The farewell words of Jules Claretie, the accomplished director of theThéâtre français, spoken by his grave, were indeed a tribute: "Coquelin was more than a stage king, he was a king of the stage, and has left a luminous trail in the heaven of art."
I was one of the group of English actors who went to Paris with our sculptured offering to his genius which is enshrined in the historic foyer, where, at a luncheon, I had the temerity to make a short speech in indifferent French, urged to do so by Madame Bartet, a brilliant actress, who helped me to frame some of its sentences.
And his poor brother. It is painful to think ofcadet'sbright nature being quenched by incurable melancholia: distressing indeed to imagine what his sufferings must have been before the evening when, in the middle of the play, he rushed through the stage door, cladas an abbé, to be seen no more at his belovedComédie française. In an amusing account published in a leading Paris paper of a visit to see Robertson's comedy,School, he wrote:
"Les décors sont executés de main de maître. C'est le triomphe de l'exactitude. Les comédiens sont excellents. M. Bancroft joue dans la pièce un rôle de grand gommeux à monocle, et rien n'égale son élégance et sa stupidité. Madame Bancroft joue la pensionnaire gaie: cette petite femme est un mélange d'Alphonsine et de Chaumont—gaie, pimpante, mordante et d'une adresse! ... C'est lagreat attractiondu Théâtre de Haymarket.
"Après je reviens rapidement en cab ("hansom") à mon hôtel, et je me demande en chemin pourquoi les cabs vont si vite? C'est tout simple; les cabs vont très vite parce que les cochers les poussent derrière."
No less an authority than David Garrick once said to an ambitious stage aspirant who sought his advice, that he might humbug the public in tragedy, but warned him not to try to do so in comedy, for that was a serious thing. This opinion was borne out by Voltaire, who, in his anxiety not to imperil the success he had achieved in tragedy, when he wrote his first comedy did so anonymously.
Joseph Jefferson
Having pleasant memories of two distinguished American actors—one a comedian, the other a tragedian—I will follow the high opinion held by the great Englishman of Thalia's children, and write first of Joseph Jefferson, incomparably the finest actor who has come to us from America, and who in his day made a powerful impression and won enduring fame by his performance ofRip Van Winkleand his new rendering of Bob Acres inThe Rivals, which he admitted was not free from liberties with Sheridan. I can think of no actor who has been more beloved by audiences in his native land. I must, of course, use that expression, although his grandfather, or perhaps great-grandfather, was British, and an actor under David Garrick. He was, as it were, cradled on the stage.
Jefferson might also have made fame and money by his brush. His work was worthily hung upon the walls of the Royal Academy. I cherish two of his paintings: one, a gift to my wife in remembrance of a happy day we all spent together on the Thames, a charming example of one of its many backwaters near Cookham; the other—a purchase—of Shakespeare's church at Stratford-on-Avon—both reminiscent of Corot. The former always suggests to me the misty Hebrides and anappropriate background for the "Island that liked to be visited," in Barrie'sMary Rose.
Gazing, I remember, at the old Maidenhead bridge at sunset, Jefferson murmured: "What a lovely place is this England of yours! How I should just like to lift it in my arms and carry it right away."
When Edwin Booth, the American tragedian, came over to play in London, Millais gave him a dinner, and invited the leading players of the day to make his acquaintance. He was a fine actor; especially so, I thought, inThe Fool's RevengeandRichelieu. When he drew the "awful circle" round the shrinking form of the young heroine and said to the villain of the play: "Set but a foot within that holy ground and on thy head—yea, though it wore a crown—I launch the curse of Rome!" you felt you were in the presence of high dramatic art. The performance at the Lyceum Theatre, in which he and Irving alternated the parts ofOthelloandIago, created great interest. Booth was the better Othello; Irving the more attractive and less conventional Iago.
Booth would now and then dine with us on a Sunday evening—to help him bear a sorrow which is, at such times, the actor's lot, and which an extract from a letter to a close friend will best explain:
"I am tired in body and brain. The poor girl is passing away from us. For weeks she has been failing rapidly; and the doctors tell me that she is dying. You can imagine my condition: acting at random every evening, and nursing a half-insane, dying wife all day, and all night too, for that matter. I am scarce sane myself. I scribble this in haste at two in the morning, for I know not when I will have a chance to write sensibly again."
