir W. S. Gilbert made two of the many 
 mots that are always received with hearty laughter 
 whenever repeated, and which, although not new to 
 actors, are, I think, unknown to the general public, 
 and therefore need no apology for their appearance 
 here. The first was one as masterly as it was unanswer- 
 able. 
 
 The great humorist was crossing the stage, just before 
 an evening performance, when he saw one of the chorus 
 ladies in great distress, her face being wet with angry 
 tears. Gilbert approached her and sympathetically 
 inquired the cause of her trouble. " Oh, sir," said the 
 young lady, " it's disgraceful. One of the girls in the 
 dressing-room said I'm no better than I ought to be." 
 " Well," said Gilbert gently, "are you ? " 
 
 The other story goes that during a rehearsal Sir 
 William's then prima donna was nowhere to be found. 
 The author himself went in search of her, and meeting the 
 fireman at the back of the dress circle asked him if by 
 any chance he had seen the lady. " Oh, yes," said the 
 obliging fireman, " she's round behind." " Yes," said 
 Gilbert, " I know that ; but where is she ?
 
 8o SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 We played in New York for six weeks, changing the 
 bill only once, I think, and before leaving the Paris of 
 the States I felt I must be photographed, and hied me 
 with many properties and several suits of clothes to a 
 neighbouring studio. I mention this because I here 
 came upon a real piece of American humour. As I 
 drove up to the photographer's I saw a brass plate on 
 the door, with these words engraved on it : 
 
 " The light is good to-day." 
 
 We went to all the theatres during our visit, and 
 were treated with the greatest kindness by everyone. 
 Once I remember driving up to a famous playhouse 
 where the business was dreadfully bad at the time, 
 although I was not aware of the fact. I apologised for 
 not having written for seats, explained I was of the 
 Kendal company, and that I should be grateful if they 
 would allow me to see the performance. The manager 
 looked at me silently for a few moments, and then said, 
 " Is that your hansom outside there ? " I replied that 
 it was. He said, " Then drive it right in." I realised 
 when 1 took my seat what he had meant. I and six 
 others were the only people in the dress circle. 
 
 It was when I was present at a matinee in New York 
 that I heard a quick and witty reply from that fine 
 American comedian Nat Goodwin. He was sitting 
 in a box just above me, watching the entertainment. 
 It was a miscellaneous one, if I remember rightly. 
 During the afternoon one of the performers who was 
 giving imitations came forward and said, looking up at 
 Goodwin, " Ladies and gentlemen, I shall have great 
 pleasure this afternoon in giving you an imitation of
 
 U.S.A. 8i 
 
 one of America's greatest actors, Mr. Nat Goodwin." 
 The house was delighted, and applauded vigorously. 
 Goodwin was somewhat embarrassed, but the imitation 
 was started and finished to renewed applause. When 
 it had subsided, the performer, very pleased at the 
 success of his effort, looked up again at the box and 
 said, " Say, Nat, how's that ? " Goodwin like a flash, 
 smilingly replied, " Well, one of us is rotten." There 
 was a yell at this, and the story spread like wildfire as 
 one of a witty man's best things, which indeed it was. 
 
 I had the pleasure of meeting that beautiful old 
 actor Mr. Stoddart, in company with our own incom- 
 parable Fred Leslie, and I well remember Mr. Stoddart, 
 who then was a very old gentleman, saying, " Do you 
 know, Mr. Leslie, I have been nearly fifty years on the 
 stage." "Lor' bless me," said Leslie; "everything you 
 have said to you, sir, must sound like a cue." The 
 dear old man laughed heartily, and asked Leslie what 
 was the strangest criticism of a play he had ever read. 
 Leslie could call to mind no particular report of a play, 
 and old Stoddart told us he had seen a whole column 
 left blank in a Philadelphian paper with only the name 
 of the play and the theatre at the top and the critic's 
 name at the bottom — and just two words, " Oh ! my ! " 
 in the middle. This, I suppose, in England would hardly 
 be considered as fair comment, but abroad the law of 
 libel is not quite so easy to bring into operation. 
 
 I had a delightful time in America, and in New York 
 in particular. In those days Delmonico's was not quite 
 within my means, and Rourke's Oyster Rooms on 
 Union Square was a place I patronised continually. 
 Oh, Little Neck clams ! Oh, soft shell crabs ! Lucky 
 
 s.H. G
 
 82 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the flag that waves exclusively over you ! The various 
 ways of cooking shellfish and the variety of kinds of 
 fish itself is extraordinary. Many an hour have I sat 
 and sung their praises at that hospitable hostelry. 
 
 Once, sitting in my usual corner at this restaurant 
 near the window, I heard a much harassed waiter 
 score heavily off a tiresome customer who was ordering 
 some oysters. The conversation that took place was 
 the following — the wretched waiter turning to go and 
 execute the order and being brought back each time : — 
 " Say, waiter " — "Yes, sir." "I want a dozen blue 
 points." " Yes, sir." " Oh, waiter." " Yes, sir." 
 " Steamed, you know." " Yes, sir." " Oh, waiter." 
 *' Yes, sir." " You'll see that they are not done too 
 much." "No, sir." "Oh, and waiter." "Yes, sir." 
 " Will you see that they put just a squeeze of lemon 
 in each shell." "Yes, sir." " Oh, and waiter, just the 
 smallest amount of butter over them when you serve 
 them." "Yes, sir." " Oh, and waiter." " Yes, sir." 
 " Don't forget the pepper and salt." This last remark 
 was too much for the poor knight of the napkin, and 
 turning back of his own free will he said, "And, sir.'' 
 " Yes, waiter," answered the oyster wisher. " Would 
 you like them with or without ? " " What ? " said the 
 luncher. " Pearls," said the waiter, and disappeared. 
 
 Americans are a nation of wits, from the boy who 
 cleans your boots for lo cents upwards. In fact, you 
 can hear almost as funny dialogues in the streets as 
 you used to at Welber and Field's if you take the 
 trouble to listen for them ; and don't think you're ever 
 going to give talk, as they say, and not get back double, 
 or you are making a grave error.
 
 U.S.A. 83 
 
 A great deal of their fun is on the inverted situation 
 idea; but it is real fun — which is more than can be 
 said for the humour of many countries. The cannibal 
 is the only other fellow who, under certain conditions, 
 gets the real laugh off them. The humour is all 
 through the country ; it is as if every American baby 
 at its birth had been told by its parents to be humorous 
 or it would not be allowed to proceed on life's highway. 
 Certainly, if this is so, the babes have kept their bargain 
 loyally. 
 
 I was talking to a very pretty girl some time ago 
 who came for an engagement — she had just left the 
 Casino Opera Company, New York, and wanted to 
 join me. I was asking her as to her experience, and 
 finished by inquiring, "And do you sing?" She 
 answered without a movement of her face : " Well, 
 people who have heard me say I don't ! " I need 
 hardly say I engaged her on the spot ! 
 
 Even the losses and troubles of the average American 
 seem to be turned to a humorous account whenever 
 possible. John Stetson, a well-known manager at the 
 time I visited America first, was running the opera of 
 ** The Gondoliers " in Chicago. The business had been 
 very bad throughout this season (from what cause I 
 don't know ; it was certainly not the fault of the opera), 
 and Stetson, although many thousands of pounds out 
 of pocket, could not refrain from getting a laugh if 
 possible, and so altered the sign in front of the theatre 
 from " Last weeks of ' The Gondoliers ' " to " Last weeks 
 of * The Gone dollars ' " — which was certainly sporting 
 if nothing else. 
 
 It is of Stetson — who was, I believe, a very close man 
 
 G 2
 
 84 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 with his money — the story is told that once while con- 
 ducting a rehearsal he called to one of the chorus 
 girls to come back and display more surprise at some 
 incident that had occurred in the scene. " Now then, 
 miss," he shouted ; " come along — be surprised — get 
 excited — think you have heard good news. For instance, 
 what would you do if I raised your salary ? " "I should 
 drop down dead, Mr. Stetson," came the ready answer. 
 Stetson joined in the laugh, and shortly afterwards he 
 made that chorus lady his wife. So he got the last 
 laugh — as I believe his charms were not too obvious to 
 the naked eye. 
 
 It was Stetson, too, who during a season of opera was 
 watching the orchestra, and from time to time noticed 
 that the first violins did not play. " Say," shouted 
 Stetson to the conductor, " how is it those violin men 
 ain't playing ? " " They play when they ought to, 
 Mr. Stetson," said the conductor; " they have a long 
 rest here." " Do they ? " said Stetson, " not in my 
 theatre. I engage them to play, not to rest — you keep 
 'em at it all the time, or they can quit." But although 
 tales of his ignorance are told, probably, like the man 
 who dyed his hair, he was not as black as he was 
 painted, and was the peg of his time on which to hang 
 this class of anecdote. 
 
 It was during our first season in America that 
 Mr. George Grossmith came out and had a remarkable 
 success with his recitals, going everywhere and being 
 acclaimed by everyone. On his return to England, 
 pardonably proud at his triumph, he began comparing 
 the art of entertaining with that of acting, and held 
 forth on his single-handed manner of accumulating
 
 U.S.A. 85 
 
 wealth. This was a httle exasperating to a group of 
 actors who had not had too good a season in England 
 that year. And Charles Brookfield, whose tongue is 
 the model from which the first lancet was made, was 
 one of the number. "You fellows," held forth the 
 entertainer, " have to take out scenery — properties, 
 plays, and a large company when you want to perform ; 
 while I — look at me. I just landed in New York with 
 my piano and a dress suit, and I made ^30,000." " I 
 daresay," snapped Brookfield. " But we don't all look 
 so damn funny in our dress suits." It is sad to feel we 
 are not all capable of saying the right thing at the 
 wrong moment, as this undoubtedly was — but there, 
 I suppose if we were all "wits" there would be a 
 premium on dulness, and the clever ones would find 
 fewer anvils to beat their brains on. 
 
 I met William ColHer in America. What a comedian, 
 a really great light low comedian, and certainly one of 
 my biggest favourites ! To him are accredited a million 
 smart things. It was Collier who, on meeting a certain 
 well-known American actor whose love affairs were as 
 numerous as blossoms on an almond tree, and who had 
 been married four times, said, " Hulloa, old man, how 
 are you ? Say, if you think of it, I wish you'd ask me 
 to one of your weddings." And I believe he did, out 
 of spite. 
 
 Collier is the most awful man at keeping a morning 
 appointment — he goes to bed so early ! I remember 
 waiting for him with Charles Frohman for an hour on 
 two consecutive mornings, at the Savoy, without his 
 putting in an appearance. On the third day he arrived 
 to time. I said, " Hulloa, Collier, you don't mean to
 
 86 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 say you're really here ? " " Yes," he said, " I am. I've 
 sat up all night to keep the appointment." 
 
 Why, I don't know, but he seemed to have an idea 
 that I was a snapper up of unconsidered trifles, and 
 that very little passed me that I did not incorporate into 
 something of my own and make use of. 1 explained to 
 him that he was quite wrong, and I felt I had convinced 
 him, but some months later I found I had not ; for 
 he, in sending the manuscript of a new comedy to 
 Frohman, cabled, " Don't let Hicks read this before I 
 produce, or mine will be the revival " ! 
 
 He was received in this country with open arms, and 
 I think enjoyed himself; but the London Sunday tried 
 him as it tries us. It was on one of these first days that 
 I was walking down the Hay market with him about 
 eight in the evening, grumbling at the ridiculous and 
 dull state that London was reduced to, with nowhere 
 to go and nothing to do, when I turned to him dejectedly 
 and asked him if he could think of something to amuse 
 us. " I'll tell you," said Collier, " something very 
 exciting. Let us go and dine at the Savoy and listen 
 to the Jews eating their soup." I don't know what we 
 did, but the notion was funny, and I think I shall give 
 myself the treat some day. 
 
 The salary I was receiving of thirty dollars a week 
 enabled me to live splendidly in New York, but when 
 we commenced to travel through the States it was as 
 much as I could do to manage on it, and so I found 
 myself not quite as well off as I had been on two 
 pounds a week in the English provinces. Twenty odd 
 years ago everything in America in the way of wearing 
 apparel was most expensive, and having to renew gloves
 
 U.S.A. 87 
 
 at twelve shillings a pair, and buy new bowler hats for 
 twenty-five shillings, a big hole was made in my weekly 
 wage. Washing, too, was desperately expensive, and 
 the transport of our luggage, for which we had to pay 
 ourselves, all meant that things had to be cut pretty 
 fine. 
 
 Then came what are termed " one-night stands," 
 which meant playing in a different town every evening, 
 and, of course, travelling in nearly all cases after the 
 performance. This was the only part of the American 
 trip that was irksome. Many a time have I got into the 
 train after a performance, arriving at the next town we 
 were to appear in at about twelve the next day, dashed 
 to the theatre, unpacked my trunks, and, swallowing 
 a few sandwiches, played a matinee at two o'clock ! 
 Directly the curtain fell the clothes used in the piece 
 had to be put away and those necessary for the 
 evening bill got ready. Then a scrambled dinner, back 
 to the theatre, and after playing again everything had 
 to be packed and a rush made to catch the train, often 
 without any supper at all. In those days the manage- 
 ment used not to pay for sleepers on night journeys, 
 and as they cost anything from a dollar and a half up 
 to five dollars, it was very often quite out of the 
 question, even after the hard day I have just mentioned, 
 to be able to afford to go to bed. 
 
 Many a time have I, in company with two other 
 actors, who were not overburdened with salary and had 
 families in England to send to, sat up all night taking 
 turn and turn about sitting on a dressing-case ; for when 
 an American sleeping-car is ready for the night, if you 
 haven't a sleeper you have to get into the corridor — at
 
 88 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 least, so it was when I travelled there. With a matinee 
 on the following day, and travelling again the next 
 night as before, packing and unpacking, and only being 
 able to snatch very inferior food at cheap hotels, it is 
 no small wonder that I detested these one-night stands, 
 the first season of which I did for a month straight off. 
 The travelling actor in America was looked upon in 
 those days very much as we regard an itinerant circus 
 here now ; and the journeying to and fro, the being 
 thrown out of one hotel into another, made me very 
 homesick. 
 
 Playing as we did a big repertoire, and only staying a 
 week in each town, we had little time, with eight per- 
 formances and occasional rehearsals, to see much of 
 interest in the places we visited. I only remember 
 many of the towns by the colour of the wall-paper in my 
 bedroom; but though a great deal connected with this 
 trip was unpleasant, at the times we were not in the 
 big cities, I would gladly go over it all again and be 
 thankful for all I learned under the splendid management 
 I was then with. 
 
 Mr. Kendal was a man of peculiarly imperturbable 
 temper. He used to fuss over small things at times, 
 but was extremely just and lovable, and never interfered 
 with his artists unnecessarily, and when he had any- 
 thing to say, said it in the most quiet and kindly 
 manner. I remember he had a penchant for very 
 good cigars, and many a time have I smelt them with 
 a large degree of envy, pleasure and disappointment. 
 
 Mrs. Kendal had much beautiful jewellery, and before 
 leaving home had received a very handsome diamond 
 star as a tribute to her womanly qualities from the
 
 U.S.A. 89 
 
 ladies of England. She was showing this one evening 
 at a dinner party, and explained to the guests the 
 circumstances under which the ornament had been 
 presented to her, saying : " This was given to me by 
 the women of England for being a good woman." A 
 beautiful American lady at the table, who was as moral 
 as she was lovely, immediately pointed to a costly neck- 
 lace she was wearing, and said with a knowing smile : 
 " Really ? This was given me by the men of America 
 for the other thing ! " The laughter was long and 
 loud, for the remark, although daring, was certainly 
 amusing. 
 
 Our tour lasted about ten months, and we visited all 
 the principal cities, San Francisco included. Every- 
 thing was so novel and interesting that the time flew by, 
 and we found ourselves returning home almost before 
 we realised we had been away ten weeks, let alone 
 ten months. 
 
 It was just before sailing for Europe I saw the first 
 prize-fighter to exploit himself as an actor, J. L. 
 Sullivan, play the hero of a drama called " Honest 
 Hearts and Willing Hands," he appearing, if I 
 remember rightly, as the Village Blacksmith. It was 
 on a Sunday night, at Chicago, that I witnessed the 
 performance, when he collaborated with the author in 
 a pathetic scene in the most incongruous manner, 
 though greatly to the audience's delight. 
 
 It so happened on this very evening " Dempsey, the 
 Nonpareil," the unbeaten champion of fifty battles, was 
 to meet Bob Fitzsimmons at New Orleans in a twenty- 
 five round contest for world honours, and nothing else 
 but the probable result of the encounter was being
 
 90 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 talked of from one end of the States to the other, 
 Americans generally not feeling too happy as to their 
 candidate's prospects with the mighty Cornishman, 
 whose reputation as a great general of the ring had 
 preceded him from Australia. 
 
 The play on this Sunday night commenced and 
 proceeded quite normally for the first two acts, 
 it being a rather crude drama, in which love and 
 hate, passion and self-sacrifice were measured out in 
 the usual and approved quantities. But when the 
 curtain went up on the third act, Mr. Sullivan altered 
 the entire trend of the play by creating a new situation, 
 which, while having nothing to do with the plot, pro- 
 voked enthusiasm seldom heard even in a drama 
 house. 
 
 The scene was an old homestead, and the Sullivan 
 family were all in great distress, owing to the machina- 
 tions of a wicked baronet. Disaster followed disaster, 
 ruin was staring them in the face, and it appeared that 
 nothing could avert the terrible climax of the loss of home 
 and ultimate starvation. One of the characters came 
 into the grief-stricken household, and seeing Sullivan 
 whose head was bowed with trouble, said, "John, I have 
 bad news for you. The mortgagees have foreclosed, the 
 house will be sold up, father is going to jail, and mother 
 and all the children will be turned into the streets to 
 starve." For the first time in the history of the play, 
 to everyone's intense surprise, this touching announce- 
 ment seemed to have no effect whatever on the burly 
 blacksmith, and instead of speaking the lines set down 
 for him he turned on his informant and said deliberately, 
 " Jake, I don't care two straws if the children starve, if
 
 U.S.A. gi 
 
 father goes to prison, or mother is turned into the 
 streets. We have got a little fellow called Dempsey 
 to-night at New Orleans who is going to knock the 
 stuffing out of this thing Fitzsimmons." 
 
 The drama was forgotten in a moment, and the 
 audience cheered the thought and hope that was upper- 
 most in their minds. Sullivan took call upon call for 
 his sentiments. The oracle had spoken, the expert had 
 told his countrymen that Dempsey was not to be beaten. 
 But the oracle was wrong. Fitzsimmons did beat the 
 " Nonpareil " that night, much to every American's 
 surprise and annoyance.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 
 
 I RETURNED to America for a second season of ten 
 months directly after the hohdays, re-visiting the same 
 cities and playing the same pieces, and practically with 
 the same company, which included that fine old Lyceum 
 actor Tom Wenman, poor Dennison — who cut his 
 throat after a matinee, for no apparent cause, which 
 was a terrible shock to us all, for a more genial, jolly 
 man could not have been met with anywhere, and the 
 last man one would have supposed would do away with 
 himself — Florence Cowell, Joseph Carne, John Glen- 
 dinning, Harry Chart, and Violet Vanbrugh. 
 
 While I have lost sight of nearly all the original 
 members of that first company who are still in the land 
 of the living, Violet Vanbrugh, that sweet woman and 
 splendid actress, I see often. We sometimes laugh 
 over the old days, and it seems hard to realise that all 
 these years have come and gone since we were members 
 of the Kendal combination, learning our business, and 
 that on our parting she journeyed off to Dunsinane and 
 Macbeth, and I to the Gaiety, to flirt with a girl whose 
 golden hair was hanging down her back. 
 
 Among the many noted people I had met in New 
 York was that witty and accomplished actor Barrymore. 
 No man of his day had a greater faculty than he of 
 saying the right thing at the right moment. One of 
 the neatest things I heard of him was his method of
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 93 
 
 dealing with a critic who had for years continually 
 slated his work. It was, I believe, at a club in New 
 York that a friend called out to him, " Oh, Barry- 
 more, I want to introduce you to Mr. Jenkins, of the 
 Northern Mail.'' Barrymore, without taking more than 
 ordinary interest, said, " I should be delighted." The 
 critic, who had written the most virulent articles 
 against the actor, looked uncomfortable, meeting him 
 as he did for the first time face to face. The actor rose 
 smilingly and said " How do you do ? " Those gathered 
 round at the time all thought there would be a scene, 
 but nothing occurred, and the friend who had introduced 
 them, hoping to see some fun, said, emphasising the 
 critic's name, " But this is Mr. Jenkins, Barrymore, of 
 the Northern Mail.'" " Yes," said Barrymore, " / 
 know.'' Still nothing happened. " But, Barrymore,' 
 the friend repeated, '* Mr. Jenkins " — thinking that 
 Barrymore did not grasp who the man really was. 
 *' I tell you," said Barrymore, " I know it is Mr. 
 Jenkins," and taking the critic warmly by the hand 
 he looked at him, and said, " You have written terrible 
 things about me, but now I see you all resentment 
 ceases." The critic looked flabbergasted. There was 
 nothing to say. He blurted out, " Oh ! you read my 
 paper, then ? " " Yes," said Barrymore; " I never get 
 up till four in the afternoon, and it is the only early 
 morning paper left on the bookstall where I get my 
 journals." This is only one short story of the man who, 
 from the number of good things told of him, seems to 
 have even ordered his meals in epigram. 
 
 The routine of the second tour was much the same 
 as the first, and there is little use in writing of it ;
 
 94 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the only real novel experience we had being that we 
 were unfortunate enough to find ourselves on a burning 
 vessel on the second return journey. It was the City 
 of Richmond, and from her looks she was older, I think, 
 than Westminster Abbey. Many and entertaining were 
 the rats that gambolled to and fro over the berth parti- 
 tions, even in the daylight, and creaky and rickety she 
 seemed as we steamed past the Statue of Liberty one fine 
 June morning, little knowing" what was in store for us. 
 
 It was towards midnight on the second day after we 
 had passed Sandy Hook that, while strolling in com- 
 pany with two or three saloon passengers, I found 
 smoke filling the passages near the second-class cabins. 
 Obviously something was wrong ; sailors were hurrying 
 to and fro, officers were giving rapid orders in under- 
 tones, and seemed surprised to have come upon us at 
 this hour in the after part of the vessel. 
 
 We naturally inquired what was wrong, and the 
 captain, seeing that it would be useless to try and 
 pretend that nothing abnormal was happening, took us 
 to his cabin and said, " Gentlemen, since you have 
 guessed that something is amiss, I will not try and give 
 you the bull con (i.e., tell you a story), if you give me 
 your word of honour in return to keep what I say to 
 you a profound and sacred secret." We all readily 
 gave our word, and thanking us, he said, " I am sorry 
 to have to tell you that this ship is on fire." 
 
 We all looked blankly at each other ; I turned cold, 
 and I got a pain where pains most often come, and felt 
 sick from sheer funk. The captain then impressed upon 
 us that absolute silence on our part was the only thing 
 that could ensure safety and prevent panic.
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 95 
 
 Our cargo was cotton, and spontaneous combustion 
 had been set up. If the hatches were kept battened 
 down and no air reached the hold, only a slow smoulder- 
 ing would go on, and in all probability we should reach 
 Queenstown without the fire bursting into flame. But 
 secrecy as to the real truth must be rigidly observed, 
 and with these final instructions he hurried away, leaving 
 us feeling as if we were shilling chops upon a silver grill. 
 The three other men, I believe, were in as great a 
 state as I was, but we all of us kept our thoughts to 
 ourselves, and lit new cigars and cigarettes, feeling, I 
 suppose, that a little more fire on the steamer wouldn't 
 make much difference. 
 
 One of my three friends was named Deane, a nervous 
 little man of five-and-fifty, who had run through a 
 fortune in the Army, and who had taken to the stage 
 late in life as a means of livelihood ; the second was the 
 son of Mrs. H. Nye Chart, of Brighton, my greatest of 
 friends ; and the third, poor Arthur Dacre, a highly 
 excitable and neurotic man, who was more emotional 
 off the stage than he ought to have been on it. 
 
 The situation, we argued, was desperate; after two 
 or three whiskies-and-sodas we began to feel we were 
 heroes of the mine, and decided that bed was quite out 
 of the question. Chart and myself, having no one 
 dependent on us, faced the situation as one purely of 
 personal safety. Deane, who at all times in any trouble 
 flew to alcohol, conceived the idea of leaving this world, 
 if he had to leave it, in the best of spirits, and at once 
 procured six bottles of three-star oblivion brandy. But 
 Dacre began to work himself into a state of great 
 excitement, and rambled on about the virtues of his
 
 96 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 wife, Amy Roselle, who was in a cabin below with 
 two other ladies. 
 
 In vain we begged him to keep calm and reminded 
 him that we had given our word to the captain that 
 our mouths should be sealed as to the danger we were 
 in ; but the more he realised that he had pledged himself 
 to the keeping of a secret, the more the fact that he 
 held a secret preyed on him, and he seemed entirely to 
 lose his mental balance. 
 
 He cared nothing for himself, he said, it was the 
 woman he adored, the artist who had not yet come 
 into her own — to think she should be burned to death 
 at her time of life (as if it really makes anj^ difference 
 at what time of life one is roast or boiled) — suffocated 
 and then drowned ; or perhaps the ship would explode, 
 he said, and then — or perhaps he might be saved and she 
 taken from him ! On he went in this strain till, listen- 
 ing no longer to our entreaties to be calm, he rushed 
 down the companion-way from the smoking-room to 
 the cabins, and burst into his wife's state-room. 
 
 He woke her up, and seized her, saying, " Darling, I 
 have always been a true and devoted husband to you, 
 haven't I ? " The startled lady, half asleep and half 
 awake, answered in the affirmative (whether it was 
 because she was in this dazed state that she said, Yes, 
 I don't know), and asked him what on earth was the 
 matter ? *' My darling," he shouted, " this is perhaps 
 the last kiss I shall ever give you — our hour has come — 
 we must say good-bye. We are as two spirits at the 
 parting of the ways — we who have loved each other so 
 are starting on our journey to the Great Beyond ! " 
 
 By this time Dacre had spoken all the dramatic
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 97 
 
 platitudes he could remember out of the various pieces 
 he had pla5'ed in, and not only his wife but the two 
 other ladies who shared her cabin were thoroughly 
 alarmed. They begged for an explanation, and Dacre, 
 smothering his better half with kisses, clasped her in his 
 arms and said, " My love, my love, one last farewell ! 
 Press your lips to mine — the ship is on fire ! " I 
 gathered from this that perhaps he felt the action of 
 her lips in this manner might have some influence on 
 the muddle we were in. 
 
 With a scream that woke the occupants of the 
 cabins the frightened women rushed into the narrow 
 passage way, Dacre standing with tears running down 
 his chest as if he were playing the end of a drama very 
 badly. Doors opened right and left, and in a second the 
 truth was out. People hurried on their clothes, some 
 took life-belts and put them over pyjamas or night- 
 dresses, and ran on deck, expecting to see flames 
 licking the funnel tops. The confusion was inde- 
 scribable, and the shout of " Fire ! " was echoed from 
 one end of the ship to the other. 
 
 A clergyman, with his clerical collar hastily put over 
 a red flannel nightshirt, held a service in the saloon, 
 and at the top of his voice sang, " For those in peril on 
 the sea." By the time the congregation had joined him 
 in the hymn every one of them was so worked up that 
 it would have only wanted a steward to have brought in 
 a bunch of white flowers and the whole lot would have 
 jumped into the sea, crying, " Dust to dust — ashes to 
 ashes." One old maiden lady got up, and in her excite- 
 ment took out a spirit lamp and curling irons, and 
 began to adjust her transformation, or toupe, thinking, 
 
 S.H. H
 
 98 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 no doubt, that in this way she would show a bold 
 front. 
 
 Chart and I felt like taking Dacre and killing him for 
 what he had done, but it was useless to discuss any- 
 thing with him. I believe at that moment he was, poor 
 fellow, as mad as he proved to be a year later, when 
 he took his wife's life and committed suicide in Australia. 
 The mischief was done ! By one in the morning 
 every first, second and third class passenger was fully 
 dressed, and, indeed, many of them never took their 
 clothes off again till they reached Queenstown five 
 days later. 
 
 After some hours things quieted down a good deal. 
 Dacre was, however, carefully stowed in an empty cabin ; 
 nothing else could stop him going about like a Welsh 
 bard of old, telling tales to nervous old ladies of the 
 founderings of great ships in wintry seas. The comic 
 side of this at the time, oddly enough, did not present 
 itself to any one of us. 
 
 I have been in a collision at sea, and that is an enter- 
 tainment one does not particularly want to go out and 
 borrow money to be present at again, but a fire as a 
 travelling companion is worse than taking your mother- 
 in-law on a honeymoon. 
 
 It was the greatest good fortune that the cotton 
 burned itself slowly and slowly from the centre, and 
 with the exception of seeing smoke coming through the 
 hatchways at times, had Dacre not spoken every one 
 on that trip would have travelled in blissful ignorance 
 of the grave danger in their midst. 
 
 I did not go to bed during the whole trip, and used 
 to keep myself awake at night by sitting and watching
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 99 
 
 the bell-register and notifying the stewards on duty 
 what state-rooms were ringing for them. My fear must 
 be forgiven me : I was only a boy, and it was the wonder- 
 ful month of June. I have always hoped I shall not 
 die in the beautiful summer time ; a dull rainy day 
 won't seem so bad, and leaving London in a November 
 fog would make a new world, however uninviting, less 
 terrible. 
 
 My poor little friend Deane died some two years 
 afterwards. One morning at rehearsal he was doing 
 his work as usual, and was talking and laughing, giving 
 no signs whatever of being other than in his ordinary 
 health. He came off from an entrance, and having a 
 wait sat in a chair and lit a cigarette. Some time 
 dapsed, when his turn to come on came again ; the 
 stage manager called to him but he took no notice. 
 This struck me as odd, as he was a very precise little 
 fellow in his business. He was called again, and still he 
 did not move, so going up to him, I said : " I say, Deane, 
 old man, they're calling you." But he didn't even look 
 up. I touched him on the shoulder and said, " Deane ! " 
 He was sitting bolt upright in his chair stone dead, 
 with a lighted cigarette smouldering in his hand. It 
 was a tragic end and a great shock to everyone, but it 
 was a merciful release, for the poor little man was 
 ageing fast and rapidly falling on troublous times. 
 
 With the two vacations, these two seasons had taken 
 up two whole years, and as the Kendals had booked a 
 third tour in the States, and the repertoire was to be 
 exactly the same, I decided, after long communing with 
 myself, to leave the company and try and get an 
 engagement in London. I accordingly wrote to my 
 
 H 2
 
 100 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 friend Arthur Chudleigh, who by great good fortune 
 wrote me that he would be able to offer me an engage- 
 ment under his joint management with Mrs. John 
 Wood at the new Court Theatre. When I told Mrs. 
 Kendal I had settled by cable to join the Court Com- 
 pany, I think I may say she was sorry, as indeed was I, 
 but I felt it best for my future. The round of parts I 
 had played included old men, boys, and the juvenile 
 lead in several plays, and it was a feather in Mrs. 
 Kendal's teaching cap that when I left they had to 
 engage three separate men to play the various roles I 
 had managed to perform. 
 
 I had during the second tour written my first play. 
 It was a transpontine melodrama, entitled " This World 
 of Ours." The plot turned on the loss of a marriage 
 certificate, and save for the fact that when it was 
 produced at the Theatre Royal, Brighton, for me by 
 my friend Chart's kind mother. Miss Violet Vanbrugh 
 and Miss Irene Vanbrugh played the principal parts 
 in it, I don't think there is anything of interest 
 to record. The piece was no good. I think it was 
 conceived by a child of four to be seen through by a 
 child of three. It only ran a week ; but still, one mustn't 
 grumble, for in the state of some of the London theatres 
 to-day it makes me feel that a week's season is not to 
 be wholly despised. 
 
 Sidney Fairbrother made her first appearance on that 
 evening under my management, in a little play called 
 " Auntie's Advice," which was the curtain-raiser, and it 
 was on the production night of this great drama of 
 mine that there came to my dressing-room a young 
 man whose name was in everyone's mouth. It was
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK loi 
 
 C. F. Gill, who had just saved some poor soul from 
 hanging for the murder of her child under the stress of 
 great trouble, in a manner so masterly that the world 
 knew it had found a new man; and the world for once 
 wasn't wrong. 
 
 Twenty odd years ago ! How often since then have 
 I watched that great cross-examiner and master of 
 every trick in the judicial conjurer's box, whisper the 
 hardened criminal into Portland, or taking off his pince- 
 nez from the middle with his thumb and forefinger, 
 smile at a jury and convey to them by his charm of 
 manner that his client, the fair co-respondent, has over- 
 night told him to let them know that each individual 
 in that box and not any of the others, is the only man 
 she is dying to meet in the private room of a Parisian 
 restaurant when she leaves the court without a blot on 
 her family escutcheon. The way he mentally caresses 
 them is irresistible. Listen to him when he comes to 
 the really weak point in a case — a point of which every- 
 one has said the night before : " How is Charlie Gill 
 going to get over that ? " " How is he going to get 
 over it ? Why, he is going to Gill it." Which in plain 
 English means that the soul of Gill takes a seat in the 
 jury box, and linking arms with the baker, the grocer, 
 and the candlestick maker, inquires tenderly after each 
 of their children. To the bachelor among them he 
 whispers, " Children, I loathe them ! So do you, you 
 really clever fellow." To that red-nosed, sleepy-eyed 
 man who is polishing the oak panelling with the back 
 of his head, he says, " Moet and Chandon 1900, Cliquot 
 '94, my buck ! and what of Warre's '^y, the year after 
 the phylloxera had been stamped out, eh, my genial
 
 I02 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 brother of the nuts and crackers ? " and he's got him. 
 To the young man at the far end of the back row, with 
 a piece of blue ribbon in his buttonhole, Mr. Gill's soul 
 whispers, " I am a teetotaller too." And what does he 
 do to the one irreconcilable with a hard mouth and red 
 whiskers, who looks at the advocate with a go-on-you- 
 can't-get-over-me — I -know -all -about -it, kind of air. 
 Why, the spirit whispers : " Of course I can't. You and 
 I are the only two really clever people here to-day. It 
 would be idle for me to insult your intelligence by 
 labouring a point of this kind, the contention is so 
 absolutely ridiculous. You and I know that, don't we ; 
 but the others don't, you — you clever, brilliant grocer," 
 and the tradesman takes the sugar and leaves the sand, 
 and the heroine of the Hotel Don'telle leaves the court 
 with a rider from the jury, "that she has done absolutely 
 nothing extremely well ! " 
 
 Oh, Mr. Gill ! my admiration is only equalled by my 
 personal affection for you. But at night you haunt me 
 sometimes. One of my nightmares is that I am stand- 
 ing before you and listening to you, saying, as you 
 punctuate each word with a twitching forefinger, which, 
 signpost like, conveys to me that " all roads lead to 
 Wormwood Scrubbs " : " You don't appreciate the 
 question — er — er — I want to put it to you, and I know 
 you will tell the gentlemen of the jury — er — now just 
 think a moment — er — er — you say you didn't murder 
 the — lady — but — er — just let me understand. Did you 
 do it with a hammer or an axe ? " 
 
 In the middle of the night I hear myself indignantly 
 declare my innocence. I hear a judge, the drum of 
 whose ear would not be good enough for a Salvation
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 103 
 
 Army band, bend over to you and inquire what my 
 answer has been, and I see your upturned boyish, guile- 
 less face, smiling and whispering to the judge, so that 
 no one else can hear : '* He says — he says, my lord — he 
 did it with a hammer ! " 
 
 It was Charles Gill who left a lasting mark on a well- 
 known and sporting-looking actor by describing him 
 in one short sentence. The actor in question had a 
 strong clean-shaven face with a square jaw and a 
 powerful neck. A lady, in discussing him one even- 
 ing at dinner, said to the learned K.C. : " I think 
 Mr. So-and-so is such a charming man, don't you, 
 Mr. Gill?" "Yes," came the answer, "I do; but 
 I never knew what the criminal classes really looked 
 like till I saw him asleep in a third-class railway 
 carriage." With the most profound respect I take off 
 my make-up to you, kind friend of twenty years ! 
 
 One of my chief recreations is attending the Law 
 Courts and listening to the battle of the strong. I have 
 seen nearly every famous trial of late years at the Old 
 Bailey, that mighty human drama house where they 
 produce pieces in which the comedy parts are few and 
 there is seldom a hero to emerge triumphant. Person- 
 ally, I would rather there were no prisoner in the dock 
 and the case being argued was merely a hypothetical 
 one. For the pity every decent man should feel for 
 those in trouble sits heavy on me when I see a fellow 
 in such desperate straits facing a sphinx in scarlet, to 
 whom the community has given the power of taking 
 away God's greatest gift — liberty and the open air 
 The new Old Bailey doesn't inspire me with the same 
 awe that the old Old Bailey used to. It is too much
 
 104 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 like the Ritz Hotel, the hardened ruffian in the dock 
 looking quite out of place and very like a dead rat laid 
 out for inspection on a length of priceless silk. The 
 look of surprise on the old lag's face who has never 
 been amidst the new Old Bailey's oak and green leather 
 upholstery before, is strange to watch. He always looks 
 as if he was going to say to the warder at his side, 
 " 'Ere, cully, 'aven't you brought me to the wrong 
 place ? " Personally, if ever I had the misfortune to 
 find myself in so gorgeous a place as the dock of the 
 new Old Bailey, I should feel I ought to call for a wine 
 list, tip the pohceman, and invite that shrewdest of 
 solicitors, Mr. Under-sheriff Langton — or, as Arthur 
 Roberts called him, " Undersheriff and Bitters " — to 
 lunch. There is a tremendous echo in one of the courts, 
 and the first sentence I heard my favourite judge. Sir 
 Charles Darling, pass there of six months, was repeated 
 from wall to wall, his lordship saying " Six months," 
 the walls saying " Six months — six months," and the 
 prisoner at the Bar shouting out, " 'Eavens, my lord, 
 eighteen months ! " 
 
 It was at the Old Bailey after hearing my friend 
 Mr. Marshall Hall, the eminent K.C., make an excep- 
 tionally telling speech, that I turned to a newspaper 
 shorthand reporter whom I happened to be near, 
 and said, " Fine, wasn't he ? What do you think of 
 him ? " The reporter, without looking up from his 
 labour, simply replied, " What do I think of 'All ? 192 
 words a minute, that's what I think of him ! " 
 
 I forgot to mention that the reason I commenced to 
 write plays was because I wanted to get paragraphs in 
 the papers about myself for nothing. I had little hope
 
 THE SHIP AND THE DOCK 105 
 
 of ever having a piece produced when I started, but I 
 had hopes of saving half-a-crown a week. In the first 
 desire I was, I am glad to say, wrong. I have just 
 produced my thirty-third play. In saying this, do not 
 think I presume to call myself a dramatist ; I think 
 there are only about seven in Great Britain, and I know 
 I'm not one of them. I am only an ordinary dramatic 
 carpenter. But I'm not sure I wouldn't be a humble 
 nailer together of unconsidered trifles rather than write 
 the play of supposed subtle thought in which every- 
 thing that is said means something else, only the 
 initiated knowing that if a general in the army remarks, 
 "The guns are booming," it means, "My wife has 
 overdrawn her account." 
 
 It has been, and always will be, a mystery to me why 
 the Press spasmodically hail some writer as a new-found 
 genius simply because he is undramatic, ignores situa- 
 tions, finishes a third act with a child asking his father 
 whether he was found under a gooseberry bush, and 
 peppers the play with such lines as — " Is it dark 
 to-night ? The night is dark. How dark ? As dark 
 may be, but dark ! ! Dark as may be, but dark ? 
 That's what I say, the night is dark. Oh ! dark.' 
 
 But I have wandered away again.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 
 
 I HAD left the Kendals and started at the Court. The 
 opening play was a piece called " Pamela's Prodigy," 
 laid in an early Victorian setting by the late Clyde 
 Fitch. The one laugh of the evening was Mrs. John 
 Wood's pantalettes that showed boldly under a 
 crinoline. We rehearsed six weeks, had four dress 
 rehearsals, and the play ran five nights. 
 
 A very funny farce called " Aunt Jack " was revived 
 and ran a few weeks. I played an old colonel in it, and 
 had the great delight of appearing for the second time 
 with that inimitable lady Mrs. John Wood. What an 
 artiste — what a low comedian in petticoats ! 
 
 I left one great actress to work with another. Some- 
 how, however, things didn't run very smoothly at the 
 Court, and my friend Chudleigh and Mrs. Wood, differing 
 as to policy, agreed to separate, and I was now landed 
 without work. But it was only for a moment. 
 
 I heard Willie Edouin was producing a play called 
 " The Sleepwalker " at the old Strand Theatre and 
 wanted a man to play a twin with Harry Eversfield, a 
 then well-known eccentric light comedian. I went to 
 the theatre, saw Edouin and got the part. We produced 
 two nights after the Court Theatre closed, and I never 
 heard greater laughter in a theatre. But alas ! the piece 
 was a failure and withdrawn within the month. 
 
 And then came the real turning-point in my career.
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 107 
 
 I joined J. L. Toole, at Toole's Theatre, in J. M. Barrie's 
 first play, and had the good luck to make a success. 
 From then till now, although of course I have had 
 plenty of reverses, I have never known anything but the 
 refusal of, not the seeking for, work. 
 
 The first letter I had ever received from an actor was 
 from J. L. Toole. I had written to him secretly when I 
 was a schoolboy asking him for advice as to how to go 
 on the stage, and he had replied very kindly, telling me I 
 had better go to a theatrical agent and learn my business 
 in the provinces. So I hurried to Toole's Theatre in 
 fear and trembling lest the vacancy I was applying for 
 should be filled. 
 
 Toole's Theatre at that time was a quaint little band- 
 box and stood on part of the site of Charing Cross 
 Hospital, its front portico being on the spot where the 
 new out-patients' entrance of the hospital now is. The 
 theatre only held some £i2g when full, and it seldom was 
 full ; for Toole made all his money in the country, and 
 troubled little to produce anything new in London, 
 relying on all his old favourites, such as " Uncle Dick's 
 Darling," "The Upper Crust," "The Serious Family," 
 " Dot," etc., for his short London seasons ; but he 
 had played these so often that they drew very little 
 money, and indeed they had become very like the song 
 of " The Wolf." This had been sung so often by some 
 noted singer, that on one occasion when it was 
 announced a voice in the gallery shouted: " Oh ! go on, 
 guv'nor, give the wolf a chance; you've sung every hair 
 off the blooming animal's back." 
 
 It is not to be wondered at, therefore, when a new 
 modern play was put into rehearsal by a Scotch novelist
 
 io8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 whose " Window in Thrums " was the great literary hit of 
 the year, that there was considerable excitement in the 
 Tooleries. 
 
 I presented myself at the stage door and anxiously 
 inquired for Mr. Toole, saying I had come on impor- 
 tant business. I was shown down on to the stage, and 
 was told that Mr. Toole was not there yet, but I could 
 see the stage-manager, Mr. John Billington. I explained 
 that I had heard that a young man part was still unfilled, 
 and offered myself, explaining my few qualifications. 
 
 Billington, who was by no means a genial man and who 
 abhorred, as I afterwards discovered, the young actor, 
 told me I had better go and show myself to the author, 
 Mr. J. M. Barrie, who lived at an address off Oxford 
 Street. In a twinkling I was in a cab, and in five 
 minutes I was ringing at the door of Mr. Barrie's 
 lodgings. It was opened by the landlady, who told me 
 Mr. Barrie was in but would not see anyone. I sent up 
 a message that I had come from the theatre. She 
 returned saying that Mr. Barrie would be there during 
 the afternoon. I replied the matter was too urgent to 
 keep till the afternoon, that I must give him the message 
 at once. 
 
 I waited in the passage with a beating heart. I 
 can see the wall-paper now : it was a light yellow 
 speckled production — supposed to represent marble, but 
 wouldn't have deceived the veriest amateur in Roman 
 quarrying into the belief that it was that precious stone. 
 It, however, was a very general and favourite ornamenta- 
 tion for lath and plaster, just prior to the early Oetzmann 
 Renaissance. I had not long to wait. My message 
 must have conveyed forebodings of disaster to Mr.
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 109 
 
 Barrie's mind, for though unwilHng to allow me upstairs, 
 he came down into the hallway and asked me in quiet 
 unimpassioned Scotch accents what it was I wanted. 
 
 I told him that I had been sent to him on appro, for 
 the part of Andrew McPhail, the medical student, in 
 his play, and if I could obtain his permission I should 
 be allowed to read the part. He said that he saw no 
 objection to my reading it — as no one had ever been 
 able to spoil a part by so doing, and I certainly could go 
 and try, and he would see me later in the afternoon. 
 
 I returned to the theatre post-haste and told Billing- 
 ton that the author was much relieved that I had been 
 found, that I embodied all his ideas of what a medical 
 student should be, and that I was to have the part given 
 me at once as he would be coming down later specially 
 to see me. As it turned out, the part was an excellent 
 one and by no means complex or difficult, requiring 
 only an abundance of vitality, youth and some experience. 
 I rehearsed steadily for some hours, and when the 
 author did arrive he very kindly said I would do, and I 
 signed with Mr. Toole for the run of the play at a salary 
 of ;^8 a week — a very large salary for Mr. Toole to pay, 
 especially to a newcomer ; but there had been great 
 difficulty in casting the character, and I suppose as the 
 production was near at hand they were past haggling. 
 