The room in which Edwin Booth died—which I have visited—at the Players' Club in Grammercy Park, New York, founded by himself, and where he had been so beloved, was left untouched after he had passed away, and, I understand, so remains.
When I was a lad of seventeen I went for a trip to New York, and during my stay I chanced to see Edward Askew Sothern—to give him his full name—play his world-renowned character,Lord Dundreary, for the first time in his life. Some years later, when we met upon the stage, I gave him my copy of the original playbill, which, of course, had great interest for him. The eccentric nobleman drew all playgoers for years in England as well as in America. At the time I mention I saw Sothern and Jefferson act together in a round of old English comedies. As young men theymade giant successes in individual parts—DundrearyandRip Van Winkle—the one a masterpiece of caricature, the other a veritable old Dutch master.
Another of Sothern's chief parts, in those days, wasDavid Garrick, of which he was the original representative, long before the play was taken over and prominently associated with the career of Charles Wyndham.
Sothern was always kind to me, whether in my early days in the provinces or afterwards in town. He was my guest at the first dinner-party I had the courage to give. Among those who sat with him were Dion Boucicault, W. S. Gilbert, W. R. McConnell and Tom Hood. I was a young host, not having struck twenty-six. He was a fearless rider and hunting man. Once, after he had met with a bad accident, following the staghounds, I went to see him at his charming old house, called The Cedars, in Kensington, and found his bed placed in the middle of the room. The house, when I last saw it, had become a home for cripples.
Sothern was the king of practical-jokers and would stop at nothing in the way of thought, time or money, to carry out his wild projects. A poor game at its best, I have often thought in mature age; a selfish form of innings.
He was an intense admirer of my wife's art.Only after he had passed away did it come to my knowledge that in some stage experiences, published in America, with the titleBirds of a Feather, he gave his judgment of her.
"Among the actresses I should certainly place Mrs. Bancroft and Mrs. Kendal in the foremost rank, their specialities being high comedy. Mrs. Bancroft I consider the best actress on the English stage; in fact, I might say on any stage."
Sam Sothern, so long a pleasant actor on our stage, is dead, so his father's name and fame are now successfully held by his son, Edward, in America.
Dion Boucicault
One of the most remarkable of Victorians in stage-land was Dion Boucicault, father of my life-long little friend, "Dot," the accomplished husband of Irene Vanbrugh. Boucicault produced his first comedy,London Assurance—a brilliant one in its day—about the date of my birth, when he himself was not more than twenty-one. He was a colossal worker as author, actor, and producer until 1890; a career as distinguished as it was lengthy. His delightful Irish plays,The Colleen Bawn,Arrah-na-PogueandThe Shaughraun, were among the joys of my youth. I first met Boucicaultat Birmingham, where I was specially engaged to act his own part, the counsel for the defence in his dramaThe Trial of Effie Deans. I learnt much from him at the one rehearsal he travelled from London to attend. When about half way through the trial scene he took me aside and told me I was wrong in my treatment of the part, adding: "Let me rehearse the rest of the scene for you, and I am sure you will grasp my own idea of it directly." I saw at once how right he was, how wrong I had been. The result was a considerable success for me. In the early days of our managerial career we produced a comedy of his,How She Loves Him—clever, but not one of the best. A situation at the end of an act became very muddled, after being tried at rehearsal in several ways. An idea struck me, which was a distinct improvement, but I hardly dared to interfere with so great an autocrat, kind as he had always been. At last, in despair, I suggested to Boucicault that his original ending of the act was more effective than that he had changed it to. He said: "What was that?" I then boldly explained my own idea as if it were his. No doubt he saw through the strategy, but merely said: "Perhaps you're right," and rewarded my shrewdness by adopting the suggestion.
When, years afterwards, I asked his consent to my making some alterations inLondon Assuranceand combining the fourth and fifth acts, he replied from Chicago: "Your shape ofLondon Assurancewill be, like all you have done, unexceptionable, and I wish I could be there to taste your brew."
Rest and rust
Later on, when my wife was taking only a small part in some of our plays, he wrote:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Will you feel offended with an old soldier if he intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark?
"Why are the Bancrofts taking a back seat in their own theatre; they efface themselves! Who made the establishment? with whom is it wholly identified? of what materials is it built? There—it's out!
"Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive asrestif persisted in; you must alter the vowel—it becomesrust, and eats into life. Hers is too precious to let her fool it away; she is looking splendid, and as fresh as a pat of butter. Why don't you get up a version ofThe Country Girl? Let her play Hoyden and you play Lord Foppington."