 The rehearsals were the strangest I ever attended — 
 everyone seemed to do much as he liked ; the stage 
 management was primitive in the extreme and very 
 different from the Kendal regime. Billington, who was 
 supposed to be the producer, looked on with good- 
 humoured contempt at the making of this modern play, 
 feeling certain that a few nights after its production he
 
 no SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 would be appearing in the time-honoured repertoire he 
 knew backwards. 
 
 Mr. Barrie, whose power of expression in stage 
 technique in those days was extremely limited, walked 
 about with the prompt copy of the play — which consisted 
 of dozens of sheets of single note-paper covered with tiny 
 writing — seemingly unable to cope with the extraordinary 
 lack of law, order or discipline which was the little 
 theatre's most striking feature. The piece was called 
 " Walker, London," and was produced eventually in 
 face of many difficulties, not the least of which was 
 that Mr. Toole did not know his part, and indeed 
 was still imperfect when the piece was withdrawn after 
 about 600 performances. 
 
 Being but a lad I had no right to think anything, but 
 I'm bound to say I did feel at rehearsals that the piece 
 was no good at all. It seemed so light and trivial and 
 about so little that I did not see how it could succeed. 
 But I may be excused my bad judgment, for it was the 
 first of the Barrie novelties — the forerunner of an army 
 of successes ; and it would have taken a much cleverer 
 man than I am to have been able to see at a glance the 
 hand of the man who may to-day change his name to 
 J. M. Genms without bothering about deed-poll. 
 
 The first night was a furore. All the parts in the 
 play were good, and everyone made a success, and I hope 
 I shall not be thought lacking in modesty if I say I too 
 had a little triumph of my own. I think J. M. Barrie 
 must have known I was somewhat pleased with myself 
 over my notices, which were extraordinarily good, for he 
 very quietly scored off me one evening and took me 
 down several pegs — in three or four words. He was
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE iii 
 
 strolling about the theatre, and seeing me said " Oh ! 
 Hicks, do you play cricket ? " I said " Yes, I do, 
 Mr. Barrie." *' Well, will you come down to Sandwich 
 and play against the fire brigade men for me ? " he 
 inquired. I said I should be dehghted, but it would be 
 impossible, as I should be unable to get back to London 
 in time to act at night. " Oh, don't bother about that," 
 said he ; " you can put on the understudy." He smiled, 
 and I knew that he knew that I knew. 
 
 How little I thought when on joining that company I 
 was to have two such happy years. Dear Irene 
 Vanbrugh was the leading lady, and I never saw her act 
 that I was not certain in my mind that she would take 
 a great position, which I rejoice to say she has — to the 
 delight of her thousand admirers. 
 
 CM. Lowne, who is one of my oldest and best friends, 
 has reached a position of which he may well be proud, 
 and George Shelton and Eliza Johnson and Mary Ansell 
 were all of the company — and last, but how far from 
 least ! that personality of personalities, John Laurence 
 Toole. 
 
 I saw him act only when he was a very old gentle- 
 man, and I must confess frankly he never made me smile 
 on the stage at all ; he was over sixty, his methods 
 of raising laughter had become mechanical, and he was 
 only the shadow of the great comedian I know he must 
 have been in the days of Paul Bedford and Madame 
 Vestris. But off the stage what a humorist — what a 
 companion — what, if one may use the expression of a 
 man, what a dear ! From early morning till late at 
 night he saw the fun of everything ; nothing escaped 
 his notice ; there never was a man who could put
 
 112 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 his finger with such unerring accuracy on the little 
 weaknesses and vanities of those around him and turn 
 them to such humorous account ; but though this was 
 the case, never during the whole time that I had the 
 honour and delight of his friendship did I ever see him 
 get a laugh at anyone's expense or say one unkind word 
 to hurt another's feelings. 
 
 Very small of stature, with a regular low comedian's 
 face, he attracted attention wherever he went — the few 
 who didn't know him inquiring who he was at once. 
 He had the most beautiful eyes, which twinkled so 
 continuously that whenever I look up into the sky on a 
 very brilliant summer's night and two stars are more 
 than usually active I feel sure they are the windows of 
 the soul of that big-hearted great little comedian 
 laughing at me still. 
 
 I remember having had my attention drawn, I forget 
 now by whom, to the fact that nearly all good, or shall 
 I say well-known, comedians have beautiful eyes. 
 Certain it is that nearly every actor of note has either 
 very striking eyes or very beautiful ones. The eyes of 
 J. L. Toole, David James, John Hare and Arthur Roberts 
 are all beautiful and singularly alike. Indeed, the first 
 three named had the same mould of countenance 
 altogether, with a smile in each case that was as 
 fascinating as it was sympathetic and kindly. And 
 that wonderful Fred Leslie ! His great dark eyes shone 
 like mighty lamps that had unsurpassed intelligence for 
 their wick and genius for their oil. When one thinks of 
 what he was — what a second-rate crew all we musical 
 comedy comedians are to-day, compared with him ! I 
 do not advise ladies to walk about looking into
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 113 
 
 comedians' eyes, as many comedians are fascinating 
 fellows, but it is worth while just for amusement's sake 
 noting how nearly all prominent actors have beauty of 
 no small extent in their orbs. 
 
 Johnny Toole, as all who knew him called him, hated 
 being alone, or anywhere where things were dull ; he 
 always took four or five of us to dinner and supper, and 
 sat up so late at the latter meal that he himself said he 
 had been to bed so little in his life, that at sixty his real 
 age was 120. Even in a cab he made the driver keep 
 in brightly lighted thoroughfares and out of the byways. 
 
 It would be useless to try and relate one half of the 
 amusing stories told of him. The millions of anecdotes 
 with which his name is associated have been set 
 down in his " Recollections," and theothers that have not 
 are household words. Nearly everything is lost in the 
 telling of a Toole story unless the reader knew Toole 
 personally, as it is impossible to show on paper his 
 method of galvanising into laughter the most common- 
 place circumstances. All his humour was simple. For 
 instance, nothing delighted him more than to ask a 
 policeman a multitude of questions and then press 
 a penny into his hand, and hurry away. He always 
 returned to make the penny a florin, but he loved to see 
 the policeman's bewilderment at receiving a copper 
 for all his trouble. The delight he would get at 
 Margate or Brighton on a Sunday in going from house 
 to house and ringing the bell to inquire if the servant 
 could oblige him by telling him where he could get " a 
 bit of groundsel for a sick bird " was immense. 
 
 The picture was amusing in the extreme. This little 
 man, with silver hair and his lame leg, looking the very 
 
 S.H. I
 
 114 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 picture of respectability, inquiring for the groundsel as 
 if his life depended on it, and discussing with the different 
 kinds of lodging-house maids his chances of obtaining 
 it at Mrs. Jones's down the street, and the conversation 
 broadening out into an inquiry of Mrs. Jones and 
 the little Joneses, would often lead to discussions as to 
 the pleasure of donkey rides and sailing trips on bank 
 holiday, and wonderings as to the kind of man the girl 
 ought to choose for a husband. 
 
 Of course, there were many occasions when the land- 
 lady would slam the door in his face, telling him to go 
 and drown the bird and eat the groundsel, but not often. 
 The variety of his receptions was what gave him the 
 greatest pleasure — he was never at a loss, and could 
 cope with nearly anyone ; his serious manner and bene- 
 volent appearance disarmed most of the people he 
 approached in the street with ridiculous questions, 
 which was one of his chief amusements. If ever he saw 
 a tradesman standing at his shop door he would say, 
 "Good morning, Mr. So-and-so." The man, delighted 
 at his name being known, would smilingly reply, " Very 
 well, thank you, sir." "And the dear wife ? " Toole 
 would inquire. "Very well, sir, too, I thank you." 
 "And the children ? " Then a long dissertation on the 
 family would begin, Toole taking the wildest interest 
 in Tom's foot and Alice's hair, etc., etc., and asking the 
 man all sorts of strange things which were generally 
 answered quite seriously. Toole would walk away, 
 and the man, wondering how the old gentlemen knew 
 who he was, never realised that over his shop door was 
 " Charles Osgood," or whatever his name was, painted 
 as large as life.
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 115 
 
 Another thing he loved doing was to go up to the 
 cashier's window of a big bank and, putting his stick 
 and watch through the pigeon-hole, say in his husky 
 and merry voice, " How much can you let me have on 
 these till Monday ? " The cashier would explain 
 politely that it was not a pawnshop, but Toole would 
 pretend to be deaf and unable to understand — and 
 would argue and argue, and offer more things as pledges 
 until a row would commence. Just as the crucial 
 moment arrived, and he looked like being thrown out 
 forcibly, he would hand a big bank-note or a cheque 
 through the window, and say, "Well, what about this?" 
 
 I remember being in the City with him once when he 
 went into the General Post Office and asked for a penny 
 stamp. The clerk brought out a huge sheet, and Toole 
 said, " I want that one." " Which one ? " said the 
 clerk. " That one," said Toole, pointing to the centre 
 one. A long argument ensued, Toole saying that in 
 purchasing a stamp he had a perfect right in law to 
 choose the one he fancied, and so emphatic was he on 
 the point that he had his way, but not before he had 
 created a disturbance and clerks from other counters 
 had left their work to see what was going on. 
 
 He always, at the end of an adventure, gave the 
 people he had his fun with seats for the theatre, or a 
 present of some kind, and everybody loved him. His 
 memory for names, except those of his intimates, was 
 appallingly bad, but he always pretended he knew, and 
 would never own that he didn't recollect everything 
 about everybody. 
 
 One day a young man walked up to him, when we 
 were strolling along the front at Brighton and, raising 
 
 I 2
 
 ii6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 his hat, said, " Ah, Mr. Toole, how are you ? " " Ah," 
 said Toole, " how are you, my dear boy — how are you ? " 
 most effusively ; but the young man saw something in 
 Toole's eye that told him he was not reall}' remembered, 
 and said, " You recollect me, don't you, Mr. Toole ? " 
 " Course I do — course I do, my boy," he answered. 
 " You remember my mother ? " " Course I do," said 
 Toole. How's your father ? " "No, no. ' My Mother ' 
 was the name of the farce I wrote for you." " Oh, by 
 gad ! was it ? " said Toole ; " that's different, isn't it ? 
 Good-day, my boy," and hobbled off laughing at being 
 caught. 
 
 I heard an actor in his presence once boasting of his 
 various performances, and at last, getting a little too fond 
 of himself, he said, " Yes, Mr. Toole, I have played 
 Hamlet fifty-seven times." "Ah," said Toole; "but 
 how? " — which made everybody laugh but the boastful 
 Dane. 
 
 It was through going about with Toole that I first 
 began to meet celebrities of all kinds : Henry Irving, 
 Lord Tennyson, George Meredith, Oscar Wilde, and a 
 host of people too numerous to mention. Toole 
 not only seemed to know every man in the street, but 
 was on a Christian-name acquaintance with half the 
 wives of England and certainly all their children. If 
 he walked anywhere it was a very difficult thing to get 
 along, as he was being stopped every moment by 
 admirers whom he always pretended to remember. 
 
 I was walking along with him one day at Brighton, 
 in company with Comyns Carr (that wittiest of mortals 
 and brilliant after-dinner speaker, who has said more 
 good things about bad men than anyone living), when
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 117 
 
 we were stopped by an austere-looking divine in a 
 shovel hat, who told us he was at Brighton for his 
 health, but hoped to see Mr. Toole when next he was 
 up north. " Of course," said Toole, as usual ; " I shall 
 go up north specially to see you." The clergyman 
 bowed and went away delighted. " Who was that ? " 
 said Comyns Carr. " I don't know," said Toole ; " he's 
 here for his health. I think he's a sick bishop." " Is 
 he ? " said Carr ; " I thought he was a Rotting dean," 
 which for quickness wants some beating. But if you are 
 out with Carr long and listen to his conversation, you 
 feel you are attending a veritable Brocks' Benefit of 
 fireworks — in fact, most of the men I know, myself 
 included, dine out on his stories, and I have often been 
 asked to the same house twice through not having 
 acknowledged him as the author of something that has 
 gone particularly well. This always involved finding 
 Carr in the intervals to get something fresh to go to 
 market with a second time. It is a million pities he 
 has not written one-tenth of what he has said ; we 
 should all be richer. 
 
 I well remember poor Herman Merivale, who about 
 the time of the production of his "White Pilgrim" 
 became very strange in his manner, though no one 
 realised he was going off his head — kneeling down in a 
 public dining-room and beginning to recite the Lord's 
 Prayer. Carr who was next him, said " Look out, 
 Merivale, the Author is present," which had the effect of 
 presenting to Merivale a good reason for a literary man 
 to discontinue his recital. Had he been spoken to in 
 any other way, he might have become extremely violent, 
 as, sad to relate, he did subsequently on many occasions.
 
 ii8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 My time at Toole's Theatre was a very, very happy one. 
 The company had nearly all been with the old man for 
 years and years — in fact, those who had joined to play 
 the juveniles in the seventies, still continued to do so 
 with bald heads in the nineties. I think Toole would 
 have rather closed the house than have taken an old 
 friend out of a young part. What hours he used to 
 keep, though ! He could not go to bed. I have sat up 
 with him at a famous club six times a week till five 
 every morning month in, month out. I always 
 sleep in the afternoon now to try and steal back those 
 hours of repose lost when I was a young man. How 
 he used to do it. Heaven knows ; I can only put it down 
 to the fact that he never smoked at all and drank next 
 to nothing. 
 
 One really amusing though extremely embarrassing 
 episode took place at a supper party given by Toole to 
 Irving and a few friends in a private room at the 
 Garrick Club many years ago. Toole had on a visit 
 with him an old friend from Glasgow who had been 
 with him for a fortnight seeing London. He had been 
 made, quite good-naturedly, a butt of by his host for 
 many practical jokes. The Scotchman was leaving the 
 next day for the north, thoroughly tired out with the 
 festivities, and rather irritable at never knowing what 
 to believe, Toole having teased him unmercifully. He 
 was on this occasion a little elated and inclined to be 
 argumentative, combating everyone's assertions as 
 if the whole room were trying to pull his leg. 
 Supper was just over, when suddenly at about one in 
 the morning the doors were thrown open and a footman 
 announced: "His Royal Highness the Prince of
 
 JOHNNY TOOLE 119 
 
 Wales." Everyone rose to his feet, and the Prince 
 entered, saying : " Ah ! Mr. Toole, I heard you were giving 
 a supper party ; I should like to smoke a cigar with 
 you." It was by no means uncommon in those days 
 for the late King to pay a surprise visit to a favourite 
 club and join a member he happened to like, particularly 
 if he were in a private room. The Prince sat down on 
 Toole's right, the comedian having on his left his 
 Scotch visitor, who eyed the Prince suspiciously in 
 silence for some time, and then to everyone's horror 
 suddenly pointed to H.R.H. saying : " Who's he ? " He 
 was hushed down, told it was the Prince and requested 
 to behave himself. But he would not have this at all. 
 " Oh! " said the Scotchman, " I've had enough of your 
 infernal jokes all the week, and this is the last I stand 
 for. He's not a Prince," he called out, pointing at the 
 distinguished guest; "you can't bamboozle me. He's 
 not any Prince of Wales! " and it was with the greatest 
 difficulty he was kept from getting into a personal 
 argument with His Royal Highness, who at last, 
 noticing his strange behaviour, inquired of Toole who 
 the wrangling gentleman was whose face he did not 
 know, though he was familiar with everyone else at the 
 table. Seeing that matters might become difficult, the 
 whole circumstances as to the Scotsman's fortnight, in 
 which he had been the victim of practical jokes, were told, 
 and the Prince was the first to see the humour of the 
 situation ; he was immensely amused, and on leaving 
 the room gave a cigar to the Scotchman, who took it 
 with a leery look in his eye, and I don't believe ever 
 was certain that it really was his future King who was 
 the donor.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 
 
 " Walker, London," was played for some six hundred 
 performances, a phenomenal run at any time, but at 
 our little theatre no words could describe the wonder 
 at the play's success. 
 
 I had not been at the theatre very long before I 
 found myself continually in Mr. Toole's company and 
 receiving innumerable kindnesses from him. He 
 repeatedly took me home to stay with him at his house 
 in Maida Vale, and nearly every night he invited me 
 to supper at the Garrick Club, where I had the good 
 fortune to see all the celebrities of the day. Being 
 young and of no account, I was able to sit unnoticed 
 in the corner and listen to all the giants — many, alas ! 
 of whom are now in a far removed spot looking down, 
 let us hope, on their various professions. 
 
 We used, as I have mentioned, to burn daylight in 
 these early nineties, seldom breaking up till five in the 
 morning, our old chief being always the youngest and 
 the liveliest of the party. 
 
 It was early in the run of "Walker" that I was 
 presented to Henry Irving by the comedian who loved 
 him so dearly. It would be an impertinence for me 
 to dare to set down even superlatives in praise of 
 so great a man, but it would be impossible to scribble 
 these memories without including in them a very
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 121 
 
 reverent thought of the greatest actor I have seen or 
 shall ever see. 
 
 The first time I met him I was awed and almost 
 frightened in his presence. His personality was so 
 tremendous that it swallowed up all it came in 
 contact with, and I have watched him in remarkable 
 company. There never was an effort on the part of this 
 wonderful person to impress himself on an assembly : 
 his extraordinary magnetism made itself felt even as 
 he opened the door of the room he entered. I can say 
 without exaggeration that had I sat with my back to 
 that door, I should have become conscious of the 
 arrival of someone unusual, and am sure I should 
 have turned to find it — Henry Irving, whom in life I 
 worshipped and who, in fact, is alive to me to-day. 
 
 What a wonderful face he had ! Lit often by a 
 smile that many a beautiful woman might well have 
 envied. Pages could I write of my thoughts of him, 
 but it would be useless for my poor pen to attempt a 
 portrait of this prince of my profession ; enough that 
 he was a great gentleman, gracious to the lowly as 
 well as to the high, and that through a long life he 
 gave his money broadcast to alleviate the suffering of 
 others not only in his own calling but out of it. It 
 . was not for any one quality, but for a multitude of them, 
 that he wag loved by his fellows, as it falls to the lot of 
 few men to be loved. Both his sons, Harry and 
 Laurence, I have known and been fond of for many, 
 many years, and it is small wonder that I delight to 
 see the splendid position H. B., as he is familiarly known 
 to his intimates, has made for himself by his hard work 
 and great talents, or that I rejoice to know how well
 
 T22 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Laurence is doing wherever he goes. Laurence 
 collaborated with me in the dramatisation of Le Fanu's 
 book " Uncle Silas," parts of which, like the curate's 
 egg, were excellent — the main theme, owing to its 
 gruesomeness, alone standing in the way of the dramatic 
 version being a financial success. 
 
 He was at Toole's Theatre when we were writing it, 
 and many were the nights we sat up working with an 
 enthusiasm that I am proud to say neither of us has 
 lost to-day. We called the play " Uncle Silas," and it 
 was produced at the Shaftesbury Theatre at a matinee, 
 and witnessed by almost every member of the theatrical 
 profession in London, great and small. Napoleon's 
 Balcony of Kings was not in it with our audience. 
 The whole front page of the Era occupied the 
 stalls, while the boxes were filled by Irvings, Terrys, 
 Forbes Robertsons, Barretts, Bancrofts, etc., a cast 
 which would have, had we been able to engage them, 
 taxed the salary list to the extent of, about ;£'i,ooo an 
 hour. 
 
 It was after this performance that Henry Irving 
 asked me to come to supper at the Garrick Club. I 
 don't remember, ever before or since, feeling so excited 
 or elated. I came early, and found myself alone with 
 the mighty tragedian waiting for Mr. Toole to arrive, 
 and he talked away to me for nearly half an hour, every 
 word he said being treasured up by me, knowing as I 
 did that I was hearing what I could make history of. 
 I remember he told me that the greatest actor he had 
 ever seen in his life was Edmund Phelps. 
 
 I have heard it said that Henry Irving never saw 
 Phelps act, but I had it from him first hand that he
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 123 
 
 did. On that evening, too, he spoke of Robson. He 
 said, " Yes, Robson — er — Robson — a good actor, but 
 not great — no, not great — yes, yes, he was great ! He 
 was great enough to know that he could be only great 
 for three minutes ! The stuff they talk about his 
 being able to have played tragedy, had he wanted to, is 
 wrong. Three minutes of it — yes — but the whole 
 evening — oh, dear no ! " 
 
 When Henry Irving spoke, he did so in telegrams, if 
 one can describe it so. He paused, looked {and what a 
 look !), nodded his head, and out came the remark, like 
 a bullet striking a bull's-eye at Bisley. He said to me 
 also on that night: "I modelled myself originally on 
 Mathews — Mathews modelled himself — on Le Blanc, 
 the French pantomimist. I have a print of him that 
 Mathews gave me — a graceful fellow ! " And oddly 
 enough, among a lot of small pictures at the Irving sale, 
 I missed buying what I should have loved to have 
 obtained — a small print of Le Blanc that used to hang 
 in Henry Irving's bedroom. It possessed a special 
 interest to me after hearing the above words fall from 
 his lips, and I often regret it is not mine. 
 
 They say Edmund Kean told his wife, after his 
 performance of Richard III., that during the last act he 
 could not feel the stage beneath him. During my con- 
 versation with Henry Irving I am sure I did not feel 
 the chair under me, or know whether I was on my head 
 or my heels. As has been mentioned before in these 
 pages, he could never resist taking a gently sarcastic 
 rise out of anyone, if he felt he'd like to, and on this 
 night he, in wishing most kindly to advise me as to my 
 future, led me on by praise to heights of dizziness, and
 
 124 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 then dashed me into the boneyard with a short sentence. 
 He was telling me how he had enjoyed the afternoon 
 performance, in his sudden and staccato way, and ended 
 after being eulogistic to a degree, with " I liked your 
 acting, my boy." I had played a rough character part 
 of a cruel, badly-brought-up youth, who ill-treated 
 animals, and who ultimately killed his own father. 
 ** Yes," he said, " I liked your work. It was strong, it 
 was natural, it was good — um, yes, good, powerful. 
 You held the audience in the big scenes ; you held them, 
 my boy, in your hand, by your rugged strength." " Did 
 I, sir ? " I ventured ; " I am proud you think so." 
 " Yes," he said, " I do, I do ; hut light comedy is your 
 game. I shouldnH annoy them with the other stuff if I 
 were you ! " I felt as if I could have sunk through the 
 floor, but he patted me on the shoulder and said, with 
 his wonderful smile, " Never mind about that ; you'll 
 be all right if you stick to it. Where's our old friend 
 Toole ? " which name he generally pronounced as 
 ** Too-oo-oole." 
 
 Many years afterwards Henry Irving saw me in a 
 French farce, and when the curtain fell said, *' Well, 
 you're at the comedy game, I see, eh ? Do you know 
 you remind me of Charles Mathews ; very like him, 
 very." " I'm so glad," I replied. " Yes," he said, 
 " you wear the same sort of collars." But I didn't mind 
 what he said ; I was only too proud to be spoken to by 
 him. 
 
 Once I remember a memorable three days spent in 
 his company with Mr. Toole, that ended up at Boxhill, 
 where I was taken and introduced to George Meredith. 
 I went to see Henry Irving play ** King Lear" on a
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 125 
 
 Friday evening and supped with him afterwards, the 
 party breaking up at four in the morning. The next 
 day I saw him play "The Bells" and "Jingle" at a 
 matinee and " Lear " at night, after which we supped 
 again, and I finished the night sitting with the great 
 actor on the end of Mr. Toole's bed in Maida Vale at 
 eight in the morning. When we parted he said to 
 Toole, " Don't be late, Johnny ; the train goes at one, 
 you know." And at one that Sunday afternoon, after 
 only three or four hours' rest, the then Mr. Pinero 
 Shelton, Toole, Henry Irving, and my humble self were 
 on our way to the Stag's Head, Boxhill, where we were 
 to dine, after having called at the home of one of the 
 wonders of the Victorian era. I don't remember much 
 of what was said by Meredith, as I naturally kept in the 
 background ; but one thing has lived in my memory that 
 fell from the great novelist. Henry Irving was discuss- 
 ing the condition of the stage and the lack of rising 
 actresses with Meredith. " Ah ! my dear Irving," said 
 he, as he shook hands in parting, " we have no young 
 actresses now ; they are all vulgar young women who 
 laugh from their stomachs." 
 
 We dined that night off all that Boxhill could provide, 
 Fussy, Irving's favourite fox terrier, sharing our fare ; 
 and we drank Waterloo port at 36s. a bottle — we, I 
 well remember, returning to town by a train which left 
 Boxhill at 10.30. While waiting for it on the platform a 
 party of young idiots bent on mischief began patrolling 
 the station, annoying everyone ; and seeing Mr. Irving 
 and not recognising him, had the insolence to pass and 
 repass him, singing, " Get your hair cut." This was a 
 popular song of the day, and the actor, as everyone
 
 126 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 knows, grew his hair very long. He puffed his cigar 
 and got more angry every time they repeated their 
 vulgarity. I begged to be allowed to strike the most 
 sizable, but he held my arm and called to them 
 himself. "Hi!" he cried; "you — you — come here." 
 As if unable to disobey, one of the yahoos came at his 
 bidding and said, " What is it ? " Irving, white with 
 rage, said, " Get your hair cut is it, eh ? Get your hair 
 cut? " " That's the tune," blurted out the idiot. " Is 
 it ; then you get your tongue cut!" "And you," he 
 called to another of them, "come here." He obeyed 
 likewise. " Come here ; tell me, what time does the 
 next train go to London ? " " Ten-thirty," said the 
 youth. " Yes, I knew that, you jackass." That night 
 Henry Irving bit his words at them, and looked as 
 terrifying as I had ever seen him appear on the stage. 
 
 Talking of the delight Henry Irving always took in 
 slyly tapping the object of his praise gently on the 
 shoulder, I saw him do this — it must have been with 
 humorous intention — on the occasion when he had to 
 propose the health of Mr. Nat Goodwin at a public 
 banquet. This he did much in the following way : — 
 
 " And now, ladies and gentlemen, in conclusion, it is 
 my pleasure and privilege to ask you to drink the health 
 of a very distinguished and famous gentleman who 
 honours us with his presence here to-night. America 
 knows him, we know him, the world knows him. His 
 name is one that we all envy — a name that men think of, 
 women speak of, and children lisp. It is a name, ladies 
 and gentlemen, that few people in this great universe 
 are not acquainted with. It is a mascot in our art — a 
 household word in all countries. Ladies and gentlemen,
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 127 
 
 when I ask you to raise your glasses, need I say it is to 
 the name of that famous American comedian, Mr. Nit 
 Goodwin." 
 
 No one laughed more heartily than Nat Goodwin 
 at what appeared a mistake, and after the laughter had 
 subsided no one cheered more loudly than did his 
 English hosts, who knew and appreciated what a fine 
 actor he was. 
 
 Few people could tell a comedy story better than 
 Henry Irving could, or see the humour of a situation 
 more quickly than he. It is told of him that for 
 one of his productions he required a horse to ride, and 
 sent to Messrs. Hale and Sons, who supply actors with 
 horses which are trained not to take advantage of the 
 performers' steeplechasing qualities. Hale, on receiv- 
 ing his instructions, brought down a white horse, a 
 seasoned veteran. On being shown the animal, Irving 
 said to Hale, " Quiet, is it, eh ? No tricks, no jumping 
 into the big drum, or anything of that kind, eh ? " " Oh, 
 dear, no ! " said Hale ; " very quiet, sir, and knows his 
 stage business well. He carried Mr. Beerbohm Tree all 
 last season." " Ah ! did he ? " said Irving ; " did he ? " 
 At this moment the horse opened his mouth and yawned, 
 which Irving noticing, said, " Ah ! a bit of a critic, 
 too, I see ! Eh ? " 
 
 Horses remind me of a tragic incident that occurred 
 about this time to me. I was living at ChalHs's Hotel 
 (the site of which I afterwards bought to build a theatre 
 upon but where now stands one of Lyons and Co.'s 
 famous houses), and at breakfast time one morning I 
 was beckoned to by one of the Loates' — Sammy or 
 Tommy, I forget which — who had been often very
 
 128 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 obliging in telling me on what horses he thought I 
 might with safety invest my odd five-shilling pieces. 
 " Would you like to make a little money to-day, Mr. 
 Hicks?" said Loates. "I should indeed," I replied. 
 " Well, to-day is the Lincoln handicap — back Sir 
 Blundell Maple's ' Clarence ' he said, " and the horse I 
 am riding. Bullion — well, back that for a place. 
 Clarence is sure to win, and will start at a good price." 
 I thanked the famous jockey profusely, and immediately 
 sought one of the head waiters who had been putting 
 on my money for me with his bookmaker for the best 
 part of a year — not, however, I am bound to say, with 
 any great advantage to myself. I told him that I 
 wanted to invest ten pounds each way on Clarence and 
 ten pounds on Bullion for a place. He told me that 
 would be quite all right, and that he would put the 
 money on for me as usual. 
 
 Ten pounds each way ! This was a tremendous dash 
 for me, in those days. I knew that if it lost I should 
 have to borrow my next week's salary in advance, and 
 it was with trembling hands I put on my make-up that 
 afternoon at Toole's. It was a Tuesday, and we were 
 playing a matinee. During the second act I heard the 
 voices of the newsboys coming through the open 
 vestibule shouting, ' Winner — Winner — Winner of the 
 Lincoln Handicap." I was in a fever, for I could not 
 leave the stage to hear the result. The curtain fell, and 
 I rushed to the side where my dresser was standing 
 with a paper. He handed it to me, and I read : 
 " Clarence first, Bullion second." I think I must have 
 turned green with excitement. I added up my winnings, 
 and found that I had made somewhere between ^^90
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 129 
 
 and ;^ioo. I had never seen so much money, and I 
 could hardly believe that it was all true — ;^ioo ! 
 
 The first thing I did was to ask the entire company 
 to dinner between the performances, and all the friends 
 they happened to have with them in their dressing- 
 rooms at the time. At six o'clock about thirty guests sat 
 down in one of Challis's big rooms. Champagne flowed ; 
 toasts were given ; Blundell Maple's health, coupled 
 with that of Loates and a suite of bedroom furniture, 
 was drunk repeatedly, and all was merry as a marriage 
 bell ; when the waiter to whom I had given the commis- 
 sion leant over my chair and whispered suavely : '* Sir, 
 I'm very sorry, but I quite forgot to tell you my book- 
 maker was away to-day and I could not get your money 
 on Clarence and Bullion." The room swam round — the 
 champagne ceased to sparkle — and the cigar I smoked 
 went out. Need I say what I felt like. I had to go to 
 Mr. Challis and explain the whole situation ; he was one 
 of the kindest of men, and told me not to be worried, 
 it would be all right about the dinner. He discharged 
 the waiter on the spot without giving him time to 
 change his clothes, and I played the medical student 
 that evening more like a patient who had just been 
 operated on than a doctor. I left the racing world for 
 some time after this, and in fact have had very little to 
 do with it ever since, my bets seldom exceeding a 
 modest sovereign or two. 
 
 I did buy a racehorse once, though, but that was 
 more by accident than design. It was at a Windsor 
 meeting — I had been watching a selling race — and 
 when the numbers went up I went in to see the winner 
 sold. One hundred and eighty guineas was bid for it ; 
 
 s.H. K
 
 130 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the second fetched about £90, and the third horse, 
 a big upstanding chestnut called Royal Tartan, was then 
 put under the hammer. " How much shall I say," said 
 the auctioneer, " for Royal Tartan ? " A bid of nine 
 guineas was made. Nine guineas ? I thought they 
 must be mad. What an insult to this noble beast ! 
 Nine guineas ! 
 
 The veins standing out on his quivering flesh and the 
 tremor that went through his whole body made me think 
 Royal Tartan was conscious of the indignity put upon 
 him. I felt for the gallant thoroughbred, and promptly 
 said : " Ten guineas " ; someone near me said eleven — 
 I said twelve. The auctioneer said : " Twelve — any 
 advance on twelve ? — no advance on twelve ? Yours, sir," 
 pointing at me. " Name ? " I had bought Royal Tartan. 
 I bleated out my name. " Where would you like it 
 sent to ? " I was asked. " Where would I like it sent 
 to ? I didn't dare say. I didn't think my bedroom in 
 Shaftesbury Avenue was big enough for it, and in despair 
 I turned to Mr. Peck, the well-known trainer, whom 
 luckily I knew slightly. I told him that having seen 
 the other two horses go into the hundreds, I thought 
 the third would do likewise, and I had said the magic 
 word " twelve " more out of kindness to the animal and 
 with the hope of sparing its feelings than anything else. 
 I told him that I had nowhere to keep it — as they didn't 
 allow dogs or horses in theatre dressing-rooms, and 
 could he possibly get me out of the muddle. 
 
 Royal Tartan meanwhile was snorting in my ear, and 
 I don't think I ever took such a dislike to anything for 
 a few moments as I did to this satin-coated delusion. 
 
 Mr. Peck spoke to the man who had bid eleven
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 131 
 
 guineas, and he offered to take the animal off me if I 
 gave him £2 — one for the deal, the other for the 
 extra bid. This I readily agreed to. I had been an 
 owner for five minutes for forty shillings, which, work- 
 ing out as it did at 6s. a minute, seems remarkably 
 cheap, knowing what I do now of the cost of keeping 
 candidates for the sport of kings. 
 
 I understood from Mr. Peck that the reason the horse 
 had gone so cheap was that it was unsound, having, I 
 believe, a trick of staggering home from its club in the 
 morning, and a predilection to pneumonia in the ankles. 
 I may be wrong technically as to its diseases, but as I 
 am not horsey except where my voice is concerned, I 
 beg to be forgiven my poor description of Royal Tartan's 
 shortcomings. 
 
 I first met Oscar Wilde in these days. Generous to a 
 fault, witty past belief, and kind-hearted beyond words 
 — my memories of him are of the most pleasant and 
 entertaining. What happened in the years that followed, 
 when his friends and admirers saw with the greatest 
 pain the downfall of a man of genius, is not for me to 
 write of or to criticise. We all have our faults, and as 
 the Rev. Bernard Vaughan once said to me : " Don't 
 let us ever blame anyone for what they do, but instead 
 kneel down and thank God that it is only through His 
 goodness we are free from the things we would condemn 
 in others." Oscar Wilde had to pay for the perversion 
 of his genius in bitter agony and bloody sweat. I 
 knew him as a charming companion from whose lips I 
 never heard fall anything but the most delightful senti- 
 ments and the finest thoughts. So I prefer to remember 
 him as I knew him, the gayest of the gay of companions ; 
 
 K 2
 
 132 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 and to those who never enjoyed the privilege of being 
 in his company, and knew of him only when he had 
 ceased to be the real Wilde we all admired, I would 
 venture to recall a speech in '' The Merchant of Venice " 
 which I believe begins with a line to the effect that 
 '* The quality of mercy is not strained." 
 
 Innumerable are the witticisms laid at his door. 
 What could be more delightful than his remark to the 
 gushing female admirer v;ho, shaking him warmly by 
 the hand, said : " Oh, but Mr. Wilde, you don't 
 remember me. My name is Smith." " Oh yes," said 
 Wilde, " I remember your name perfectly — but I can't 
 think of your face." It was Wilde who, on being 
 asked on returning from a fashionable premiere how he 
 liked the piece, replied : " My dear friend, it is the best 
 play I ever slept through." And again, nothing could 
 be neater than his remark to a well-known London 
 manager who had bought a comedy in Paris called 
 " His Wife." " I've got it, and I'm glad I have it," 
 said the manager. " Do you know, Wilde, I've kept 
 ' His Wife ' for three years." " Really ? " repHed the 
 poet. " Isn't it about time you married her ? " 
 
 I sat with him once at a music-hall, the entertain- 
 ment of which he looked upon with good-humoured 
 tolerance. During the evening a man came on the stage 
 whose speciality was mimicry. " Perfectly splendid ! " 
 said Wilde, putting his bent forefinger over his mouth, 
 which was a great trick of his. " And I do think it so 
 kind of him to tell us who he is imitating. It avoids 
 all discussion, doesn't it ? " 
 
 It is a remarkable thing how an imitation seldom fails 
 to please, however poor. Simply announce a well-known
 
 THERE WERE GIANTS IN THOSE DAYS 133 
 
 name, and doing anything will generally get a good 
 round of applause, I suppose this being from the 
 fact that the audience, if they are doubtful, feel they 
 must be wrong, I proved this once myself, for after 
 giving a lot of imitations, I announced : " I will now, 
 ladies and gentlemen, give you an imitation of Richard 
 Burbage." I recited a few lines of a poem, the house 
 applauded as loudly as they had my impersonation of 
 Irving, Barrett, and many well-known people of the 
 day. When the appreciation had subsided, I said : 
 " He has been dead 300 years." But I believe they 
 thought that was a joke, though Burbage doesn't. 
 
 Sitting in a box opposite us that evening was a dealer 
 in 60 per cent, young men, curios and precious stones, 
 accompanied by a very beautiful lady whose hair matched 
 her dress. I drew Wilde's attention to the couple, and 
 looking up leisurely he said : " Yes, a charming woman, 
 no doubt, and really Hogheimer never looks so well as 
 he does among his * objet Tarts " ! 
 
 Wilde's was a wonderful personality, and the sad 
 ending of his career just as he had turned his mind 
 seriously to the stage was a calamity to my profession, 
 with the like of which is extremely difficult to find a 
 comparison. It would have taken an extraordinarily 
 brave man to have crossed swords with Wilde at any- 
 time. The only one we hear of who did so successfully 
 was his sometime friend and other-time enemy — 
 Whistler, whose tongue was as cutting as a tailor's 
 scissors on a piece of Donegal tweed. I suppose the 
 neatest thing Whistler ever said to Wilde was when 
 Whistler having made a particularly brilliant mot, 
 Wilde remarked : " Oh, Jimmy, I wish I had said that."
 
 134 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Whistler replied " You will " ! The story is well known 
 to many, I know, but it is so fine that I am hoping it 
 may be new to some who are running their eyes over 
 these brilliant recollections ; hence its appearance. 
 
 What a lot of famous people seemed to be alive in 
 1890 ! I suppose there are just as many to-day, and it 
 is only that men loom larger on our mental horizon 
 when the small hand on life's dial points to twenty, 
 and the long hand is only just starting off for another of 
 its circular jaunts.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 
 
 The number of stories with which Mr. Toole used 
 to amuse his companions was legion. He seldom 
 repeated himself, and I regret continually I did not 
 keep a note-book when I was about with him, as many 
 of his tales were of famous people of a bygone day 
 whom he had known intimately, and gave interesting 
 domestic sidelights on their lives which have not 
 appeared in their biographies. It was he who told me 
 many a story of H. J. Byron, the author of "Our 
 Boys " and all the inimitable burlesques that delighted 
 London in the seventies. From what one can gather 
 of Byron, his dull sallies must have been as few as most 
 men's witty ones. Nearly all his most famous sayings 
 I have seen in print, but one or two things Mr. Toole 
 told me I have not to my knowledge seen set down. 
 For instance, his remark to William Duck, a well- 
 known theatrical manager who only flirted with his 
 h's and was never really on intimate terms with this 
 important letter of the alphabet, was as quick as it was 
 amusing. Duck was staying at Plymouth with Byron, 
 and one morning having gone out earlier than usual 
 Byron went in search of him. He ran him to earth 
 near the Hoe, and asked him where he had been all the 
 morning. " Oh," said Duck, " I've been taking a turn 
 round the 'oe." " Have you ? " said Byron ; " well,
 
 136 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 don't you think it's time you had a walk round the h ? " 
 He joked almost up till the hour of his death. 
 
 Mr. Toole had in his possession probably the last 
 letter Byron ever wrote. It was one of farewell, and 
 even in this sad moment he could not refrain from 
 letting his humour have its fling. It happened to be a 
 little good-humoured chaff at the expense of Charles 
 Collette. He will, I am sure, forgive my telling the 
 story. It is in reality a tribute to his bright, cheery 
 disposition ; for Collette was in those days — as indeed he 
 is to-day, as mercurial and as " Here-we-are-again — 
 slap-5^ou-on-the-back " a light comedian as ever stepped. 
 The letter ran much in this way — I quote it from 
 memory : — 
 
 " My Dear Johnny, — This is the last letter I shall 
 ever write you. I am lying dying here, and to-day I 
 have a great desire to see you all, dear old friend, once 
 again, but it is not to be. I shall never get back to my 
 beloved London unless someone suggests that I should 
 be given a silent train journey, one on which for the 
 first time no collector will bother me for my ticket. It 
 is very peaceful and quiet down here. That's really why 
 I left the metropolis — it is hard for dying men to stand 
 the healthy handshakes of exuberant friends. Yes, it is 
 very peaceful and still here, and the rest has helped me 
 considerably. I — Good Heavens ! what's that ? Excuse 
 me, dear Johnny ; there is a frightful din going on in the 
 street. I must get up and see what it is. I've seen — 
 it's all right, Johnny — I thought it was Charles 
 Collette, but it's only the Punch and Judy man." 
 
 The letter continued with a smile through its tears.
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 137 
 
 and ended briefly — the jokes making it sadder still. I 
 suppose it is because laughter and Death are so far 
 removed from one another that the coming of the long 
 thin white-bearded man to the household of a comedian, 
 with his invitation that there is no refusing, seems 
 doubly unnecessary. 
 
 It was during the time of Byron's lesseeship of the 
 Theatre Royal, Liverpool, that he made his famous mot 
 to his box-office keeper. Barry Sullivan, who was the 
 greatest provincial star at this time, was due to open 
 at Byron's house in his famous impersonation of 
 Richard III. Business had not been too good during the 
 season, so Byron put on an extra fee for reserving seats, 
 feeling sure the attraction was big enough to take a 
 liberty with. It was with delight, therefore, that 
 Byron saw a lengthy queue waiting at the box office to 
 take seats for Sullivan's engagement. As he stood 
 happily watching the number of people who wanted 
 stalls increase every moment he heard an altercation 
 begin which soon developed from a wrangle into a row. 
 Becoming anxious to know what was the matter, he 
 elbowed his way up to the box-office and inquired of 
 the clerk what all the trouble was about. " It's no 
 good, Mr. Byron," the man said — " they won't stand for 
 it." " Stand for what ? " said Byron. " Why," 
 shouted an infuriated playgoer, " stand paying an 
 extra shilling for booking seats for ' Richard III.' " " Oh 
 well," said Byron, " if that's all it is it shall be remedied " ; 
 and wearily turning to his office keeper, he said : 
 " Charles, off with his ' bob ' .• so much for ' booking 
 'em ! ' " These are the real circumstances of his story. 
 Toole was with him at the time, and I have often heard
 
 138 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 him tell it. It was a wonderful quip, and I doubt if he 
 ever said anything better. 
 
 Once at a dinner party a fine roasted hare was served. 
 " What a wonderful large hare ! " said someone at the 
 table. " Yes," said Byron, " it is a large hair — it's so 
 large I thought it was a wig." 
 
 That night on taking leave of his hostess she observed 
 he only had a hat and umbrella with him. " Surely, 
 Mr. Byron," she exclaimed, "you wear a coat." "No, 
 madam," said Byron, " I never was." 
 
 The next night he went to the theatre and saw an 
 audience which was very thin and unappreciative. 
 *' They are a nice lot ! " said one of the actors. " They 
 are a nice few ! " replied Byron. 
 
 Toole's Theatre was extremely old-fashioned, and, the 
 stage being very far below the level of the street, air 
 was at a premium, and dust reigned king of all. I 
 mention this because in the room where I used to dress, 
 we were continually having little surprises. One night 
 we walked about in quite half a foot of water, and 
 during the times we were not making up we 
 were chasing cruising tennis-shoes and sailing-collars. 
 The water had a faint, very clean smell about it 
 reminiscent of chemists' shops and other pleasant places, 
 which was accounted for when the stage-carpenter, to 
 our horror, came in and said : " I'm sorry, gentlemen, it's 
 the hospital next door ; the mortuary tanks have over- 
 flowed ; that's what all this 'ere wet is." These were in 
 the days before the County Council wasted its time 
 seeing that articles which couldn't possibly burn are 
 made non-inflammable. 
 
 In casting my mind back at random, as I am doing,
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 139 
 
 I am conscious that nearly all the best stories I have 
 heard were told me by Mr. Toole himself, or by the people 
 I met in his company. Some of the anecdotes of 
 Macready, the famous tragedian, who invented what is 
 known to actors as the " Macready pause," because of 
 the length of time that fine actor frequently took to get 
 on with the next sentence, while he made effects with 
 looks and noddings of the head, assisted with exclama- 
 tions such as " Ah ! " " Oh ! " and " Humph ! " are 
 amusing. He had a trick of talking under his breath 
 during the progress of a scene, and often at the end of 
 his lines. 
 
 In a costume play, the name of which I have for- 
 gotten, he had to point to a young man who was 
 playing the part of a beau of the period. The youth, 
 who had been cast for the part, was untidy and some- 
 what slovenly in appearance, and by no means pleased 
 Macready when he made his entrance. The tragedian 
 looked hard at him before eulogising him as he should 
 have done, and, when he did speak, added one of his 
 own habitual asides so loudly that the house roared 
 with laughter. ** See where the 5'oung prince comes," 
 said Macready, " a very noble youth, of handsome face 
 and gallant bearing, God forgive me, look at his dirty 
 neck." 
 