Boucicault was a perfect host, a brilliant talker and sympathetic listener. I first dined with him, when a young man, in the delightfulcompany, I remember well, of Charles Reade, J. M. Bellew and Edmund Yates. On the menu was printed: "The wine will be tabled. Every man his own butler. Smiles and self-help." And there was cognac of 1803 from the cellars of Napoleon III. I had many years of unbroken friendship with Boucicault. His final words to me were in a letter from America, following on an illness:
"I doubt whether I shall cross the ocean again. I am rusticating at Washington, having recovered some strength, and am waiting to know if my lease of life is out, or is to be renewed for another term. I have had notice to quit, but am arguing the point ('just like you,' I think I hear you say), and nothing yet is settled between Nature and me."
He was a hard worker, and said his epitaph should be: "Dion Boucicault; his first holiday."
Where shall my pen wander next?
Montague and Coghlan
I can revive memories in the old—and tell a little to the young—of actors who became prominent as members of our companies at different times. Let me try to do so. First, there was Harry Montague. Without being an actor of high rank, he had a great value as ajeune premier. He was what I heard an American describe as "so easy to look at." His charmof manner made him a special favourite everywhere, and he was the original matinee idol. When in his company he had the gift of making you believe that he had thought but of you since your last parting, and, when he said "good-bye," that you would remain in his memory until you met again.
He was in America, acting inDiplomacy, when he died suddenly; as young in years as he always seemed in heart; for he was but midway between thirty and forty, that age upon the border-land when one has to own to being no more young, while resenting for a little while that ambiguous epithet, "middle-aged."
Charles Coghlan was an actor of a higher grade; gifted, cultivated and able: his acting as Alfred Evelyn and Charles Surface in our elaborate revivals ofMoneyandThe School for Scandalwas of the highest character. It may be interesting to note that when he first joined our company his salary was £9 a week; during his last engagement we paid him £60, which would be doubled now. I asked him once to accompany me on a short holiday abroad, and found him a delightful companion. This was soon after the siege of Paris, when many of the terrible stains left on the fair city's face were sadly visible.
Coghlan often lived outside London, at places like Elstree and Kingsbury, generally in picturesque old houses. My wife and I rode out to one of them to luncheon. For a time he drove a rather ramshackle four-in-hand, and, naturally, was in constant financial trouble. He ended his career rather recklessly in America, at Galveston, and his body was washed out to sea from the catacombs by a flood. It was afterwards recovered and reburied.
The father of the happily present Dion and Donald Calthrop, a connection of Lord Alverstone, John Clayton (Calthrop) was also a fine actor. His performance inAll for Herwas of a high order, and he did some admirable work with Irving at the Lyceum. I also recall a remarkable piece of acting on his part in a play, adapted from the French, in which he appeared as a father whose brain was turned by his having accidentally shot his little son. Under our flag, he only acted inDiplomacyandCaste. He was then growing fat, and never knew of a strong wish I had to revive theMerry Wives of Windsor, with himself as Falstaff. He was otherwise engaged, unfortunately. This was when that brilliant actress Mrs. John Wood was with us, to play with my wife the two Merry Wives, supported by myself as the jealous Mr. Ford—I always found the portrayalof jealousy very amusing—and a troupe of able and suitable comedians.
Clayton gave remarkable performances in the joyous comedies by Pinero at the Court Theatre. He died young.
Arthur Cecil
Arthur Cecil comes next to my mind: an amiable gentleman and companion. It was I who, when he was "wobbling," as he did on every subject, induced him to go on the professional stage. He seemed to me to pass a large slice of his life in the effort—or want of effort—to make up his mind on trivial things, and so wasted at least one half of it.
At the dress rehearsal ofDiplomacy—in which he gave a fine performance of Baron Stein—he appeared with a totally different make-up in each act. They were all clever and appropriate, but we, not he, had to decide for him which was to be finally adopted. He was very devoted to what Sir James Barrie christened "Little Mary." On one occasion, after dining at the Garrick Club, before his evening's work, having finished his meal with a double helping of orange tart, he was leaving the coffee-room, when he saw a friend seated near the door just beginning his dinner. Cecil sat down opposite to him for a few minutes to exchange greetings; he became so restless and agitated at the sight of a dish of stewed eels that at last he duga fork into a mouthful, saying, "I must," and so wound up his meal. There are several similar stories extant, equally amazing, equally true.