 He was a fine, but, I have often been told, a somewhat 
 stilted, actor of the old school ; that is to say, he got his 
 effects by theatrical rather than by natural methods, 
 though he seemingly was not conscious of his pecu- 
 liarity in this respect, for, losing his temper at rehearsal 
 with a small part actor whom he was trying to teach, he 
 shouted^out in laborious tones : " Why, sir — why, sir — er
 
 140 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 — can't you — er — sir, be natural — nat — ur — al — sir, as I 
 am ? " The wretched actor, who must have had more 
 aptitude for repartee than stage playing, replied in 
 front of the whole company : " Because if I could, Mr. 
 Macready, I should be getting your salary, and you'd be 
 paid my thirty shillings a week," which seems unanswer- 
 able on the face of it. 
 
 Macready was, I gather from his own admissions, a 
 man of ungovernable temper at times. Indeed, some 
 of the extracts from his diary are most amusing. One 
 comes across such entries as these : 
 
 " May — the first of May — the month dedicated to 
 the Blessed Virgin. May I live this month in humility 
 and at peace with all men." 
 
 " May 2nd. Got up. Breakfasted. Went to rehearsal 
 at 10.30 ; lost my temper and struck the prompter. 
 Dominus vobiscuni. This must never occur again." 
 
 " May 3rd. Went to rehearsal full of good resolu- 
 tions. Hit the prompter twice in the face. Alas ! my 
 temper is a great affliction. Gave the prompter five 
 shillings. Hit him again before leaving. How can I 
 curb this ? Mea maxima culpa," and so on. 
 
 When playing Macbeth one night at Manchester his 
 servant, who should have been in the wings with a 
 bowl of cochineal which Macready used to smear on his 
 hands to represent blood, failed to put in an appearance. 
 Macready's exit was only a very momentary and rapid 
 one, and finding that the blood he relied on for the next 
 scene was not at hand, he rushed up to an inoffensive 
 commercial traveller, who had been allowed as a great 
 treat by his friend, the local stage-manager, to come 
 and watch the mighty star from the side, and without
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 141 
 
 any warning struck him a violent blow on the nose, 
 smothered his hands in the blood that flowed freely, 
 and ran on to the stage again to finish the performance. 
 When the curtain fell he apologised to the commercial 
 for his apparent rudeness, as he put it, in the most 
 courtly and chivalrous manner, presenting the object of 
 his attentions with a five-pound note. 
 
 Like most tragedians of every school, Macready grew 
 his hair long. The story is told of him that once at the 
 dress rehearsal of a new Byzantine tragedy at Drury 
 Lane he was displeased with the make-up of one of 
 the actors, and, having verbally pulled him to pieces, 
 finished up by saying, " Ah, sir, your hair, sir — your 
 hair is long ; it was only fools who wore their hair long 
 in this age, sir." " Really, Mr. Macready," said the 
 actor, " I can assure you that there have been fools in 
 every age who have worn long hair." History does 
 not repeat what happened, but, if the great actor's 
 diary is any guide, it is more than probable the temerity 
 of the actor was rewarded much as was the stupidity of 
 the prompter. 
 
 Towards the end of the run of " Walker, London," 
 I wrote a one-act military play called " The New Sub," 
 which was a great success, and ran about four hundred 
 nights in the famous "Pantomime Rehearsal" triple 
 bill at the Court Theatre. There was little credit due 
 to me for the pleasure it gave the public. The praise 
 was due to Leo Trevor, from whose charming story I 
 adapted it. I make mention of it merely because its 
 success started me on a career of dramatic carpentry 
 which I have unblushingly pursued ever since. 
 
 About this time I had the good fortune to be elected
 
 142 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 a member of the Beefsteak Club. How I got in in 
 those days I don't know ; I fancy it must have been 
 that I was mistaken for someone else. It takes about 
 seven years to become a member to-day, that is if you 
 are lucky enough to get through its exclusive portals at 
 all. In 1893 it was the rendezvous of men who were 
 all famous in their own particular worlds ; everyone 
 was someone. It was never full till eleven, and seldom 
 empty till the street lamps were being put out and the 
 birds were heralding another day. Corney Grain, 
 Arthur Cecil, Charles Brookfield, German Reed, Henry 
 Irving, Toole, Archie Wortley, Sir George Chetwynd, 
 the Earl of Cork, and scores of all the best-known men 
 in literature and art foregathered there every evening. 
 The Club in those days was one great room situated 
 over Toole's Theatre, in King William Street, and the 
 witty things said there were brighter than the burnished 
 silver with which its sideboards and supper-tables were 
 laden. If the pictures could only speak, and a few 
 newspaper editors were allowed in to talk to them, the 
 comic papers would no longer be the dull things they 
 are at present, and would easily remain merry for a 
 century. 
 
 Charles Brookfield said most of the witty things that 
 are coupled with his name in the old Beefsteak Club. 
 I remember one evening sitting at the end of the long 
 table talking with several other actors, or rather 
 listening to them, while at the other end was a group 
 of well-known painters. The Royal Academy had 
 opened its doors that day, and Archie Wortley, who 
 was the centre of the group, was discussing the hanging 
 committee of that classic institution and criticising
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 143 
 
 them somewhat severely. Wortley's two pictures had 
 been refused, he being unrepresented for the first and 
 only time on the Academy walls. He was irritable and 
 out of temper, and I suppose our laughter at one of 
 Brookfield's stories jarred on his nerves that night, for, 
 angrily looking up, he said : " Brookfield, I wish you 
 actors could contrive to make less noise ! We can see 
 you in the theatre any night we like for ten-and-six- 
 pence." " I know," said Brookfield ; " I thought I 
 could see you to-day at the Academy for a shilling, but 
 I didn't." Brookfield's replies were nothing if not 
 pointed, and their points were generally dipped in acid 
 of varying strength. It was he who successfully stopped 
 with a laugh the aggravating habit that a gallant volun- 
 teer colonel had of continually coming to the Club 
 dressed in full uniform. This gentleman had never 
 seen any service at all, and, with the exception of the 
 battle of Euston Station or a heavy engagement in 
 Piccadilly on the occasion of a foreign potentate's visit 
 to London, had never been really under fire. Why he 
 dressed in uniform no one ever knew. I believe he 
 used to get up from his own dinner-table and say to his 
 wife : " I must dress for the Club." She, no doubt, 
 had an idea that because so many members were actors 
 we were all officers in " The Tower Hamlets." 
 
 One night, as he sat at supper, his manly chest 
 covered with orders (they may have been free passes to 
 some of the theatres for all we knew), or what is a 
 very common decoration nowadays, the B.I.H.D.A.'s 
 ("Because I haven't done anything"), Brookfield on 
 entering, much to everyone's amusement and the 
 gallant soldier's discomfiture, said, as he appeared in
 
 144 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the doorway : " Waiter, could you tell me whose 
 charger that is that's tied up in the lavatory ? " We 
 never saw him in his uniform again. 
 
 It was Corney Grain, that prince of humorists at the 
 piano, who, one night when being chaffed because 
 business was not too good at his hall of entertainment, 
 turned to his assailant and said, in front of his partner : 
 " Dear fellow, what can I do ? When the weather is 
 stormy all I have to lean upon is a German Reed." 
 
 Grain, as everyone knows, was of colossal proportions, 
 and Mr. and Mrs. German Reed's entertainment was the 
 stand-by of the mothers with that appalling nuisance, 
 the miss of fifteen, who is not supposed to see any- 
 thing in the shape of art unless it has been filtered 
 through the Sunday school or disinfected by Mrs. 
 Grundy. 
 
 I had the honour of meeting W. S. Gilbert for the 
 first time at the Beefsteak. I had been brought up to 
 believe that he was a very terrible person, who snapped 
 off your nose with an epigram if you ventured an opinion, 
 and who wanted no better pretext for a quarrel than if 
 you asked him to pass the salt politely. Greater non- 
 sense as to the difficulty of getting on with Mr. Gilbert 
 has never been thought of. I have had the great 
 pleasure of knowing him for many years, and a kinder 
 host or more helpful and encouraging gentleman never 
 stepped in shoe leather. 
 
 It is quite easy to understand why a reputation for 
 being quarrelsome is obtained by certain people if they 
 have to depend for the marginal notes on their lives 
 being made by a class of not too scrupulous gentlemen, 
 who, I am sorry to say, are not altogether unknown
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 145 
 
 to those connected with the running of theatrical 
 enterprises. 
 
 There is no nonsense from W. S. Gilbert with these 
 folks, and there is no picking of words. I heard him 
 say once to a well-known ruffian who was lessee of 
 several West End theatres, and in whose house a 
 Gilbert opera was being rehearsed : " Your place, sir, is 
 the dock of the Old Bailey, and for two pins I'd put 
 you there. Get off your stage, and never dare to put 
 your foot on it as long as I rehearse this company." 
 The man got no less than he deserved, for he had 
 acted dishonourably and told deliberate lies. He 
 doubtless, however, is one of those who would not be 
 one of the great humorist's most kindly biographers. 
 
 W. S. Gilbert as an audience is calculated to give 
 the toughest veteran panic ; he knows every turn and 
 twist of the stage and more about its technique than 
 95 per cent, of all the actors alive to-day put together, 
 and, while not an unkind critic, you are conscious that 
 he could truthfully, if he chose, say so much more than 
 he does in adverse criticism if he wanted to. 
 
 At rehearsal once the story is told of him that, having 
 gone back and back in a part with a well-known actor 
 until he was tired, he left the stage for the stalls and 
 said: " Now we'll begin all over again." The actor, 
 who no doubt was angry at being sent over the words 
 so often and shown up before a large company, thought 
 he would cross swords with Mr. Gilbert and save his 
 face by picking a quarrel. He waited till he was told 
 again it was all wrong for about the hundredth time, 
 and then, stepping down to the footlights, he shouted to 
 the man of a thousand Savoy delights : " Mr. Gilbert, I 
 
 s.H. L
 
 146 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 am not a very good-tempered man." " No," said 
 Gilbert, " I'm not considered to have the temper of 
 a saint either." " But I'd like you to understand, 
 Mr. Gilbert, that I am a very strong man." " Really ?" 
 said Gilbert. " Well, I stand six feet four in my stock- 
 inged feet, but if you want to know the difference 
 between us I am an extremely clever man." The 
 rehearsal went on, and the actor went back many a 
 time and oft, but there were no more comic interludes 
 of this kind recorded. It was to a singularly imperfect 
 actor at rehearsal, who was being pulled up for continual 
 collaboration with the author, that Gilbert made a 
 remark which has become a stock phrase in the theatre. 
 The artist said : " Look here, Mr. Gilbert, I know my 
 lines." " I know you do," rapped out Gilbert, " but 
 you don't know mine." 
 
 I remember saying to him once what a contempt I 
 had for a jackal of one of our musical comedy managers, 
 and thinking what a large salary he must receive to be 
 able to buy enough soap to wash his hands with after 
 all the dirty work he was set to do. " Yes," said 
 Gilbert, " no one likes him better than I do, and I 
 can't stand him at any price." Which was a nice way 
 of setting the seal on the popularity of any man. 
 
 Once when he was producing one of his plays for a 
 celebrated manager he was continually having trouble 
 with him owing to the manager's closeness and pro- 
 pensity for skimping things. At the dress rehearsal 
 Gilbert called out to a girl who was standing still when 
 she ought to have been waving her hands : " Why 
 aren't you doing your business ? " " Please, sir," said 
 the lady, " I haven't got my tambourine." " Oh, that
 
 HEARD FROM MY CORNER 147 
 
 will be all right, my dear," said the author. " Mr. 
 Dash will hire that." 
 
 It was at the production of this, too, that he got a 
 lasting laugh at the expense of that most popular of 
 comedians, Rutland Barrington. One of Barrington's 
 peculiarities — the exercise of which the public love, 
 and have grown to expect from him — is that he some- 
 times sings out of tune. I do hope Barrington 
 won't sue me for libel for saying this, as I am one of the 
 staunchest admirers of his inimitable laugh-provoking 
 qualities. On one of the Gilbert premieres Mr. Gilbert 
 was seated in a box watching his work when a 
 young lady turned to him and said excitedly : " Oh, 
 Mr. Gilbert, Rutland Barrington is singing in tune." 
 ** Oh, don't worry about that, my dear," said Gilbert ; 
 " it's only first night nervousness : he'll get over it." 
 
 In front of me as I write there is a photograph, and 
 on it an inscription which reads : " To Seymour Hicks, 
 
 from W. S. Gilbert, born 1836 ; died ; deeply 
 
 regretted by all who didn't know him.''' The joke looks a 
 grim one at first sight, but it isn't at all, for the whole 
 world knows Gilbert. 
 
 I could go on teUing stories by the hour of the 
 various people I have met or heard interesting anec- 
 dotes of, but my fear is that things which appeal to me 
 may not be so entertaining to those who have not met 
 all the subjects of these little tales in the flesh. 
 
 It is very difficult to know in a volume of this kind 
 what to pick out from a time of one's life when one was 
 a listener only and did not join in the conversational 
 fray as one does to-day, armed with oratorical shafts 
 plucked from other men's quivers. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Later, in dealing with facts that actually happened 
 to myself, I hope that I shall rattle along on current 
 topics and be able to keep the reader awake between 
 London and Grantham, or whatever railway stations 
 he has a pa.vt[cu\a.r penchant for. If I leave my listening 
 period and proceed too rapidly to my jackdaw days it 
 will be difficult to return to the old actors or to episodes 
 of i8go without making things seem constructively 
 wrong. 
 
 Some wag said that no better biography had been 
 written than Henry Irving's Life of Bram Stoker, and 
 I must confess in writing these reminiscences of myself 
 I find the greatest difficulty in not speaking a good deal 
 too much about Hicks — but I beg to be forgiven and 
 will only do so when it is very necessary.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 
 
 I AM writing while on a six months' holiday in 
 Scotland, having to trust absolutely to my memory 
 and allowing one thing to bring back to my mind 
 another, as best it may, hoping that this incident will 
 father that one, and the last become sponsor to another. 
 
 The absence of notes and data makes one's work 
 difficult and peculiarly dependent on moods. On a 
 Tuesday, off one canters, one's brain riding the 
 good mare " Fiction " at a hand-gallop of i,ooo 
 words an hour. Wednesday comes, and that old- 
 fashioned hack — "Fact" — by "Humdrum" out of 
 " Circumstance " is brought out of the stable of thought ; 
 and pens stick, and blot, and ink-pots must be tilted 
 to-day, and the paper seems rough ; and somehow one 
 begins to woolgather and develop an undue admiration 
 for a pair of field glasses which seem to whisper, " I 
 want to pick up that stag on the sky line there" — so 
 that when a gong goes later on one finds oneself with 
 only some 500 words to one's credit at the publisher's 
 bank, most of which will be torn up on Thursday. 
 
 New and beautiful surroundings make work extremely 
 difficult. To me it is much easier to imagine and write 
 of the pearl divers of an inland sea in a back room 
 looking on Great Portland Street than it is to try and 
 wonder what they do as I lie gazing on a burning 
 summer's day into the depths of blue Scotch waters.
 
 150 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 The London life of a hard-worked man is the con- 
 tinual spinning of a roulette wheel. It may be red — it 
 may turn up black — but the labour and the method of 
 the spinning is always the same, day in and day out. 
 In the town distractions as a rule are only new worries 
 that look in at the office door and ask to be taken out 
 to lunch and, like all worries should be and are, forgotten 
 with the paying of the bill. But, in the country, odd 
 happenings are nearly always new beauties, and to the 
 collector of the King's portrait on various kinds of 
 precious metals, these charms are as unsettling as were 
 the gorgeous women Mephistopheles conjured up in the 
 imagination of the sapless Faust. 
 
 A townsman's library is so different from his brother's 
 of the plough — The Book of Nature isn't catalogued in 
 Bond Street. Ferrets somehow do not get hung up in 
 Piccadilly. There is no wondering in Hyde Park if 
 eighteen eggs will hatch out of the made-up nest of 
 twenty that old mother Partridge is guarding so care- 
 fully, and there is no bracken in Gower Street from 
 which the wily curlew entices the intruder away and 
 away into the distance with shrill whistling calls so that 
 her young may be left undisturbed. All my thoughts 
 in the country become of it. If I look long enough at 
 my purple blotting-pad I see on it in my mind's eye 
 heather with dogs ranging out and, that tiger of the 
 air, the gallant grouse whirring away like a huge bee to 
 the farthest line of sweeping moorland. 
 
 If I gaze at the dripping syphon not too far from 
 hand I see a spate rising, and the pool on the 
 leather table becomes a tidal one full of lice-covered 
 streaks of silver who jump greedily at the claret
 
 FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 151 
 
 body and woodcock's wing that is fished crosswise to 
 them. 
 
 Habit is a capital jockey, but he rides best for me 
 where I first engaged him, in the fog, and the damp, 
 and the noise, and the smell, and to the music of the 
 humble sparrow. 
 
 The thoughts of the country make me think of that 
 mightiest of actors, Samuel Phelps. He was an ardent 
 disciple of the piscatorial Izaak, and spent all the 
 leisure he could command on his favourite water at 
 Farningham. His were the days when flies were tied 
 on the bankside and the black gnat — or the olive dun 
 (a fly I always call the West End tradesman) — floated 
 perkily downstream on a length of horsehair ; drawn 
 gut and Farlow's elaborate menu then being scarcely 
 known. 
 
 Of Phelps the story is told that, having cast every 
 conceivable pattern over trout basking in a gin-clear 
 stream under a cloudless sky without even rising a fish, 
 he took a bulky fly book from his pocket and flung it 
 in the water, gravely saying to the fish, "Oh! go on, 
 gentlemen, take your choice." 
 
 Many a time have I leaned against the silver birches 
 which border Phelps' river and wondered, as I creeled 
 a handsome two-pounder, whether I was having the 
 honour of laying between my cool rushes — a descendant 
 of one of the great actor's "kills." 
 
 Many of his most tender and beautiful creations have 
 no doubt had their birth in his mind watching the 
 swirling waters rushing to the dam here at my feet — or 
 standing farther upstream near the still pool there, 
 where the heavy plob of a good fish may be heard
 
 152 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 making the bass accompaniment in Nature's orchestra 
 of drone and insect, who play in summer time for the 
 fisherman under the baton of the gaily clad kingfisher. 
 
 In Phelps' days Farningham was a journey from 
 London, and few who saw a quiet old gentleman 
 casting his dry fly from the meadows near the gabled 
 inn realised that they were watching one of the four 
 greatest figures in stage history dating from the days 
 of Garrick. Indeed, so little was he recognised in 
 his seclusion that, one night when he made his 
 entrance as Macbeth at Drury Lane, an old farmer 
 jumped up excitedly in the pit and shouted to his 
 wife : " Blow me, Mary Ellen, if that bean't the old 
 codger who has been fishing trout from our fields all 
 these 3'ears ! " 
 
 David Garrick, Edmund Kean, Samuel Phelps, and 
 Henry Irving — they are the four beacon lights that all 
 we small craft see as we sail down our coast of art. 
 
 The Kembles there were, and I mean no disrespect 
 to them — the Macreadys and the Creswicks — giants all, 
 no doubt ; but whatever diversity of opinion may exist 
 as to whether Kean was greater than Garrick or Phelps, 
 and Irving as great as either of them, there surely are 
 few who will dispute the superlative excellence of these 
 four tragedians, who stood head and shoulders above 
 their fellows in a class entirely of their own. 
 
 Sport and the country make me think, too, of F, R. 
 Benson. I suppose no actor who ever lived has been 
 such an all-round enthusiast on games as this old 
 'Varsity blue, whether it be cricket, running, hockey, 
 or football. It is said of him that if he is debating 
 which of two actors to engage for a certain part,
 
 FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 153 
 
 the slightly inferior artist, if he be a fine athlete, will 
 most certainly obtain the coveted honour of employ- 
 ment under the Bensonian banner. 
 
 I have heard it said, though I cannot vouch for the 
 story, that Mr. Benson's contracts with his artists are 
 always worded : " To play the Ghost in ' Hamlet ' 
 and keep wicket " — or " To play Laertes and field cover- 
 point " ; and it is said that no Polonius need apply 
 unless he is a first-class googly bowler. 
 
 I think it was at the Beefsteak Club I first met 
 Harry Kemble — his performances and his lamented 
 death are too recent for me to have to remind play- 
 goers of his sterling qualities as an actor. But good as 
 he was on the stage, he was, if possible, better off it. 
 He knew everybody that was worth knowing, but hated 
 cant and humbug of any kind or a snob beyond power 
 of expression. Once, when some youth, with a head 
 not overstocked with grey matter, talked of nothing 
 but titled nonentities for about an hour by the clock, 
 and at the end of his discourse turned to Kemble for 
 corroboration as to the characteristics of some noble 
 duke, the dear old Beetle, as Kemble was known to 
 those he was fond of, turned a cold eye on him and 
 squashed him by saying : " I really can't say anything 
 about the gentleman. The only member of the British 
 aristocracy I know is Lord George Sanger." The 
 young man, who was a smart lad of the village, saw 
 what was meant, and thought he would begin to chaff 
 the Kemble, whom he hardly knew and whom he 
 considered no doubt as nothing but a pocket Falstaff. 
 This was a very dangerous move on his part, and 
 Kemble did not allow him to proceed far. He simply
 
 154 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 looked at him vacantly, and said : " Sir, I don't 
 remember ever having met you before " ; and then, as 
 if recollecting suddenly, he said profoundly : " Oh ! ah ! 
 yes, of course, once in a public-house at Oldham ! ! ! !" 
 Why a public-house, and why Oldham, no one has ever 
 been able to make out to this day ; but it seemed to be 
 good enough to stop the young man, and with stately 
 mien our Kemble rose, saying as he moved towards the 
 door : " Yes, at Oldham, it was at Oldham, I remember ; 
 and if you, sir, care to renew that acquaintance, please 
 meet me to-morrow at 12 o'clock at the Marble Arch ; 
 I shall not be there." 
 
 It was with Harry Kemble that I met Arditi, the 
 celebrated conductor. He was as bald as a coot, and 
 often told an amusing story of how he convinced a 
 bank clerk in Liverpool of his identity by his baldness 
 and so got a draft honoured, which was at first 
 refused. Arditi went into the bank and presented 
 a cheque across the counter made payable to himself. 
 The cashier, who was a great lover of music and who 
 knew all the celebrated people in the concert and 
 operatic world, looked at Arditi and handed the cheque 
 back to him, saying: "This won't do, it is made 
 payable to Arditi." " But I am Arditi," said the 
 musician. " Oh, no, you're not — oh, dear no ! You 
 can't take me in. I know Arditi. I have seen him 
 conduct dozens of times," said the bank clerk. " Oh ! " 
 said the old man. " You have seen him conduct ? " 
 " Yes, often," replied the careful business man. " Good ! 
 then you shall recognise his face," said Arditi. With 
 this, he removed his hat and turning his back on the 
 cashier, began to beat four in a bar with his umbrella.
 
 FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 155 
 
 The effect was magical. " Oh ! " said the bank man. 
 " Yes, yes, I recognise you. I know your bald face 
 now " ; and he gave him the money instantly. " So, 
 you see," Arditi would always finish his story, " the 
 back of my old head was good for something once, 
 wasn't it ? " 
 
 Musical people are supposed of all types in theatrical 
 business to be the most difficult to persuade and 
 conciliate ; those I have met have been more like 
 spoiled children than anything else. The late Sir 
 Augustus Harris, known generally as Gusarris, told me 
 once that, when he travelled the whole Italian Opera 
 Company from Covent Garden through England on 
 their first big tour, the only way he could get the male 
 singers to go to bed in the sleeping compartments with 
 a rival artist sleeping in the berth above them was to 
 put a placard with the word " and " in large letters 
 between the bunks, so that the underneath tenor felt 
 he was being starred as was customary in the news- 
 papers. By this means Gusarris travelled them round 
 without hurting their artistic sense. The word "if" 
 may have much virtue in it, but the despised "and" 
 helped the impressario to travel his entire company 
 without bickering or petty jealousies. 
 
 The starring system is carried with these people to 
 a ridiculous extent, and, in a discussion regarding the 
 insertion of the word " and " before certain performers' 
 names, Comyns Carr once wittily remarked, " Why 
 put the 'and where the 'art can never be ? " I think 
 most of the stars I see would be much better advertised 
 if they had the word " but " put before their names in 
 the newspapers.
 
 156 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Augustus Harris alwa)^s used to say that one of the 
 funniest replies ever made him during production time 
 was said unconsciously by a little boy dressed as a pear 
 in one of the Christmas pantomime ballets. The different 
 sets of children dressed as various fruits vv^ere coming 
 down the stage in the palace scene at the end of the 
 performance, when Sir Augustus noticed that while 
 there were ten pears there were only nine apples. 
 ** Hi ! " said Druriolanus, " stop ! hi ! where is the 
 other apple ? " A boy who was dressed as a pear 
 stepped forward and said, " Beg pardon, Sir 'Arris, but 
 the other apple is being sick in the dressing-room." 
 This explained the scarcity of fruit, and the pantomime 
 rehearsal continued peacefully once more. 
 
 I well remember the day the bust of Sir Augustus 
 Harris was unveiled in Drury Lane itself. I was 
 standing near my old friend Arthur Collins, who 
 has so splendidly and successfully carried on the 
 traditions of the National Theatre, and meaning to 
 pay him a compliment, he having just taken over the 
 entire management of the house, I said, " Well, my 
 dear Arthur, I hope it won't be long before we see a 
 bust of you there too ! " He stared for a moment, 
 and then was as much amused as I was. It had not 
 struck me that they only put up effigies as a rule to 
 the departed. It was coming out of a theatre not a 
 hundred miles from Drury Lane, on a first night, that 
 I met that charming lady and witty writer, " Frank 
 Danby." Not having been present at the play I enquired 
 of her what she thought of it. " Oh ! " she said, 
 smilingly, " there were two good lines in it, but I don't 
 think they were good enough to run an engine on."
 
 FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 157 
 
 Henry Hamilton, the well-known dramatist so long 
 connected with Sir Augustus, christened him " The 
 Literary Jack the Ripper," for whenever the manager 
 of the National Theatre thought a play was too long his 
 custom was to ask for a pin, and taking a dozen pages 
 at random, stick them together and say, "They're out, 
 now go on." Of course this isn't literally true, but I 
 believe from all accounts Gusarris was ruthless with his 
 blue pencil. 
 
 Henry Hamilton has a sharp tongue, as becomes a 
 brilliant writer. It was he who christened a critic he 
 disliked " the puff-adder," and, when I was introduced 
 to him by Yorke Stephens at the Old Green Room 
 Club in my very earliest days of acting, as *' This is 
 young Hicks, Hamilton ; I have put him on the stage," 
 he looked at me and said, " My dear Stephens, what 
 harm has the poor lad ever done you ? " 
 
 In the Green Room Club there is a chair that was 
 the property of David Garrick. Hamilton, entering 
 the reading-room one day, saw Charles Wyndham, who 
 was at that time delighting London by his beautiful 
 performance of Garrick at the Criterion Theatre. 
 "Ah ! " said Hamilton, to our greatest light comedian 
 as he lolled back in Davy's chair, " More like Garrick 
 every day and less like him every night." He of course 
 did not mean it, but it was one of the typical things 
 Henry Hamilton does say if he is so minded. 
 
 A story of another kind which illustrates the sly, 
 delicious and gentle humour of J. M. Barrie, my 
 theatrical fairy godfather, in whose play I was still 
 appearing at this period of these reminiscences, was 
 one told of him not so very long ago, as he sat watching
 
 158 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 a rehearsal being carried on under the able direction of 
 Mr. Granville Barker. No one does his work more 
 artistically than Mr. Barker or with greater effect, but 
 he is at times inclined, I believe, to try and get the 
 ordinary actor to convey, by a look or a movement, 
 possibilities in a part that the dialogue has not sug- 
 gested to the average intelligence, and on this occasion 
 he called out to one of the characters, " Thank you ! 
 Now I want you to go up the stage, and, opening a 
 book, lean over the back of that chair and convey by 
 your expression that you have a brother who is a large 
 shipowner in Sunderland." This, no doubt, would have 
 been quite possible for Mr. Barker, but it is a large 
 order to expect of a salaried artist, and this thought 
 must certainly have entered Mr. Barrie's head as he 
 sat smoking his inevitable briarwood pipe in the stalls. 
 
 No remark was passed by him at the time, and nearly 
 half an hour went by without a word, when J. M. B. 
 softly called out to one of the actors in the next scene, 
 " Mr. Smith, would you mind coming slowly down the 
 stage, and when you have said your lines I want you to 
 turn your back to the audience and convey to them that 
 you have a brother who drinks port in Shropshire." 
 No one but a Barrie could have thrown so delicate 
 and good-humoured a shaft, for his is a wit that offends 
 no living creature, and it is well known that Peter 
 Pan's father has never made an enemy in his life. 
 
 The summer of 1903 had come and the days of the 
 play at Toole's were numbered. "Walker " had walked 
 for just 600 performances, and when the termination of 
 this splendid success was at hand I was surprised to 
 receive a letter from Mr. Pinero asking me to come and
 
 FROM A SCOTTISH WINDOW 159 
 
 see him on business if I was free to do so. I was free, 
 and I immediately went to Mr. Pinero's house, full of 
 hope and anxious beyond measure, for to obtain a part 
 in one of his plays is an end for which actors often wait 
 weeks and weeks out of engagement. 
 
 He looked me up and down, told he he was pleased 
 with the way I had done my work at Toole's Theatre, 
 and that he thought he had a part for me in a new piece 
 of his called " The Amazons," the only thing that made 
 him in doubt of me at all being my somewhat slight 
 physique. I only weighed nine stone at that time. He 
 explained that I was supposed to have carried the 
 heroine up two flights of stairs, and he wasn't sure that 
 I could convey the impression of having done so. But 
 he said, " You could play the part well enough, so go 
 to your tailor's, get measured for a shooting suit, and 
 build yourself up to look as powerful as you can." 
 Accordingly off I went, and had a light tweed Norfolk 
 suit made which I was measured for over a complete 
 suit of padding-tights, shoulders, chest, and stomach. 
 The suit was finished, and it was arranged I should 
 drive in a hansom to our premier dramatist's house for 
 inspection. I surveyed myself in the glass before 
 starting, and I looked a veritable Hercules, capable 
 of not only carrying any number of heroines on my 
 shoulders, but even a play, no matter how heavy its 
 dialogue weighed. I felt certain that all would be well, 
 and sang blithely to myself as I dashed along to St. 
 John's Wood. 
 
 On arrival the door was opened by Mr. Pinero him- 
 self who, to my surprise, instead of saying " magnificent," 
 burst out laughing and said, " My dear fellow, you look
 
 i6o SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 like a pantomime giant " — and I believe I must have 
 done so. It had quite escaped the tailor and myself 
 that in building me up everywhere my head would 
 naturally appear half the size and out of all proportion 
 to my Herculean frame. I had not then made success 
 enough to suffer from beriberi — a disease very com- 
 mon among worshippers at the Shrine of Thespis — 
 and so pimple-like my head appeared from out of the 
 mass of padding, that it was the means of my losing this 
 great chance. It was a bitter blow, but through my 
 life I have always believed that everything turns out 
 for the best, and I drove home a better developed, 
 though a sadder, man. Indeed, a long experience in 
 the theatrical profession has taught me to wonder what 
 on earth has happened if anything in it turns out a real 
 success, and it is my custom now not to say : " Such and 
 such a thing went wrong to-day," but each night to ask 
 myself if any one thing has gone right, and if I can say : 
 ** Yes, one tiling did go right,'" then I lay my head thank- 
 fully on my pillow and sleep contentedly. 
 
 Mr. Toole prolonged his season, and I had one or 
 two little plays produced of my own, which, however, 
 only met with moderate success. I obtained parts at 
 matinee performances for which I received fair notices 
 and small money ; and very often I went out at night 
 after the play to private houses to appear in duologues 
 or give supposedly humorous recitations, all which 
 brought grist to a needing mill.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE BLIND BOW-BOY 
 
 About now I had a message from my old friend 
 Arthur Chudleigh saying that a new play he was pro- 
 ducing at the Court, called " The Other Fellow," had 
 a light comedy part in it, not a very good one, but if 
 I was doing nothing and cared to play it I could have 
 my salary. The piece then being performed at his 
 theatre was " The Guardsman," a very successful farce 
 by Sims and Raleigh. 
 
 Finishing my part early at Toole's, I went down to 
 see Chudleigh the evening I received his note. As I 
 stood waiting for him in a corner of the dress circle near 
 the stage I watched the end of the last act of the farce, 
 and was laughing at the dilemma Arthur Cecil was 
 trying to get himself out of, owing, I gathered, to 
 peccadilloes he had committed in the preceding portions 
 of the play, when through a door there ran a vision in 
 an evening gown over which was a green velvet cloak, 
 trimmed with Irish lace. I can see it now. The vision 
 implored Arthur Cecil to hide her somewhere, and as 
 she turned to make her exit through one of those doors 
 so necessary to the last act of all good farces she 
 seemed to look straight at me. In a moment I 
 recognised the lovely face of the girl I had met five 
 years before in the manager's office at the Princess's 
 Theatre. I knew I was not mistaken ; there could not 
 
 s.H. M
 
 i62 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 be two women so dainty, so beautiful, and so fairy-like 
 in the world. It must be Ellaline Terriss. I asked an 
 attendant, and I found it was. I begged Chudleigh to 
 take me round at once and introduce me to her, but he 
 only laughed and told me that I should have her 
 father, William Terriss, after me if he did, as he fetched 
 her every evening and allowed no admirers of any kind. 
 But I told Chudleigh I must know her even if I braved 
 the Adelphi hero himself, and so, after long entreaty, 
 he promised I should be introduced to her on the 
 morrow at rehearsal, as she was to play the ingenue 
 part in the new farce. This settled any doubts I had 
 as to whether I would play a bad part or not ; I made 
 up my mind to " walk on " if necessary, so that I might 
 be near the vision in the green cloak that I had fallen 
 in love with at first sight. 
 
 The next morning I went to rehearsal half an hour 
 before I need, and waited impatiently. She was the 
 last to arrive. Chudleigh, laughing at my anxiety, took 
 me up to what appeared to me to be a very dainty 
 piece of Dresden china ! I heard the words, " Ella, 
 may I introduce a great friend of mine to you — young 
 Hicks ? " Three weeks afterwards young Hicks and the 
 Dresden shepherdess were married at a registry ofBce 
 in the old parish of Brentford. How it all came about 
 so suddenly we often laugh and wonder to this day. 
 It had better be written down that I was impudent, 
 bold, and became such a nuisance that in self-defence 
 and perhaps out of pity Beauty held her hand out to the 
 poor Beast. Three weeks of course is a remarkably 
 short time to take such a step in, but several circum- 
 stances helped matters on, any one of which had it not
 
 THE BLIND BOW-BOY 163 
 
 occurred might have delayed matters indefinitely. In 
 the first place, two days after our meeting William 
 Terriss sailed for America with Henry Irving. Had he 
 remained in England, I doubt if he would ever have 
 allowed the apple of his eye to marry an unknown and 
 penniless young man, and he would have been quite 
 right, of course. Then again, as I was the only young 
 light comedian in the theatre, it fell to my lot to be 
 cast for the lover in a little musical duologue called 
 ** His Last Chance," which was to be performed before 
 the piece of the evening, and in which Miss Terriss was 
 to play the leading role. 
 
 This, of course, threw us together all day long, as, the 
 time being very short, we had to work on the first 
 piece when the people in the farce were dismissed. 
 Somehow the rehearsals for " His Last Chance " 
 became longer and longer. I wonder why this was. 
 Was it that from the outset I realised dimly not only that 
 this was My First Chance, but in fact My Great Chance ? 
 Yes, it must have been that I realised I had fallen in 
 love with a woman of no ordinary kind, and was con- 
 scious that " there is a tide in the affairs of love which 
 if taken at the flood leads on to happiness," but if that 
 tide be missed, Cupid more often than not welcomes a 
 new passenger aboard his mistress's boat at sundown 
 when the next ebb comes. I don't know or remember 
 anything except that I loved her madly, and that she 
 did me the great honour of returning my affection. 
 
 Is it lifting the veil too high to say I had the audacity 
 to propose on the eighth day after our meeting in a 
 carriage on the Underground Railway that was taking 
 us to her home in Bedford Park, and that the woman 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 without whom I should never have been [heard of said 
 yes, she would marry me if her father would consent ? 
 But she was afraid he would be very difficult. 
 
 Without an instant's delay we broke the news to her 
 mother, the gentlest and most affectionate of women, 
 who, to my surprise, accepted the situation with delight, 
 saying her daughter's happiness was all she cared for, 
 and she knew her little girl was happy. She advised 
 us to cable to Mr. Terriss without delay and tell him 
 boldly. It took a long time to try and concoct a cable, 
 and in the end all the drafts were torn up, and one was 
 sent quite simply from the daughter to her father saying : 
 " Dearest father, may I be engaged to Seymour Hicks ? 
 Love — Ella." Anxiously we waited the reply. It came : 
 ** Certainly not — wait till I return — writing — Father." 
 
 Return ? This meant ten months before we could 
 be engaged even. A council of war was held, and 
 knowing that William Terriss was — very rightly — from 
 all common-sense points of view certain to stop such 
 a poor match as I would make for his only daughter, it 
 became a question whether we should part for ever or 
 get married at once. We put our two-and-twenty-year- 
 old heads together, and, aided and abetted by a loving 
 mother, went straight off and bought a special licence. 
 The few days that intervened before I became the 
 happiest man in the world dragged as only lovers know 
 how time can drag. But the wonderful day arrived, 
 and no king who ever entered a foreign capital at the head 
 of a victorious army was ever prouder than we were 
 — She, my wonderful She, and I — as we entered the High 
 Street, Brentford, in the worst-looking hansom I have 
 ever seen.
 
 THE BLIND BOW-BOY 165 
 
 We discharged it some way from the parish offices, so 
 as not to attract the attention of the folk who kept a 
 tobacconist's shop hard by, and from whom we had 
 a few days before obtained our hcence ; and with 
 smiles on our faces which would have made us unrecog- 
 nisable to our most intimate friends, we stole quietly 
 down to a door on which we saw the magic word 
 " Registrar." We were conscious we were doing a 
 desperate thing, but somehow I think we felt we could 
 work, and the pause on the threshold of the brown 
 painted portico was one in which we renewed a silent 
 pledge of trust rather than felt any misgiving as to the 
 future. 
 
 Two urchins standing at the door said : ** Oh my ! 
 Look at 'em going to be married," and we scuttled in 
 as quickly as we could, and inquired for the man 
 who was the most important person, as far as we 
 were concerned, we had ever met in this delightful 
 world. 
 
 Alone we stood in a tiny room in front of an 
 automaton, who was not quite sure whether we were 
 surrendering to our bail or had come to try and borrow 
 money. And yet no Juliet's balcony or Phoebe's garden 
 could have been more laden with romance than this 
 stuffy office, which was the main artery, or nerve centre, 
 of the gaswork-smelling Brentford, whose inhabitants 
 had cast for the part of Hymen a little man with a 
 ragged moustache and an eye glazed with indifference. 
 
 He looked up sleepily, and I believe had I said " I 
 have murdered a woman in the next street," he would 
 only have replied: "You're in the wrong office — 
 second door to the left upstairs."
 
 i66 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 He took the licence and grunted : " Oh ! marriage, is 
 it ? " And not being without a sense of humour, we 
 began to laugh quietly at the ridiculously commonplace 
 treatment our great event was being subjected to. 
 "Got any witnesses?" said the registrar. "No," 
 said we, " none." " Then you'll have to pay two. 
 Hi, Bill!" he shouted, ringing a hand-bell; "look 
 outside and see if there's any one who'll witness a 
 marriage. It will cost you five bob," said the Govern- 
 ment official — " two-and-six a nob. I daresay that won't 
 hurt you." We assured him with the air of million- 
 aires that of course it wouldn't, and I am certain my 
 manner would never have conveyed that ;^20 was all 
 we had in the wide, wide world. Two rather shabby- 
 looking men entered. The door was closed, and the 
 three inhuman beings opposite us made a very poor 
 production for my pretty shepherdess, I'm afraid ; but 
 she stood in a little blue serge dress, with a blue straw 
 hat trimmed with a pair of white wings, looking as 
 happy and contented as any bride whose marriage was 
 the occasion for the countryside to take a holiday and 
 to practise throwing old boots and rice at the lord of 
 the manor's only child. 
 
 We signed the certificate. There was a momentary 
 look and a laugh from us both when the registrar asked 
 Mary Ellaline Lewin, " Is your father alive ? " " Yes," 
 she replied, "very much alive"; and we thought at 
 that moment of how much we owed to America and 
 the Atlantic Ocean for our happiness. 
 
 The two half-crown witnesses who had been found 
 were both slightly intoxicated, we discovered, when told 
 to stand up ; and they did so with the conscious dignity
 
 THE BLIND BOW-BOY 167 
 
 that comes to men in that happy condition, and who 
 are proud that their heads have conquered their knees. 
 " Edward Seymour George Harris, will you take this 
 woman to be your wedded wife ? " rang out dull and 
 huskily from the limb of the law. I explained that, 
 were my name Harris, I should onl)^ be too honoured to 
 do so, but as it was Hicks, just for the look of the 
 thing, I had better be called Hicks. It was a name I 
 had had for twenty-two years, I had grown accustomed 
 to it, and I did not want to have it altered on this 
 October morning at such short notice. " If it's Hicks, 
 why don't you speak more distinctly ? " came the retort 
 courteous. I didn't think it worth while to argue, and 
 when the last " I will " had been said, the ring put on, and 
 the five shillings paid to the brothers Bacchus, we stepped 
 out into the sunlight Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks. I 
 remember I walked along ahead of my darling, turning 
 back all the way to admire her as she shyly followed. 
 
 We decided that we had better make straight for 
 Piccadilly Circus, and this we did by tram and 'bus. 
 Arrived there, the boy with the bow and arrows 
 whispered in our ears : " Well, I've done my work 
 well, haven't I ? Don't I get anything to eat ?" We 
 both felt this would be a very sound move, and 
 entering the Caf6 Monico, we sat at a little table on the 
 right-hand side of the door and ordered our wedding 
 breakfast — Irish stew and a bottle of Burgundy ! 
 What a meal it was ! Had there ever been such another ? 
 In black and white the menu may not seem romantic, 
 but embroidered as it was with looks, and whisperings^ 
 and silences, air and butterflies' wings would have been 
 heavy fare compared to it.
 
 368 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 The first person we broke our secret to was Mr. 
 Terriss's brother, Dr. Lewin. I expected to be seriously 
 jumped on by so near a relative, but he proved to be a 
 genial, kindly philosopher, who wished us all happiness, 
 and said, although his brother would be upset, it would 
 be all right, he supposed, and went upon his even, happy 
 way. We were very grateful to him, I remember, for 
 his kindness. The next friend we took into our confi- 
 dence was Arthur Chudleigh. His face was a study. All 
 he could say was, "What? Why, hang it! I wanted 
 to marry the girl myself." We played our parts that 
 evening as usual, and told no one. 
 
 The following night, during the performance, an 
 actor in the company proposed marriage to Miss 
 EUaline Terriss. Circumstances, of course, did not 
 permit of her entertaining this flattering offer, and her 
 polite refusal provoked my twenty-four-hour late rival 
 to say : " What you can see in that fellow Hicks I don't 
 know. Why do you go about with him ? " " Because 
 he is my husband," said Miss Terriss, with, I gathered, 
 no small amount of pride. And from that moment our 
 secret was everybody's, I was cordially congratulated 
 by all the women and scowled at by all the men. Poor 
 girl, she was supposed to have thrown herself away, 
 ruined her career, and I was the villain of the play. 
 The first year or two for the man who marries a popular 
 beauty isn't all port wine and bowls. But we didn't 
 mind ; we were young enough to laugh at the world, 
 and as no one is a cynic after the age of twenty, we 
 took a house in Sloane Street, and let our friends say 
 what they liked. I need hardly say that it did not take 
 them ver}^ long to discover that we were frightfully
 
 THE BLIND BOW-BOY 169 
 
 unhappy, that I had taken to drink, that I ill-treated 
 " the sweetest little creature in the world — poor child," 
 they said — and that our separation was about to take 
 place any day. Indeed, these stories continued for at 
 least five years, and at one time were a cause of great 
 trouble, sorrow, and annoyance to us. But other people 
 got married, and our supposed tales of woe were told of 
 them instead, and we were forgotten and at last left 
 alone by the delightful Mrs. Candours, who became 
 busy elsewhere inventing the lies that seem to be the 
 only amusement of, and breath of life to, an appalling 
 class of people who never can let the private lives of 
 public characters alone. 
 
 In those very early days it was a kindly thought 
 of that fine actor, James Fernandez, to write us a letter 
 (about the only one we received) wishing us all happiness 
 and telling us not to mind what any one said, but to 
 work hard. I have that letter, and we both have a great 
 affection for the dear old gentleman who sent it.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE GAIETY 
 
 "The Other Fellow" unfortunately was not a 
 great success ; and I asked Charles Brookfieid, who was 
 a member of the Court company at the time, if he 
 would write a musical play with me on the lines of a 
 Paris revue, but, instead of satirising general topics of 
 interest, make the travesty nearly wholly theatrical. 
 This idea he fell in with, and together we wrote what 
 was a most impertinent, and at times rather cruel, 
 burlesque, called " Under the Clock," which was 
 immediately accepted by Mr. Chudleigh and proved 
 phenomenally successful. 
 
 Brookfieid appeared as Sherlock Holmes, and I 
 played his slave of the novel. Dr. Watson, and we were 
 supposed to be showing Emile Zola, who at that time 
 was on a visit to London, round the various theatres. 
 Brookfieid and myself gave imitations of Henry Irving, 
 Wilson Barrett, Beerbohm Tree, Lady Bancroft, Rose 
 Leclercq, and no end of well-known people, slashing 
 mercilessly at them in a way I should not dream 
 of doing to-day. For instance, Brookfieid made 
 an entrance as Beerbohm Tree in " Hamlet," 
 saying : — 
 
 " I'm dressed in black because I did not go ; 
 These are my trappings and my suits of woe."
 
 THE GAIETY 171 
 
 And lines put into the mouth of Miss Lottie Venne in 
 her impersonation of Miss Julia Neilson were — 
 
 "We modern girls, who don't know how to speak, 
 Resort to giving imitation weak 
 Of Ellen, who the gift of God inherits ; 
 Her faults become her pupils' only merits." 
 
 I blush to think now of my share of these daring 
 things, and, though late in the day, I lay at the feet of 
 the lessee of His Majesty's and the beautiful Miss 
 Neilson my profound apologies. 
 
 Augustin Daly's company were in London at this 
 time, playing Shakespeare at Daly's Theatre with a 
 wonderful American accent, and I shall never forget 
 the laugh that went up when I entered dressed in 
 armour as Richard Cceur de Lion, and said with an 
 American twang : " I am Richard, King of England, 
 and don't you forget it ! " 
 
 I have a letter which Lady Bancroft wrote to 
 Brookfield expressing her delight with the production, 
 and ending with "What a bundle of talent Hicks is! 
 I see another Robson coming." For many years I 
 thought her ladyship meant I was likely to be another 
 Robson. I now can only suppose that she must have 
 been looking out of her window and caught sight of 
 some one who reminded her of the great little comedian 
 walking towards her through Berkeley Square. 
 
 In this piece for the first time I sang and danced, and 
 in doing so my whole career became altered. I had 
 supposed that the very legitimate drama was my goal ; 
 I don't say it is not now, but singing and dancing 
 then as the branch of work I was to stay in never 
 entered my head. Oddly enough, too, while I was
 
 172 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 doing this kind of work at the Court, my dear little 
 wife had gone to the Lyceum Theatre to play 
 Cinderella. She had never thought of musical 
 work either, but having sung some little numbers in 
 the " Pantomime Rehearsal," Mr. Oscar Barrett had 
 offered her 5^35 a week, and she had accepted it, to play 
 the title role in his pantomime. But pantomime was 
 hardly the word to describe either that beautiful 
 production or her lovely and poetic performance. 
 
 When Clement Scott saw her it moved him to write 
 some columns which were afterwards reproduced in 
 pamphlet form, entitled " Athwart Fairyland " ; and 
 eulogistic of her though they were, they by no means 
 overrated her rendering of the Fairy Godmother's little 
 charge, which was the most delightfully legitimate and 
 sympathetic portrayal of the poor fireside maiden this 
 or other generations will ever see. Up till now Ellaline 
 Terriss had been playing in nothing but serious pieces 
 at the Princess's Theatre with that magnificent drama 
 producer, Isaac Cohen ; and learning her business 
 under the banner of Charles Wyndham, who to-day 
 calls himself her dramatic godfather. She as under- 
 study at the Criterion Theatre received £1 is. a week, 
 and played Ada Ingot in "David Garrick" on one 
 occasion for nearly six weeks ; her salary for a matinee 
 at the Crystal Palace being is. M., on hearing of which 
 our Squire of Dames immediately bought a ruby 
 and diamond ring and presented it to her. Charles 
 Wyndham, what a man to be with ! 
 
 Henry Irving, at the age of 60, once said " We are all 
 but children in art," and I suppose are still so at the 
 age of 200. But is there anything that Charles
 
 THE GAIETY 173 
 
 Wyndham does not know about acting ? I very much 
 doubt it. His stage management, which, I regret to 
 say, I have only had the good fortune to be under once, 
 is illuminating to watch. If a dummy is ever to act at 
 all, Wyndham will electrify it into doing something. 
 There are notable instances of how he has turned what 
 looked hopeless material into very respectable artists, 
 and his knowledge of what an audience wants in the 
 way of plays is extraordinary. I suppose no man in 
 our time has had so few failures, and many an author 
 ought to say a little prayer every night for this really 
 great and beautiful actor, who by his work on their 
 pieces before production, and his rare art, vitality, and 
 tremendous magnetism on the first night, has skated 
 with a charm or a smile over the thin places, and with 
 the quickness of his mind deceiving the audience's 
 eyes, has conjured into success play after play that in 
 other hands would have gone off like a squib on a 
 damp tennis lawn. 
 
 Sometimes, however, his rehearsals are extremely 
 trying, as he conducts them in conjunction with about 
 a dozen other kinds of business at the same time. He 
 is a tremendously rapid thinker and sees the thing to do 
 at a certain moment three lines before it comes. 
 
 One day at rehearsal I counted round the prompt 
 table, including a collie dog, nine people — costumiers, 
 managers, stockbrokers, playwrights, decorators, etc., 
 etc., all discussing their various business with him, 
 while we actors were working almost on top of them 
 on the very small stage of the Criterion. A rehearsal 
 to sensitive people is an extremely nervous thing at any 
 time, but when taken by Charles Wyndham it is a very
 
 174 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 anxious affair. It was a little difficult therefore to face 
 nine people, a dog, and Charles Wyndham, who was 
 eating a breakfast of ham and eggs, and pointing with 
 a fork with a piece of bacon on the end of it whenever 
 he had to indicate the direction he wished any of 
 us to take on the stage. The sort of conglomeration 
 of dialogue that often took place was the following : — 
 
 Sir Charles talking as rapidly as I ever have in my 
 life, which is saying a good deal: " Capital, my dear 
 Hicks, capital, capital, capital — very good, but I should 
 be a little less serious — brighter, brighter. (A manager 
 arrives.) What's that ? Rand mines are 6| — buyers, 
 that will be all right. Ask them what Jumpupfontein 
 B's are going to. {To an actress :) Oh ! my dear lady, 
 no ; if you wear a dress that colour what's to become 
 of the two armchairs ? We have two green satin 
 armchairs in this scene — two armchairs, I say ! ! {To 
 one of the actors:) Cross right, my dear fellow; go 
 over and kiss your mother when she comes on ; good. 
 {To a messenger :) What's that ? Tell the man to 
 wait. Where's that bit of bacon. Oh, I've eaten 
 it — thank you. {To an actor :) I say, when you take 
 hold of a girl's hand, dear old man, do it gently ; 
 you'll never get a woman to love you if you take her 
 
 hand like I never did — and I know ; no, no ! 
 
 {To a manager :) Buy the five hundred and take a profit 
 at once. Hi ! you furniture people, why on earth do 
 you bring curtains that colour? Do you want to frighten 
 all the old ladies in the stalls ? {To himself :) Now, I've 
 dropped the egg ! {To an actor :) No, no, kiss her, my 
 boy, kiss her as if you meant it. {To a furniture man:) 
 What a carpet ! no, we won't have that ! {To an
 
 THE GAIETY 175 
 
 actor :) Take her face in your hands and tell her you 
 
 want {To a waiter :) Another cup of coffee, please. 
 
 (To an actor :) her father {To a manager ;) What's 
 
 that ? oh ! Well, sell the things. (To the actor :) to give his 
 
 consent to (To a manager :) What's that ? Hang the 
 
 City, I wish I'd never seen it! (To a messenger:) Oh, 
 tell the lady to wait. What's that ? (To a secretary :) 
 No, I can't dine at Lady Crowbrough's on Tuesda}'. 
 (To an actor :) Squeeze her, my boy, squeeze her ! that's 
 
 it, look lovingly into her eyes and say (To a 
 
 waiter:) Another pat of butter, please. (To an 
 upholsterer :) Ah, that's the colour, my boy ; why didn't 
 you bring it before ? (To an actor:) That's it, give her 
 the rose and exit. Capital. Come back and do it once 
 more. Lie down, Fido. (To a lady :) That dog wants 
 washing. You know I spoke about it last week." 
 
 This sort of thing occurred at one of the rehearsals 
 of the piece in which I was playing for him, and then, to 
 heighten the confusion, some one leant over the great 
 light comedian's chair and began whispering. He 
 looked up critically at me with, I imagined, a sort of 
 " Yes-I-don't-think-much-of-him " look on his face. 
 
 This continued for a few minutes during the progress 
 of the scene I was working at, and at last, being unable 
 to stand it any longer, I stopped and said, " May I 
 speak to you, Mr. Wyndham, for a moment ? " 
 " Certainly, my boy," he said, rising and coming to 
 me, seeing something was wrong. I then told him 
 quietly I was very nervous and that I could not 
 possibly rehearse under these conditions, and under no 
 circumstances would I have people discussing with him 
 what I was doing right under my nose. I told him
 
 176 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 that I would willingly go back a thousand times for 
 him, and was proud to do so, but for other people no. 
 And what do you think the light comedian said ? 
 Putting his hand on my shoulder, " You're mistaken, 
 my boy, quite mistaken, they were saying you are 
 wonderful — delightful, so fresh and bright. The only 
 little thing they did suggest was that you are like me 
 on the stage, just like me, so natural that sometimes 
 the points don't carry." 
 
 It was a charming way of getting out of a difficulty, 
 but I could not help laughing. Here was I, after 
 having been for five years the leading light comedian at 
 the Gaiety Theatre, being doubted as to my capacity 
 for filling the Criterion stage ; but it was charming, and 
 very like many lines he had been accustomed to speak 
 in " The Headless Man " and " Brighton." 
 
 But all this happened years after the "Cinderella" 
 and " Under the Clock " days, which I will return to. 
 My wife and I would in all probability have gone 
 on in comedy, when suddenly, as I have said, the music 
 in the two pieces we were playing in altered our entire 
 arrangements. The Gaiety Theatre Company made 
 her an offer to become their leading lady for three 
 years at a salary of £2^, £^0, and £2$ a week, and as 
 her salary at the Court was only ;^ii and we were just 
 starting life, this offer she gladly accepted, and with 
 what success she appeared for them it is not necessary 
 here to state. 
 
 On the night of the second performance of " Under 
 the Clock " Mr. George Edwardes, who was in front, 
 sent for me and offered me also a three years' engage- 
 ment at the Gaiety at a salary of ;^i5, £20, and 3^25 a
 
 THE GAIETY 177 
 
 week, which I too accepted, the money I was earning 
 then being only ^^8 for all performances ; so things 
 looked bright for both of us within a very few weeks of 
 our marriage. We had an assured income of ^2,500 a 
 year for the first year alone and felt we could now face 
 Mr. Terriss on his return from America with a certain 
 amount of confidence. 
 
 Before we were able to open at the Gaiety Theatre 
 we were under contract to go to America for ten weeks 
 to play in the Lyceum pantomime " Cinderella " there. 
 The entire production as it stood was taken over, my 
 wife making as great a hit in New York as she 
 had in London. I played one of the ugly sisters and 
 made a success, being hailed as a wonderful dancer. 
 This, of course, is not the case, but I wore skirts, and 
 the quickness of my rustling of them took the critics' 
 eyes off my feet. I have always been a magnificent 
 dancer with one foot ; the other one, I think, is better 
 on the violin. 
 
 Just prior to starting for the States my wife was 
 offered, by Henry Irving, the part of Elaine in Comyns 
 Carr's play " King Arthur." She tried very hard to 
 arrange matters to be able to open with the great man 
 at the Lyceum Theatre on her return, but existing 
 arrangements stood in the way ; Mr. Tree also asked 
 her to cancel the American trip altogether and open at 
 His Majesty's in a play by Henry Arthur Jones, but 
 this also she was unable to manage. 
 
 I, too, often regret I was unable to accept an offer to 
 play the boy's part in " Robespierre " with Sir Henry 
 Irving. I went to his rooms in Grafton Street several 
 times about it, and I remember his saying, what was 
 
 s.H. N
 
 178 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 so characteristic of him, " Perhaps my people haven't 
 offered you enough money, eh ? You are getting -£"30 a 
 week, I hear. I'll give you ;£"6o." I assured him that 
 was not the reason and that it would have been a great 
 honour to have been on the same stage with him for 
 nothing ; but the fact was I could not get released from 
 my then present engagement in " The Court Scandal," 
 although I had tried desperately hard to do so. 
 
 Oddly enough, the day before we sailed my father-in- 
 law landed from New York. We had all been corre- 
 sponding every week, and so the ice was broken to some 
 extent, though I naturally felt somewhat sheepish when 
 I met him for the first time after having been married 
 without his consent. However, all he said was he 
 wished we had waited ; but as everything seemed all 
 right and his little girl was happy, that was all he cared 
 about, and with a smile he patted me on the back and 
 we began to discuss the excellent financial prospects 
 the Gaiety contract gave us. William Terriss, who 
 was known to every one as " Breezy Bill," was one of 
 the handsomest men I have ever seen, and as an actor 
 was unrivalled in the class of parts he played. He was 
 the ideal hero, carrying his audience with him by his 
 swing and dash and charm, and lifting shoulder-high 
 any scene that he appeared in. His was a most lovable 
 nature, one of his greatest attractions being his boyish- 
 ness. In the four years — alas, all too few ! — that I 
 saw him daily, I cannot remember his ever really losing 
 his temper with any one, and it is one of my happiest 
 memories that, while a deep affection sprang up on 
 my side for him, I know that he was genuinely fond 
 of me,
 
 THE GAIETY 179 
 
 The tragic manner of his death came at a time when 
 we ourselves were in the deepest sorrow, and though 
 time has gently smoothed that crumpled page for us, 
 there are so many creases still left on it that i8g6 is a 
 volume we never open ; and both of us, although 
 remembering, pretend that we forget. 
 
 And how thankful we both are that we went to the 
 Gaiety Theatre. It is a wonderful school. It broadens 
 your style, gives you resource, enables you to play to a 
 vast public, and, if you are going to be successful, there 
 is no theatre in the kingdom that gets you in closer 
 touch with the public than does this house. And 
 certainly in no theatre is there such an affectionate 
 regard existing between players and audience as there 
 is here. A Gaiety first night is one charged to the 
 utmost with electricity, and its very intensity is 
 unnerving. Critical beyond measure, the gallery do 
 not take half a minute to make up their minds whether 
 they like or dislike a thing and they signify their 
 feelings with no uncertain voice. Where in the world 
 are the receptions on a first night so wonderful, and 
 where does an artist feel that peculiar longing, and 
 wish he were able to do a bit more for the generous 
 friends upstairs ? 
 
 The traditions of the Gaiety are guarded by the 
 spirits of Madame Vestris, Charles Mathews, Toole, 
 Nellie Farren, Fred Leslie, Kate Vaughan, Katie 
 Seymour, and a dozen other masters and mistresses 
 of their art who in times of stress and trouble have 
 mixed tonics for the nation and given happiness and 
 laughter to thousands of their fellow countrymen. 
 I am very proud I played at the Gaiety, and I never 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 pass its stage door that I do not feel a longing to creep 
 in, ask for my key, and go to my room to make up as I 
 used to in the old days. But we cannot put the clock 
 back — I wish we could — for I should dearly love to 
 play there once again. 
 
 When I say w^hat a cast we had there in 1903, I feel 
 like the old actor who, earlier in these recollections, 
 spoke of his fellow players in " Hamlet," but it was a cast 
 indeed. The company included Harry Monkhouse, 
 Arthur Williams, Edmund Payne, myself, John Coates, 
 George Grossmith, Junr., and Willie Warde, Ellaline 
 Terriss, Connie Ediss, Katie Seymour, Maria Davis and 
 Ethel Haydon, the all-round strength of which, I 
 venture to think, is not found to-day anywhere. 
 
 The revival of " Jack Shepherd " was the first piece 
 we opened in, and extremely bad I was in it, following 
 as I had to the inimitable Fred Leslie as Jonathan 
 Wild, a part which he had made his own, and which, 
 into the bargain, had grown old-fashioned, rhyming 
 couplets with a pun in each line having been long out 
 of date. 
 
 I was, however, saved from utter disaster by intro- 
 ducing the first American tramp character to this 
 country. While in the States I collected all the best 
 jokes from all the best tramp turns I saw there, and 
 stringing them together, with a song and a big boot 
 dance thrown in, held the stage for fifteen minutes, and 
 effaced, I think, some of the really poor performance I 
 had inflicted on the audience up to that point. 
 
 But I was more to be pitied than blamed. I was 
 thrown on to the stage of our first burlesque house at 
 the age of twenty-two to play a tremendous part, having
 
 THE GAIETY i8i 
 
 only once in my life ever sung a note or danced a step' 
 and that at the little Court Theatre. It was small 
 wonder that I was about as funny as a rabbit who has 
 reached his earth after having run the gauntlet of a 
 line of Cockney guns. 
 
 I remember how frightened I was before that opening 
 night. I hardly ate anything for three days prior to it, 
 and on the day of production itself I spent the entire 
 afternoon sitting alone in the Brompton Oratory. Why 
 I chose the Oratory I do not know, but my poor nerves 
 certainly were soothed greatly by the peace and away- 
 from-the-world feeling of that sacred building. Very 
 few people in the audience that night would have 
 guessed where I had been nearly all day, or what real 
 terror had driven me there. 
 
 " The Shop Girl" followed "Jack Shepherd," and I 
 had the good fortune to make quite a little success in 
 it. I was lucky enough to pick up a song in America 
 called " Her Golden Hair was hanging down her back," 
 which materially assisted in establishing me at the 
 Gaiety. It had been heard in England before I sang 
 it, but had not succeeded ; nor should I have made it 
 the furore it was if I had not seen a little sedate 
 woman sing it at a music-hall in New York. She 
 rendered it in a most reserved and quiet manner, her 
 very gentleness making all the lines appear to have, if 
 not a double entendre, at least the hope, or should I 
 rather say the fear, that things did not quite mean what 
 they seemed. 
 
 Of the last twenty-five years, I think ** Two Lovely 
 Black Eyes," " Tarraraboomdeay," and " The Golden 
 Hair " were the most phenomenal song successes of
 
 i82 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 their kind. My song was whistled and sung all over the 
 country ; during the entire run of " The Shop Girl " I 
 sang it about a thousand times, and at last fled from it, 
 so that it was with feelings of heart failure that I 
 arrived one summer's morning in Jersey and heard, 
 from the silence of the little harbour, a boy whistling 
 its chorus as he fished for whiting off the pier head. 
 
 " Her Golden Hair was hanging down her back" was 
 the means of my having the honour to be presented for 
 the first time to the Queen-Mother, who then, as 
 Princess of Wales, was present one night at a ball 
 given by Lord and Lady Cadogan at Cadogan House. 
 My wife and myself, Miss Clara Butt and Hollman, 
 were desired to give a small entertainment after supper 
 had been served. Miss Butt sang beautifully, as she 
 always does, Hollman was wonderful on his 'cello, 
 and we played a little duologue called " Papa's Wife," 
 which we have since acted some hundreds of times. At 
 the conclusion of our little play, the Princess of Wales 
 sent for me, and saying she had heard of the famous 
 song I was singing at the Gaiety, would like to hear it. 
 
 This made me extremely uneasy. The room was full 
 of Royalties ; the occasion was one of semi-state, and 
 the salons were crowded with guests, who all stood 
 silent while I walked down to the chairs occupied by 
 the Princess and H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, who 
 was also present. I had great doubts whether the 
 words would please Her Royal Highness, as, although 
 there was nothing shocking in them reall}', when sung 
 in a theatre, I was afraid that in cold blood to a piano 
 they might seem a little French for so select an 
 assembly. I therefore said to the Prince of Wales :
 
 THE GAIETY 183 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, Her Royal Highness might not care for 
 the song." To which he replied most graciously : " Oh, 
 I'm sure she would — I've heard it's very amusing indeed. 
 Anyhow, you repeat the words to Her Royal Highness 
 before you sing them — I'm sure they are excellent." This 
 put me in a pretty hat. Facing rows and rows of people 
 in uniform — ambassadors, Court dignitaries, and every 
 conceivable kind of important personage, I stood up 
 and recited quietly to the Princess the words of the 
 song, without any accompaniment. If any one can 
 conceive a more trying situation I should be greatly 
 obliged if they would let me hear about it on reading 
 this. 
 
 At the end of the ordeal the Prince himself laughed 
 at me heartily, saying, " I do believe you're nervous." I 
 said, " Sir, I'm shaking all over," and he laughed again, 
 while the Princess, who by the way was suffering from 
 a severe cold, and did not catch half what I had recited, 
 most kindly said she thought the words charming, and 
 begged me to have no misgivings but to sing, which I 
 did at once. 
 
 The number of people who looked at me as if they 
 could burst with laughter during the time I was 
 solemnly reciting such classic lines as 
 
 " Oh I Flo, what a change you know, 
 When she left the village she was shy, 
 
 But alas and alack, 
 
 She came back 
 With a naughty little twinkle in her eye " 
 
 to my future Queen was the only thing that helped me 
 to see the humour of the situation and not sink through 
 the floor. I have had the honour of appearing before
 
 i84 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 that great and gracious lady many times since that 
 night, and have had many a kindly word from her, all 
 of which are stored up in my memory, and are land- 
 marks in my life. 
 
 It was in the old '* Shop Girl," that my wife sang 
 "Louisiana Loo" — that most popular of composers, 
 Leslie Stuart's, first song success in London ; and, looking 
 back at this musical play, I think it was not only the 
 first, but by far the best of its kind. 
 
 There are some musical comedies whose music may 
 have been better, though I doubt it, and others may 
 have had better characterisation, or a stronger plot, etc., 
 etc., but no one other play possessed all its merits in so 
 marked a degree. The horrible two-plaited Flapper 
 who lisps apparently inanely for a lemon squash, a 
 sponge cake, and a diamond necklace, all in one 
 breath, had not then come into vogue. The feminine 
 embroidery of a musical comedy in those days were 
 handsome, sensible women, who, if they possessed 
 sable coats or miniature broughams, did not go out of 
 their way to inform you that they had found the sable 
 coat in a third-class carriage on the Underground, or 
 that the brougham was discovered in the area of their 
 mother's lodging-house, " all by its little self, and so 
 'icky Sylvia kept it," as is the tale I have often heard 
 told to him of the vacant laugh, the spreading elbows, 
 the straight feet and tired expression, who is known to 
 the division as a nut. If Henry II. lived to-day, he 
 would surely have given poor Becket a miss in baulk 
 and altered his spoken thought to " who will rid me of 
 these pestilent flappers." I never see them at lunch, 
 or wherever it may be, with their feet in Middlesex,
 
 THE GAIETY 185 
 
 the centre portions of their body in Surrey, and their 
 chins in Sussex, that I don't wonder to myself why on 
 earth President Roosevelt took the trouble to go all the 
 way to Africa to find strange beasts to shoot. 
 
 I had not been at the Gaiety long before I began to 
 know Mr. George Edwardes very well, but not as well 
 as I grew to know him later. He has had, and always 
 will have, my profoundest admiration. There is no 
 man living who can deal with any sort of theatrical 
 problem in such a masterly manner as he can, no 
 matter from which quarter of the compass the wind 
 blows. As a snake, we are told, can charm a song-bird, 
 so can he, by his knowledge of the world and perfect 
 manners, get the very best out of those in his employ ; 
 and his loyalty to those who work for him while they 
 are doing well is only equalled by his power to see 
 little or no good in those who do not march with his 
 battalions. His taste theatrically is unequalled, and 
 while, like many of us, he may not always know what 
 to do, he is a past master at knowing what not to do, 
 which is, in our business, a most valuable asset. What 
 I know about producing musical plays I learnt in the 
 first instance from him, and I can say quite truly that 
 often when I have been left alone all night in the 
 theatre on the eve of production, faced by a difficult 
 situation, and not knowing how to get out of it, I have 
 mentally tried to place Mr. Edwardes in my position, 
 and wondered what he would do were he in my shoes. 
 His judgment of artists is unerring. I don't say this 
 because he found me — I say it because I have not only 
 never seen him allow any artist to attempt what he or 
 she was incapable of, but because he always presents
 
 i86 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 them in exactly what they can do best. He is a chef 
 who knows that dehcate peaches are not acceptable if 
 served with Yorkshire pudding. 
 
 " The Shop Girl " days were those of the early 
 Lionel Monckton period. His innumerable successes 
 I know at that time were due to the fact that he was 
 never satisfied with his work, and, as a rule, set and 
 reset his lyrics time and again before he passed a 
 melody to them for the score. Poor Walter Pallant, 
 the chairman of the Gaiety (than whom a finer judge 
 of a tune never lived), admired the music of " Lally," 
 as he was called, more, if possible, than we did. 
 
 My old friend Ivan Caryll came to the theatre at 
 this time from the Lyric, and always talked about 
 " may music " in referring to his compositions, which 
 at first made me think he referred to music he had 
 written in the springtime as opposed to his Christmas 
 carols, but I discovered afterwards it was his way of refer- 
 ring to the fine melodies he was writing at that time. 
 
 I remember one night when he was conducting my 
 first number in "The Shop Girl " — and what a wonder- 
 ful conductor he was ! — an amusing incident happened. 
 It was on a Monday night, and on a Monday the show 
 ladies always talked more than on any other night in the 
 week — I suppose this being from the fact that having 
 been away from the theatre for the week end they had 
 many notes to compare. On this particular evening one 
 lovely lady, who was an incorrigible talker, was relating 
 some experience so loudly as I sang that she knocked 
 all the words out of my head. After having said 
 " hush ! " about twenty times to no purpose, I determined 
 to give her a lesson, and said to Caryll, " One moment,"
 
 THE GAIETY 187 
 
 and the band stopped suddenly. I turned to her of 
 the wagging tongue, and, thinking to frighten her out 
 of her wits and stop her from ever talking again on the 
 stage, said, " Dear lady, will you finish your story, or 
 shall I finish my song ? " Not in the least taken aback, 
 she stepped down to my side and said, " Do you know, 
 dearie, it's a matter of the utmost indifference to me 
 what you do." The house laughed heartily at the way 
 I had been scored off, and I retired with my tail between 
 my legs, and she was the heroine of the evening. 
 
 At that time there was only one Englishman in the 
 Gaiety orchestra, and he was always alluded to as " the 
 foreigner." The charming Marchioness of Headfort, 
 who is so popular across the Channel, came to the 
 Gaiety about this time as Miss Rosie Boote, and 
 instantly captivated everyone by her swaying reed-like 
 movements when she danced.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 
 
 The Gaiety in those days was a cauldron boiling over 
 with youth, talent, beauty, and song. Here was that 
 rarest of all birds, a really funny low comedian, in 
 Edmund Payne, working with the best dancer of her 
 kind, not excepting Genee — little Katie Seymour — she of 
 the twinkling feet, who I am sure Mr. Payne would be 
 the first to acknowledge was a mighty help to him in 
 those days. 
 
 Poor little Katie Seymour ! She dances no more for 
 us, but in my heart there is a very large corner where I 
 often see her pirouette as the Spirit of Perfection in the 
 beautiful art of which she was so great a mistress. 
 Where was there a better actor, apart from being a 
 fine comedian, than Arthur Williams ? Where a 
 greater droll than Connie Ediss ? a finer singer at that 
 time in light opera than John Coates ? or a quainter 
 looking object than clever George Grossmith, Jr., with 
 a face hardly less extraordinary than his curious legs, 
 and a humour as unctuous as his father's at his best ? 
 It was about this time that he was christened " The 
 Schoolgirl's Dream," or " The Hope Brothers' Beau," 
 this latter nickname being bestowed on him from the 
 fact that through his delightful taste in dressing he has 
 done more to improve the garments worn by Alf, Sid, 
 Bert and Per, of the suburbs, than any artist now before 
 the public.
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 189 
 
 But a really fine artist who, although appreciated to 
 a great degree, has never, in my opinion, had half the 
 praise due to him, is Willie Warde. His character 
 sketches are Meissonier-like. He makes a marginal 
 note on any small etching that he is given, and in 
 a flash opens up the ordinary, daily, human and 
 domestic side, to the man in the stalls, of the butler, 
 fisherman, clergyman, or whatever it is he is cast to 
 play. His pantomime is of the simplest but of the 
 most expressive, and I never see this real artist on the 
 stage that I do not regret his lack of voice ; for, had he 
 been able to speak — and by that I mean carry through 
 a long part — in dialogue, he would have been the god 
 of our theatre life and a figure very large in the public 
 eye. He has invented more funny business for other 
 comedians than any one dreams of, and the success of 
 -* The Geisha " was largely due to him, for it was he who 
 invented the part of the Chinaman, which was only 
 a thumb-nail sketch on the afternoon of the dress 
 rehearsal, when the piece looked hopeless through lack 
 of comedy and was postponed for a fortnight. 
 
 " The Shop Girl " proved such a tremendous suc- 
 cess that just before the end of its London run arrange- 
 ments were made for practically the whole of the 
 younger members of the original company, including 
 myself, to go over to New York with it. My wife, who 
 had been lent by the Gaiety Company for a little time 
 to play in " His Excellency," W. S. Gilbert and 
 Osmund Carr's opera at the Lyric Theatre, was also 
 sent over to America to appear in that piece, she 
 opening at the Broadway Theatre simultaneously with 
 my opening at Palmer's Theatre there.
 
 igo SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Both the plays, unfortunately, failed to attract as had 
 been hoped, " The Shop Girl " especially failing owing 
 to a great many of the lines in it having been brought 
 back from New York on a previous occasion by me, the 
 jokes thereby becoming Newcastle coals re-shipped to 
 Newcastle. England was having trouble with the 
 United States at that time, and on the first night of our 
 piece a humorist said in the foyer, " It's true we're 
 going to war with England over Venezuela, but why 
 send us 'The Shop Girl.' " 
 
 "His Excellency" did not seem to please the New 
 York public either, but they seemed to appreciate a 
 song my wife sang out of " The Artist's Model " called 
 *' Umpty umpty ay," which the management put into 
 the second act and to which she used to sing about six 
 topical encore verses. 
 
 It is so many years ago that I dare now tell how John 
 Le Hay, who played the part of the syndic in " His 
 Excellency," used to change into his evening clothes 
 between the acts of the opera and give his ventriloquial 
 entertainment and get roars of laughter with his little 
 doll that kept repeating " Rotton Cotton Gloves." 
 Whether the New York public took him for a Greek 
 Chorus, or thought that they were seeing a triple bill, 
 I have never been able quite to make up my mind. 
 
 It was at this time that I first met Charles Frohman, 
 with whom later I was to become so closely associated. 
 When I arrived in New York there was a regular 
 campaign against me, I being accused of taking all the 
 gags and songs I could lay my hands on ; and it was 
 here I was christened " Stealmore Bricks." It is true 
 that any good joke I heard I annexed ; but who hasn't ?
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 191 
 
 And why I should be blamed alone of all the comedians 
 who have visited that hospitable shore, from the time 
 Fred Leslie became an international theatrical robber, 
 I really don't know. As regards music, I never in my 
 life took a number without the permission of the 
 publishers there or their agents here, and, through 
 singing them, put hundreds of pounds in their pockets 
 and never once made a farthing myself. I thought, 
 as I have this opportunity, I would like to say this 
 to clear up a matter which has long been misrepre- 
 sented. 
 
 Many of the newspapers had such headlines as this : 
 " Comedians beware — Seymour Hicks is in town — Pad- 
 lock your gags," or " Nail everything you have ; Hicks 
 the real live bunco man is among you." At many 
 places of amusement my money was refused, but I 
 always got in ; for my wife, who was not very well 
 known in New York at this time, would buy two 
 tickets, and while the managers were arguing with me, 
 hand me her other coupon, and I followed her in, I am 
 bound to say much to the amusement of the managers 
 themselves, who were sportsmen enough to appreciate 
 slimness in other people. 
 
 One comedian came on at a matinee and said, during 
 his scene, " We are not doing it all to-day — Hicks 
 is listening," and when Lockhart's elephants came on 
 he put his head round the corner of the stage and said, 
 *' Guess you cannot take anything from them." 
 
 At a performance I attended in which that inimit- 
 able soubrette Miss May Irwin was playing, she like- 
 wise had many little jokes at my expense, and at last 
 I was ungallant enough to score off her, for at the end
 
 192 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 of a musical number for which she got several encores 
 she looked up to my box, and saying, " Well, how do 
 you like that ? " I replied, " Not at all, Miss Irwin ! " 
 The house laughed very much, and she joined in. She 
 was a delight to watch, and was quite the finest female 
 low comedian I have ever seen. 
 
 While in New York on this visit I saw the farce " A 
 Night Out," which had been refused by all the English 
 managers. I begged Mr. Frohman to let me take it 
 back to London, which he did. I produced it at the 
 Vaudeville for Messrs. Gatti and George Edwardes, 
 and running 600 nights in London it cleared in town 
 and provinces ;£'32,ooo profit. 
 
 Talking of annexing American gags, I heard a funny 
 story of George Grossmith, Junr., who, it appears, has 
 followed my example pretty closely. In a piece he 
 played in, called " Fluffy Ruffles," in America, before 
 the production of " Our Miss Gibbs " here, he wisely, 
 I understand, annexed all the best gags of the 
 comedian who played opposite him, and inserted them 
 into his part in " Miss Gibbs " in London. The manu- 
 script of " Miss Gibbs " reached New York recently, 
 and the comedian who played opposite Grossmith in 
 " Fluffy Ruffles" was cast for the part Grossmith plays 
 in " Miss Gibbs." When he received his part he smiled, 
 and wrote one line to the manager : " Dear Sir, do you 
 want me to learn all this over again ? " 
 
 George Cohan, the well-known American actor, 
 author, singer, and dancer, did much the same to me, 
 for when he was asked to Americanise " The Beauty of 
 Bath" that I wrote, he returned the MS. with a note 
 just saying : " Sorry, but I have written this twice
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 193 
 
 before myself." He hadn't, but that's a detail. By 
 the way, before leaving this subject, I don't want it to 
 be thought that American comedians do not annex our 
 English songs and jokes — they take all they can get ! 
 They despise English humour, I know, but they do just 
 the same as little Willie does, and quite right, too ! 
 
 On our return from New York we went to spend a 
 few days with Mr. W. S. Gilbert. One morning at 
 breakfast he read aloud from the morning paper the life 
 story of Captain Dreyfus and the description of his 
 degradation on parade and his journey to Devil's Island. 
 When he had finished he said, " Fancy if that man 
 were innocent ! What a drama ! and what a wonder- 
 ful scene the degradation would make ! Now then, 
 Hicks, there's a ready-made melodrama for you ; why 
 don't you write it ? " 
 
 Jumping at the idea, I sat down the next morning, 
 and in seven weeks had finished a four-act drama, which 
 I called " One of the Best." I read it to my father-in- 
 law, diffidently telling him I had designed the part for 
 him, and he at once made an appointment for me to 
 read it to the Messrs. Gatti, with a view to its produc- 
 tion at the Adelphi Theatre. I shall never forget the 
 ordeal I went through in reading the manuscript to the 
 late Mr. Agostino Gatti and his son, my old friend 
 Rocco Gatti. Rocco was a lad younger than I was, and 
 said little, and the old gentleman, a man of vast 
 theatrical experience and knowledge, sat silent as I wan- 
 dered on through the manuscript, act after act, and made 
 no comment of any kind until I had finished the last 
 page. I was about to apologise for having taken up so 
 much of Mr. Gatti's time, feeling sure he had not liked 
 
 S.H. O
 
 194 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 it, when he rose from his chair, took his hat, held out 
 his hand, and said, " We do it " — that was all — and 
 walked away down the staircase and along the Strand 
 with his hands clasped behind him as was his custom. 
 I never felt such a thrill as those three little words gave 
 me, for Agostino, as all the Gattis are, was a man of 
 his word, and I knew my play would be produced even 
 if he should repent of his decision. I am glad to say, 
 however, he believed in the piece, and his judgment was 
 correct, for it was a tremendous success and ran for 
 over a year at his theatre, in 1895 — 6. 
 
 It may appear to the reader that I am not saying 
 half enough about my beautiful partner in these 
 reminiscences and a great deal too much about myself, 
 but the fact is my wife is very shortly bringing out a 
 little book of reminiscences of her own, so I am 
 purposely not saying a quarter that I ought about her 
 in these pages, or I should be poaching upon her 
 preserves. If I followed my own inclinations I should 
 do nothing but write about her in her private life, for 
 her acting is the least good thing she does, and I can 
 say this, for I know her to be a pretty head and 
 shoulders above the rest of her contemporaries. 
 
 Constant visitors to the Gaiety at this time were the 
 then Master of the Rolls and Lady Esher, who not only 
 honoured us with their friendship, but were kindness 
 itself, I first became acquainted with his lordship 
 through an act on his part which reads more like 
 a fairy tale in these matter-of-fact days than anything 
 else. By chance we took a large house and grounds 
 at Winkfield, near Ascot, for eighteen months. At the 
 expiration of that period we received a notification
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 195 
 
 from a firm of solicitors that we must repair the 
 house, outbuildings and stables, and set the grounds 
 of fourteen acres in order, and that Lord Esher's agent 
 would call on us to discuss what was necessary. We 
 were quite at a loss to understand what this meant 
 until we learned that the original lease granted by 
 Lord Esher to the tenant who had sublet to us was for 
 a term of twenty years, and that we had unknowingly 
 taken over the last eighteen months of this contract, 
 and with it all the penalties it carried, such as 
 replanting trees, etc., etc. This was an awful facer, 
 as we had little or no ready money, and the cost 
 would exceed, we were informed, at the least £800 or 
 jfi,ooo. We were worrying what we had better do, 
 when, a few days after the visit of Lord Esher's agent, 
 I received a letter from that fine old gentleman himself. 
 It was this : — 
 
 " Dear Mr. Hicks, — I am informed that you have 
 taken over the fag-end of a twenty years' lease of one of 
 my properties. I can only conceive that the solicitor 
 who allowed you to do such a thing is either a rogue or 
 an arrant fool. In either case I feel that it would not 
 be honest of me to take advantage of the inexperience 
 of a young couple who work so hard for their money 
 and who give Lady Esher and myself so much pleasure 
 in their acting. I therefore wish you to take this letter 
 as a full indemnity against all and any conditions my 
 lease may hold, and to understand that I will take over 
 the estate myself from you and make the necessary 
 arrangements for restoration." 
 
 The letter continued on other topics, and we learned 
 
 o 2
 
 196 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 from it for the first time that the old lady and gentleman 
 who always sat in the front row of the stalls at the 
 matinees were the big-hearted owners of the house in 
 which we lived. 
 
 There is not much need for me to enlarge on the 
 wonderful generosity of this act ; the letter speaks for 
 itself. We, of course, journeyed off at once to tender 
 our grateful thanks, and our meeting over a business 
 matter was the means of our being allowed to add our 
 humble names to the long list of personal "friends of 
 those two distinguished people. 
 
 When the run of " The Shop Girl" came to an end, 
 a piece called " My Girl " followed it. It was not a 
 success, and I was glad not to be in it, as the part I was 
 offered was an extremely poor one, and having long 
 realised that good briefs make successful barristers, I 
 knew that in the same way the most unwise thing an 
 actor can do if he can possibly help it is to appear in 
 parts that are not of the best after he has once made his 
 little hit with the public. 
 
 " The Circus Girl " came next, which was another 
 ** Shop Girl," running for about six hundred perform- 
 ances. In this I had a good part. On the first night 
 I sang a song called " She never did the same thing 
 twice." It was a very ordinary song, and before I had 
 got halfway through the second verse a boy in the 
 gallery called out to me, " Seymour." I looked up, 
 and he said " Granted." I said, " Eh ? " He said, 
 " Granted, old boy," and, bowing politely, I took the 
 hint, finished as quickly as I could, and I never sang 
 the song again. In the second act of this play one of 
 the principal characters made an entrance into the
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 197 
 
 circus on a white horse. The animal had originally 
 been a bus horse, and the only way we could get it to 
 start was to call out: "Charing Cross, Strand, Bank, 
 Piccadilly Circus, Oxford Street!" slam the green-room 
 door, and say " Right behind ! " and it would then trot 
 on as happily as it did no doubt in its days of penny fares. 
 
 I received one of the very few presents I have ever 
 had from anonymous donors during the run of this 
 piece. One day, on a Saturday afternoon, when I 
 arrived for the matinee performance, I found that a 
 small package had been left for me at the stage-door by 
 a cabman. I opened it, and to my amazement dis- 
 covered that it contained a silver cigarette-case, in 
 which were seven ;£'ioo Bank of England notes. 
 Engraved on the inside of the case was a simple line: 
 " From Box J. Seventy-one times." That was all. 
 To this day I don't know who the donor was, but I do 
 remember seeing a very pretty lady in black, whom I did 
 not know, continually in a private box, and whom, after 
 the arrival of this wonderful present, I never saw again. 
 I mention this incident because I believe it is a popular 
 belief that actors are always receiving presents and love- 
 letters from the front of the theatre. I personally do 
 not think this is so; at least, they have been very few 
 in my case. But after all, that may be no criterion, as 
 my face is not my strong point. 
 
 It was during the run of " The Circus Girl " that my 
 wife and myself had the honour of being commanded 
 by His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales to come to 
 supper after the performance at the house of a lady and 
 gentleman we knew and whom he was honouring with 
 his presence. When we arrived we found we were two
 
 igS SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 of a party of only six, and the evening was one of the 
 most dehghtful it has ever been our lot to spend any- 
 where. I kept a cigar the Prince gave me that night as 
 a memento of an evening never to be forgotten. After 
 supper my wife was asked to sing, and she went to the 
 piano to play her accompaniment to her famous song, 
 " A little bit of string." His Royal Highness came and 
 sat next her chair, and this so disconcerted her that 
 during the second verse every word went out of her 
 head and for the life of her she could not remember a 
 single syllable. The Prince was immensely amused at 
 her embarrassment, and laughed considerably. Later 
 in the evening she managed the difficult feat of 
 remembering the words of a song she was singing every 
 evening, and had sung some three hundred times, for 
 the great playgoer and patron of all forms of theatrical 
 entertainment. 
 
 I cannot speak of the Gaiety without referring to a 
 most amusing old character who was stage-door keeper, 
 by the name of Tierney. He had formerly been a sea 
 captain, and managed the stage-door much as he must 
 have done his ship ; he wore a long beard, and I don't 
 think had ever been seen to laugh. A smile that some- 
 times flickered across his face when I teased him was 
 one more of self-pity than of merriment. He had a 
 habit of saying " I say, I say " before and after every- 
 thing. If you asked for your letters he would reply, " I 
 say, I say, I have no letters for you, I say, I say," and 
 he spoke to all and sundry alike, whether he were a 
 scene-shifter or " one of the Jew-nosed stage-dooree " 
 who waited patiently for " her of the silken tights " to 
 go out to supper with him.
 
 LIGHT AND SHADOW 199 
 
 It is really a wonderful thing what receptive natures 
 some women have, and how thoroughly French they 
 become through simply dining once in the French 
 capital. I remember standing at the stage-door on a 
 Monday evening and seeing one of our beautiful ladies 
 jump out of a hansom. She had been to Paris for the 
 first time on the previous Sunday morning, seen a play 
 there, and had returned at once. But she was Parisienne 
 to her finger-tips, and, walking up to old Tierney, 
 said, " Ah ! voulez vous donner le fiarker un frank — 
 from le gare de Charing Cross." Tierney waited for a 
 moment, and said, with a look I shall never forget, 
 " 'Ere, I say, give him a bob and have done with it, I 
 say, I say ; give him a bob, I say." The catching of an 
 accent is no doubt an easy thing though. It is on 
 record that an actor meeting another whom he had not 
 seen for a month noticed that his friend had acquired 
 in that time the broadest American accent possible. 
 " Good Heavens ! " he said, " I didn't know you had 
 been away to America." " I haven't," came the reply, 
 " but I have had an offer." 
 
 It was during " The Circus Girl " that we had the 
 profound and abiding sorrow of losing our little infant 
 son, and it was while my wife lay at death's door 
 herself that her father met his tragic end. All this 
 terrible trouble happened simultaneously, and it was 
 some time before she was able to face the ordeal of 
 returning to the stage. The scene of enthusiasm when 
 she did so I shall never forget. The whole house rose 
 to their feet and cheered and cheered again, and waved 
 to her, calling her by name, their sympathy causing 
 her, after a brave effort, to break down completely. I
 
 200 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 think it was only her evident distress caused by this 
 outburst of genuine affection that made the ovation she 
 received fade away, as it was obvious that its whole- 
 heartedness was more than her httle body could bear. 
 The applause lasted just two minutes and a half, which 
 is a reception of unprecedented length. The British 
 public are wonderful masters, and I am grateful to be 
 their servant. God bless them ! A few months after 
 this my wife saw and fell in love with the sweetest 
 of little Irish girls, and we adopted her, calling her 
 Mabel. To-day she is a sweet and gentle girl of 
 eighteen, and is loved by us as if she were our own, 
 and well she deserves to be.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 
 
 During these long runs I had been writing plays 
 steadily, one of the most successful being a drama 
 called ** Sporting Life," written in collaboration with 
 my old friend Cecil Raleigh. It has been acted all 
 over the world to immense business, with the exception, 
 oddly enough, of London, the very city it was designed 
 for. It dealt with sport in all its forms, but more 
 especially with boxing. The great scene of the piece 
 was laid in the National Sporting Club on the night of 
 a big fight, when the hero, Lord Woodstock, was 
 supposed to knock out the champion of England, and 
 in doing so retrieve his fortune and estates. A real 
 pugilist played the fighting man in the drama, and laid 
 himself open purposely to be hit about and ultimately 
 floored, much to the delight of the audience, who 
 always cheered wildly when they saw the hero 
 triumphant. But when the piece was presented for a 
 week at the Deptford Theatre, which suburb had the 
 honour to be the home of the aforesaid pugilist actor, 
 personal vanity got the better of the professor of the 
 noble art, and ruined our play on the Saturday night 
 most successfully. 
 