Henry Kemble
Our old and staunch friend, Henry Kemble, a descendant of the illustrious stage family whose name he bore, was for years a valued member of our company; a capable but restricted actor, from his peculiarity of diction. My wife christened him "The Beetle," owing to a large brown Inverness cape he wore at night. Many are the amusing stories told of him. He fought the income tax strenuously, and on one occasion, being brought to bay, told the collector that he belonged to a precarious profession, and begged that Her Majesty might be asked not to look upon him as a source of income!
Kemble was well up in Shakespeare, and had a greater knowledge of the Bible than any actor I have known, except one.
This reminds me of a visit paid, at his instigation, on a New Year's Eve, in the company of his close friend, Arthur Cecil, to a midnight service held in one of the big churches. They entered reverently, just before the hour, and were about to kneel, when a verger touched Kemble on the shoulder and said: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but this is a service being held for fallen women."
Kemble suddenly made up his mind to retire from the stage and end his days in Jersey, not in a cloistered cathedral city, as he said would be the case. He, unfortunately, invested his savings in an annuity, as he only lived a few months after doing so. He came to see my wife, to whom he was much attached, to say good-bye, and brought her some fine Waterford glass as a farewell gift. When fatally ill, his last words were written to her on a telegraph form: "All over, dear, dear Lady B. Blessings on you all. Beetle." The doctor who attended him transcribed the words, and sent my wife the tremblingly-written farewell he had penned himself—a touching and kind act.
Another friend and comrade of those days was the humorous Charles Brookfield, son of Canon Brookfield, a distinguished preacher. My wife and I gave the young undergraduate what was practically his first engagement, and he remained a popular member of our company during the whole of our career at the Haymarket. Several of his performances showed marked ability, notably in Sardou's play,Odette, and Pinero's comedy,Lords and Commons. Many amusing stories are attributed to him. Against the accuracy of one of them I must rebel. It ran in this way: That at a time when Charles Wyndham was appearingin his favourite part of David Garrick, for a run, he was sitting in the club named after the great actor, just under one of his several portraits there, when Brookfield went up to Wyndham and said: "It really seems quite surprising, you grow more like Garrick every day." Wyndham gave a delighted smile; when Brookfield continued, in his peculiar cynical way: "Yes, every day, but less like him every night." A good story; but, unfortunately, Brookfield was never a member of the Garrick Club.
Charles Brookfield
I think it was Brookfield who, when a friend asked his advice, saying that a member of a club they frequented having called him a "mangy ass," whether he should appeal to the committee or consult a solicitor, quietly told him he thought it a case for a vet to decide.
He wrote various amusing comedies, and, later on, was appointed by the Lord Chamberlain to be joint examiner of plays.
Brookfield had his serious side, and wrote us the following letter, affectionately signed, when we retired from management:
"The sadness I feel at the prospect of never again working under your management is far too genuine for me to endeavour to convey itby any conventional expressions of regret. Although I have always appreciated your unvarying goodness to me, it is only by the depression of spirits and general apathy which I now experience, that I recognise how much my enjoyment of my profession was affected by the kind auspices under which I had the good fortune to practise it."
II
"Pity it is that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant breath and motion that presents them, or at best can but faintly glimmer through the memory of a few surviving spectators."
Henry Irving
I will now write of the man who was for many years the chief of the English stage, Henry Irving. He was a born leader and had the magnetism which compels the affection of his comrades; he knew that to be well served meant first to be well beloved. Although denied the advantages of early education, Irving had the learning which colleges may fail to teach; and in his later years would have graced, in manner and in aspect, any position in life. This personal attribute came to him gradually, when, as it were, he had recreated himself. Truth to tell, in the early part of his career he had none of it. In those distant days there was a strong smack of the country actor in his appearance, and a suggestion of atype immortalised by Dickens in Mr. Lenville and Mr. Folair.
We soon became friends and remained so throughout his remarkable career—the most remarkable in many respects that ever befell an actor. He told me an interesting incident of his early life. He was engaged, in the summer of 1867, to act in Paris. The enterprise proved a failure. The little troupe of players was disbanded and returned to London, with the exception of Irving, who, finding himself abroad for the first time, lingered in the bright city for a couple of months. He lived in a garret on a few francs a day, and paid nightly visits to the cheap parts of the theatre. Although he had no knowledge of the language, he was all the while studying the art of acting in its different grades and kinds.