 It appeared that during the entire engagement the 
 boxer's friends in the neighbourhood had been taunting 
 him by saying that he was ** no class " to allow himself
 
 202 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 to be punched about every night by an actor — that he 
 was lowering himself in his profession, and ought to be 
 ashamed of himself. He brooded over this for about 
 five days, and on the sixth, after the matinee, having 
 drunk not wisely but too much, invited his friends to 
 come to the gallery that night and " he'd show them." 
 Of course, this was all unknown to us. The big 
 scene opened quietly as usual, but when the fight 
 proper commenced it became obvious that something 
 was amiss — the pugilist, instead of obeying orders and 
 " coming closer " as he was directed, and always did, 
 to be well punched, sparred up to the actor playing the 
 part of Lord Woodstock as he would have done had he 
 been at the National fighting for a purse. Bang, bang, 
 came the blows on the unfortunate hero's head, a right 
 and left and a kidney-punch following each other like 
 lightning, accompanied by enthusiastic cries of " Well 
 done, 'Arry ! " from the gallery. The actor saw that 
 things were wrong, but knowing the play would be 
 ruined if he jumped out of the ring, gamely stuck to 
 the unequal contest, which, however, did not last long, 
 for the pugilist, stepping in quickly, struck him a 
 violent blow which sent our hero to the floor, holding 
 his stomach, in great pain. The curtain fell to shouts 
 of laughter as the actor playing the referee said, not 
 knowing what else to say, " His lordship is the 
 winner," which was the usual curtain line, but hardly 
 appropriate on this night, with an elated prize-fighter 
 standing over a defeated nobleman, who sat bolt 
 upright rubbing what is known to the faculty as his 
 " bread-basket." 
 
 " Sporting Life " was originally produced at the
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 203 
 
 Shakespeare Theatre, Clapham. It was in seventeen 
 scenes, many of them being big full-stage sets, and in 
 addition to the company some hundred supers were 
 employed. I was playing at the Gaiety while I was 
 producing it, and I remember it gave me some of the 
 hardest work I have ever had. On the Saturday before 
 the Monday on which it saw the light I rehearsed the 
 crowds in the morning, and then played the matinee 
 and night performances at the Gaiety, taking a cab 
 from there directly the curtain fell over to the 
 Clapham Theatre, arriving there at about 12.15 mid- 
 night. The effects of the company who had been 
 playing there during the week were taken out, and at 
 1.30 we began getting in all our new scenery, which 
 had to be made into packs and fitted together. By 
 hard work through the night we managed to rough our 
 whole production together by twelve on the Sunday 
 morning, and then we commenced getting all the 
 furniture and accessories into their various positions. 
 At three in the afternoon I commenced lighting the 
 scenes, which took me till seven in the evening, when 
 the band arrived and went through the incidental music 
 of the play with me (which, by the way, my wife had 
 written). At 8.30 we set the first act and began the 
 dress rehearsal proper. The production was of the 
 most elaborate kind, having eight racehorses in it and 
 all kinds of effects. We rehearsed on and on through 
 the night, and when we got to the racecourse scene in 
 the last act I was shouting at the supers, trying to get 
 them to put more ginger into the wrecking of a gipsy 
 van where one of the villains had concealed himself, 
 when my collaborator, Cecil Raleigh, tapped me on the
 
 204 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 arm and said, ** Old man, do you know what time 
 it is ? " I said " No." He said " It's a quarter to 
 eight ! " Of course I immediately sent the company to 
 their homes, and had to leave the last two scenes 
 to chance when the night came. I had breakfast with 
 the stage hands at a local public-house, and told them 
 that if they would stay on and work through the day 
 they could have twenty pounds if things went smoothly 
 at night, and, they agreeing, we returned to the theatre, 
 setting and resetting the scenes, going through the 
 lights and the band cues again and ringing the curtain 
 up and down as it should fall to be effective. 
 
 By this time it was about four in the afternoon, and 
 everyone was dismissed for a couple of hours' rest prior 
 to the raising of the curtain on the performance. What 
 happened to me I don't know ; all I remember was 
 being awakened by a programme-seller in the stalls 
 where I had fallen asleep, having slipped down between 
 the rows. It was seven o'clock — the public were 
 coming into the theatre, and I must have lain there 
 like the Sleeping Beauty for two or three hours ! 
 
 I did not play that night at the Gaiety, but super- 
 intended the stage at Clapham throughout the evening, 
 doing all I could to keep the production running 
 smoothly. During the performance a crowd of people 
 some hundreds strong assembled round the stage-door 
 to watch the racehorses being taken in and out of the 
 theatre, and were making such a noise that they nearly 
 spoiled the quiet scenes in progress on the stage. In 
 vain I had appealed to them again and again to keep 
 quiet, and I was at my wits' ends to know what to do, 
 when suddenly I remembered I had twelve supers who
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 205 
 
 were dressed as policemen for the Derby Day scene. 
 I collected them together, marched them through the 
 stage-door with drawn truncheons, gave them an order 
 to disperse the mob, and in less time than it takes to 
 tell, the sight of these stalwarts in blue tunics caused 
 the roughs to bolt, and quiet was instantly restored. I 
 wonder what those good Claphamites would have done 
 if they had known that my officers of the law were only 
 extra people at a shilling a night ! 
 
 The play was really an enormous success, and when 
 
 the curtain fell the applause was loud and long. But 
 
 the production being a suburban one, there were not 
 
 the usual calls for " Author ! " as there always are in a 
 
 West-end theatre. But as the public continued to 
 
 cheer and cheer without seeming to want anybody in 
 
 particular, I ran round to the back of the pit, and 
 
 pushing my way in began calling out at the top of my 
 
 voice " Hicks ! Hicks ! ! Raleigh ! Hicks ! ! Hicks ! ! ! " 
 
 The house took up the cry enthusiastically, and I had 
 
 time to get round on to the stage again, and, blushing 
 
 like a school-girl, led Cecil Raleigh on before the 
 
 curtain to take the huge call I had manufactured myself ! 
 
 Ah ! those were the days when one was working like 
 
 a dog to try and succeed. I wonder if I should do it 
 
 now ? I think so, though I should think twice about 
 
 running round to the pit. But no work is too hard on 
 
 a first night, and many a play is saved and made by the 
 
 company and the scene hands seeing their manager with 
 
 his coat off working with them. This has always been 
 
 my custom. But one doesn't want a production like 
 
 ** Sporting Life " more than about once a week, for I 
 
 had been in the theatre exactly sixty hours.
 
 2o6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 There happened to be a large firm of furniture people 
 who helped me greatly on this occasion, called Levi 
 (they have since retired rich people, I am glad to say), 
 but go now by the name of MacDonald, having as a 
 crest an Elizabethan four-poster with grouse rampant 
 on its plush hangings and a motto beneath of " Value 
 before Valour." 
 
 A well-known old actor of bygone days, by name 
 John Coleman, was present at our first night at Clapham, 
 and in his old-fashioned, pedantic way came round at 
 the conclusion of the performance with outstretched 
 hand and many congratulations for the younger genera- 
 tion, who, as he put it, " were hewing their way like 
 knights of old through mighty opposition to dizzy 
 heights of Excelsiorean glory ! " He was a great 
 character, was John Coleman, and gilded every picture 
 so lavishly that the ordering of a cup of tea and an egg 
 by him sounded like the giving of directions for a feast 
 of Lucullus. It is told of him that once, when he was 
 playing Hamlet at Coventry to an almost empty house, 
 he stopped short in one of his soliloquies and addressed 
 the only male occupant of the dress circle. It appears 
 that this gentleman sat in his seat during the two first 
 acts reading a newspaper and taking no notice whatever 
 of John Coleman's delineation of the moody Dane. 
 Catching sight of him, and becoming exasperated at 
 what he considered a gross insult to himself, Coleman 
 stepped down to the footlights and said, " Ladies and 
 Gentleman, — I cannot do justice to the Immortal Bard if 
 that gentleman in the circle continues to devour 
 contemporaneous literature." The gentleman thus 
 addressed immediately got up and left the theatre
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 207 
 
 and went home, but returned for the third act, armed 
 with a telescope, which he fixed on John Coleman at 
 once, and, indeed, never removed from him for the rest 
 of the entire performance. 
 
 John Coleman, I believe, used to get extremely poor 
 notices for his Hamlet ; but I doubt if he ever had a 
 crueller, though exceedingly funny, one than Wilson 
 Barrett did in a London paper, when he first appeared 
 as the hero of the Denmarkian mirth-provoker at the 
 Princess's Theatre. E. S. Willard was playing the 
 King, his brother, George Barrett, the Gravedigger, 
 Miss Eastlake Ophelia, and, if I remember rightly. 
 Cooper Cliff Laertes. A critic, after speaking of the 
 production itself, praised Barrett to the skies, saying all 
 sorts of most laudatory things about his performance. 
 He continued in this strain for nearly half a column, 
 ending his notice by writing : " His brother Wilson 
 also was by no means bad." George Barrett, of course, 
 was a magnificent Gravedigger — the best I have ever 
 seen — but it was a shocking, if amusing, way of holding 
 the one brother up to ridicule, who had been on the 
 stage all night, by giving half a column to the other 
 who had played as the Digger — only a shadow in the 
 tragedy. 
 
 Wilson Barrett's Hamlet did not show any great 
 thought, but it was a fine virile performance, that 
 appealed to the pit and gallery ; and though William of 
 Stratford may not have conceived so full-blooded and 
 declamatory a Dane, he certainly would rather have 
 seen him than some of the limp backboneless slayers of 
 Polonius that we are so often treated to nowadays. It 
 was the custom, I think, rather to belittle the talents
 
 2o8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 which Wilson Barrett possessed, because of a somewhat 
 affected manner of speech and a penchant for opening 
 his ballet shirts at the neck, much in the same way that 
 the modern woman courts pneumonia in evening dress. 
 But he was a man, and, despite his little vanities, a fine 
 type of Englishman, who fought his way bravely in 
 the days of his adversity, holding his head high and 
 living to pay off heavy debts, all incurred in his business ; 
 and, in the end, not only weathering the storm, but 
 amassing a goodly fortune. No one who has ever been 
 under his flag has anything but affectionate thoughts 
 for him. He was always most polite and kind to me. 
 
 Harry Wright, his manservant, was a great card in 
 his way, with his long, curly, black hair, and his habit 
 of selling cheap jewellery in the theatre. Barrett some- 
 times used to find fault with him, which made the 
 ubiquitous Wright sulk for a few hours after being 
 reprimanded. Such an occasion as this occurred prior 
 to the first night of " Claudian," a drama of ancient 
 Rome, in which Barrett played a part after his own 
 heart, being dressed in pink flesh-coloured tights, bare 
 arms with jewelled armlets and chains, and a very low- 
 cut silken overshirt. Wright had elaborately curled 
 his master's hair in quantities of ringlets — a mode 
 of coiffure which Wilson Barrett affected whenever 
 possible. Forgetting that Wright was in an ill-humour, 
 he, at the conclusion of his dressing, rose and surveyed 
 himself admiringly in the glass, and turned to Wright, 
 expecting the usual compliments due from man to 
 master. Wright, however, looked on the vision of 
 beauty unmoved. 
 
 " Well, Wright," said Barrett, *' and how do I look? "
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 209 
 
 The servant made no reply. 
 
 " Come, come, Wright, my man, tell me ! How do 
 I look?" said Barrett, throwing himself back in a 
 gladiator-like pose. 
 
 " Well," said Wright, getting a bit of his own back, 
 as he thought — for Barrett really looked extremely well. 
 ** Well, so help me gawd, guv'nor, you looks all 'ead ! " 
 
 The stories of George Barrett used to be legion, but 
 the best one I have heard of that ripe old low comedian 
 was on the first night of " Claudian," when he gagged 
 against the express orders of his managerial brother. 
 The run of " The Silver King " and other modern melo- 
 dramas had just concluded, and George Barrett, who 
 had played all the low comedy parts, had in this Roman 
 drama, of course, the best humorous character assigned 
 to him, but being more or less in the picture it appeared 
 to him that it would be as difficult to create laughter 
 in a toga as it would be to be funny on a pound a week, 
 and so he set about modernising the humour as best he 
 could. His brother Wilson, seeing his attempts at 
 rehearsal to work for modern laughter in a play of 
 ancient times, told him to speak the book, and not 
 under any circumstances to interpolate anything of his 
 own. The first night arrived, and Wilson, again calling 
 George aside, reminded him to be strictly legitimate 
 and not to disobey his instructions. It must therefore 
 have been a bitter blow to Wilson, after having 
 raised the audience to a pitch of excitement by the 
 great earthquake effect in that play, when temples 
 fell one upon another, and the stage was a mass of 
 ruins, to hear George enter in the next scene, which 
 was a front one, and reply to one of the characters as 
 
 S.H. P
 
 210 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 to the condition of the ruined city. George, dressed in 
 his toga and sandals, with his patrician's brow sur- 
 mounted by a wreath, said, " Yus, it is orful, ain't it ? 
 But what's worrying me is not so much the condition 
 of the pubhc buildings as what 'as happened to my 
 five white mice ! " This delighted the audience, and 
 remained permanently in the play, as did many other 
 remarks of a like kind. 
 
 Wilson Barrett used to tell an amusing story against 
 himself. At a time when he had a lot of workmen re- 
 decorating his private residence, thinking to give them 
 a treat, he asked them if, after work one evening, they 
 would all like to have seats to come and see him play 
 in " The Lights of London " at the Princess's. They 
 said they didn't mind if they did, and being given com- 
 plimentary tickets, all went to witness on a Saturday 
 night their employer's production. At the end of the 
 week Barrett's eye caught sight, on the pay sheet, of 
 an item against each workman's name, which read : 
 " Saturday night. Four hours' overtime at Princess's 
 Theatre, Ss" 
 
 I used to go to the theatre a great deal while I was 
 at the Gaiety, and on one occasion went up to the 
 St. James's to see Claude Carton's delightful comedy, 
 " Liberty Hall." I arrived at the box-office, and before 
 I could open my mouth the acting-manager and his 
 assistants began falling over each other in their 
 endeavour to please me. " Heavens ! " I thought, " I 
 am a greater success than I fancied! " "What would 
 you like," they inquired — " a box or stalls ? " I 
 thanked them, and said that as I was alone a stall 
 would do splendidly, and this was readily given to me.
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAYIA 211 
 
 I said how much obliged I was, and was walking to 
 my seat when an usher stopped me, saying " 'Ere, 
 they've made a mistake; they thought you were Haddon 
 Chambers, the author. Give me back that ticket — an 
 upper circle will do for you ! " And to the upper circle 
 I gladly went. 
 
 Haddon Chambers and myself, I believe, are supposed 
 to be considerably alike — I hope he won't be offended 
 by my saying so ! Many a time have beautiful women 
 and rich-looking men come up to me with beaming 
 faces and said : " Why, Haddon, fancy meeting you — 
 Oh ! I beg your pardon! " the smile vanished and I 
 had to pay for my own lunch that day. 
 
 Life is full of disappointments of this kind : which 
 reminds me of the wealthy suitor who married a famous 
 opera singer who did not look in the early morning 
 anything like what she looked on the stage at night. 
 The wealthy husband woke, his eyes met his wife's, 
 and, realising the difference for the first time between 
 her face on and off the stage, he said to her, "Oh! 
 For heaven's sake, sing!'' History does not relate 
 whether the lady said " I will," as she had replied in 
 church but a few hours before, or whether her husband 
 was a violent-tempered man who, like that matri- 
 monial enthusiast Mr. Deeming, made a hobby of 
 burying his various wives under the dining-room fire- 
 place ; perhaps she sang and he forgave. Of Deeming 
 it was wittily said that " he married in haste and 
 cemented at leisure." 
 
 My wife and I during the early Gaiety days used 
 sometimes to accept engagements after the performance 
 at smart evening parties, either to sing or play little 
 
 P 2
 
 212 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 duologues. But we soon stopped doing so, for, although 
 we often received a hundred guineas for the evening, 
 the agony of mind that one has to endure, performing 
 in a drawing-room, right on top of Lady This and 
 Something That, all talking at the tops of their 
 voices, is a thing that the Bank of England cannot 
 compensate one for — {canH it!). Everybody was, of 
 course, very kind and considerate, but it was im- 
 possible to do justice to oneself, under these cir- 
 cumstances, however modest one's pretensions. I 
 remember on one summer's night we were playing 
 before H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge at a house in 
 Upper Grosvenor Street. The drawing-room, which 
 was not a very large one, had long windows, all of 
 which were thrown wide open on account of the heat, 
 and consequently the noise of the street traffic made it 
 extremely difficult to make oneself heard, and, added to 
 that, our difficulty in passing each other in the very 
 limited space of about six square feet, surrounded 
 entirely by the whole of Debrett, reduced us to such a 
 state that we never went out professionally again. Our 
 little play proceeded much in this way : — 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Singleton, so you have come home at last ? " 
 Footman at front door (" Lady Snodgrass's carriage 
 blocks the way "). 
 
 " Yes ; do you think I've changed ? " " No, I should 
 
 have " 
 
 Same footman {^^ Now then, come, hurry up, No. lo "), 
 " Known you anywhere, and your mother ? " Oh, 
 
 she has gone, to " 
 
 Same footman ('* Hanover Square carriages set down 
 on the left ").
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 213 
 
 And so on through the entire entertainment. Money 
 bought at that price is not worth the creditors it goes to 
 pay. 
 
 Once, and only once, did we meet with any rudeness 
 in our private professional engagements, and that was 
 from a magnificent person in the shape of an under- 
 under-deputy-assistant groom of the chambers at the 
 Duke of Newcastle's. It was on the occasion of her 
 Grace opening a new ball-room at her London house, 
 when everyone of note in Society was invited. I had 
 had the pleasure of knowing the Duke for quite a long 
 time, and had continually met with the greatest kind- 
 ness and consideration at his hands, and I looked 
 forward to place my humble powers at his disposal. 
 
 On arrival at the front door I walked into the hall, 
 and my friend the magnificent one said : 
 
 " Name, if you please." 
 
 I said I had come there to — er — , I did not quite 
 know how to put it ; this bird of paradise's eye 
 seemed to transfix me. 
 
 " To what ? " asked he, with a look which was a 
 cross between a cold rice pudding and a sleepy crocodile. 
 
 " To — er — appear this evening," I murmured, " for 
 the Duke of Newcastle." 
 
 "Oh! — one of the actors?" he sneered. Oh!!! 
 " The others are in the cloak-room. I'll send for the 
 groom of the chambers." 
 
 The hall was crowded with people going upstairs 
 who stared us out of countenance, as is the wont of a 
 really well-bred crowd, and footmen and servants 
 jostled each other attending to their wants and 
 ushering them up to the first floor. We, with no one
 
 214 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 to show us where to go, found ourselves in a big dining- 
 room among some forty footmen in gorgeous liveries. 
 I remember counting them at the time. They looked 
 us up and down, and after waiting there for some time 
 I again had to say to another imperial personage what 
 my errand was, by this time getting very nervous at 
 the humiliating way these people can treat one if 
 they choose. I was informed that Mr. Somebody 
 would tell Mr. Somebody to tell Mr. Somebody. We 
 waited and waited, and at last, fearing that the hour 
 would pass when we were needed with the other 
 artists upstairs, I went again into the hall, and seeing 
 my first bird of paradise told him that he must have 
 me shown upstairs at once. He rephed it wasn't his 
 business to announce the artists, but that it was the 
 groom of the chambers' duty, and he wasn't to be 
 found. By this time I had lost my temper completely 
 under the peculiarly trying circumstances of standing 
 about with my wife being eyed by a lot of flunkeys ; 
 and going up to my friend I told him in excellent 
 English — the phrasing not being altogether modelled 
 on Chesterfield's letters to his son — that I should 
 remain no longer, and as I was a personal friend 
 of the Duke's I should call next day and report 
 him for his insolence. I was putting on my coat 
 and we were about to leave when the Duke himself 
 came down to inquire if anything had been heard of 
 us. I explained the situation, saying we had been 
 there for half an hour, and that no one would take the 
 trouble to announce us. He was extremely vexed, 
 and, showmg us the way, himself discharged my bird 
 of paradise on the spot, which was an excellent thing
 
 FROM CLAPHAM TO BELGRAVIA 215 
 
 to have done, as he was one of those impertinent 
 ruffians who can make a situation very unpleasant 
 when youth is without that faithful ally, experience. 
 
 With the end of the run of ** The Circus Girl " my 
 agreement with the Gaiety Company was up, and 
 though I had a very flattering offer to remain with 
 them, I accepted an engagement with Mr. George 
 Edwardes under his private contract. 
 
 Before leaving the Gaiety Company's management, 
 however, I signed an agreement to write the next piece 
 for them to follow '* The Circus Girl." This I did in 
 collaboration with Harry Nicholls. It was called " The 
 Runaway Girl." It was very successful, and ran 
 about the same length of time as " The Circus Girl," 
 these three plays between them totalling roughly some 
 sixteen hundred performances. It was in " The Runaway 
 Girl " that I hit upon the idea of the octette which 
 became so famous as " Follow the Man from Cook's." 
 This, of course, was due to the splendid tune to which 
 Lionel Monckton set Adrian Ross's capital lyric. 
 
 I had written a quantity of pieces by now, but I will 
 content myself by making marginal notes of them for 
 personal reference, as I don't suppose these statements 
 of fact recording success and failure are of much 
 interest to any one but myself. The first piece I opened 
 in under Mr. Edwardes' management was ** The Dove- 
 cot," at the Duke of York's Theatre, with a cast which 
 included, as leading lady, Miss Ellis Jeffreys. The play 
 was a comedy taken from the French, and ran for 
 some 150 performances. Miss Jeffreys, who is a perfect 
 delight to act with, made a very great success in it, 
 as did my old friend James Welch, who was inimitable
 
 2i6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 as my father-in-law. He is the only man I have ever 
 played with who has the effect of making me laugh 
 the moment I begin to act a scene with him, and 
 on one or two occasions in " The Dovecot " I laughed 
 so much that I was glad to leave the stage. From 
 the Duke of York's I went to the Court Theatre, 
 this time as leading man, with a tremendous part in 
 " The Court Scandal," that of the young Due de 
 Richeheu. The production was singularly charming, 
 the play was a great success, and after a run at 
 the Court was transferred to the Garrick Theatre. The 
 part of the Little Duke was extraordinarily difficult, 
 demanding, as it did, experience, extreme youth, power, 
 comedy, and grace — in fact, almost all the resources 
 of the actor's art. Dion Boucicault worked hard with 
 and for me, and helped me to scramble through a very 
 difficult task without disgracing the ancestor of the 
 Great Cardinal. There were many excellent perform- 
 ances in this production, but one stands out above them 
 all — that of the old Abbe de la Touche, as played by 
 that finest of old actors, James Beveridge. 
 
 " Dot " Boucicault, who had the good fortune to 
 marry one of my oldest friends, the inimitable " Sophie 
 Fulgarney," is in the first flight of play producers, and 
 is masterly in his detail and power of helping not only 
 the novice, but the most experienced of actors, at 
 rehearsal. It is a great pleasure to work with him, for 
 he is a living example of how unnecessary it is to shout 
 and make a noise in directing artists, and his gentle 
 methods and charming " bedside manner " would make 
 the fortune of the most incompetent Harley Street 
 practitioner that ever lived {if there is such a thing).
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 
 
 My wife continued to play at the Gaiety in " The 
 Runaway Girl," though her yearly contract had long 
 expired ; and it was at the end of about five years of 
 constant appearances at the Gaiety that we decided it 
 would be a wise step for her to say good-bye to that 
 most delightful of theatres, and join forces with me 
 under Charles Frohman's banner, and so create a 
 combination which would perhaps give us a trade-mark 
 of our own. 
 
 Her parting with her comrades there, of whom, one 
 and all, she was so fond, was a great wrench to her ; 
 and among her most affectionately guarded treasures 
 are the presents she received from them on her last 
 performance, including as they did mementoes from 
 the chorus ladies and gentlemen and the staff of the 
 house, as well as the principals, all accompanied by 
 round-robins signed by every one, including even the 
 names of the call-boy and stage-door keeper, wishing 
 her success and happiness in her new departure. 
 
 She received 290 telegrams that night from the public 
 wishing her good luck, and she sent to the hospitals 
 four cabfuls of flowers which had fallen at her feet on 
 that, to her, most memorable evening. 
 
 We opened under Mr. Frohman's management at the 
 Criterion (1899), in an English version of " Ma Bru," the
 
 2i8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 great Odeon success, and called it " My Daughter-in- 
 Law." It was very slight and was a success, a great 
 deal, I think, owing to the fact that the cast it was 
 given was a magnificent one, including as it did such 
 artists as Fanny Brough, Alfred Bishop, Henry Kemble, 
 Vane Tempest, Herbert Standing, C. P. Little, and 
 Cynthia Brooke, all of whom scored heavily, as did 
 my wife in a part that fitted her like a glove. This 
 was the piece that Charles Wyndham produced him- 
 self, and to which I made reference earlier in these 
 Recollections. 
 
 During the run of " My Daughter-in-Law," His 
 Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, having seen the 
 play in Paris, came to the Criterion one evening, and 
 graciously sent for us to his box after the second act. 
 He very kindly said how delighted he was with the 
 splendid company, but began chaffing my wife for 
 having forsaken singing and dancing, and ended his 
 little pleasantries by making his guests and ourselves 
 laugh in saying, " Hicks, can't you go out and get a 
 piano, so that she can sing something in the next act ? 
 If you don't, I really can't stay. The idea of Miss 
 Terriss not singing a song ! I must go, I really must," 
 and he laughed heartily. He was in excellent spirits 
 and the best of tempers that night, and seemed to infect 
 everyone about him with his good humour. What a 
 magnetic personality he had, and how good to our 
 profession ! We would willingly have tried to stand 
 on our heads if it would have given him a moment's 
 pleasure. 
 
 One little incident concerned with His Royal Highness 
 that evening amused the audience as well as those of us
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 219 
 
 who were on the stage. He at times had a habit of 
 talking rather loudly in a theatre, and a burst of laughter 
 dying away somewhat suddenly that night, his voice 
 rang out clearly all over the house, saying, " Charming ! 
 and hasn't she got a fascinating lisp." And I think 
 Miss Terriss lisped more than ever through her scenes, 
 made conscious, shall I say, of her charm or her impedi- 
 ment by the words of the first gentleman in these 
 islands or indeed anywhere else. 
 
 The Boer War was in full swing at this time, and we 
 played at over twenty-four matinees for charities in 
 connection with the sick and wounded. The biggest 
 matinee we organised was one at the Albert Hall 
 (December 6, 1899) for the wives and children of the 
 rank and file at the front. My wife and Mr. C. P. Little 
 were responsible for it, and though it involved the most 
 tremendous work in its organisation it was a brilliant 
 triumph and fully justified the labour expended on it. 
 
 All the stars of note in the theatrical and operatic 
 world gave their services. The massed bands of the 
 British Army, numbering 600 men, played throughout 
 the afternoon ; 100 of the prettiest actresses in London, 
 dressed as hospital nurses, sold programmes ; we 
 spent £400 on the getting up of a souvenir for the 
 occasion, and after 10,000 people had paid for admission 
 we were able to hand over to the military authorities 
 £4,600. We provided every one in the audience with 
 a Union Jack, and I shall never forget seeing that vast 
 audience rise to its feet, when the Prince of Wales and 
 his suite entered his box, and sing " God save the 
 Queen " as they waved our national emblem. The 
 Albert Hall looked like the moving wood in " Macbeth "
 
 220 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 — in colour. It was at the time that things were going 
 very badly with England in South Africa, and not many 
 of that audience stood with undimmed eyes, lifting up 
 their voices as they did, in their hymn, which was an 
 expression of the deepest affection and loyalty to the 
 Throne, a tribute to their dead over the seas, and a 
 challenge to those ruffians whom we were obliged to 
 call Englishmen who were daily belittling the heroism 
 of men thousands of miles from home, and thereby 
 encouraging Mr. Kruger into a belief that we should 
 ultimately sue for peace and withdraw from the 
 Transvaal. 
 
 At the end of the run of " My Daughter-in-Law," 
 Charles Frohman took the entire production and all of 
 us, with the exception of Mr. Bishop and Mr. Tempest, 
 to New York, where we played a most successful season 
 at the old Lyceum Theatre. I remember on our 
 arrival, at the end of the dress rehearsal in New York, 
 Charles Frohman asking me to say to the ladies and 
 gentlemen of the company that, if the play did not 
 draw a penny in America, the pleasure he had had in 
 seeing it that evening was enough to him for any loss 
 he might sustain. And this he truly meant. 
 
 He, from those days till now, has been our closest 
 friend — and no two people ever had a better. As a 
 manager he is a prince ; gentle, kind and considerate, 
 he docs more to encourage and less to hurt the feelings 
 of those who work for him than any one I have ever met 
 in a similar position. No man ever produced plays with 
 so little thought of the financial side of their success as 
 he does. Generous to a fault, and helpful to a degree, 
 had we failed for him instead of succeeding, he would
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 221 
 
 have been the same Charles Frohman to-day — big- 
 hearted, broad-minded, and without a small idea in his 
 composition — as he was the morning we arranged to 
 take a financial interest in the running of a theatre for 
 the first time in our lives as well as a salary. It was 
 with feelings of delight that we received a wire from 
 him saying that he had concluded an agreement with 
 the Messrs. Gatti, by which we were to be under his 
 joint direction with them at the Vaudeville Theatre for 
 five years. The Gattis were my wife's oldest friends, 
 her father having been linked with them and their 
 Adelphi successes for many a day ; and although Mr. 
 Agostino Gatti's lamented death had occurred some 
 two years previously, the firm consisted of that dearest 
 and kindest of old gentlemen, Mr. Stephano Gatti, and 
 his two nephews, John and Rocco Gatti, from whom 
 for five years we received nothing but the most extra- 
 ordinary kindness. 
 
 I had always worked very hard, but with our opening 
 of the Vaudeville ten years ago began labour of the 
 most strenuous kind, from which I have not been 
 free till very lately. My day started at nine o'clock, 
 when I generally worked at any piece I was busy on 
 for two or three hours, and then went down to the 
 theatre. If there was not a matinee, I either returned 
 home after lunch to work, or went back to the theatre 
 to interview people and do the hundred-and-one things 
 that are always calling for attention. These finished 
 with, I came back home to bed for a couple of hours, 
 dined at six, went to the theatre at 7.30 to play, and 
 returned home, having supper at 11.45, and going to 
 bed at i o'clock. This was my day year in and year
 
 222 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 out. We seldom went to supper parties, and, indeed, 
 have never gone out much to entertainments of this 
 kind. They are extremely hard work, and one does 
 not receive a salary for keeping up an intelligent 
 interest in a hostess's unintelligent platitudes, or for 
 straining the larger muscles of one's jaw by turning on 
 a mechanical grin at a neighbour's stories, which more 
 often than not possess whiskers which a safety razor 
 could make no impression on, or, what is worse, are 
 perhaps some vile concoction of one's own, being 
 repeated to you, the fair one at your side saying : " Isn't 
 this good ? I heard it at — I forget where — the other 
 evening ; but some one said it — I forget who. Isn't it 
 good ? " Then follows some original repartee of one's 
 own, that was collected either from Tit-Bits or a pro- 
 vincial pantomime. Later, of course, comes the 
 inevitable, " I did think you were good in that piece 
 you played in with Mr. Tree " — or some one else that 
 you have never appeared with. And when you correct 
 them, if you have the energy, they invariably say, *' Oh ! 
 no, of course not." "Hicks? Oh, yes! he was the 
 man who painted the scenery " — referring to the artists 
 of the same name, descendants of that great Transpon- 
 tine actor, N. T. Hicks, who was in bygone times the 
 melodramatic idol of the old Surrey Theatre. It was 
 he who was a match for twenty men in any play, slaying 
 them as ruthlessly as does Mr. Lewis Waller to-day. 
 " Bravo Hicks," which, I believe, was the name he went 
 by, never made an entrance in a scene without pistols 
 being fired off the stage, and other alarums and excur- 
 sions happening. As a tribute to his great popularity 
 " over the water," the following lines were written of
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 223 
 
 him in Punch on the occasion of one of the members of 
 the staff of that journal visiting the old Surrey: — 
 
 " We paid, we entered, and with a mighty roar 
 The shout of ' Bravo ! Hicks ! ' came through the open door." 
 
 This couplet was sent to me some little while back 
 by that most delightful of old gentlemen and most 
 charming of writers, Mr. Ashby Sterry — known to his 
 London as the Bard of the Thames — and who was 
 waggish enough, on looking at a bright red poster of 
 myself outside the Coliseum, to say it was the only 
 time any one had ever seen me blush, and that after 
 having seen me play Scrooge, he felt that I was a man 
 in vermilion. 
 
 In saying that one dislikes going out to parties of all 
 kinds, I mean, of course, those courtesy parties at 
 which, in being bored oneself, one succeeds in boring 
 strangers most successfully, and where one is plied with 
 questions about the theatre by some Miss at your elbow 
 throughout the entire meal. I forget the name of the 
 Royal Academician who took one of this kind of young 
 ladies into dinner after a very hard day's work, and was 
 nearly driven silly by her continual questions as to his 
 opinion of various works of art. But I do remember 
 what he did, maddened by her persistence. He turned 
 round in his chair and, looking at her with a gleam of 
 agony in his eyes, said, in front of every one, " Oh ! 
 For heaven's sake go on with your food." 
 
 Evenings with one's fellow actors, artists, and all 
 those who are in real sympathy with one's success or 
 failure, cannot be too many. It is only, I think, after 
 the night's work, and when he is in congenial company,
 
 224 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 that an actor really lives. It is the strained nights, not 
 work, that cause the ingenue to rush to the hare's-foot 
 in the daytime, earlier than she would have to if she were 
 only a society beauty getting sunburnt from habit out 
 of the top drawer, and cause the young actor to go 
 prematurely bald from the dress circle upwards. 
 
 Holidays during the last ten years are things which I 
 have hardly ever been able to indulge in, except in a 
 very scrambled way. My recreations have had to be 
 taken in London in the shape of boxing and fencing 
 each afternoon ; and when I have left town it has been 
 to fish or shoot, the appointments being generally made a 
 long way ahead. The luxury of living on a golf green, 
 where most of the younger actors of to-day seem to be 
 learning the rudiments of their profession, has up to 
 now been denied me. Doubtless later I shall have 
 time to discover what they appear to know ; that all 
 play and no work makes Jack a good actor. 
 
 Managing, writing, and acting I find leave very 
 little time for anything but a desire for rest. One is 
 called a hustler, asked how one has time to get through 
 the amount of work, does one ever sleep, and other 
 stupid questions. I can answer the good-natured 
 sneerer. If, instead of rising at eleven, you rise at nine ; 
 if, instead of wasting two hours after lunch, you waste 
 half-an-hour ; if, instead of being out to golf every 
 afternoon, or playing cards from four till six every day, 
 you either do an hour's work or sleep, you will find that 
 with very little management you have put in five hours 
 more work a day than your rival, with no trouble or 
 hardship to yourself. If you are writing a piece and 
 take as an average that the length of an act is
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 225 
 
 thirty-eight pages of dialogue, and that you write five 
 pages a day five days a week, working two hours a day, 
 then giving the same time for the constructive work, 
 a month ought to see an act well finished, all this 
 having been done between the hours of nine and eleven 
 in the morning, when your friends, who wonder where 
 you get time to do things, are snoring. 
 
 I have always been conscious of the fact that as a rule 
 a man succeeds not through any particular cleverness on 
 his own part, but owing to the remarkable stupidity of 
 the others about him. I remember a well-known horse- 
 dealer first brought this to my notice, when he was 
 teaching me to drive tandem. He said to me once on 
 parting, as a maxim to be remembered, " Mr. 'Icks, 
 always remember this — it ain't a question of how well 
 you drive — it's a question of how badly the other mugs 
 do ! " which was sound advice. 
 
 And talking of sound advice reminds me of old Bat 
 Mullins, the pugilist, answering a question I put to him 
 in a way that has often stood in good stead me and 
 many a friend to whom I have given it. One morning, 
 while I was putting on my things after a more than 
 heavy knocking about from a youthful Sayers, whom 
 I afterwards discovered to be the runner up for the 
 Amateur Middleweight Championship, I said to old 
 Bat, who was explaining what I had done wrong and 
 what tactics I ought to have adopted, " Bat, tell 
 me, what do you do in a street row, if you knock a man 
 down?" "Well," said Bat, scratching his head, 
 " stand over him — 'ave a look at him — and, if he gets 
 up, run like a hare — you've met a good 'un ! " 
 
 The five years we spent at the Vaudeville were five 
 S.H. Q
 
 226 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 years crowded with success. We produced play after 
 play that hit the public taste, presenting only one piece 
 that did not catch on, this being a somewhat old- 
 fashioned French farce that we commenced operations 
 with, of the " in-and-out-of-doors-restaurant-type," that 
 flourished in the late eighties, called "Self and Lady," 
 but with this exception everything was phenomenally 
 successful. The play of " Peril " had been revived at the 
 Garrick Theatre, and the notice for the termination of its 
 not too lengthy run went up on the same evening ours 
 did at the Vaudeville. Some one said we ought both 
 to hold a prayer meeting, concluding with the hymn, 
 
 " For those in ' Peril ' at the G." 
 
 I had now taken over the entire management of the 
 theatre behind the curtain, producing all the plays and 
 dealing with the business of engaging the artists and 
 ordering all the costumes, etc., etc., and scheming out 
 large productions on the tiny stage, having on it some- 
 times as many as seventy people. I had no leisure 
 whatever to myself. In fact, one day I was asked at 
 lunch if I ever had time to think. Sir Arthur Pinero, 
 who was present, looked up and said, " Good Heavens ! 
 I hope not." 
 
 For many a day I had longed to see my wife as Alice in 
 " Alice in Wonderland," and as Christmas (igoo) was at 
 hand and no play was ready to follow " Self and Lady," 
 the management fell in with my suggestion of pro- 
 ducing Walter Slaughter and Savile Clarke's delightful 
 adaptation of Lewis Carroll's immortal work. It proved 
 a big hit. I played the Mad Hatter, and got quite good 
 notices, the Press not grudging me praise as a madman,
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 227 
 
 though they, wisely no doubt, always withhold it from 
 my impersonations of sanity. 
 
 It was the first of the series of children's plays that 
 we did at the Vaudeville, and had we not produced it, 
 probably "Bluebell" and other pieces of that kind 
 would not have been in our repertoire. Productions 
 with a large number of children in them are a great 
 delight, but at the same time they are a great anxiety 
 to the producer, "as girls will be boys," and if the 
 official eye is off the youthful actor for any length of 
 time, the penny water squirt or the merry-darning 
 needle — both most useful aids to budding humorists — 
 enter the theatre, find their way on to the stage in an 
 opening chorus, and cause a gentle confusion which 
 may often ruin a performance. 
 
 I was always glued to the prompt corner of the 
 Vaudeville every night that we played a musical piece, 
 and I think I may say that it was owing to my presence 
 there and keeping things continually up to concert 
 pitch that the smartness and snap of the performances 
 were largely due ; but the work of doing this and play- 
 ing long parts as well became a very great strain, and 
 one which I could not have continued for a much longer 
 period than the five jears I did. No one who has 
 never managed musical comedies personally — and more 
 especially in a tiny theatre where one had no office and 
 only a dressing-room in which one could not have 
 swung a cat — though why any one wants to swing a cat, 
 unless, of course, the cat is on really friendly terms 
 with you and desires that pastime, I cannot understand 
 — can realise what the work means. 
 
 The day, and the night especially, are taken up 
 
 g 2
 
 228 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 with one long string of questions fired at you, and 
 budgets of worrying news brought by incompetent 
 underHngs who hke seeing what effect it will have on a 
 hard-worked man. " Miss So-and-So won't wear this 
 coloured dress." " Miss Somebody Else has not arrived 
 and was seen at Brighton, so is sure not to be here." 
 " And her understudy is ill." *' Miss Longsock's 
 petticoats don't match her dancing skirts — what's to be 
 done ? " "Miss Somebody Else can't appear in such a 
 scene, because her false hair is missing." "There are 
 fifteen deputies in the orchestra to-night, not one of 
 whom has ever seen the music before." " Mr. So-and- 
 So took the band parts of his number to a charity 
 performance to-day and left them in a cab." " What 
 shall we do ? " and so on, and so on. So much was I 
 bothered at times by inconsiderate friends that my 
 servant, the faithful Mr. Belsey, known to half London 
 as Richard, had a placard painted and hung over my 
 dressing-room table with the following line inscribed 
 upon it : " Unless you have* good news, please keep it 
 till after the performance," as it became a little trying 
 at times to have to go on and try to amuse large 
 audiences with a vulture at each wing waiting for me 
 to come off and pour into my ear some tale of woe. 
 Oh ! dear, how worry plucks on worry in musical work. 
 You go into a restaurant and see the beautiful ladies 
 known as your show girls, ^y^eoxing their stage shoes and 
 stockings — the latter article of wearing apparel being 
 noticeable only, of course, if they cross their legs some- 
 what indiscreetly. Then you are informed that all the 
 long kid gloves provided for stage use are enjoying them- 
 selves every evening handling conpe-jacgues and other
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 229 
 
 dainties in the various supper rooms of smart hotels, so 
 that when they are brought back to the theatre on the 
 following night it is not surprising how tired they look 
 after a careless introduction to a peche Melha or an 
 impromptu christening from a wayward glass of Creine 
 de Menthe. As our glove bill very often came to £2)'^ 
 a week, all these things were a great bother to 
 those who had to explain to the accountants the 
 reason for extraordinary expenditure. But the show 
 ladies themselves, if they worked hard off the stage, 
 used to work splendidly for me on it, and in all the 
 ten years I dealt with them I never remember one 
 who was ever anything but perfectly charming, or who 
 failed to work well and hard first night, last night, and 
 every night. 
 
 Most theatres have fines for misbehaviour. It is true 
 we had them also, but such money was always returned. 
 I went on the principle of making the girls come to ask 
 for permission to be away if they wanted a night off, 
 and I found it answered a great deal better than having 
 doctors' certificates excusing them, for I discovered 
 they nearly all had some medical friend who felt it his 
 duty to say that Miss Smith was suffering from nervous 
 exhaustion and overwork, and that she must have a 
 nighfs complete rest — this complete rest being generally 
 taken in the stalls of another theatre, after a very good 
 dinner at the Carlton. I also had reason to know that 
 on more occasions than one the youthful guardsman 
 took a medical degree without walking his hospital, all 
 in the interest of the " nervous breakdown," which, by 
 the way, is the only dance I ever saw a show girl do 
 absolutely to perfection.
 
 230 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 I remember a young lady who absented herself one 
 evening without permission, and on her arrival at the 
 theatre, I sent for her and asked what she meant by it, 
 and what had been the matter with her. " Oh ! " she 
 said, with a face as beautiful and bland as an angel's, 
 " I am very sorry, Mr. Hicks, but I had typhoid 
 fever ! " On my telling her she had been seen in a box 
 at the Opera, she as quick as thought said, " Yes, 
 Mr. Hicks, I know — that's where I got it ! " Well, on 
 occasions such as this, one could only laugh and ask 
 the lady not to do it again ! 
 
 One amusing adventure I had with one of my fairest and 
 most delightfully inconsequent friends was when she sent 
 a message to the theatre at about 7.15 to say she was too 
 ill to go on that night. As this was becoming a habit 
 with her, and as the other girls were beginning to think 
 they too could stay off whenever they desired, I 
 determined, as I had time, to jump into a cab myself, 
 drive to her flat, and find out if she really was ill. 
 One of her friends, hearing I had gone, telephoned 
 (I found out afterwards) and told her I was on my way 
 to visit her. I arrived, and inquired of the maid how 
 Miss Jones w^as ? "Oh, very ill indeed, sir," said the 
 maid. " Caught cold at Princes, I think, sir." I 
 inquired if I could see her, and after a few moments 
 I was asked, as poor Dan Leno used to say, *' to step 
 this way." 
 
 I found myself in lovely Miss Jones's beautiful 
 bedroom — she lying carelessly posed between sheets 
 with lace insertion, looking the picture of misery. Her 
 story was pathetic to a degree, but in the middle of her 
 tale of woe I burst out laughing. When the telephone
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 231 
 
 message from her friend had arrived, warning her of my 
 journey, she was in the middle of dressing for dinner, 
 so with all haste had taken off her wonderful clothes 
 and jumped into bed so as to catch me out instead of 
 my catching her. In her hurry, however, she had quite 
 forgotten that in her hair, which was most elaborately 
 done, she had a large diamond ornament. 
 
 When she asked me what I was laughing at, I 
 answered : '' Because I was wondering if you generally 
 go to bed in a tiara ? " Not in the least taken aback, 
 she replied : " No, not so often, but I always make a 
 point of having my bath in one ! " I laughed, and 
 she laughed, and that night a disconsolate swain had 
 to eat a dinner for two by himself, and Miss Jones 
 played at the Vaudeville — giving, if I remember, a 
 performance worthy of a Siddons at her best. 
 
 The term Show Girl has always seemed to me to be 
 quite a wrong description of a set of ladies who work 
 extremely hard in a properly conducted theatre, and 
 who are a very great attraction in the lighter forms of 
 entertainment. I use the word because the public 
 knows them by that description ; I don't like it, and 
 I know the girls don't. The ladies who were with me 
 ^yere not only beautiful women, but 90 per cent, of 
 them were clever at playing small parts — admirable in 
 picking up extremely difficult stage business, and many 
 of them excellent dancers. They were all very hard- 
 working, and by no means led the butterfly lives which 
 are generally supposed to be inseparable from their 
 form of work, and it is a gratifying thing to any manager 
 to think that out of over thirty of them who married 
 more than ordinarily well, many winning titled husbands
 
 232 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 for themselves, and others getting brains as well as 
 position, not one instance is there of their married lives 
 having turned out anything but most happy and 
 successful. 
 
 To me, my Gibson Girls, my Bath Buns, my Butter- 
 flies and Heatherbelles, were of the greatest possible 
 help, and it is a pleasure in thanking them to feel that 
 they are friends whom I often think of gratefully, and 
 who live in my affectionate remembrance. I hope and 
 think that I was not unpopular with them, although I 
 know at times I was a very hard taskmaster. 
 
 During the run of "Alice" I wrote a drama called 
 " Auld Lang Syne" for the Lyceum Theatre. Dear 
 Lily Hanbury played the heroine in the play — one of 
 the most beautiful women the stage has ever known, 
 and one of our dearest friends. No better or sweeter 
 creature ever breathed, and her death, which occurred 
 at so early an age, was, and is, a bitter blow to all who 
 knew and loved her, and especially to me. 
 
 The first two acts of "Auld Lang Syne," which I 
 christened " Old Laing's Neck," because that is where 
 I received the blow, were a great success, dealing, as 
 they did, most realistically, with the Boer War. The 
 last two acts, laid in England, failed dismally. On the 
 first night I went round, after playing in " Alice," to the 
 Lyceum, to see what was going on, and found that a 
 rot had set in, and that the piece was failing badly. 
 The curtain fell, and the house booed and booed, and 
 called " Author ! Author ! " I had stepped on many a 
 time to take an audience's applause, and I therefore, 
 when asked to, immediately stepped in front of the 
 curtain to hear an adverse majority hoot to their
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 233 
 
 hearts' content — I never heard such a yell — as I 
 appeared. 
 
 The theatre seemed full of wild beasts, and I might 
 have been those two notorious murderers, Neil Cream 
 and Chapman, rolled into one, instead of a poor devil 
 who had, after six months' v^'ork, written a failure. 
 The din was so tremendous, and my offence so out of 
 perspective with the noise, that I could not help 
 laughing as I heard what seemed to me Hades let loose- 
 
 My smile, I think, saved the situation ; and the house, 
 which had forgotten it had a sense of humour, remem- 
 bered, and took pity on the solitary figure of the poor 
 author. When the noise was at its height, I pantomimed 
 to them that I was very sorry, and the audience, 
 appreciating the fact, I suppose, that I took my medicine 
 good-naturedly, laughed at my endeavours to show how 
 penitent I was, and, being accustomed to see me do my 
 best to amuse them in musical comedy, forgave me on 
 the instant, and cheered vigorously, turning what at 
 one moment looked like a mob crying for the head of 
 Charlotte Corday into a Bank Holiday crowd out for 
 a happy day. 
 
 I have always made it a practice to hiss myself at 
 the last rehearsal of a play, so as, at any rate, to have 
 the satisfaction of having done it first. If that little 
 band of stupid and heartless people who make a point 
 of coming to boo at so many first nights, and especially 
 at mine, would only realise that I know myself to be 
 a very much poorer actor than they think I am, and 
 that their strange noises convey nothing of novelty to 
 me, they perhaps would stay away from the plays I 
 appear in altogether.
 
 234 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 " Auld Lang Syne " was one of those real failures. 
 For myself I cared little. For the artists and the 
 management I was truly sorry. It was such a failure 
 as was a drama called " The Spy," produced in New 
 York many years ago. That piece absolutely fell flat, 
 and on the second night the house was very nearly 
 empty. One of the supposed big situations of the play 
 was where the villain, standing on a bridge — the 
 hero just having escaped from his clutches — offered 
 the assembled mob money for his recapture. " Twenty- 
 five dollars," he shouted, " I'll give twenty-five — fifty 
 dollars for the ' Spy ' ! " The manager of the theatre 
 happened to be in the prompt corner, and when he 
 heard this bid, being a bit of a sportsman, he stepped 
 on to the stage and said, " Fifty dollars for the ' Spy ' ? 
 Why, you can have the manuscript and the band parts 
 for the money." It is not related v/hether the scanty 
 audience saw the humour of the situation as did the 
 country cousins who had bought seats to see the 
 musical play " Kitty Grey "' at the Apollo Theatre 
 and walked in by mistake next door to the Lyric, where 
 Forbes Robertson was playing " Hamlet." They sat 
 there a whole act before they realised they were in the 
 wrong house. They probably took Ophelia for Kitty 
 Grey. Who they thought Forbes Robertson was — 
 except that he happens to be the best English-speaking 
 Hamlet in the world — I don't know ! I saw him play 
 the Prince of Denmark seven times. I went three 
 times in one week, and paid on all occasions, which 
 I think must be a record in Hamlet seeing. 
 
 Was there ever such an understandable Hamlet as 
 Robertson's ! Ever one more free from meaningless
 
 THE VAUDEVILLE 235 
 
 theatrical declamation and mechanical effect than this 
 lovely actor's conception of the melancholy Dane. 
 From the moment he stepped on to the stage he held 
 one riveted. One watched — what so few actors are — 
 a prince, and a dignified sorrowing gentleman, not, as- 
 is the rule, a performer, trying to embroider stage 
 tradition, and, in his endeavours to elaborate French's 
 book of acting, giving us a Dane from the suburbs of 
 Elsinore, who is only at large owing to the fact that 
 asylums were not at this period a national institution.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS 
 
 It was during the last rehearsal of " Auld Lang 
 Syne " that, after having been without food all day, 
 some one handed me a cup of hot coffee, and a little 
 later, drinking without thought an iced beverage, I 
 contracted a chill that set up an illness which very 
 nearly terminated fatally. I think that is the stereo- 
 typed way of saying that one almost died. 
 
 I had been acting continuously, playing twelve per- 
 formances a week, and I suppose I must have been as 
 run down as any man can be, except when his best 
 friends give expression to their opinions of him behind 
 his back : for two nights afterwards, in the middle of 
 the Mad Hatter's dance with his group of animals, I 
 fell down on the stage in such pain that I was unable to 
 rise, and I had to crawl off to the wings as best I could. 
 That night I was taken to my house in a high fever, 
 and the next thing I knew was that I was in a nursing 
 home, there to be operated on for internal trouble which 
 turned out to be a very bad attack of appendicitis with 
 complications. 
 
 Have you ever had an operation performed on you ? 
 Have you ever, in a weak state, spent a sleepless 
 night, waiting for the dawn and hearing the quarters 
 strike from the neighbouring church clock, and wonder- 
 ing if the next night will find you still in the same
 
 ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS 237 
 
 room, but with ears that no longer take count of clocks, 
 or men, or anything ? I hope you haven't, and that 
 you never will. I listened to two road men, washing 
 the streets with their hose pipes, singing " Bluebells I 
 gather." I may mention that they were telling untruths 
 about their behaviour to these particular flowers, and 
 I shall be believed when I mention that it was a bitter 
 January morning in the precincts of Cavendish Square ; 
 but they seemed happy and full of life, and I would 
 willingly have changed places with them. The thought 
 of their liberty and my captivity grew so on me, that 
 I would have made my way out of what I felt was a 
 condemned cell, if an observant and kindly friend had 
 not taken away my trousers and boots, and so made 
 retreat impossible. I thought morning would never 
 come, and I whiled the time away whenever I could fix 
 my attention on anything but the thoughts of the coming 
 hour of nine by reading the " Christmas Carol." It is 
 about the last thing I would recommend to a patient 
 in a highly nervous condition to console himself with 
 at dead of night, but the dramatic possibilities seemed 
 so apparent that I made up my mind if ever I played 
 again to play Scrooge, and that night I sketched out 
 the sequence of the scenes, and later gave them to my 
 old friend J. C. Buckstone, who made the admirable 
 version I have acted in so many times. 
 
 Nine o'clock at last struck. In an instant my 
 bedroom seemed to me suddenly to become like 
 the opening chorus of a hospital musical comedy. 
 Five nurses entered, all very busy with bright 
 canisters in which were sterilised instruments. Some 
 had quantities of towels, another had put a screen at
 
 238 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the end of my bed which enabled me, as most screens 
 do, to see nothing I wanted to, and all that I ought not 
 to have. . . . 
 
 I had elected to have the room prepared for the 
 deadly work in my presence, rather than be taken out 
 of it and carried back again. Stretchers are to me 
 only one remove from the last coach ride. When as it 
 seemed to me half London had been busying them- 
 selves on my account, I heard the cheery tones of one 
 of my oldest and best friends in the world, Sir Alfred 
 Fripp, on the staircase. The heart failure that any 
 other surgeon's voice would have produced on this 
 wintry morning gave place to a feeling of the most 
 absolute confidence in the presence of this great 
 operator and his personality, which carries with it a 
 feeling to his patient's mind that nothing can go 
 wrong as long as he is about. The hangman had 
 arrived — a gentleman standing with a black cap in 
 his hand, which smelled horribly of a concoction which 
 I learned afterwards was called A. C. E., A. being for 
 alcohol, C. for chloroform, and E. for ether — the first 
 lettered ingredient of the three being the only one I 
 was really on intimate terms with — invited me to mount 
 the operating table. With a heart which by now had 
 sunk into the hot water bottles at my feet, I turned to 
 see my friend Alfred Fripp dressed in mackintoshes. 
 I didn't feel we were going to have much rain, but I 
 suppose he thought so, and I did not want to make too 
 many inquiries as to the why or wherefore of anything 
 that morning. 
 
 As I stepped up on to the table I remember saying, 
 " Ah, well, at last I am forsaking the stage for the
 
 ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS 239 
 
 platform." No one smiled, and my last little joke 
 disappeared down the anaesthetist's tube and got a 
 slight giggle from the surgical instruments in a nickel 
 box — at least they rattled, and I made up my mind 
 the)' appreciated real humour if the humans about me 
 did not. I remember little more. 
 
 The very kindly gentleman invited me to put my 
 head in his indiarubber bucket and try to see if I could 
 count more than any one else could with a bag over my 
 nose. Of course I knew that he had some other design 
 on me, and had I w^orn a watch with my pyjamas my 
 hand would instinctively have gone to protect it. " Take 
 deep breaths," he said, and I did. I even opened my 
 heart to the anaesthetic in my endeavour to give as 
 little bother as possible — Zuzzz I heard — and in the 
 street a boy passed singing a classic melody called 
 " When Grandpa put the kittens in his hat." It was 
 a nice last musical remembrance to take away with me 
 from my world, and I was wondering why I had not 
 had the luck to have heard " The Henry the Eighth 
 Dances " instead — when there came a bang, bang, 
 bang — eight, nine, ten — bang ! bang ! ! bang ! ! ! My 
 spirit had fled. Whether it had a night out on its 
 own account during its absence I don't know ; it has 
 always been peculiarly silent on the point. 
 
 I regained consciousness at four in the afternoon in 
 the arms of the fattest nurse I have ever seen outside 
 the walls of a dime museum, who was whispering in 
 my ear that " it was all right," when I knew much 
 better than she did that it wasn't. I had never come 
 into contact with hospital nurses till this time, and no 
 words of mine can sufficiently express my admiration
 
 240 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 for them both individually and as a class. Since getting 
 to know them so well, I have always made it a rule that 
 any nurses in uniform may pass free into any theatre 
 in which I am acting, should they care to do so. Their 
 life is an extremely hard one. They are obliged to 
 show a cheerful face at all times, and to hide their 
 personal troubles so that their patients may be kept 
 bright. They are unfailingly good-tempered to the 
 crotchety old gentleman and the peevish society beaut)', 
 and people who see them in the streets, perhaps at 
 9 or 10 in the morning, little realise that these tired- 
 looking ladies are the night watchers who have been 
 working for twelve hours, and who are going home to 
 sleep all day so as to be ready for the next evening, and 
 that the breath of air they are taking is nearly all they 
 can get from those hours which are given to the rest of the 
 world to live in. Too much respect I do not think can 
 be shown to these women who stand guard at one's 
 bedside and place their backs to the door when the 
 wings of that Angel which men call Death may be 
 heard fluttering in the corridor and asking for 
 admittance. 
 
 I happily was up and out and dancing again on the 
 stage five weeks from the day I had heard the road men 
 gathering bluebells, thanks to the care of these kindly 
 ladies, and the skill of a great man who is justly loved 
 by my profession for the innumerable kind actions he 
 has done to the most humble of its members, as well as 
 those who are more fortunately situated. 
 
 During my stay in the private hospital I was con- 
 stantly being introduced to new nurses, who, after the 
 first minute or two's conversation, nearly always said,
 
 ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS 241 
 
 " Oh, Mr, Hicks, I saw your operation, and what a 
 beautiful wound Sir Alfred made." This used to 
 embarrass me at first, but I got at last resigned to 
 the fact that most of the female population of London 
 had been present at my carving and gilding, and if I 
 meet anyone now who doesn't make some remark 
 about my anatomy, I feel she had not got sixpence 
 to spare for admittance to my lying-in-state, or that 
 she unfortunately had gone out of town that day. 
 
 When the run of " Alice " finished, the next piece we 
 produced was a delightful domestic comedy by Basil 
 Hood, which he called " Sweet and Twenty." It 
 was splendidly cast, and ran right through the year, 
 taking us up to the following Christmas (1901), when 
 we produced a fairy dream play by myself, with music 
 by Walter Slaughter, called " Bluebell in Fairyland." 
 The dresses were designed by the incomparable 
 Wilhelm, to whom we are indebted for the most lovely 
 work in the majority of our productions. This piece, 
 which gave my wife every possible opportunity for 
 displaying her gifts of gentleness, charming comedy 
 and pathos, ran right into the summer, and we played 
 it continually for two performances daily, week in and 
 week out, which was a great strain. In fact, so little 
 of the daylight did we ever see, that we were grateful 
 for a mouthful of fog, and when we left the theatre after 
 the matinees we used to stand in the little alley-way 
 where the stage door opens (one of the most uninviting 
 spots in Great Britain), and, with an air of gratitude, 
 take a deep breath of solid London, saying, " Ah ! 
 Bexhill-on-Sea ! " 
 
 I well remember seeing a family party who were 
 s.H. "R
 
 242 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 unable to get into the gallery one afternoon, in this 
 alley — a father and mother and four crying children. 
 The youngsters were evidently greatly disappointed, and 
 I laughed a good deal when I heard the woman say to 
 a howling boy in a sailor suit, with the words H.M.S. 
 Dauntless on his cap, " 'Arry, be quiet — we can't get 
 into this 'ere ' Bluebell,' but we're going to take you to 
 the British Museum — it's much better." 
 
 I may mention that as members of the Vaudeville 
 Theatre Company during our engagement there, we had 
 such splendid artists as Marion Terry, James Beveridge, 
 Rosina Filippi, Fanny Brough, Mary Rorke, Herbert 
 Standing, Sidney Fairbrother, Holbrook Blinn, 
 Murray King, Lawrence Caird, Cheeseman, Fred 
 Gurney, Henrietta Watson, C. M. Lowne, Shelton, 
 Vibart, Vane Tempest, Stanley Brett, Zena Dare, 
 Phyllis Dare, Katie Davis, Male Ash, Sidney Harcourt, 
 William Lugg, Maudi Darrell, Topsy Sinden, Hayden 
 Coffin, the beautiful Ethel Mathews, Olive Morrell and 
 Elizabeth Firth, George Barrett, Florence Wood, Emily 
 Miller, Coralie Blythe, Margaret Eraser, young Valchera, 
 (who made such a success in " The Catch of the 
 Season "), Florrie Lloyd (who was with us so many 
 years, and made a success of every part she touched), 
 Irene Rooke, J. C. Buckstone, E. W. Royce, Cairns 
 James, the immortal Fielder (that greatest of characters 
 and best tempered of officials), Compton Coutts, and 
 a host of other ladies and gentlemen too numerous to 
 mention. Many of the above played with us after we 
 had left the Vaudeville Theatre ; Percy Anderson 
 helped us with his beautiful work in many plays, his 
 most charming dresses being those in " Quality Street,"
 
 ALTERATIONS AND REPAIRS 243 
 
 I think, and " The Dashing Little Duke," which we 
 produced only recently at the Hicks Theatre. 
 
 During the run of " Sweet and Twenty " I produced, 
 with great success, the version of " Christmas Carol " 
 which I had thought of during my night of terror, 
 and as far as I can see, I shall go on playing it, if I 
 live, till I really am as old as the Scrooge I represent. 
 
 R 2
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 BY COMMAND 
 
 When " Sweet and Twenty " had been running some 
 hundred and fifty nights, a command came from His 
 Majesty the King to my wife to proceed to Sandring- 
 ham and play her original part in " Papa's Wife " there, 
 and also a desire that I should appear as Scrooge. 
 
 His Majesty, who had been in mourning for Queen 
 Victoria for a year, had not been to a theatre during 
 that time, and we had the great honour of giving the 
 first performance before him of his reign. The occasion 
 was Princess Maud's birthday (Nov. 26, 1901), and Dan 
 Leno was also commanded to appear with us. The 
 Vaudeville was, of course, closed for the night, and the 
 whole company left London by special train at twelve 
 noon. The undertaking was a very heavy one in a small 
 way, insomuch as it takes some sixty people to work 
 " Scrooge," which has a very elaborate lime plot for 
 a forty-five-minute play. There is also music through- 
 out and seven visions, besides mechanical effects, so it 
 is about as difficult a thing as is possible to transplant 
 at a few hours' notice. 
 
 On arrival at Sandringham the work of the carpenters 
 whom I had sent on to build the stage' was well 
 advanced, the new scenery was being fitted together, 
 and everything was well in hand for the rehearsal we 
 were obliged to have, so that every one concerned
 
 BY COMMAND 245 
 
 could get accustomed to the more limited space at our 
 disposal. 
 
 Towards five o'clock I was shouting out to the men 
 to hurry up, and doing my best to do what in the 
 theatrical profession is known as " snowing brown 
 when you can't snow white," when a limelight man 
 let one of his lamps slip and fall from a height, break- 
 ing it to bits. As we had only a limited number of 
 these contrivances with us, this was serious, and I'm 
 afraid I lost my temper (after the manner of the great 
 Macready) and called him an ass, with an Anglo-Saxon 
 adjective prefixed. 
 
 Things became confused a little, as they always do 
 when men have been working for many hours on end, 
 and I, being over-anxious, was getting more irritable 
 every moment, when a voice at my elbow said, " You 
 seem to be enjoying yourself, Mr. Hicks." I turned 
 round, and it was the King. He had just returned 
 from shooting, and before changing his clothes had 
 come into the big ballroom unobserved to watch the 
 way the scenery was being set up. I apologised pro- 
 foundly for using language in the royal presence, as I 
 found he had been standing at the back for some 
 twenty minutes prior to his passing any remark. 
 But His Majesty only laughed, and said it did not 
 matter at all, and " that sometimes a little encourage- 
 ment of that kind kept everything happy." 
 
 The King stayed quite a long time, and I explained 
 to him all the various parts of the stage which we were 
 fitting together. He laughed very much at some of our 
 makeshifts ; for instance, what amused him most was the 
 fact that the band of thirty we had brought down were
 
 246 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 obliged to play in a drawing-room behind the stage, 
 as there was no room for an orchestra in front, and 
 that the only way the conductor could manage to pick 
 up the music cues in the play was by lying on his face 
 in the stage iire-place and giving the orchestra behind 
 him the beat with his foot. This Walter Slaughter did 
 throughout " Scrooge," and, not being a light weight, 
 poor Slaughter on his stomach for an hour with his 
 face in the fender, looking anxiously at me for cues, 
 was a comic sight. 
 
 I had had the honour of meeting His Majesty on 
 many occasions, and not one of his most humble 
 subjects could have been more charmingly natural 
 and easy to those who worked for him than was this 
 great personage. I don't know why, but somehow at 
 Sandringham everything seemed more ordinary — if one 
 may use the expression — than usual. The affection 
 that was given to the country gentleman here seemed 
 to eliminate all the pomp of a Court, and the King in a 
 tweed suit, with rather muddy boots, standing among 
 a group of stage hands, and talking about our work in 
 our way, seemed very wonderful to me. I don't mean 
 to say I expected His Majesty to speak blank verse, 
 but to hear your King saying, " I hope you have got 
 all you want," and " Have all these men been properly 
 looked after, and had enough to eat ? " and little 
 remarks of that kind, makes you feel it was fine to be 
 an Englishman and sing, " God save such a man." 
 
 The curtain rose at lo o'clock on our performance 
 to an audience of some three hundred people, their 
 Majesties' guests being of the household, the tenants, 
 and certain of the neighbouring gentry. " Neighbouring
 
 BY COMMAND 247 
 
 gentry" reads like somethinj^ out of " Verdant Green," 
 but I don't know how else to express myself. I've 
 tried " some friendly neighbours of the King," but it 
 didn't look right, somehow. Everything went off 
 extremely well. I presented each member of the 
 audience with a copy of a special edition of the 
 " Christmas Carol," kindly given me by Mr. W. L. 
 Courtney. I felt this would set all doubts at rest as 
 to whether I had ever read my Dickens before essay- 
 ing one of his chief characters — actors' conceptions 
 so often are at variance with those of the author through 
 an ignorance of the writer's work. 
 
 My wife's share in the entertainment seemed to please 
 the royal party immensely, and Dan Leno convulsed 
 everyone with his " Tower of London," " Hunting," 
 and " She Sleeps in the Valley " songs. The King and 
 the Princess Maud, to whom the whole entertainment 
 was a surprise, it having been kept a profound secret 
 from her, laughed unrestrainedly at that comic genius. 
 
 I watched the audience through a hole in the back 
 cloth and I never saw anyone laugh more than did the 
 King when Leno was describing the Tower and repeating 
 " Standing with one's back to the refreshment room " 
 or when telling his hunting experiences, and how he 
 came oif and " got a liqueur of Ditch." 
 
 As the Royal party left the room they stopped and 
 talked to all of us, and Leno's appearance made it diffi- 
 cult for those near him to keep straight faces. At the 
 last moment he found that his servant had forgotten to 
 pack a collar, dress tie and dress trousers. In despair 
 he came to me and asked me to lend him something 
 to put on. The collar and tie were easy enough to
 
 248 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 procure although they were miles too big, but the neares 
 I could get to dress trousers were a pair belonging to a 
 blue serge suit I was wearing. These I gave him and 
 he hastily jumped into them, buttoning the front button- 
 hole on to one of the back buttons and turning them up 
 about four inches at the bottoms. The collar being very 
 big gave him the appearance of a mechanical figure 
 such as ventriloquists use — his neck looking so small 
 in it that one felt his head must be movable and could 
 turn right round and stay there if he wanted it to. I 
 think I saw a twinkle in His Majesty's and the Prince 
 of Wales's eyes as they were complimenting him on his 
 performance. 
 
 Supper was served in the Conservatory, and we were 
 waited on by twelve tall servants in scarlet liveries. 
 During the meal my wife and I were sent for, and His 
 Majesty, after graciously telling us how pleased he 
 was, said, " Would you accept these little souvenirs of 
 to-night ? " Would we ? The words sounded strange. 
 My wife's souvenir was a pearl, ruby and emerald 
 brooch, and mine was a pair of cuff links with the 
 Crown and E. R. in diamonds on them, which I need 
 hardly say are the most valued things we possess. 
 
 As we left the King, he told me to send Mr. Leno to 
 him from the supper room, which I did. Leno returned 
 with a handsome scarf pin in his hand. Opening the 
 door and looking round in comic dejection, he said : 
 " Well, boys, I've got my notice." All the footmen 
 laughed as much as we did. It was a quick and funny 
 thought to put His Majesty in the position of a theatrical 
 manager who was getting rid of unnecessary artists. 
 
 We left Sandringham at three in the morning by a
 
 BY COMMAND 249 
 
 motor car and slept at King's Lynn, returning to London 
 early in the morning to play a matinee performance at 
 the Vaudeville. On the journey up, Dan Leno, without 
 effort of any kind, told us the story of his early life. 
 There was much to laugh at, but the stories of his 
 mother's and father's hardships, related by him as they 
 were with no attempt at creating an effect, made one 
 sad beyond words. I remember his telling us how as 
 a lad he, in company with his uncle, that capital good 
 fellow and excellent comedian Johnny Danvers, who 
 b}' the way was about his own age, used, if very lucky, 
 to sleep on the floor of an ill-furnished garret and be 
 thankful. The two little lads, left alone at night after 
 having danced themselves tired in the bar parlour of a 
 public-house for hours at a time for a handful of coppers, 
 amused themselves by lying awake and telling each other 
 stories, the rule being that if one of them made a hit 
 with the other by his effort, he always got up, rolled up 
 the window blind as if it was an act drop, took a 
 call to an imaginary audience on the tiles and bowed 
 his acknowledgments to the roof, which in after years 
 Leno was so often to raise by his wonderful work. 
 Leno was killed by his friends. He paid the penalty 
 of genius by becoming an all-day show. His arrival 
 anywhere was the signal for the entire room to migrate 
 to his corner, wind him up, listen to him with 
 delight, and then kill him with kindness. His busy 
 brain worked and worked all-day as well as all night, 
 and the tiny willing frame not able at last to support 
 the labour that an extraordinary intellect imposed on 
 it, burnt itself out, and the world lost a thousand peals 
 of laughter.
 
 250 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 He had two cows which he kept in an orchard, he 
 told us. One he called Rum and the other Milk. Why 
 many people should have so little consideration for the 
 man who works all night and very often in the after- 
 noon also to earn his living, and expect him to be 
 always up to concert pitch and carry his bag of tricks 
 with him wherever he goes, is a mystery to me. But 
 it is so with the actor. I wonder how the stockbroker 
 would like to have to recite all the street prices after he 
 had left the city each day for the gratification of his 
 friends, or the engineer to work out various cubes, or 
 explain for some hours after his day's work was done 
 the breaking point of certain cables under varying con- 
 ditions. They would resent it ; but it is the same 
 thing exactly. No better rebuke to this sort of incon- 
 siderate person could have been made than that which 
 a well-known actor made to the late Sir Blundell 
 Maple. It was at an At Home, and the good baronet 
 catching sight of the man he liked to pay los, 6d. to see 
 at night, called out, " Ah ! my dear friend, how are 
 you?" "Very well," replied the actor. "I'm glad," 
 said Maple, " to see you here. You can come along 
 and tell me all about your theatre." " Certainly," 
 came the answer, "and then you can tell me all about 
 certain articles of china in Tottenham Court Road." 
 
 Another excellent reply made, by Vv'hom I forget, to 
 the well-known hatter, Mr. Heath, years ago, is worth 
 recording. " Ah ! " he said to an actor of his acquaint- 
 ance at some social gathering, " Here you are, are 
 you ? What time are you going to recite something 
 for us." " I don't know," said the actor, " What time 
 are you going to try on your hats ? "
 
 BY COMMAND 251 
 
 The dead-head, too, is a capital example of barefaced 
 effrontery. A wholesale provision dealer, writing to 
 my late father-in-law, received an admirable reply. The 
 purveyor of tinned meats said — " Dear Mr. Terriss, 
 could you let me have a box or four stalls to see " The 
 Harbour Lights ? " Thanking you in anticipation, I 
 am yours, etc., etc., etc., J. Armitage." 
 
 William Terriss answered — " Dear Mr. Armitage, 
 with all the pleasure in the world, and would you let 
 me have two do2en eggs, a side of bacon, and a dozen 
 pots of jam for home use. Thanking you but without 
 the slightest anticipation, I am yours, etc., etc., etc., 
 William Terriss." 
 
 The written retort courteous was never better set 
 down than by Ellen Terry in replying to the poet 
 Calmour. Alfred Calmour and she had had some slight 
 tiff, I believe during the rehearsals of " The Amber 
 Heart," which the former wrote for the Lyceum ; and 
 the author having occasion to write to the lady of 
 infinite charm began his letter — " Dear Miss Terry, 
 the * dear ' is purely conventional." He only had to 
 wait two posts to receive a reply which began, '' Dear 
 Mr, Calmour, the 'dear' is purely theatrical." I suppose 
 I ought to mention for the benefit of the uninitiated 
 that " dear " is an expression which is always used in 
 my profession before the first long hour after the intro- 
 duction is over. A thing I heard that amused me the 
 other day was Henry Arthur Jones's reply to one of our 
 most successful modern actors, who said, " Jones, I am 
 thinking of playing Hamlet." " Are you ? " said Jones. 
 " I should keep on thinking about it if I were you." 
 
 This was not to William Gillette, who has long
 
 252 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 promised us his reading of the Dane. I should hke to 
 see him pla}' him. I suppose we should have the inevit- 
 able cigar through this new reading, though smoking of 
 course would turn the play scene into a small music 
 hall performance, which I'm not sure would be a dis- 
 advantage. Gillette is a charming and delightful man, 
 and once asked us both to go and spend a holiday on 
 his steam sea-going houseboat j'acht, about which he 
 was careful to explain that although she had all the 
 comforts of home, her speed did not warrant him 
 racing her, except against herself. 
 
 He tells a verj^ funny story of being hailed by a 
 seafaring man who was leaning over a bridge, under 
 which the good ship Pretty Polly, as the celebrated 
 actor had christened his boat, was slowly steaming. 
 Gillette had left New York about a fortnight and had 
 arrived by gentle stages at a point which would have 
 taken a fast boat about two days, and the seafaring wag, 
 noticing the speed of the comfortable craft beneath him, 
 sang out, "Hi! Mister, when did you leave New 
 York ? " " On the third of the month," replied 
 Gillette. " Really ? " shouted the sailor again, " What 
 year ? " 
 
 William Gillette is always full of good stories, and 
 an anecdote I remember of his was the story of one of 
 the members of his company, who becoming engaged to 
 be married, began singing the charms of his future 
 partner. " What is she like to look at ? " asked the 
 manager. " Oh ! " said the falling benedict, " she's 
 fair, with beautiful blue eyes, and a face that's covered 
 with freckles." " Ah ! " said Gillette, thinking to be 
 of use to his friend. " I can tell you how to get rid of
 
 BY COMMAND 253 
 
 those." " Get rid of them be blowed ! " came the 
 unexpected rejoinder, " they are her chief attraction." 
 
 It was he who told me the story of the two Jews who 
 met, and in discussing their various speculations, which 
 had not been too successful, were eulogising the 
 advantages of insuring their warehouses against fire. 
 "You should insure, Ikey," said one, "you should 
 insure your houses." ** I have insured mine last week 
 against burning." " Have you," said the other — after 
 a pause, " Then why don't you ? ! ! ! " which for a world 
 of meaning in a few words wants a lot of beating. 
 
 Why is it that Jew stories always seem to amuse 
 everyone, and as a rule no one more than the Jews 
 themselves ? A story that was told me not so long ago 
 by a Hebrew friend of mine amused me considerably, 
 and seems worth relating. Two of his co-religionists, 
 father and son, went into a West End jeweller's and 
 asked to see the best goods the shop possessed, as they 
 were anxious to make a handsome present to a lady. 
 The shopkeeper eagerly produced what he had to sell, 
 pendants, rings, head-pieces, and all kinds of trinkets, 
 but nothing seemed to please the elder customer. 
 After about an hour and a half of bringing everything 
 he had in stock for their inspection, the shopkeeper got 
 irritated and said, " Come along, out you get — go on, 
 get out of my shop, you couple of dirty Jews, you're no 
 good to me — get out or I'll throw you out." The two 
 Hebrews left hurriedly, and when they were outside 
 the son turned to the father and said, " Dit you hear 
 what he called us, father ? Dirty Jews ! ! Dit you 
 hear what he said — Dirty Jews ! .' " " I did, my son," 
 said the injured parent. " Father ! God will punish him
 
 254 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 for those words, won't he ? " " Yes, my son. Yes, God 
 will punish him — in fact, He has punished him already. 
 I've got two of his rings in my waistcoat pocket." 
 
 I find I have told quite a number of Jewish stories in 
 these pages. I hope this will not be construed into any 
 feeling of disrespect on my part for a community for 
 which I have the very greatest regard and amongst 
 whom I number some of my very best friends, but most 
 of the good things I have heard are generally labelled 
 as from them, and the humour seems to go when they 
 are placed in another locale. 
 
 I have organised or assisted at many, many matinees 
 for Jewish charities, as I always feel that in doing so I 
 am making some slight return to a vast number of 
 ladies and gentlemen who are one of the chief supports 
 of the theatre in this country. I have never had a bad 
 turn done me by a Jew ; I have had a thousand good 
 ones. I wish I could say the same for many Christians 
 who have often harmonised for my benefit that old 
 comic song entitled " My word is not my bond." 
 
 When " Bluebell's " splendid run came to an end, in 
 which my wife had set London singing " The Honey- 
 suckle and the Bee," the theatre was re-decorated and 
 we produced " Quality Street." Mr. Barrie, having 
 been delighted with my wife in the previous fairy play, 
 gave her, in Phoebe Throssell, one of the most beautiful 
 parts imaginable. Miss Marion Terry played her 
 sister, Susan Throssell, divinely, and the two of them 
 seated side by side in their out-of-the-world home, 
 working their samplers and sitting in their lavender- 
 scented garden, to which came the faint echoes of the 
 Napoleonic Wars, were a delight to watch.
 
 BY COMMAND 255 
 
 In the present Viscount Esher I have had for many 
 years, through storm, shipwreck and battle, a very true 
 and staunch friend, and one to whom my wife and 
 myself cannot be sufficiently grateful for innumerable 
 kindnesses. There are no more inveterate theatre-goers 
 than Lord Esher and the sweet lady who bears his 
 name, or sounder critics than they are, seeing, as they 
 have, everything that is to be seen in the art of all 
 countries. I owe much to their advice and helpful 
 suggestions, and I am proud to say I think we are held 
 in their hearts with something of the affection that they 
 live in ours. It was owing mainly to Lord Esher that 
 his late Majesty commanded " Quality Street " to 
 Windsor on the occasion of the visit of the King and 
 Queen of Portugal to England (Nov. 21, 1902). It was 
 the first State performance of King Edward's reign and 
 was one of the most brilliant gatherings possible to 
 imagine. It was unlike the Sandringham performance, 
 insomuch as it was all pomp and circumstance. 
 
 Miss Terry, my wife and myself had the honour of 
 being sent for by their Majesties the King and Queen, 
 who expressed themselves charmed with Mr. Barrie's 
 delightful work. The King chaffingly told my wife she 
 ought not to cover her pretty hair with a cap such as 
 she wore in the play ; and the Queen told me, laugh- 
 ingly, that she did not like me in whiskers and I must 
 go and shave them off at once, which Royal command 
 I of course obeyed at once ; and after having supped at 
 the Castle we all returned to London, very proud of 
 the honour that had been done us and thankful for the 
 kindnesses of which we had been the recipients. Her 
 Majesty the Queen during the afternoon had graciously
 
 256 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 sent for my wife and spent an hour with her watching 
 all the children engaged in the production have their 
 tea and play in one of the big drawing-rooms, near the 
 Waterloo Chamber. Her Majesty put the mites at 
 their ease in a very short space of time, and while my 
 wife was telling little anecdotes of each one and 
 answering the many simple and kindly questions that 
 the Queen put to her concerning them, they amused 
 themselves, quite unconscious of the fact that they were 
 in the presence of anyone but a sweet and gentle lady, 
 and were being watched by the Queen of the greatest 
 Empire the world knows. Her Majesty, on dismissing 
 my wife, made her a present of her birthday cake, 
 requesting her to have it cut up for the little ones in 
 the play. It was a charming act on the Queen's part, 
 and its cutting was the occasion of great rejoicings at 
 the Vaudeville on the following afternoon. 
 
 It was at Windsor that I first met my very dear 
 friend Mr. Guy Laking, the Keeper of the King's 
 Armoury, known to his intimates as the " King's Iron- 
 monger." No greater authority on armour lives to-day 
 than does this brilliant young man, and I am indebted 
 to him for his wonderful and perfect work on the 
 weapons, heraldry and armour for my production of 
 "Richard III." 
 
 Talking of my Richard III., I met Claude Carton, 
 who said to me, " Seymour, I hear you are going to 
 play Richard." I said, " Yes." "Ah, well," said the 
 witty author, " you'll be saved some trouble in the 
 make-up. You won't have to wear a hump." " Why 
 not ? " I inquired. " Oh, the audience will have 
 that," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 
 
 " Quality Street " was one of the most delightful 
 plays imaginable. I had a very difficult part in it, 
 Valentine Brown, the one-armed doctor. The loss of 
 this member, I believe, handicaps even a billiard player, 
 let alone a light comedian. This Barrie success ran 
 some eighteen months, and at its conclusion I produced 
 a play by myself and Ivan Caryll, called " The Cherry 
 Girl" (December, 1903) which, although not so suc- 
 cessful as " Bluebell," on whose lines it was moulded, 
 did extremely well. 
 
 The same week we produced " The Cherry Girl " 
 Caryll and I did our other new play next door at 
 the Adelphi. We called it "The Earl and the Girl." 
 It was a very great success, running over a year at the 
 Strand house, and then being transferred to the Lyric. 
 
 " The Earl and the Girl " was a prophetic title, for it 
 was in this piece that the nobility and gentry began to 
 look upon me as a universal provider of beautiful women 
 for their town and country houses — the journey being 
 made, whether by land or sea, always via St. George's, 
 Hanover Square. 
 
 During the run of " The Cherry Girl," I was casting 
 about in my mind for an idea to write its successor on, 
 when one evening Captain Robert Marshall — who, 
 brilliant fellow that he was, has, alas ! been taken all 
 
 S.H. S
 
 258 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 too soon from his many friends and an admiring public 
 — asked me why I did not write a modern version of 
 " Cinderella " for my wife. He told me he had thought 
 of doing so, but that musical work was not in his way, 
 and that he could not manage the interpolation of songs 
 and dances into a comedy. 
 
 The idea struck me as one peculiarly suited to pro- 
 viding a really fine part for my better star, and I set to 
 work with Cosmo Hamilton and wrote " The Catch of 
 the Season," which turned out phenomenally successful. 
 It ran six hundred nights, and introduced the famous 
 " Gibson Girls " to the grateful youth of the day. The 
 music was by a then unknown musician called Edgar 
 Haines, who has since done more than ordinarily well, 
 and has many years before him to walk arm-in-arm 
 with success. 
 
 The spring came, and with it news to our home that 
 made us all, especially my dear Ella, supremely happy. 
 In February, with God's blessing, the place of the little 
 lad whose loss we had so long silently mourned might 
 be filled. 
 
 The question as to who should play the leading part 
 in the new piece, now, of course, became a matter for 
 most serious thought. It was a splendid acting oppor- 
 tunity, and in addition to being practically the whole 
 play, had numerous songs and dances, designed especially 
 for my wife, which did not look easily adaptable to any- 
 one else. At the time we were debating which was the 
 best move to make — whether to postpone the production 
 or try and find a substitute — I was producing a musical 
 play called " Sergeant Brue " at the old Strand Theatre, 
 and in it I had put a little girl who had been with me
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 259 
 
 before — Zena Dare. She was remarkably intelligent, 
 worked hard, and had a beautiful face, and on my 
 recommendation she was given the task of playing this 
 exceptionally big part opposite me in our new 
 production. 
 
 As luck would have it, the newcomer made a great 
 success. She had stuck to her work at rehearsals like a 
 Briton, and her performance was a charming one, which 
 not only helped us out of our extremely difficult position, 
 but spelt her name in golden letters of success which 
 she has made brighter each year by the whole- 
 heartedness and sincerity of all she undertakes. 
 
 Her sister, Phyllis, was with us in " Bluebell in Fairy- 
 land," and played one of the children in the garret 
 scene very sweetly. But she had rather a childish 
 affectation of speech and would insist on saying " Oh ! 
 Lws-ten to the Bells ! " with a jumping inflection on 
 each word. In vain I tried to correct her ; she would 
 either smile good-naturedly or stare blankly at me, and 
 on reaching home this Dejazet of eleven was often 
 heard to say, " Dear, dear ! that Mr. Hicks has been 
 rather trying to-day. 
 
 After the first hundred nights my friend Miss Zena 
 left me, having a previous contract to fulfil, but returned 
 very shortly and has acted continuously with me for 
 nearly eight years. When she left I had to find another 
 substitute, and my eye fell on a chorus child with a 
 beautiful face, very much of my wife's type. Her 
 name was Male Ash. She was taken in hand, and 
 played the part perfectly charmingly for a very long 
 time. She is now my sister-in-law, having married my 
 young brother Stanley Brett, who suffers so much, poor 
 
 S2
 
 26o SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 fellow ! from his horrible likeness to me. We are always 
 being taken for one another, and he has often played my 
 parts as my understudy without the audience making any 
 comment other than either, " Isn't Hicks in good form 
 to-day? " or " Never liked Hicks till now." 
 
 B. C. Stephenson, the author, who saw my good lady 
 (as the servants say) and myself playing together, wrote 
 round a note to her, saying "It is all splendid — we loved 
 ' Mrs.' — we wouldn't have ' Mister ' (her) at any price ! " 
 
 After many years of work, a very large number of people 
 know one by name or by sight, this having occurred not 
 so much from being illustrious as notorious, let us say. 
 And it was amusing to find an old lady at the Royal 
 York Hotel, Brighton, who, though a constant theatre- 
 goer, had never heard of me and, quite rightly, didn't 
 want to. The proprietor of that famous establishment, 
 which looks more like the grand stand at a motor race 
 meeting every Sunday — so many are the cars surround- 
 ing it, whose occupants arrive to sip the honey that the 
 hive contains — is one Harry Preston, a fine all-round 
 sportsman, one time amateur champion light-weight 
 boxer of England. He is, I should think, the best liked 
 hotel manager in the country, and has built up his 
 business on his personal popularity. He is the Louis 
 Quatorze of London-by-the-Sea, his welcome to all and 
 sundry being " Good morning, sir. You are looking 
 perfectly splendid," in a subdued tone, much as a butler 
 whispers in your ear, " Port or claret, sir ? " or a lover 
 asks the maiden he adores " How much money have 
 you got? " 
 
 This bold assertion that everyone looks " perfectly 
 splendid " has grown to such a habit that he said it, it
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 261 
 
 is recorded, to an old gentleman who arrived in the care 
 of two hospital nurses, having given up automobiles for 
 his own locomotor ataxi, and some two months later 
 when the old man was leaving the hotel in a wooden 
 overcoat for the last garden party, Harry Preston, with 
 tears streaming down his genial face, raised his hand as 
 
 usual, and said, " You are looking perfectly " The 
 
 boots nudged him, and he altered the well-known line 
 to " awful " this morning. 
 
 It was he who presented me to the theatre-going old 
 lady before mentioned, who, happy soul ! had never seen 
 me. She, however, knew my brother well, and, I under- 
 stood, liked him. My friend of the five-ounce gloves 
 said : — 
 
 " Madam, may I introduce you to Mr. Seymour 
 Hicks?" 
 
 The old lady said " How do you do ? " without even 
 looking up. 
 
 " But," said Mr. Preston, " Mr. Seymour Hicks,'' with 
 great emphasis on all three words. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do ? " indifferently murmured the 
 old lady. 
 
 " But," said Louis Quatorze, now thoroughly alarmed, 
 feeling that I must be hurt at this great indifference, 
 " This is Mr. Seymour Hicks, brother of Mr. Stanley 
 Brett." 
 
 In a moment the whole attitude of the old lady 
 changed. 
 
 " What ! " she said; " a brother of Mr. Stanley Brett, 
 the actor.' How do you do. I am proud to meet you." 
 
 The Cockney who went into a country lodging, 
 and seeing a pot of honey upon the table said to the
 
 262 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 landlady, " I see you keep a bee here," is well known, but 
 there is another of its kind that I do not think is such 
 public property. A young Londoner, who had never left 
 the metropolis in his life, arrived at Brighton and saw the 
 sea for the first time. He asked a boatman on the front 
 what they did in the town mostly for a living. " Oh ! " 
 said the iisherman, thinking he was having his leg 
 pulled, pointing to the sea, " We sell sea water at a 
 penny a can." The Cockney traveller went away and 
 had his lunch in the green fields inland, and when he 
 returned to the beach towards evening the tide was 
 out. He looked in wonderment, and turning to his 
 friend the boatman said, " My eye ! you have done a 
 trade to-day ! " 
 
 It was at the Royal Hotel that I stumbled up 
 against that Leech of the nineties, the wonderful Phil 
 May. We had been talking for an hour or so when I 
 said suddenly to him : — 
 
 " Of course you wouldn't recollect it, but I met you 
 before once, many years ago." 
 
 He said quietly, "About fifteen, wasn't it ? " 
 
 I couldn't believe that he remembered, and I said 
 "Where?" 
 
 " In that fried fish shop near the Pavilion Theatre, 
 Whitechapel, at the time you were acting there," he 
 answered. 
 
 I said, like Datas, " Quite right, sir," and was 
 amazed at his memory, considering the casual life he 
 led, being so retentive. 
 
 It was quite true. Our meeting took place when I 
 was connected with the old Olympic in the very early 
 days, in a very second-rate fried fish shop where v>^e both
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 263 
 
 happened to be supping, not either of us having enough 
 money to go to even the fried fish shop de luxe. I saw, 
 sitting in a corner, a very shabbily dressed man — in fact, 
 he was down at heel, and the bottom of his trousers 
 frayed, and one might have passed on, had not the 
 strange cleverness of his eyes peeping out from his 
 fringe, which even in those days was cut with the pre- 
 cision of a well-kept privet hedge, arrested attention. 
 I sat down and was introduced by a mutual acquaint- 
 ance—" This is Mr. Phil May." 
 
 He asked me if I was starting an actor's life, and 
 when I told him I was he said he hoped I should do 
 better than he was doing. He was, he told me, trying 
 to earn a living as a black-and-white artist ! 
 
 Why this meeting should have remained in that 
 brilliant genius's mind all those years I don't know. I 
 don't flatter myself I looked anything out of the 
 ordinary ; but it did, and he mentioned that his luck 
 changed very shortly after our meeting — for he laugh- 
 ingly told me how, feeling that an address was every- 
 thing, he took the lease of a very smart unfurnished 
 flat in Bond Street, so as to have it to send his work 
 out from. It was absolutely without a stick of furniture, 
 and he, in company with three or four other artists as 
 penniless as himself, used to sleep on the floor and work 
 in the carpetless, unfurnished rooms, but was repaid by 
 finding that his valuation of human nature was correct; 
 " Bond Street " was the open sesame to the publisher's 
 sanctum. What snobs we all are ! 
 
 It was Phil May who told me the story of the jarvey 
 v/ho drove him round Dublin on his first visit to that 
 city, and in showing him the sights stopped in front of
 
 264 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the Bank of Ireland, and said, ''That, sorr, is the 
 recipticle of the money that the English take from us !" 
 On its roof are six decorative figures, and May inquired 
 of his jarvey what they represented. 
 
 " Begorra, sorr, they are the twilve apostles ! " 
 " But," said May, "there are only six." 
 "Sure, I know that," said the jarvey; " the other 
 wans are lunching with the Lord Liftinant." 
 
 Writing of Phil May one thinks of Punch and its 
 genial and famous editor of other days, Sir Francis 
 Burnand. In corresponding with him once my type- 
 writer mis-spelt his name, using the letter " e " instead 
 of "u," writing it " Bernand." 
 
 This nettled the good knight somewhat — why, I 
 don't know — so he tore my letter across and re-directed 
 his envelope to me as " Seamore Hocks Esq." 
 
 I wrote and apologised for the young lady's error, 
 saying I was sorry he was offended, and he replied, 
 " Not offended — off-handed." I suppose it was one of 
 his bad mornings, for as a rule he is the kindest and 
 best-tempered of men. His tongue is as ready as a 
 moneylender's advance on good security, and it is 
 seldom he is scored off; but on one occasion, when he 
 was discussing the many anonymous contributors who 
 sent things to his paper, he said " It's extraordinary 
 the number of really funny things I get sent to me for 
 Punch. "Really!" said a friend. "Why don't you 
 put some of them in ? " 
 
 About 1900 I had had the honour of being elected to 
 the Garrick Club, a more delightful place than which 
 does not exist, and here I came in contact with many 
 well-known and charming people, whom I am proud to
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 265 
 
 say I number among my best friends. It was through 
 becoming a member of the Garrick that I got to know 
 Beerbohm Tree intimately for the first time. It has 
 been my great pleasure to know him now for years and 
 years, and I have a very sincere regard for him and his 
 many lovable qualities. Quantities of people who do 
 not know him think that his abstracted manner and 
 far-away look in private life is assumed for the purpose 
 of creating an impression, and that his absent-minded 
 actions are well-thought-out mental impromptus. 
 This is quite a mistake. Like nearly all really fine 
 artists, he is as simple and gentle as it is possible to 
 be. He is a sympathetic friend, with a heart that is 
 big enough to find a corner for the troubles or disasters 
 even of a man he may only just have become acquainted 
 with. He is a boy in his love of fun and good-natured 
 joking, and has the most wonderful sense of humour 
 possible. His courage is magnificent, and we have no 
 one in our profession to-day who is such a gallant 
 sportsman in adverse times, or one who meets trouble 
 with such a cheery smile, charming back the Goddess 
 Fortune to his side when she poutingly looks like 
 being unfaithful to him, and taking a week-end trip to 
 Paris with a rival manager. 
 
 No actor, save Charles Wyndham, can turn a sentence 
 or make a speech better than he, and the recognition 
 his work has received might well have come along long 
 ago, seeing that he has been carrying dear old William 
 Shakespeare about on his shoulders unaided for years, 
 giving continual productions of the classic drama, and 
 marching in boldly where the eighteenpenny comedy 
 producers fear to tread.
 
 266 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 His one fault, born of his generosity and kindly 
 nature, is that he is not insistent enough on seeing a 
 policy carried through to a definite conclusion. He 
 conceives a line of campaign on a certain subject, which 
 is admirable, but no sooner is it started than his heart 
 is swayed by the long tales of those whose interests 
 are adversely affected. He is the one man doing the 
 big thing to-day on the stage, and it is to him our 
 majority ought to look, and follow. It is he who, when 
 he raises his fist on high to compel the so-called 
 managers of country theatres to come into line, should 
 let it fall like a sledge-hammer on their heads ; but 
 alas ! an echo from Slocum-on-the-Slosh of a bad year's 
 takings leaves his mailed four fingers and thumb 
 suspended in mid-air and tied there for ever by a kindly 
 thought. 
 
 When a body of managers, of which he should not 
 be the president, pass resolutions to curtail the number 
 of performers and the length of performances in music- 
 halls, he ought either to stop their stupidity, or with- 
 draw from figuring as the head of movements to which 
 it is common knowledge he is opposed, and which 
 make him a target for the ordinary theatre-goer's 
 laughter and for the poor actor's black looks, who 
 perhaps doesn't know that Beerbohm Tree is the last 
 man personally to hamper him in earning a living, and 
 the first to put his hand in his pocket and give on all 
 occasions. It is not Sir Herbert Tree who deserves 
 the angry protest from the poor actor when he looks at 
 his children's empty plates. 
 
 One thing that seems to have escaped the theatrical 
 managers in their desire to interfere with what the
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 267 
 
 public want to see at the music hall is, that if they 
 will only give the music halls long enough plays they 
 will hang themselves as successfully as did the man 
 with the proverbial rope. The essence of their being 
 is " variety," and long pieces with indifferent acting will 
 drive their patrons elsewhere, just as it has alienated 
 the public from the majority of dramatic theatres. It 
 is not music halls, length of performances, the number 
 of players employed, or anything of the kind that keeps 
 people away from a large quantity of the houses which 
 present serious fare. It is because the plays, as a rule, 
 have of late been extremely poor, the acting mediocre 
 in the extreme, and the prices high. A music hall 
 is a half-crown hope, a theatre is a ten-and-sixpence 
 certainty; in the former you pay the smaller amount for 
 a comfortable seat and smoke your cigar, hoping that 
 though you dislike one turn you may be pleased with 
 another. In the theatre you find, perhaps, during the 
 first act, that the very theme of the play is not to your 
 liking, but you are condemned to sit there from eight till 
 eleven, being fed on asparagus when your soul yearns 
 for artichokes — and that without your cigar and without 
 ten shillings and sixpence, which I should say was worse 
 if tobacco nowadays was not so good. 
 
 These things, and many others, Mr. Tree ought to 
 deal with firmly, and not allow his better judgment 
 to be hampered by his kindly thought for those who 
 manufacture grievances to cover their own incompetency 
 for providing the public with what they want to pay to see. 
 
 The theatrical manager makes two mistakes. He 
 caters for a very limited class of people and then 
 grumbles when they come.
 
 268 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 I have never had the pleasure of acting with him, 
 but my wife has. She relates an amusing story of a 
 rehearsal of the " First Night," when the old actor, 
 Achilla Talma Dufard, so beautifully played by him, 
 leads his daughter into the orchestra. Stepping over 
 the footlights, Tree slipped and fell, dragging my wife 
 with him among the instruments and music-stands ! 
 Luckily neither was hurt, but being an actor-manager's 
 theatre, the entire staff rushed to pick up Mr. Tree and 
 help him on to the stage, forgetting my wife altogether 1 
 The rehearsal proceeded, when the kindly lessee of 
 His Majesty's said, " Good heavens ! where is Miss 
 Terris ? " Search was made, and she was found in the 
 big drum, looking like a comic swan upon a well-made 
 nest ! 
 
 It was at the performance of this play that one of 
 the actors was upstairs in the dressing-room when he 
 should have been on the stage with my wife and 
 Mr. Tree. To add to the unpleasantness of a long 
 stage wait, one of the wings painted to represent a 
 dwelling became unfastened and fell on the stage. 
 With great presence of mind my wife, whose Gaiety 
 training stood her in good stead, turned to Mr. Tree 
 and said, " Ah, father ! as usual you are bringing down 
 the house ! " — which kept the audience in a good humour 
 and gave the missing actor time to arrive. 
 
 Some time ago, among a lot of old autograph letters 
 I came across one written by the late David James 
 to his then acting manager, Mr. Smaile. It was a long 
 letter from abroad, discussing the casting of a new play 
 he was about to produce. It concludes in this way : — 
 
 " And now, my dear Smaile, please understand me.
 
 MIXED BISCUITS 269 
 
 I will give Tree £15 a week — not a penny more. 
 H. B. Conwa}^ can have j^25, as I think he will draw it, 
 but 3^15 is every shilling as much as Tree is, or ever 
 will be, worth, and I shan't go beyond that, so please 
 do not write me again on the subject." 
 
 David James's judgment was very much at fault 
 for once. But it was David Garrick who sent Mrs. 
 Siddons back to the provinces as "of no value" — 
 so our old David made his mistake in the excellent 
 company of the drama's Goliath.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 
 
 In speaking of the lessee of His Majesty's, the 
 National Theatre scheme presents itself to one's mind, 
 seeing that he has done all that has been done for 
 the drama since the death of Henry Irving. 
 
 The National Theatre ! ! ! I wonder if there are really 
 half a dozen people whose names we see in print in 
 connection with it insane enough to think either that it 
 is wanted or will ever come into existence. Even the 
 donor of the ;iC7o,ooo is humorist enough to keep 
 anonymous, so that when the white elephant is driven 
 off into the jungle of oblivion, it won't crash through 
 the undergrowth with his name on a placard for the 
 monkeys to laugh at. 
 
 The National Theatre ! ! ! Apart from the fact of the 
 gross unfairness of State aid against private enterprise, 
 what would happen to Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree's 
 own ventures which are one half Shakespearean revivals, 
 a class of entertainment which would of necessity be 
 the mainstay of this National House. Have any of the 
 promoters asked each other where the actors are 
 coming from ? Why, we haven't enough first-class 
 actors to cast plays properly at six London theatres. 
 Where do they think they are going to obtain enough 
 good actors ? It is the worst form of damning to be 
 called a good actor, I know, but that's all this com- 
 mittee could expect. That class of artist who never
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 271 
 
 makes a success because he never makes a failure — 
 where do they think they're coming from ? And, having 
 come, who do they think will want to see them ? If 
 they could offer all those who are finest in the theatrical 
 world in their various lines of business a certainty and 
 a pension, then they wouldn't come; and so to watch 
 Mr. Excellent Mediocre wandering about with William 
 Shakespeare — a duller old gentleman than whom when 
 badly presented never bored a man to extinction — 
 would be a thing that might bring the committee under 
 an indictment for '* Inciting to riot." 
 
 Of course we all know that the whole thing is only 
 a national sea serpent and that many of those who 
 preach this nonsense are only doing so because they 
 feel it dignified to be associated with a national any- 
 thing, though this national blue light of the marshes is 
 each season spoken kindly of by the press in Pink 
 Paragraphs for Pale Promoters. Anything national 
 means something surely of moment to the nation : that 
 is to say, the supplying of the nation's want. But have 
 the nation ever asked for a theatre of their own ? 
 Indeed, have the nation ever asked for any theatre, 
 anywhere ? 
 
 No. They have asked for value for the money they 
 have paid for their seats, and, if they haven't had it, 
 have quite rightly grumbled. The British public do 
 not care two straws for the drama. It sounds splendid 
 to say they do, and it is excellent to meet in committee 
 and convince a dozen people, who all think as you do 
 or they wouldn't be there, that " The time has now 
 arrived when our national poets shall be the people's 
 own — when our children shall be educated and have
 
 272 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 the pages of the great dead opened for them, and their 
 drab world shall be clothed in verse so that the 
 language of cabmen shall be of flowers, and a vacant 
 chair shall be set at each meal in every cottage for 
 Chaucer and the early English poets " ; it all sounds 
 splendid, but the early English writers make most of us 
 feel after we have read them as though we have been 
 hit on the head with a coke hammer covered with a 
 damp towel. What fun ! What fun, as the gryphon 
 says to the mock turtle. 
 
 Let anyone offer the true-born English man, woman 
 or child, when he, she, or it is able to paddle about in 
 life's sea of trouble, the choice whether they would like 
 to go and listen to the poets or to see the " Private 
 Secretary," laugh at " Charley's Aunt," or stare at 
 " King Lear," and I can tell them at once that the 
 proposed National Mausoleum would require several 
 new extra heating apparatus installed. Nobody wants 
 a national theatre. We have national budgets, 
 national taxes, national schools, national horrors of 
 every kind — spare us a national theatre and let the 
 anonymous donor keep his money or lend it to some of 
 us needy theatrical managers at 5 per cent, taking a lien 
 on our Shakespearean repertory as his security, and he 
 will just as easily say good-bye to it for ever as if he 
 gave it to the Empire, or for that matter the Alhambra 
 or any other place of variety. 
 
 It may seem ungracious to have spoken of the dearth 
 of really good actors, but I doubt if there are many who 
 will contradict me. Leaving out of the question our 
 acknowledged old successful leaders, Gerald du Maurier 
 — who in my humble opinion is one of the finest actors
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 273 
 
 on the stage — and say another dozen in his flight, 
 where do we get to ? We find ourselves fallen from 
 the Dome of St. Paul's to the top of a tenement house. 
 Where are the rising Henry Nevilles, the Charles 
 Warners, the youthful Leonard Boynes ? There are 
 no such people. One and one only in this school have 
 we got, and that is Lyn Harding, who must be the 
 hope of England's team when we do battle against 
 foreign competitors ; one of his recent performances is 
 as elaborate in its detail as terrifying in its power. 
 
 There is a coming John Hare in young O. B. 
 Clarence, and a splendid character actor of this school 
 in Spencer Trevor. There are also first-class actors in 
 their various lines such as Edmund Gwenne, Dennis 
 Eadie, and Cyril Keightley, and there may be some 
 others, but their names surely have to be thought 
 hard for before they are written down. In my own 
 line of business, one is ashamed to think how very 
 poor are my own qualifications, and those of nearly all 
 my contemporaries in it, remembering as one must the 
 past light comedians whose names are household words, 
 such as Fred Leslie and the like. Of rising actresses 
 there seem to be hardly any — who is there approaching 
 Miss Gertie Millar, whose art is a perfect delight to 
 watch ? It is true that in another form of work suddenly 
 Miss Marie Lohr has jumped into the front rank of 
 ingenues, and that the daughter of that fine actor Fred 
 Terry has made an instantaneous hit and abiding posi- 
 tion. But cast around and see how very little rising 
 talent there is anywhere. Till the coming of Lily 
 Elsie, how long was Daly's Theatre without a youth- 
 ful successor to Marie Tempest ; but now that she 
 
 S.H. T
 
 274 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 has come it is doubly pleasing to be able to hold 
 out both hands to welcome her, for, added to a lovely 
 voice and beautiful face, she has technique that was 
 acquired by years of hard work in the provinces, her 
 success having been won by her own individual and 
 splendid endeavour. 
 
 What is the reason of it all, I wonder ? Lack of 
 talent ? or lack of rough work at an early age — that 
 good bold work which brings out all that is natural in 
 acting before it has time to be stunted by too much 
 education ; for there is no question that all the greatest 
 actors who have ever lived have been lucky enough to 
 escape a public school or 'Varsity training, where 
 " good form " is the chief study, and the overstudy of 
 good form means to an actor the cultivation of self- 
 consciousness in the highest possible degree. 
 
 I do not say, of course, that there are not a lot of 
 mushroom ingenues who are all Sarah Bernhardts for 
 ten minutes by the clock, or that there are not youthful 
 Salvinis who act magnificently in the pages of The 
 Sketch and Tatler, but the fact that this class of success 
 exists only goes to accentuate the lack of real talent. 
 There is no longer a ladder in the theatrical profession ; 
 society, good looks, the heroine of a cause celebre or 
 someone who has done something at something else, 
 takes the lift. It is all a great pity, and reminds me of 
 the American who saw Windsor Castle for the first 
 time. " Yes," he said, " it is a bully place, but it is a 
 great pity they have built it so near the railway." 
 
 " The Catch of the Season " had been running for 
 some two hundred and fifty nights, when at nine o'clock 
 on the i6th of January, 1905, I had the greatest
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 275 
 
 pleasure that can be given to any man — that of seeing 
 his wife supremely happy, holding a tiny replica of 
 herself in her arms. This mite, who from the hour of 
 her birth has had every thought we possess centred in 
 her, was christened Betty, and I need hardly say is 
 not only the most beautiful and wonderful little girl 
 that ever lived, but also rules our household with a rod 
 of delightful iron. She was indeed, and has ever been, 
 our catch of the season, making the dull days full of 
 sunshine and the worrying ones full of happiness. 
 
 The comedy was in full swing when my wife came 
 back to the theatre to play the part originally written 
 for her, to which she brought her charm, her grace 
 and her experience, making our poor creation of a 
 modern Cinderella her very own and the piece doubly 
 valuable in the public eye, and adding a vitality to 
 the performance that helped it to run six hundred 
 nights. Edward Royce, who had now joined our 
 forces as stage manager, did the most excellent work in 
 this production as he did in the several years that he 
 worked with me afterwards. 
 
 Our original five years' contract with the Messrs. Gatti 
 and Frohman was now fast drawing to a close, and, 
 thinking it would be a wise thing to have a theatre of 
 our own, I, in partnership with my old friend Sidney 
 Marler, built the Aldwych Theatre. Prior to its 
 completion, when we had bidden the Vaudeville an 
 affectionate farewell, we took on the road in the " Catch 
 of the Season " the biggest Musical Comedy Com- 
 pany that had, up to that time, ever left London. 
 Our expenses were about j^8oo a week, travelling as we 
 did 105 people, and we broke the record, without 
 
 T 2
 
 276 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 exception, of every theatre we played in, our biggest 
 week's receipts being £2,500 at the Theatre Royal, 
 Birmingham, while at Manchester, Liverpool, and 
 many other towns we played to gross takings varying 
 between 5^2,200 and £2,300 in the eight performances. 
 
 This was all very gratifying ; our first fourteen weeks' 
 tour in the provinces was a sort of triumphal march 
 through England. The number of lovely ladies with 
 us played sad havoc with what are termed *' the lads " of 
 the various villages we visited, who followed us from 
 one place to another, beauties' smiles emptying garrison 
 towns of their officers and cities of their Bloods. Among 
 us we had sixteen motor-cars, which enabled us to 
 make most of our journeys by road instead of rail. 
 
 Anything kinder than the treatment we received 
 from the provincial audiences can scarcely be imagined, 
 people we had never heard of holding out the hand of 
 friendship and inviting us to shoot and fish and stay 
 with them, and we made new friends that have 
 remained to this day, although they have seen me 
 act many times since. 
 
 At Christmas we returned to London to open the 
 beautiful new Aldwych Theatre., which was now ready, 
 and where we elected to start operations under 
 Mr. Charles Frohman's banner with a very elaborate 
 revival of " Bluebell in Fairyland." 
 
 The Aldwych is one of the finest theatres in London, 
 its only fault being an overlarge dress circle. I secured 
 the land, saw it cleared, watched the excavations to 
 the blue clay and saw brick set on brick and the 
 girders swung by the mighty Scotchman on to their 
 iron resting places. I chose all the decorations —
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 277 
 
 electric fittings, seats and curtains, collected old 
 prints and playbills which I hung through the circular 
 corridors, chose carpets to cover polished woods, and, 
 having arranged for the most elaborate stage for its size 
 in the metropolis, Mr. Sprague, the architect, handed 
 us over one of his very best houses. 
 
 I remember, just before the last ladders and 
 scaffoldings were cleared from the front, climbing to 
 the very top of the theatre and writing the name of 
 Ellaline Terris in indelible ink on the live Bathstone 
 cornice stones round the front of the ornamental work. 
 I did this for luck, and it brought it to us, for we 
 played to enormous business at the Aldwych for the 
 three years we were there, starting with " Bluebell " at 
 ^3,000 a week with the matinees, and our two next 
 productions "The Beauty of Bath" and the "Gay 
 Gordons" playing steadily week in and week out to 
 over £"2,000 a week. 
 
 It was during the run of the latter piece that their 
 Majesties the King and Queen of Spain visited the 
 theatre and honoured my wife and myself by sending 
 for us to the royal box. They were exceedingly kind 
 and gracious to us, as was Her Royal Highness 
 Princess Henry of Battenberg. During the conversation 
 the King asked me where Miss Camille Clifford was 
 acting. I said that she had left the stage some two 
 years ago. " Nonsense," said the King, " I saw her 
 with you in the ' Beauty of Bath.' " " No, sir," I 
 replied, " she was not here at that time." But nothing 
 I could say would persuade His Majesty that he had 
 not seen her acting with us after " The Catch of the 
 Season." So I tactfully agreed that I was in error, and
 
 278 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 that the royal memory was not at fault. It was not 
 till long afterwards that I realised that he had mistaken 
 Miss Sidney Fairbrother's imitation of Miss Clifford in 
 a comic sketch for the lady herself, which was not to 
 be wondered at. 
 
 It was a great change, this big theatre from the dear 
 little Vaudeville, but the provincial theatres had broken 
 the ice for the difference in size. Here I had beautiful 
 offices, and upstairs near my dressing-rooms I built a 
 supper-room with kitchens attached, in which I had 
 often the privilege and pleasure of entertaining many 
 celebrated and interesting personalities. 
 
 The room was a very big one, curious in shape and 
 decorated in oak and green. Everything on its walls 
 and in its bookcases contained relics of the stage ot 
 earlier years. I bought at Christie's a very large 
 quantity of things belonging to Henry Irving when his 
 effects fell under the hammer, and although I possess 
 nothing perhaps of any great intrinsic value, everything 
 in that room had a thousand tongues for me and told 
 me many a story ; and I often used to smoke a cigar 
 after a long rehearsal, tired to death and grateful for 
 the peace that this room gave me. 
 
 Here were Edmund Kean's butcher boots, worn as 
 Richard standing side by side with Henry Irving's 
 " Ingomar " footwear and John Philip Kemble's boots, 
 also worn as Richard. What thoughts peopled one's 
 mind as one gazed at these relics with the fitful firelight 
 dancing about them and painting pictures of the men 
 who had once stood in them ! 
 
 In Kemble, one thinks of the declamatory school, 
 with its partisans who hated and belittled Kean. In
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 279 
 
 Kean one saw the gipsy, who, by his genius and natural 
 acting, revolutionised the method in vogue of presenting 
 Shakespearean characters in measured, though no doubt 
 beautiful, periods, which produced an effect quite 
 opposed to all that was natural. We see his bitter 
 quarrel with Macready, his zenith and his fall ; his 
 deplorable mistake in becoming enamoured of a friend's 
 wife, and that friend an alderman ! I never think of 
 this part of Kean's career that I don't picture him as 
 having no sense of humour whatever, and sitting on a 
 baron of beef flirting with a turtle dressed in a City 
 livery ! No doubt there are very beautiful aldermen's 
 wives, but I always feel that Kean's indiscretions ought 
 to have been shared by a wonderful creature like Nell 
 . Gwynne, or a woman of the type of Lady Hamilton ! 
 
 I have a letter of this mighty little man's and it is 
 worth printing, for it shows the violent nature that 
 could even terrify his comrades at rehearsal when he 
 declaimed a passage with all the fire he possessed. 
 It is dated 1816, from the Old Boar's Head Tavern, 
 and is written of Macready, who was his rival at the 
 time, and whose star was mounting the heavens when 
 Kean's, through ill-health and drink, was as some 
 meteor that was fast burning itself out and illumining 
 only in flashes the world whose night it had so long 
 made day. It reads : — 
 
 *' Dear Sir, — What you say about me is an infernal 
 lie, and I will prove it to-night by thrusting the words 
 down the lying throat of that hound Macready. 
 
 *' Yours in pain, 
 
 " Edmund Kean."
 
 28o SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 It is a vivid little thumb-nail sketch of an undis- 
 ciplined temperament. 
 
 All that Kean did, and all that happened to him, even 
 in his decadence, is wrapt in the mantle of romance, and 
 it is for this reason, I suppose, that in reading of the 
 well-ordered, comfortable life of Garrick, I can never 
 bring myself to believe that Kean was not the greater 
 of the two in instinct, if not in technique. For great 
 genius and great respectability seldom borrow money 
 to spend with each other. 
 
 By the way, I have often wondered if the great actors 
 of the past really did cause audiences to have hysterics 
 and swoon away by the exercise of their tremendous 
 power, or whether it was that the audiences drank more 
 port in those days than they do now. Je pense ! 
 
 On the wall near Kean's boots is the ivory-hilted 
 sword he used as Brutus, with his name scratched on 
 the bright brass blade, and near by are the armlets 
 worn by his son Charles, as Sardanapalus, given me 
 by Sir Squire Bancroft— the Charles in whose arms he 
 practically died when playing Othello, and to whom, 
 with the greatest pathos, he said as he turned from the 
 audience he was to leave for ever : " Speak to them, 
 Charles ; I cannot." 
 
 Here on all sides have I personal property of the 
 great actor who flourished a hundred years later — 
 Henry Irving. In this case is the crimson rosette that 
 was pinned on his coat every night he played the 
 Burgomaster in " The Bells " ; in that case is the 
 Waterloo medal with the very pin he used to attach it 
 to his shirt by ; here are the foils he used the first night 
 he played Hamlet at the Lyceum with the Batemans ;
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 281 
 
 next it, his Macbeth dagger ; higher, his suits of 
 chain mail worn in the same tragedy ; his Coriolanus 
 armour and weapons ; set by them under glass is the 
 dress sword worn in private life by David Garrick 
 and the walking-stick that great actor used continu- 
 ously, and which became, at his death, the property of 
 the Mayor of Hampton. It was given me by my 
 friend W. L. Lestocq. Near by are the long scissors 
 Henry Irving used to cut out all his Press notices with, 
 a favourite pastime of his, especially in the provinces. 
 Many an epigram on critics must those scissors have 
 heard ! 
 
 Near them is the book he used in Becket — indeed, 
 it was the last property the great actor ever held in 
 his hand ; above it the letter he used in " The Vicar 
 of Wakefield," and the last property Ellen Terry ever 
 handed to him before they parted ; here, the cast of his 
 wonderful hand by Onslow Ford; and, on a platform 
 guarded by a silken cord, the chair that he breathed his 
 last on, that night at Bradford, when a hush fell over 
 England at the news of the death of one of her giants. 
 
 I hung the first programme his name ever appeared 
 on as an actor at Sunderland next that announcing 
 his farewell performance at Bradford. In the space 
 between the frames, imagination can see a life of 
 struggle and ultimate triumph, the distance being laurel- 
 spread in the later years. Those two programmes are 
 wonderful mementoes, the first crying out " I am," 
 the second " I was." 
 
 Charles Wyndham's shoe -buckles and knee-clips 
 that he wore regularly in the part of David Garrick 
 are here, and with them a pair of his pince-nez which
 
 282 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 I took from him one night at supper, also the pince-nez 
 Henry Irving used to make up with at his last perform- 
 ance at the Lyceum, and the plate of the private door 
 that he put his key into for seventeen years at that 
 historic house. Near to this is the last pen William 
 Terriss wrote with just before his death, and the Victoria 
 Cross that he used to protect nightly in " One of the 
 Best," to the frantic applause of a mighty Adelphi 
 audience. Next these treasures is the stick Toole used 
 in " The Spitalfields Weaver " ; there a rare print of 
 Rachel, and close to it a document ordering candles 
 for the auditorium of Drury Lane Theatre and signed 
 by Wilkes, Booth, and Colley Cibber himself, the two 
 former being ancestors of the actor Wilkes Booth, who 
 shot President Lincoln in the theatre at Washington. 
 
 In writing Cibber's name one is reminded of the 
 wittiest thing he ever said, adding excellence by the 
 quickness of the repartee. He had been invited to 
 supper with the Dukes of Buckingham and Rochester, 
 with whom he was on intimate terms. He was kept 
 late at the theatre and arrived half-an-hour late for 
 the appointment, for which he apologised. Rochester 
 begged him not to concern himself, saying : " We 
 have been occupying the time very pleasantly dis- 
 cussing you." Cibber said he was highly honoured, 
 and inquired the nature of the conversation. " Well, 
 Colley," said Buckingham, " we have been wondering 
 whether you would be hanged or die a lingering death," 
 " Ah," said Cibber, quick as thought, " that depends 
 on whether I adopt your lordships' principles or your 
 mistresses'." 
 
 Here is Ellen Terry's coral necklace that she wore as
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 283 
 
 Olivia the first night she ever played the part and ever 
 afterwards ; here is Adelaide Neilson's dagger that hung 
 at her waist in "Twelfth Night," in a case close by 
 the last property that genius Fred Leslie ever held in 
 his hand (the will of Don Carlos Salluste), speak- 
 ing of Gladstone as William Ewart Sorrypebble ; the 
 pipe J. M. Barrie smoked as he wrote " Quality Street " 
 is near by ; and a glove of Kate Vaughan's, two yards 
 long, is on the mantelpiece ; the knife Tree used as 
 Shylock, which he kindly gave me, has an honoured 
 place ; the ducat given by Sir James Linton to Henry 
 Irving and used by him in the same part, with the 
 14th century clasp of Shylock's bag ; John Philip 
 Kemble's Star of the Garter; a decoration worn by 
 Mounet Sully ; the cloak worn by Irving as Benedick, 
 and his Richard III. first act dress; a snuff-box that 
 Sothern carried on in " Garrick " ; a chatelaine worn by 
 that master John Hare as Sir Peter Teazle ; my wife's 
 shoes that she wore as Cinderella, and Lady Bancroft's 
 tiny pair she wore as Peg Woffington ; and a hundred 
 mementoes of this kind which filled my room with 
 ghosts, to all of whom I have often reverently lifted my 
 hat, and felt how humble I am and should be in the 
 presence of these men and women whose boots I am not 
 fit to brush. 
 
 One case I have omitted to mention is a shallow one 
 containing the fur cap worn by the unrivalled Coquelin 
 for forty years in the part of Gringoire. Coquelin was 
 always extremely kind to me. My admiration for him 
 was unbounded, and in the later years of his life, I am 
 happy to say, I met him a good deal. 
 
 The last time I saw him act was in "Cyrano," at
 
 284 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Liverpool, when he ran up there to play a flying matinee. 
 He did not seem very well then and appeared to be 
 losing his vitality, but his powerful, pug-like face with 
 the little twinkling eyes, and those lips which added 
 music to Edmond Rostand's song, were there just as of 
 old. When I first was introduced to him, some six years 
 ago, I had no idea that he knew that such a nonentity 
 in art as myself existed ; but he had seen me play in 
 nearly everything I had done, and in discussing " The 
 Catch of the Season " and Scrooge together, he said, 
 " I cannot describe you — you are a pousse cafe. You 
 are a kind of your own — when Hicks is dead it is all 
 finished." 
 
 I have often heard it said that he was very vain. I 
 never saw the slightest trace of it ; on the contrary, he 
 was the most simple man imaginable. One night he 
 discussed with me the lack of vigorous acting on the 
 English stage and the general prevalence of reserved 
 force. 
 
 " Sometimes," said Coquelin, " I go and witness a 
 scene of great emotions calling for a passionate appeal 
 or a furious denunciation ; but the English actors are 
 growing to act too little with their hearts and too much 
 with their heads, so that I leave the theatre as if I had 
 been present at the telling of some family secret which 
 I should not have overheard." 
 
 His views on the staging of Shakespeare in England, 
 when he dealt with the supernatural effects they called 
 for, were highly interesting. For instance, he told me 
 he could not understand why we English always insisted 
 on the materialising of the Ghost in Hamlet, which he 
 held to be ludicrous and lacking in imagination. The
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 285 
 
 Ghost, he urged, should be a ray of light, or a voice, no 
 more ; and he complained greatly of the overmuch 
 gesture used by most English actors when they are in 
 the Ghost's presence. Coquelin explained to me that 
 as the greatest fear is expressed by inaction of the body, 
 a fixed gesture of the hand, and a terror of the eye, 
 this method should be more universally adopted in so 
 awe-inspiring a scene. The French actor illustrated to 
 me his idea of real terror, and indeed his eyes painted 
 a picture for me, while a hand outstretched (not too far 
 from his body) seemed to push off the invisible. He 
 was a great man. The story is told of him that one 
 night, as Irving's guest at the old Beefsteak room at the 
 Lyceum, he was explaining how next season he intended 
 playing a round of his host's most famous parts — 
 Richard, Benedick, Dubosque, etc., etc. He waxed 
 enthusiastic, and Irving said nothing till he had finished, 
 when he picked up a fork, and gently tapping Coquelin's 
 stomach (which was very fat) slyly whispered, " Would 
 you ? " 
 
 My first meeting with the foremost of French actors, 
 M. Guitry, was an amusing one. I had, of course, often 
 seen him play, but generally in make-ups. One night 
 at the Aldwych, Mr. Griinebaum, the well-known cigar 
 merchant, a friend of his and mine (a man who supplies 
 widowers with more weeds than does any dressmaker 
 for the gentler sex), came to my dressing-room in 
 company with a tall, charming man who only spoke 
 French, and whose name I did not catch. My French 
 is extremely poor, but I gathered he was paying me 
 compliments. I took him down on to the stage, and 
 let him listen to the band rehearsing two new songs.
 
 286 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 I explained the mechanism of the theatre ; showed him 
 the turn-up seats ; how the electric light resistances 
 worked on the electrician's table; how the curtain was 
 rung up and down, etc. When he left I discovered, 
 to my horror, that it was Guitry. I had only been 
 showing the A B C of the theatre to a master of 
 his art who had forgotten more than I knew. I walked 
 about kicking myself for days, and since then have 
 always made a point of paying particular attention to 
 names on an introduction. 
 
 He mentioned to me, I remember, that he was 
 travelling for rest and recreation, and I told him the 
 story of the great clown Grimaldi, who, going in a state 
 of great depression to a specialist in Wimpole Street, 
 was told that there was nothing really the matter with 
 him at all — what he wanted was rousing up. " Go 
 to the theatre, my dear, good sir," said the doctor. 
 " Go and have a good laugh, that's all you want. 
 Go and see Grimaldi." " I am Grimaldi," said the 
 clown, dejectedly. Guitry had not heard the story 
 before, he said — or perhaps, he never meant in such 
 bad French. 
 
 Such is life ! An American humorist described it 
 once as meeting a man, having a drink, and saying 
 good-bye ; but I am more inclined to agree with another 
 who said it was *' one infernal thing happening after 
 another," which was much what the cow must have 
 thought that Edward Terry kept as poor law relief when 
 he was churchwarden at Barnes. This willing English 
 rival of Nestle's Swiss milk was located in a field near 
 the adjacent churchyard, and all the poor who came to 
 the kindly actor in distress were given a jug — so the
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 287 
 
 story goes — and an order rang out, in the finest " Dick 
 Phenyl " jerks, to " Go along and milk the cow." The 
 scarcity of grass at Barnes, and the continual drain on 
 Nature's resources, became such a worry to the part of 
 a herd condemned to low alone, that one morning it 
 was found to have strayed through the hedge into God's 
 acre. It was standing on a grave eating a wreath of 
 immortelles and had nibbled its way well into the 
 
 middle of the " Sacred to the memory of " before 
 
 it was led back to await another batch of customers. 
 
 This tale may be much what Mark Twain wrote in 
 answer to the false report of his death — greatly exag- 
 gerated — but it is funny enough to set down as fact ; 
 just as is, I think, the story of the old actor and the 
 young actor who were told to go on in a front scene 
 and hold five minutes' impromptu conversation, so as 
 to give the stage-manager time to set a big set that was 
 not ready. The young actor became panic-stricken, and 
 protested it was impossible, but the old actor reassured 
 him, saying : " Nonsense, laddie ; I'll stand by you. I'll 
 do everything ; don't be frightened ! Bank on me." 
 
 Reassured, and depending on the elder man's experi- 
 ence to talk sense enough for the audience not to dis- 
 cover the author was receiving five minutes of marginal 
 notes, the timid youth followed his old-time comrade 
 on the stage, nearly to fall down in a fit when he heard 
 the onus of the whole of the dialogue to be invented 
 put upon his shoulders. The wily old man waited till 
 the young man was well in the middle of the stage, 
 and then turning his back on the audience he exclaimed, 
 sympathetically — 
 
 " And so, fair youth, you say your sister was ruined
 
 288 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 by a Spanish count. Come, tell me the whole sad 
 story of her undoing ! " 
 
 History doesn't relate if the audience ever heard of 
 this illicit amour ; but I should think the young man's 
 reticence was due not so much to the fact that decency 
 forbade him as to a parched tongue, a pain in his 
 middle, and knees that clicked together like a pair of 
 castanets. 
 
 I knew an old actor of the above type who, falling on 
 evil times, became content to lead the supers and play 
 small bits, or " responsibles," as this line of business is 
 known. During the year he joined a goose club, so as 
 to be able to be sure of having a bird with sage and 
 apple sauce, and a bottle of whisky when the festive 
 season for these things came round. The night that he 
 went to receive his prizes he became somewhat elated 
 with the conviviality around him, and started for home 
 with unsteady steps, carrying the goose under one arm 
 and the bottle of spirits under the other. Arriving at 
 Hungerford Bridge he was asked for the then usual 
 halfpenny toll. In searching for it in his waistcoat 
 pocket with his left hand, the bottle slipped from under 
 his left arm and was smashed to atoms. This let his 
 passion loose, and not being in a condition to reason 
 with himself and make the least possible of the mis- 
 fortune, he began to grumble incoherently across the 
 bridge, cursing the toll, the bridge, and the whisky 
 itself. By the time he had reached the middle of the 
 footpath he had worked himself into such a rage at his 
 loss that he said, "Whisky . . . bottle whisky . . . 
 broken, gone . . . whisky . . . gone ... for ever 
 . . . whisky toll . . . bridge . . . whisky . . . gone
 
 NATIONAL AND PERSONAL 289 
 
 . . . Oh ! Damn the goose too !" and proceeded to fling 
 the unoffending bird over the parapet into the greedy 
 Thames. He arrived home late. His wife saw him 
 empty-handed. 
 
 " Where is the whisky ?" she inquired. 
 
 ** Smashed ! " said the inebriated old gentleman. 
 " Smashed . . . toll halfpenny . . . broke on bridge 
 ... all soaked into the ground . . . couldn't mop it 
 up." 
 
 '* But where's the goose ? " asked his anxious spouse. 
 
 " Oh ! the goose ... oh ! the goose ! . . . Ah ! that 
 depends on the tide. It may be at Greenwich, it may 
 be at Maidenhead. ..." 
 
 S,H,
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHY shouldn't I . . .? 
 
 Before sending these pages to the printers' devil, who, 
 no doubt, feels I too am related to the Covent Garden 
 fruiterer who sold Adam a bad apple, I cannot help 
 alluding to the quantity of letters which I receive from 
 the blossoms and the buds of England, asking for advice 
 as to the best way to go about adopting the stage as a 
 profession. To all and everyone I have generally said with 
 Lear, " Think again, Cordelia." It is only the business 
 of the dramatic agent and the dramatic art school to 
 throw open a pair of octopus-like tentacles and squeeze 
 the aspirant's pockets, without much thought of the 
 qualifications of the individual marked A. F. in Schedule 
 D. B. of their books. The letters of inquiry I open 
 begin, '* How can I," etc. My reply is, " Why do 
 you," etc. I wonder who it was made the stage the 
 refuge of artistic sinners. The liberal professions are 
 only called so because they are so generous in handing 
 the stage their failures. But who was the optimistic 
 prophet who preached to the halting, the weary, and 
 the tame the gospel of the Temple of Thespis, saying : 
 *' Oh, thou who art all unfitted for anything thou 
 hast set or art about to set thy hands to, hie thee to an 
 enclosed space which is called the Theatre, and there 
 sitting, behold the exercising of a profession the easiness 
 of which has never before been seen.
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 291 
 
 " Flinging your drachmas boldly to him of the curved 
 beak who, proud of his face and ashamed of his legs, 
 sits from sunrise till the twilight selling tickets to the 
 unwary; — go study these players for one long week, and 
 then see with what ease they earn princely incomes. 
 Watch the dancer ; see, 'tis but the wagging of a foot — 
 have you not a foot ? Is it so difficult to wag ? See 
 the maiden with a rustling skirt — have you not skirts, 
 can you not rustle ? Listen to the singer of the song of 
 fun — have you not voices, cannot you buy lyrical mirth 
 as well as he you see ? 
 
 " Take up your household gods, then, and leave your 
 difficult professions for this easy one — buy hair for the 
 head and unguents for the face ; change your togas every 
 time you fling yourself before the public gaze, and then 
 will come the riches of Croesus, the society of princes, 
 and the plaudits of the eager and appreciative mob." 
 
 Who, in Heaven's name, was this owl ? 
 
 " What are the chances of gaining distinction or a 
 livelihood on the stage ? " I am often asked. 
 
 I can only hope in answering this question to do so 
 in the very simplest manner possible, avoiding academic 
 discussion, or propounding theories which I have no 
 doubt far cleverer people than myself could easily brush 
 aside. I suppose that of all the arts there is not one of 
 which the public knows so little and of which there are 
 so many erroneous ideas. Why this should be it is 
 difficult to understand, for an audience at the theatre 
 has perhaps greater opportunities than any other class 
 of students to examine this particular art continuously 
 and watch the best of its exponents actually at work. But 
 so the fact remains, that, as a rule, although a layman 
 
 u 2
 
 292 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 may have been an ardent playgoer for fifty years 
 or more, once he steps through the iron door leading 
 from the stalls to the prompter's box, he will probably 
 be found to know as little of the real side of the actor's 
 life, his worries, his struggles, and the conditions under 
 which he plays, as a child who has been taken to the 
 pantomime for the first time. To the laymen, there- 
 fore, the iron door is the key to a China-town where 
 the habits, customs, and mode of daily life are different 
 from those of any other calling. The rules which 
 govern the theatre never have been and never can be 
 set down. For, generally, cases that arise in this com- 
 munity are dealt with by the individuals themselves, 
 who can only hope, not for the advice of their fellows, 
 but at best the armed neutrality of their friends, even if 
 they are lucky enough to escape the fierceness of a fight 
 from which few emerge unhurt, to bear tidings of 
 victory to the town. 
 
 How many I wonder would commit so heroic — I was 
 almost going to write desperate — an act as to peep 
 behind the green baize curtains, and, peeping, step 
 among the scenery, and, stepping there, want to remain 
 if they knew that for the twelve actors who stand 
 around them there were twelve times twelve hungering 
 at the stage door eager through necessity to underbid 
 each other, and in taking less salary to attempt harder 
 work ; in fact, to do anything to take the place of any 
 one of the twelve just mentioned — so great is the com- 
 petition. Is it because of the ignorance of the condi- 
 tions that surround the theatre, I wonder, or the fact that 
 everything looks so happy when the lights are up and 
 the band is playing, that so many an occupant of the
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 293 
 
 auditorium, from the velvet stalls to the dear old 
 gallery, thinks it so easy to become, and succeed as, an 
 actor ? Ignorance and vanity, I suppose (for we are all 
 vain in degrees), and the fact of there being no standard 
 with which to compare the gems which we think we 
 are bringing to a profession is that which makes it more 
 difficult to convince the eager aspirants for dramatic 
 honours of their lack of capability. 
 
 The draughtsman can hold his copy next the original, 
 and his own eyes tell him what his friends may not have 
 done ; the amateur author writes, and a business firm 
 will refuse publication, a hard criticism which is perhaps 
 the kindest there could be if the leaving of steady 
 employment is contemplated ; a woman may sing, and 
 find she cannot reach the note she would — that informs 
 her of her shortcoming ; but the budding actor or 
 actress create their own comparison, naturally not 
 unfavourably to themselves ; and who can say " You lack 
 this or that " with any degree of definiteness ? There 
 is no Plimsoll mark in our art to say " Yes" or " No " 
 by. The weights and measures of fitness, even were 
 they made, have not yet the Conservatoire built in which 
 to keep them. The thought that comes to the stalls or 
 to any section of the audience of ** Oh, I could do it as 
 well as that," while a performance is being watched, 
 has only to have the mother's or the friend's echo, 
 " Yes, my darhng, I believe you could," and the weed 
 that destroys is sown. 
 
 And the next stage in this sad, eventful history is the 
 Amateur Dramatic Club (which for professional pur- 
 poses is about as useless as anything could possibly well 
 be), and then the wild career is started and the young
 
 294 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Thespian walks in unarmed, to do battle in perhaps the 
 most desperate fight that rages in any of the profes- 
 sions, not excluding the oft and most quoted case of the 
 Bar. 
 
 The whole subject is so comprehensive that it would 
 be indeed difficult to deal with it in anything like a 
 thorough manner in so short a space, and all I can do 
 is to try and tell you, whether you be the would-be 
 artist or his parent, some of the difficulties to be 
 encountered. You find yourself suddenly on the floor 
 of a sort of artistic stone-house at Omdurman, where a 
 man who falls seldom gets up. If only one person is 
 saved from entering the most appalling of professions 
 for those who are its failures, any trouble this poor effort 
 has put me to is repaid many times over. The aspirants 
 for theatrical honours, be they young or old, and, 
 unfortunately, they are of all ages, from the hopeful 
 ingenue of forty-three to the passionate beginner of 
 fifty-five, seldom, if ever, ask themselves, " Why should 
 I be an actor ? " but generally, " Why should I not 
 be one ? " And here comes the first puzzler, for it 
 is as difficult to say why he should not as it was for 
 Lord Kelvin, at the end of a learned discourse on 
 electricity, to answer the question of the child of five, 
 who lisped gently, " What is electricity ? " 
 
 The aspirants will say as they read this, " Is the 
 stage the only profession which is appalling for its 
 failures ? Are not all professions equally so for the 
 failures that are necessarily in them ? " And here one 
 can answer more readily, and almost without hesita- 
 tion, " No ! " for the morass to which that will-o'-the- 
 wisp, the footlights, leads on its victims is one, perhaps,
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 295 
 
 which has no equal. It is that Bourne End from which 
 no traveller ever returns, even on a Monday. Men 
 may throw aside the sword for the barrister's wig, a 
 literary career for that of a mining expert, the position 
 of a younger son at home for the Church militant 
 abroad ; but once let a man hear a round of applause 
 for an individual effort (generally undeserved, by the 
 way), let him have stood for one short hour, dressed as 
 some great soldier in a drama, under the glaring sun 
 of an open lime, and nothing will ever make him give 
 up the calling which he thinks has been his since the 
 hour of his birth, nothing will make him fit for 5 another 
 and totally different profession. 
 
 The whole atmosphere of the stage is artificial, the 
 question is one purely of temperament ; and so, once 
 the eager amateur has put his hand to the till, he 
 becomes, like the fraudulent cashier, unable to let go of 
 it. There are no regular business hours during the 
 day. Rehearsals are a movable feast, especially under 
 the banner of an actor manager, and as there are no 
 auditors of an actor's time, and accuracy as to quality 
 and quantity are only needed in the absolute business 
 of acting, the general conditions are those of every 
 man his own master. The pleasant companionship of 
 one's fellows, even during the hard work necessary for 
 the presentation of a play, is so happy and congenial, 
 as a rule, lightened as the burden is by a jest here or 
 a kindness there, and the society of the many brilliant 
 people who either write or work for the stage, makes 
 the return of the business man to the city, after having 
 once tasted the charm of work away from the drudgery 
 of daily routine, obviously a thing not to be expected.
 
 296 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 I do not intend in writing to say nothing but ** Don't, 
 don't, don't," but before any young man or woman 
 makes up his or her mind to "rush in where artists 
 fear to tread," I want them to think why they wish to 
 be an actor ? 
 
 The majority of the letters I have received (as every- 
 one does, doubtless, whose name is at all familiar to 
 the public), with the object of getting advice as to 
 adopting the stage as a profession, have come from 
 clerks in good permanent work, soldiers who are sick 
 of soldiering, girls who are one of a large family and 
 must do something, and the " Pittite " I love, who has 
 earned distinction at the local amateur club of which 
 he is a member. One soldier's reason for becoming 
 an actor is generally the same as his ten other friends 
 who wish to forsake the army for the stage. It gene- 
 rally runs as follows : " You see, I have just come back 
 from India ; I cannot afford to live at home in a line 
 regiment ; and my father can't afford to give me an 
 allowance, I am determined to throw it over and become 
 an actor — rather jolly don't you think so ? I know I am 
 all right, because our Colonel's wife, who knew Wilson 
 Barrett rather well ten years ago, told me I was 
 topping, and mind you she's a judge ! We did the 
 ' Mikado ' at Poona, and a lot of fellows who were 
 there said it was ever so much better than the Savoy — 
 in fact I did more than Gilbert intended." And so on 
 and on and on, saying nothing to urge his proficiency for 
 his new task, only probably showing his deficiency for 
 his old one. Given that the young lady mentioned 
 who wishes to act does not do so from inordinate 
 vanity, which alas ! is only too often the case, her
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 297 
 
 reason is a praiseworthy one, if nothing else, outside 
 the artistic merits of the case. There are five at home ; 
 one is a governess, one is a typewriter, one paints, one 
 does nothing, so she must do something. She is a 
 pretty creature, gentle of manner and soft of voice- 
 She dances very nicely with straight feet, her little 
 imitation of some popular star is ladylike in the 
 extreme, and while she smilingly sings last year's coon 
 success with a Panama hat, trimmed with lilies of the 
 valley, she asks you, "Shall I do any more?" Is it 
 possible to say " No, my dear, you, with your gentle 
 manners and promise of little, are totally unfitted for 
 the struggles and disappointments you are so anxious 
 to rush into." One has not the heart to, so something 
 kind is murmured, and the next thing you hear of her 
 is that she is walking on at a guinea a week at some 
 fashionable theatre, and has been promised an under- 
 study. And so she, like so many others, starts off 
 towards a phantom Klondike totally unequipped, and 
 when the hard lesson is learned, totally unfitted for any 
 other occupation. 
 
 One may ask then, what are the attributes of the 
 actor ? How can anyone know whether to adopt the 
 stage as a profession or not ? I suppose there is no 
 calling that asks so many perfections. Personal 
 appearance, which, next to that magic called 
 " magnetism," is the first thing to look for, a fine voice, 
 grace of manner, a sense of humour (oh, look for that 
 in every corner of your being), a strong constitution, a 
 capacity for grappling with every difficulty, a courage 
 to face the bitterest disappointments, and a knowledge 
 of men and women off the stage, for till success is
 
 298 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 reached, and very often then, an actor's Hfe unfortunatelj^ 
 is, and must be, a clever all day show. These are the 
 attributes, and at once I hear the eager aspirant for 
 Thespian honours say, " Is Mr. So-and-so such a fine 
 fellow to look at, that Bassano's English types of 
 Beauty fade into insignificance ? Voice ! Good 
 heavens ! Has the great Mr. Smith got a voice ? Sense 
 of humour ! Would the successful Mr. What's-his- 
 name display himself as a Roman Lictor if he possessed 
 a particle of it ? Grace of manner ! Has the great Mr. 
 Jones got it?" and so on. No! I do not say any of 
 them have any of these things in a superlative degree, 
 far from it perhaps, but then they are successful because 
 they have the one great quality which can dispense 
 with every attribute — " magnetism." Be possessed of 
 that only, and you can almost afford to forget all the 
 rest. Be without it, and you may earn a living so long 
 as your youth and good looks are with you. Sixty 
 minutes of cleverness without magnetism leaves you 
 pleased but unmoved ; fifty minutes of magnetism will 
 bring in its wake ten with something extraordinary. 
 You have not noticed the length of the fifty, you have 
 praised the hour thankfully for its ten. No successful 
 artist has ever been without it, and I doubt if it is 
 possible to fail to have a knowledge of its presence in 
 watching a beginner, even though his efforts are crude, 
 and, as they must of necessity be without experience, 
 naturally faulty. And so it must be apparent very 
 easily, even to the lay mind, that to find a reason for 
 advising an individual not to go upon the stage is well- 
 nigh impossible, for where by ocular demonstration 
 you can prove to him, her, or it that they are lacking
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 299 
 
 in all the natural requirements before mentioned, they 
 at the end of your uninterested harangue can turn and, 
 agreeing with you in everything you have said, reply : 
 " You are quite right, but I have magnetism." 
 
 And who is to convince them they have not that 
 magic which is a thing, not of substance and of no 
 tangible shape or form. It only remains therefore, 
 before trying to help the budding Thespian on his way, 
 to point out, not the reasons for his giving up what he 
 cherishes, but a few of the circumstances which really 
 surround a calling of which he, as an ordinary playgoer, 
 can have no possible idea. Do not think I am unkind ; 
 indeed, there are so many interested people, agents, 
 promoters of theatrical syndicates, and a hundred 
 others, ready to tell you, if you have the money to 
 invest, of all the charms of the stage as a profession, 
 that one is almost tempted to err on the side of painting 
 the difficulties in darker colours than one need, to 
 counterbalance the other side of the picture. The 
 enthusiast's general impression of the stage is Fairy- 
 land as a rule ; beautiful music, lovely ladies, magnifi- 
 cent clothes, the adulation of the multitude, the praise 
 of an always enthusiastic and encouraging Press, and 
 his fellow- workers helping him at every turn. A day 
 which is his own, a night in which his vanity is tickled 
 by the applause of an admiring public, London all the 
 working year, his holiday on the Riviera, and peace at 
 last in Westminster Abbey, where a yearly pilgrimage 
 is made by a remembering majority, who, dropping their 
 blossoms with their noisy tear, file sorrowfully away, 
 and with bated breath whisper one to the other, "When 
 shall we see his like again ? " '* What ! " cries the
 
 300 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 enthusiast, " in life can compare with this ? " Always 
 en evidence, and a memory perpetuated. Indeed 
 for all who like this sort of thing, would that it 
 were so. 
 
 The whole subject — how to go on it, and why to keep 
 off it — is so very large that in re-reading what I have 
 written I feel I am hardly answering the off-repeated 
 question as to whether there is a possibility of distinc- 
 tion or even a livelihood on it as a profession. Charles 
 Dickens' answer about there being " plenty of room at 
 the top" of course holds in everything. On the stage 
 there is plenty of room — hotels full of it — but the 
 gap between distinction and mediocrity, and a living, 
 are so wide and so deep that they will accommodate 
 legions who fall, and greedily " cry for more." The 
 question of luck I think can be ruled aside without a 
 thought in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred. A man 
 or woman has just to make the opportunity and then 
 take it, and the hundreds of unsuccessful actors and 
 actresses who have not succeeded have done so because, 
 alas ! they should never have hoped for success. It 
 may seem hard to write so, but I do this to beg the 
 lady or gentleman who is anxious to act not to think it 
 an easy profession simply because through its lack of 
 competitive examination it is open to all comers. Given, 
 too, that a man or woman be clever, it is not possible as 
 an actor or actress to do what a painter or singer can 
 do in the sister arts. Paper and ink in a garret is all 
 that is needed by the clever musician, canvas and oils 
 by the artist, and their work is on view to the highest 
 bidder. But the actor is unable to exercise his art or 
 show his fitness without the elaborate and expensive
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 301 
 
 accessories of the theatre, which run into thousands of 
 pounds ; and so, even though he has the power, he must 
 wait and wait, and perhaps then never get the oppor- 
 tunity of showing what is in him unless he have the 
 business capability after waiting, as I say, for Heaven 
 knows how long, to find a frame for his portrayal of the 
 human passions. And let it never be forgotten that 
 waiting and starving are very frequently brother and 
 sister. 
 
 Briefly this is the gloomy side of a fascinating life 
 where, if success be attained, the pleasure is, I venture 
 to think, equalled by few other delights in this world. 
 
 Personally I have only to be profoundly grateful to 
 the public for allowing me to entertain them. My 
 talents are by no means out of the ordinary, and as to 
 why I have been treated so kindly in my work I do not 
 seek to ask, lest it might send droves of young people 
 into what I would try to keep them from. 
 
 But let us look now on the brighter side of the theatre 
 when the opportunity has been made and has been 
 taken, and success is at the helm and all going well : 
 where the young lady and gentleman have under sound 
 advice, and after grave consideration, become actors 
 and are succeeding. And they will succeed if they 
 have talent ; nothing in the world can hold them back, 
 the art of acting being such a rare gift that there are 
 always a hundred managers with telescopes on the 
 theatrical horizon scanning it eagerly for any strange 
 craft that looks likely. Let no one imagine for a 
 moment that the object of the powers that be in a 
 theatre enterprise is to keep the young blood back ; 
 indeed the first hope of the manager is that one of the
 
 302 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 extra young people who walk on and play small parts 
 can understudy — and here comes their chance — but, 
 alas, how few are found of the slightest use ! What is 
 the percentage that it is obviously impossible to attempt 
 to mould into anything ? A very large one, unfortu- 
 nately, I know from experience. But given that the 
 beginner has the instinct of acting, and has chosen his 
 profession rightly, it is certain that with hard work he 
 can earn a living, and if he has more than the ordinary 
 aptitude, then he cannot fail to win distinction, for 
 once he has shaken off the ruck around him in the race, 
 he will find that at the distance he has a very limited 
 number of competitors. Don't let anyone discourage 
 him, and don't act anywhere for the sake of acting. At 
 the outset the beginner is bound to make mistakes, but 
 let him do it among those by whom they can be 
 corrected. 
 
 And now, before I bring this inadequate answer to a 
 close, let me tender a few words of advice, which 
 perhaps may be of service to the young persons who 
 are getting a living, and we hope ultimately distinction. 
 Never listen to praise of any kind whatever, unless it 
 comes — and then it will come in a sensible and digni- 
 fied form — from someone by whose judgment you set 
 great store. Never allow yourself to develop an eager- 
 ness for reading Press criticism ; one bad notice will 
 live in your memory for months, and make you self- 
 conscious at some portion of the plsij, continually most 
 probably, and not all the good notices will erase the 
 knowledge of it from your mind. If you read them, 
 get to know who it is writes them, and then you will 
 feel that the gentlemen who are criticising you are doing
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 303 
 
 so with the idea of helping you ; make a point of always 
 buying those particular papers, and hope as you open 
 them that you have pleased those whose judgment you 
 have elected to stand by. But as for reading and 
 taking notice of all that is written about you, why you 
 would be compelled, were you sensitive, either to leave 
 the stage at once or become a candidate for the nearest 
 asylum. Don't, because you happen to have adopted 
 the stage as a profession, become outre in your dress 
 and manners. Acting is paid for by the public when 
 they see it on the stage — not off it. Try and be as kind 
 as you possibly can to everyone, and especially those 
 that are not doing as well as you happen to be ; and 
 above all, be loyal to those for whom you work. 
 
 And lastly, in dealing with a question that is hurled 
 at the stage by the Nonconformist Conscience, and the 
 wilfully bigoted and ignorant non-theatre goer, " What 
 of the theatre's morals ? " let them be answered at once 
 by " What of the world's morals ? " The condition of 
 the theatre is absolutely that of any other comnmnity, 
 and I cannot recall a single instance of the downfall of any 
 young girl because of her connection with the theatre, 
 and I have acted continuously in London for four-and- 
 twenty years. If a girl is flighty and silly that she ' 
 will be, no matter where she goes ; and so, if you are a 
 parent or guardian, have no fears on this score. If 
 trouble ever comes, don't make the theatre the excuse, 
 but be sure that in nearly every case the same would 
 have happened had the playhouse never been entered. 
 And do not jump at hasty conclusions because actresses 
 (and I mean actresses, not people who make the theatre 
 a shop window for themselves, and by foolish behaviour
 
 304 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 bring discredit on a very large number of women) per- 
 haps go about unchaperoned, and in a more open manner 
 than is usual in society. It is in many cases a necessity 
 that they should do so, and there are comradeships 
 between working men and working women which are 
 nothing more than sincere friendships, born of sympathy 
 and respect, and the pleasure of which can never be 
 known outside the artist's life, and so never understood 
 by those who have not to earn their living under similar 
 circumstances. 
 
 If — and I hope only after mature consideration, dear 
 reader — you do elect to become an actor, let me impress 
 on you, Be jealous of your profession, which is a beauti- 
 ful one, and guard its traditions as a precious thing. 
 I grieve to say there are many actors and actresses at 
 the present time who do not trouble to realise that the 
 actor's art is exactly on the same level with all that is 
 best in the possession of her sister goddesses. They 
 exercise no care in their public behaviour, being quite 
 content to make shows of themselves in the most 
 undignified and reprehensible manner. 
 
 These are not the old actors and actresses who are 
 ladies and gentlemen, with a very definite sense as to the 
 fitness of what should and what should not be in connec- 
 tion with their profession, but the youth who joins our 
 ranks encouraged by a certain class of artist, who either 
 through ignorance or bad breeding make themselves a 
 laughing-stock, and hold up to ridicule a large body of 
 earnest, thoughtful men and women, who have watched 
 a calling grow into a great profession, and a garden, 
 where at one time there was little sunshine, weeded for 
 a quarter of a century by that patient gardener Henry
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 305 
 
 Irving, and freed from the tangle of prejudice and mis- 
 representation which smothered its flowers and grew on 
 its paths. In all walks of life, which have no competi- 
 tive examination for entry to them, persons of various 
 kinds and conditions make a sort of Tom Tiddler's 
 ground where they think they will — unless they are 
 stopped by those already in possession of the land. It 
 is impossible to prevent a servant girl going " on the 
 stige and becoming a h' Actress,'' but she must not be 
 allowed to behave outrageously when she arrives there. 
 Low comedians, the majority of whom had they not 
 thus labelled themselves would doubtless be popular 
 potmen at Islington, and probably not too popular at 
 that, should also be made to understand that their 
 behaviour at public functions is not to be tolerated for 
 a moment. Ignorance is no plea in law, and the letting 
 loose without a keeper of numberless of this kind is 
 like turning a gang of gutter children into Cartier's 
 shop, leaving them to toss precious stones about, 
 and then plead that they did not know the value. The 
 entertainments at which these people, who ought to be 
 chloroformed out of existence, do their edifying work 
 are charity bazaars, comic (?) football matches, comic 
 sports (?) and comic (?) cricket (which is neither 
 comic nor cricket), and charity fetes, which are quite 
 unnecessary, except for the amusement of a peculiar set 
 of nobodies who live their lives forming themselves into 
 committees, because their lack of theatrical engagements 
 permits them to find time to do so. 
 
 Money for theatrical charities is to be obtained quite 
 easily in the place it ought to be obtained, the theatre, 
 and nowhere else. Does the undignified behaviour to 
 
 S.H. X
 
 3o6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 be witnessed at the Botanical Gardens each year come 
 about through the lack of a definite head to our pro- 
 fession since the death of Henry Irving ? I see all the 
 best known actors and managers, with only one or two 
 exceptions, look on with mortification at the lack of taste 
 and thought displayed ; but no one will raise a voice or 
 a plea for alteration — all they do is to stay away. The 
 shrug of the shoulders or the what's-to-be-done attitude 
 adopted by the so-called leaders of the stage means that 
 they shirk their responsibilities in not combating these 
 entertainments which in charity's name are in reality 
 only an opportunity for the airing of the vanities of 
 veteran ingenues that the footlights know but seldom. 
 I say " under the guise of charity," and I mean it. If 
 there were no other way of obtaining money for a really 
 good cause, then the means to an end would not be 
 questioned, but when ;^3,ooo can be picked up any 
 afternoon by a theatrical performance by star artists, 
 to see one's comrades making tomfools of themselves 
 in broad daylight, riding on camels and collecting 
 pennies for Aggie, which I had the pain and mortifica- 
 tion of witnessing — to see actors trimming hats and 
 dressing hair — is a thing that makes one's blood boil. 
 Were these functions confined to flower-stalls and such 
 like nothing could be said against them, but these 
 ordinary bazaar-like attractions would not give scope 
 enough to the matinee idol who wants to play comic 
 croquet and be on view to a contemptuous Brixton if 
 he only knew it ; or the comedian who, after struggling 
 all the year like a sea-trout on a Castleconnel rod to 
 get a laugh on the stage, makes one more desperate 
 effort to attract attention off it — forgetting all the time
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 307 
 
 that the suburbs are looking at him saying : " Dear me ! 
 is that all he does ? " Or, if haply they are not looking 
 at him, but are peeping under the hat of the latest 
 picture beauty, only to leave her with : " Oh, my ! not 
 half as pretty as we thought ! " 
 
 One cannot blame some of the pretty young ladies 
 who attend these glorified bean-feasts ; their only 
 fault is they have never stopped to think. Neither 
 must one be too hard on the ill-bred simpletons who 
 collect pennies from off an animal who must have 
 had a larger hump than usual that afternoon at the use 
 it was being put to, and it would be unkind to blame 
 those whose one afternoon it is. 
 
 But there are many who ought to know better ; they 
 are to blame as men of position for making exhibitions 
 of themselves, and just as blameworthy are the many 
 actors whom I have heard holding forth on the subject 
 in private, and only make a silent protest in public. It 
 is the duty of us all to do everything to stop these 
 sports and pastimes, and instead act for our charities. 
 Paint our noses red, wear patches in the most comic 
 portions of our bodies — do anj^thing in reason to pro- 
 voke laughter or applause, but in the theatre — in the 
 theatre — in the theatre — and not cheek by jowl with 
 our audiences in broad daylight. 
 
 I have little hope in writing the foregoing that I shall 
 reap anything but a harvest of abuse. For this I don't 
 care a straw. It is everyone's duty to try and raise his 
 profession, and not drag it down ; and I say that these 
 open-air indiscretions jam mine deep into the peat bog 
 of vulgarity. 
 
 The only answer that can be made to me is that 
 
 X 2
 
 3o8 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 funds are procured. I reply there are other ways of 
 obtaining them. There is no question that if the Lord 
 Chief Justice of England had an affidavit set to music 
 and sang it in Hyde Park, finishing with a comic 
 dance in his robes, he could raise thousands of pounds 
 for the law charities, but he doesn't do it. Neither does 
 Lord Roberts or Lord Kitchener call out a brigade of 
 Guards and, dressing them up in comic uniforms, make 
 them perform strange evolutions to provoke laughter, 
 and so obtain money for the latest soldiers' home ; but 
 this is precisely what we are doing : being laughed at 
 and not laughed with — which is a very different thing. 
 I do not hope to uproot this poisonous plant, but if the 
 youthful Thespian stops to think he may see eye to eye 
 with me, and refusing to give it water let it wither, 
 please Heaven ! in the coming years. 
 
 For the young actor or actress I could write a bookful 
 of Don'ts. I append a few, which may be digested with 
 ease and do great good if swallowed slowly : — 
 
 Don't listen to kind friends. I can show you a 
 cemetery with a mile-and-a-half of tombstones, the 
 inscriptions on which read : " Died of starvation through 
 taking the advice of his brother actors." 
 
 DonH go to the theatre and lean out of a box and 
 make yourself conspicuous so that the audience won't 
 notice you are there. 
 
 Don't go in for tuft-hunting. If you have got sporting 
 instincts, rather than do this it is better to buy a revolver 
 and shoot yourself. 
 
 Don't get photographed more than twice a day, and 
 for choice, not driving a motor-car, or people will know 
 you are out of an engagement.
 
 WHY SHOULDN'T I . . .? 309 
 
 DonH go to a first night and hiss and clap at the same 
 time ; even an author may have friends. 
 
 DonH grasp your rival warmly by the hand, and, with 
 a clenched smile, say, " I'm afraid you have got a 
 success." 
 
 DonH send wreaths to the funerals of all those who 
 advertise they are dead, or you may be mistaken for a 
 market gardener. 
 
 Don't, if you become a manager, advertise "enormous 
 success" and "last nights" in the same newspaper. 
 
 Don't think you played to a bad matinee at Brighton 
 because there was a diver on the pier. He is always there. 
 
 Don't stare too much at the audience ; sometimes 
 they are not there. 
 
 Don't tell people you are a good actor. Those who 
 think so don't want to hear it, and those who don't 
 think so won't believe you. 
 
 Don't forget it's better to have cut your hair than 
 never to have played a part. 
 
 DonH forget that no one cares twopence-halfpenny 
 where you are playing, what you are doing, or v/hat 
 you hope to do. 
 
 Do7i't forget it is quite possible to be very nearly 
 human, even if you are successful. 
 
 Don't lose your jewels more than once a year. 
 
 Don't insure your salary against illness and then go 
 out of the bill and play golf ; it makes it hard for those 
 who really need the money. 
 
 Don't forget that although you are an actress it is 
 quite unnecessary to put on clothes that make you look 
 like an overcrowded dressing-table, or a cross between 
 a meat safe and a Bond Street show-case.
 
 310 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 Don't forget the old army order of " Pass friend, all's 
 well " originated in our profession, and is now the 
 answer to the countersign of the deadhead. 
 
 Don't, in speaking of your old Oxford days, forget to 
 say 'Varsity, as there is a circus of that name. And 
 
 DonH under any circumstances be tempted to write 
 reminiscences, or forget that if you produce musical 
 comedy most probably all you will get in London is 
 kudos — a word from the ancient Greek which means no 
 money.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 CURTAIN 
 
 During our three years at the Aldvvych Theatre we 
 produced only three plays — " Bluebell," '" The Beauty 
 of Bath," and " The Gay Gordons "—and as these long 
 runs kept me occupied day and night I thought I might 
 get a little recreation in the building of two theatres in 
 Shaftesbury Avenue, and this I did, becoming part of a 
 combination of gentlemen who erected the Hicks 
 Theatre and the Queen's. Mr. Sprague was the 
 architect, and built them very much on the same lines as 
 the Aldwych, although they were not quite so large. My 
 wife and I opened the Hicks Theatre with "The Beauty 
 of Bath," which was transferred from the Aldwych 
 towards the end of its first year's run. We finished 
 the London season there with it and then fulfilled our 
 provincial engagements with that piece, returning to 
 London to produce "The Gay Gordons" at the Aldwych 
 in the following autumn. All these productions are of 
 too recent a date to write about, and except that a very 
 large number of the ladies under engagement to me left 
 to get married about this time, I do not think there is 
 much to tell. The most prominent among these happy 
 young people were Miss Katie Davis, that golden-voiced 
 little girl who married Mr. Basil Loder; Miss Sylvia 
 Storey left me, having become the Countess Poulett ; 
 Miss Camille Clifford, the original Gibson Girl, had
 
 312 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 married the heir to Lord Aberdare ; Miss Carrington 
 had become Lady de Clifford. A great loss to our little 
 band was Miss Maudi Darrell, who set London singing 
 " By the side of the Zuyder Zee," and who danced and 
 acted herself into the hearts of our audiences in many 
 of our productions. She too has forsaken the stage, 
 and, as Mrs. Ian Bullough, sits in the seats with the 
 aforementioned, and many others who acted with me, 
 applauding from where they were once applauded. 
 
 The name of the Hicks Theatre was afterwards 
 altered to that of the Globe, as my plans at the end of 
 my happy eight years with Charles Frohman shaped 
 themselves less in one groove, and I felt for the sake of 
 having my name over a theatre that it would be unwise 
 to tie myself down to appear there for a long period. 
 Charles Frohman one day told a cabman to go to the 
 Hicks Theatre, and the driver went straight to the 
 Coliseum, where I had been playing for a long time. 
 Strangers used to go up to the Hicks Theatre and want 
 to book seats for " Scrooge," which I was playing at the 
 Coliseum. So we felt it best all round to alter the 
 name of the house, and this we accordingly did. In 
 partnership with Charles Frohman I produced there 
 quite recently " The Dashing Little Duke," a musical 
 version of " The Court Scandal," which I had played in 
 years before. My wife played the Due de Richelieu 
 this time most beautifully, giving one of the daintiest 
 and sweetest performances I have ever seen in my life, 
 and carried the play on her shoulders with a dash and 
 spirit that was irresistible. The actual production of 
 this piece was by far the most artistic and lavish thing 
 I ever attempted. It was played in London and the
 
 CURTAIN 313 
 
 provinces for a year. The music was by Frank E. 
 Tours and was quite the most melodious and ear-haunt- 
 ing that this talented composer has yet given us. Since 
 then both my wife and myself have arranged to spend 
 six months in the theatres and six months in the music- 
 halls. Time was when this would have been considered 
 infra dig., but, as the man in Punch remarked, every- 
 body of note in the theatrical profession has found out 
 that it is not infra dig. But it is " in for a penny in 
 for a pound." I have always held, and I think rightly, 
 that so long as you do your work to the best of your 
 ability it does not matter where you do it. A very 
 large number of my own profession shook their heads 
 and predicted the end of all things for us the day we 
 elected to make a certainty of things for six months in 
 every year. But happily I was right and they were 
 wrong, and they have all very wisely followed, with 
 few exceptions, and in another season if, and only if, 
 these exceptions are still attractive they will till the new 
 pastures, whose first crops, however, they will have 
 missed. The days of running big musical theatres with 
 one's own money in the hope of ultimately collecting 
 enough bank-notes to retire on are all over. Indeed, 
 the odds against any sort of play succeeding are five to 
 one, and when you do have an ordinary success there 
 are so many expenses to be written off, such as people 
 on salary walking about during the time the house is 
 closed redecorating, Lent, the summer, a bad season, or 
 a national calamity, that the people who are able to 
 retire well off are extremely few and far between. Thirty 
 years ago it was a very different caper. Had we con- 
 tinued running big entertainments it would only have
 
 314 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 ended as all these things end — a process of exhaustion, 
 which would have left us where we started, or at any 
 rate with not enough to go out to grass in our own 
 field when the time arrived. But now, thank Heaven ! 
 by dividing our time in the two forms of work we are 
 able to take off our hats with a modest competence and 
 shall not, I hope, have to lag superfluous in the later 
 years, having the seal of failure set on us by a benefit 
 matinee. 
 
 The London music-halls are the greatest pleasure to 
 appear in. The audiences are of the very smartest and 
 the house is always crammed full. I would rather play 
 a powerful character part like Scrooge at the Coliseum 
 than at any theatre I have ever acted in in my life. The 
 talent about one is extraordinary on the halls, and one 
 is amazed where it all comes from. The public ought 
 to be deeply indebted to Mr. Oswald Stoll for the way 
 he has cleansed a class of entertainment that at one 
 time was very much in the hands of the red-nosed 
 comedian with little or no discrimination. Indeed, it 
 is obvious that the public do appreciate the charming 
 and refined programmes provided by the far-seeing 
 partner of the astute Sir Edward Moss, for their houses 
 are always full and at the matinees throughout England 
 children are to be seen at all their places of entertain- 
 ment, which in itself is tribute enough to the new order 
 of things. When clean and artistic performances come 
 in at the window the pubhc rush in at the door, and I 
 play with the greatest pleasure and delight at the 
 splendidly-managed houses under the control of these 
 courteous and considerate gentlemen. I have made 
 many staunch friends among my new comrades, and
 
 CURTAIN 315 
 
 the invariable kindness and help I have received from 
 artists who might not have unreasonably resented me as 
 an intruder has placed me in the debt of this big- 
 hearted and generous community. 
 
 The autumn of 1910 has come, and I have just 
 completed my iirst twenty-four years on the stage, and 
 with a heart lighter and younger, and with experience 
 in my knapsack, I am starting out on another similar 
 jaunt. I leave behind me in my winter quarters the 
 record of hundreds of parts, let me hope some few of 
 which were adequately rendered, and also of thirty- 
 three plays, written by myself or in collaboration, the 
 most successful of which were " One of the Best," 
 " The Runaway Girl," " The Catch of the Season," 
 "The Earl and the Girl," "Bluebell in Fairyland," 
 "The Beauty of Bath," •' The Gay Gordons," " Sport- 
 ing Life," "Under the Clock," "The New Sub," 
 " You and I," " The Little Duke," etc., etc., etc. If, 
 when I have started on my journey, anyone who has 
 worked for me in my profession cares to go to my little 
 hut where these records are stored, they will find the 
 key in its door. They can turn it, and stepping inside 
 they will find against their names a word of grateful 
 thanks ; and also the key will not be found to have been 
 turned for nothing by many outside my calling, who 
 have done a thousand things for me. Friends like 
 Dr. Milson Rees, who has helped so many of my 
 brother and sister artists, and Arthur Evans, the 
 surgeon whose brains have ever been at the disposal 
 of our poor ones ; Frank Boyd, the genial editor who 
 gave me my first good notice ; oh, dear ! and bless me ! 
 hundreds and hundreds whose names if I do not set
 
 3i6 SEYMOUR HICKS 
 
 down is only through lack of space. My publishers 
 have cried Enough, and here I will write full stop. 
 The ink at my elbow is running as dry as my humour. 
 A gnat has flown across the landscape — I have had the 
 temerity to chronicle the buzzing of its wings. 
 
 I hope I have not altogether wasted your time and 
 have given you fair value for your silver coin. 
 
 I cannot say good-bye, for I am like the poor relation 
 who makes two visits of six months each in every year. 
 I am still with you, and we shall be probably meeting 
 in the flesh to-morrow. If I have offended anyone in 
 these pages I ask to be forgiven. I have not intentionally 
 set down a single word in malice. All I have said as 
 fact — actually happened to me ; and in relating events, 
 I did so venturing to think they might while away an 
 odd hour. If these few pages have lost me no friends, 
 and have perhaps made those who are my enemies 
 think a little more kindly of me, I shall be amply 
 repaid. Thirty-nine is not a great age, but the man 
 who has to write it on his insurance papers, and has 
 not discovered that he wishes those he has wronged 
 to forgive him, and those with whom he has quarrelled 
 to forget, is surely lacking in something. Success 
 is good, money is necessary ; but the happy man is he 
 who feels gently towards a world that holds for him no 
 angry face and who is conscious of the value of his 
 little happinesses, however humble they may be. For 
 myself, I have a thousand things to be grateful for. 
 I have had a hard-working life, but that is what a man 
 should have ; I have been hungry, and poor, and there 
 is hardly a branch of my profession that I have not 
 worked in — this is also as it should be — and I am
 
 CURTAIN 317 
 
 deeply grateful to the many who have helped me to 
 build my little mud pie, and who may not have been 
 thanked enough in the helping. At your feet, my reader, 
 I lay the respectful thanks of a willing though, alas ! 
 very imperfect servant, for it is through your great 
 kindness and consideration that I have been able to 
 watch my little girl grow up and those who are dear to 
 me live in comfort and happiness. 
 
 Thirty-nine ! With the blotting of these pages 
 I feel I have finished an apprenticeship in a firm to 
 whom I articled myself in the hope of learning the 
 rudiments of my profession. Perhaps in the coming 
 years my work will be better and more pleasing, though 
 it certainly could not be more sincere. 
 
 I hope it will be many a day before I think of sitting 
 down to write another volume to keep this one company, 
 for if I do so it will mean that I have ceased to work 
 for you, and that the time will not be far distant when 
 Seymour Hicks will not be by himself, but quite alone.
 
 INDEX OF NAMES 
 
 Alexandra, H.M. Queen, 182, 
 
 183, 255, 256 
 Anderson, Percy, 242 
 Ansell, Mary, iii 
 Arditi, — , 154 
 Arthur, Lilford, 13, 21, 23 
 Ash, Male, 242, 259 
 
 Bancroft, Lady, 171 
 
 Barker, Granville, 158 
 
 Barrett, George, 207, 209, 210, 242 
 
 Barrett, Oscar, 172 
 
 Barrett, Wilson, 34, 207 — 210 
 
 Barrie, J. M., 107— iii, 157, 158, 
 
 254 , , 
 
 Barrington, Rutland, 147 
 Barrymore, — , 92, 93 
 Benson, F. R., 152, 153 
 Beveridge, James, 216, 242 
 Billington, John, 108, log 
 Bishop, Alfred, 218 
 Blackmore, — , 22 
 Blinn, Holbrook, 242 
 Blythe, Coralie, 242 
 Boote, Rosie, 187 
 Boucicault, Dion, 216 
 Boyd, F., 315 
 Boyne, Leonard, 56, 273 
 Brett, Stanley, 242, 259, 261 
 Brooke, Cynthia, 218 
 Brookfield, Charles, 41, 85, 142, 
 
 143. 170 
 Brough, Fanny, 218, 242 
 Buckstone, J. C., 237. 242 
 Burnand, Sir F. C, 264 
 Butt, Clara, 182 
 Byron, H. J., 135—138 
 
 Cairo, Lawrence, 242 
 Calmour, Alfred, 251 
 
 Carne, Joseph, 92 
 
 Carr, Comyns, 116, 117, 155 
 
 Carrington, — , 312 
 
 Carson. Murray, 51 
 
 Carton, Claude, 256 
 
 Caryll, Ivan, 186 
 
 Cecil, Arthur, 64, 65, 142, 161 
 
 Chambers, Haddon, 211 
 
 Chart, H.. 92, 98 
 
 Chart, Mrs. Nye, 100 
 
 Cheeseman, — , 242 
 
 Chester, Elsie, 70 
 
 Chudleigh, Arthur, 65, 100, 106, 
 
 161, 162, 168, 170 
 Gibber, Colley, 282 
 Clarence, O. B., 273 
 Clarkson, William, 53 
 Cliff, Cooper, 207 
 Clifford, Camille, 277, 278, 312 
 Coates, John, 180, 188 
 Coffin, Hayden, 242 
 Cohan, George, 192 
 Cohen, Isaac, 172 
 Coleman, John, 206, 207 
 Collette, Charles, 136 
 Collier, William, 85, 85 
 CoUins, Arthur, 156 
 Coquelin, — , 283—285 
 Coutts, Compton, 242 
 Cowell, Florence, 92 
 
 Dacre, Arthur, 95 — 98 
 Danby, Frank, 156 
 Dare, Phyllis, 242, 259 
 Dare, Zena, 242, 258, 259 
 Darling, Sir Charles, 104 
 Darrell, Maudi, 242, 312 
 Davis, Katie, 242, 311 
 Davis, Maria, 180 
 Deane, — , 95 — 99 
 Dempsey, 89—91
 
 320 
 
 INDEX OF NAMES 
 
 Eadie, Dennis, 273 
 
 Eastlake, — , 207 
 
 Ediss, Connie, 180, 188 
 
 Edouin, Willie, 106 
 
 Edward VII., H.M. King, 119, 
 182, 183, 218, 219, 244 — 248, 255 
 
 Edwardes, George, 176, 185 
 
 Elsie, Lily, 273 
 
 Esher, ist Viscount and Vis- 
 countess, 194 — 196 
 
 Esher, 2nd Viscount and Vis- 
 countess, 255 
 
 Evans, Arthur, 315 
 
 Fairbrother, Sidney, 100, 242, 
 
 278 
 Fernandez, James, i6g 
 Fielder, — , 242 
 Filippi, Rosina, 70, 242 
 Firth, Elizabeth, 242 
 Fitzsimmons, Bob, 89 — 91 
 Eraser, Margaret, 242 
 Fripp, Sir A., 238 
 Frohman, Charles, 85, 86, 192, 
 
 217, 220, 221 
 
 Gatti, Messrs., 193, 194, 221 
 Gilbert, Sir W. S., 29, 79, 144 — 
 
 147- 193 
 Gill, C. F., loi— 104 
 Gillette, William, 251, 252 
 Glendinning, John, 92 
 Goodwin, Nat, 80, Si, 126, 127 
 Grain, Corney, 142, 144 
 Grossmith, George, 84, 85 
 Grossmith, Jr., George, 180, 188, 
 
 192 
 Guitry, — , 285, 286 
 Gwenne, Edmund, 273 
 
 Haines, Edgar, 258 
 Hall, Marshall, 104 
 Hamilton, Henry, 157 
 Hanbury, Lily, 232 
 Harcourt, Sidney, 242 
 Harding, Lyn, 273 
 Harris, Sir A., 31, 155, 156 
 Harvey, Martin, 36 
 Hawthorne, Grace, 33, 53 
 Haydon, Ethel, i8o 
 Hicks, Betty, 275 
 
 Hicks, N. T., 222, 223 
 Howell, John, 42 
 
 Irving, Sir H., 34, 74, 78, 118, 
 120—127, 142. 152, 163, 172, 177, 
 285 
 
 Irving, H. B., 121 
 
 Irving, Lawrence, 121, 122 
 
 Irwin, May, 192 
 
 James, Cairns, 242 
 James, David, 112, 268, 269 
 Jeffreys, Ellis, 215 
 Johnson, Eliza, iii 
 Jones, H. A., 251 
 
 Kean, Edmund, 123, 152, 279,280 
 
 Keightley. Cyril, 273 
 
 Kelly, W.'W., 50—52 
 
 Kemble, Henry, 3, 153, 154, 218 
 
 Kendal, Mr. and Mrs., 65—67, 
 
 70 — 75, 77, 88, 89, 100 
 King, Murray, 242 
 
 Laking, Guy, 256 
 Le Hay, John, 190 
 Leno, Dan, 244, 247 — 249 
 Leslie, Fred, 81, 112, 179, 191 
 Little, C. P., 218, 219 
 Lloyd, Florrie, 242 
 Loates, — , 127, 128 
 Lohr, Marie, 273 
 Lowne, C. M., iii, 242 
 Lugg, William, 242 
 
 Macready, 139 — 141, 279 
 Marler, Sidney, 275 
 Marshall, Robert, 257 
 Mathews, Charles, 124, 179 
 Matthews, A. E., 14, 15, 21 
 Matthews, Ethel, 242 
 May, Phil, 262 — 263 
 McKinnon, Alan, 29 
 Meredith, George, 116, 124, 125 
 Merivale, Herman, 117 
 Millar, Gertie, 273 
 Miller, Emily, 242 
 Monckton, Lionel, 186 
 Monkhouse, Harry, 180 
 Morell. H. H., 57—64 
 Morrell, Olive, 242
 
 INDEX OF NAMES 
 
 321 
 
 Moss, Sir E., 314 
 Mullins, Bat, 225 
 
 Neville, Henry, 24, 273 
 Newcastle, Duke of, 213, 214 
 Nicholls, Harry, 215 
 
 Payne, Edmund, 180, 188 
 Phelps, Samuel, 122, 151, 152 
 Pinero, Sir A. W., 74, 79, 125, 
 
 158. 159 
 Preston, Harry, 260 — 261 
 
 Raleigh, Cecil, 203, 205 
 Reed, German, 142 
 Rees, Milson, 315 
 Roberts, Arthur, 112 
 Robertson, Forbes, 234 
 Robson, — , 123 
 Rooke, Irene, 242 
 Rorke, Mairy, 242 
 Roselle, Amy, g6 
 Rousby, Wybert, 9 
 Royce, E. W., 242, 275 
 
 Scott, Clement, 30, 31, 172 
 
 Seymour, Katie, 179, 180, 188 
 
 Shelton, George, iii, 125, 242 
 
 Sioden, Topsy, 242 
 
 Slaughter, Walter, 246 
 
 Spain, H.M. the King of, 277, 278 
 
 Sprague, — , 277, 311 
 
 Standing, Herbert, 218, 242 
 
 Stephens, Yorke, 21, 22, 40, 157 
 
 Stetson, John, 83, 84 
 
 Stoddart, — , 75, 81 
 
 Stoll, Oswald, 314 
 
 Storey, Sylvia, 311 
 
 Sullivan, Barry, 137 
 
 Sullivan, J. L., 89 — 91 
 
 Tempest, Vane, 218, 242 
 Terriss, Ellaline, 55, 162 — 169, 
 
 176, 180, 189, 190, 198, 216, 219, 
 
 247, 248, 255, 275 
 Terriss, William, 162 — 164, 178, 
 
 179, 251 
 Terry, Edward, 286, 287 
 Terry, Ellen, 77, 251 
 Terry, Marion, 242, 254, 255 
 Toole, J. L., 107, 109 — 118, 120, 
 
 124, 125, 135—137, 139, 142, 160, 
 
 179 
 Tree, Sir H., 36, 69, 70, 78, 127, 
 
 177, 265 — 268 
 Trevor, Leo, 141 
 Trevor, Spencer, 273 
 
 Valchera, — , 242 
 Vanbrugh, Irene, 100, iii 
 Vanbrugh, Violet, 92, 100 
 Venne, Lottie, 171 
 Vibart, — , 242 
 
 Wales, H.R.H. Prince of. See 
 
 Edward VII., King. 
 Wales, H.R.H. Princess of. See 
 
 Alexandra, H.M. Queen. 
 Warde, Willie, 180, 188 
 Warner, Charles, 15, 273 
 Watson, Henrietta, 242 
 Welch, James, 36, 215 
 Wenman, T., 92 
 Whistler, J. M., 133 
 Wilde, Oscar, 116, 131 — 133 
 Willard, E. S., 24, 25, 35, 37, 38, 
 
 207 
 Williams. Arthur, 180, 188 
 Wood, Florence. 242 
 Wood, Mrs. John, 65. 100, 106 
 Wyndham, Sir C, 77, 157, 172 — 176 
 
 ERADBURY, AGNEW, & CO. LD., PRINTERS, LONDON AND TONBRlDGEi 
 
 S.H. Y
 
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