When, in later years, he entertained in his princely fashion eminent foreign artists, in answer to compliments showered upon him in French, he would, without the slightest affectation—a failing from which he was free—answer simply: "I am sure all you are saying is very kind, but I don't understand a word of it."
Soon after his success as Digby Grant in James Albery's comedy,Two Roses, shortly before what proved to be the turning-point in his career—his becoming a member of theLyceum company, then under the Bateman management—I had occasion to see a well-known dramatic agent, who, as I was leaving his office, said: "Oh, by the way, would Henry Irving be of use to you next season? I have reason to believe he would welcome such a change." The question was startling. I replied that I should be delighted, but feared it would be difficult, as Hare, Coghlan and myself would be in his way. How possible it is that a different answer might have influenced future events in theatre-land! Then came his memorable performance inThe Bells, which gave him fame in a single night, followed by other early triumphs,Charles the FirstandHamlet.
I once saw Irving on horseback, cantering in the Row on a Sunday afternoon: it was a singular experience. His companion was George Critchett, who gave up his practice one day in the week to hunt instead, and who was as much at home on a horse as Irving was plainly uncomfortable.
Later on, Irving was speaking to me of the success of one of our plays. I answered that in my belief the same could be achieved at the Lyceum (the theatre was not yet under his own management), if money were freely and wisely spent. But wide is the differencebetween spending and wasting. While the disasters which darkened his brilliant reign were sometimes, it must be conceded, the result of errors of judgment in the choice of plays, had he been in partnership with a capable comrade, to whose guidance he would sometimes have submitted, he might have realised a fortune, instead of allowing several to pass like water through his hands. As an artistic asset, Irving was often wasted and thrown away.
Let me turn for a moment from the stage side of this extraordinary man.
A toy theatre
In the gloaming of a Christmas Day, full forty years ago, my wife and I were sitting alone, when, to our amazement, Irving was announced. It was a bolt from the blue. After a pleasant talk, we asked him who was to have the pleasure of giving him his pudding and mince-pie. He answered that he should be all alone in Grafton Street with his dog. We told him that ourselves and our son George, then a small boy, comprised our party, and begged him to join us. Irving gladly said he would. At the time he was acting inThe Corsican Brothers, of which famous melodrama Master George had his own version in his little model theatre, with an elaborate scene of the duel in the snow, represented by masses of salt smuggled from the kitchen; and this,with managerial pride, he told Irving he would act before him after dinner. To an audience of three the performance was solemnly gone through, being subjected to the criticisms, seriously pronounced and respectfully received, of the great man. I seem to hear his voice crying out: "Light not strong enough on the prompt side, my boy." For years a broken blade of one of the rapiers used in the duel at the Lyceum, given to him by Irving, was among the boy's proud possessions. I daresay he has it still. A memorable Christmas evening!
The idea occurred to me to give a supper to Irving before his first visit to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character by inviting none but actors. Feeling that nowhere could be it so appropriately given as in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my fellow-members of the Committee to ask if, in the special circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room. Greatly to my delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was "an honour to the Club." The attractive room, so suitable for the purpose, its walls being lined with the portraits of those whose names recall all that is famous in the great past of our stage, was arranged to accommodate a party of a hundred, of whom there are but very fewsurvivors. A humorous drawing of a supposed wind-up to the supper—Irving, Toole and myself staggering home, arm-in-arm—was among the early successes of Phil May. He made two copies of it. One of the three belonged to King Edward, which I afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and myself.
In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he wrote:
"I shall wear your gift—and a rare one it is—as I wear you, the giver, in my heart. My regard for you is not a fading one. In this world there is not too much fair friendship, is there? And I hope it is a gratification to you—it is to me, old friend—to know that we can count alike upon a friend in sorrow and in gladness."
"The Dead Heart"
When Irving contemplated a production ofThe Dead Heart, he flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with him as the Abbé Latour he would not carry out the idea. I was then free from management, and tried to persuade him to let me undertake the part as a labour of love, but he would not listen. After a long talk—neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other, but each gazing separately at different angles into Bond Streetfrom the windows of the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of Grafton Street—he said that I must content him by being specially engaged, on terms which soon were settled.
It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of to govern; and in one where the policy was so different. My wife and I had so often been content to choose plays without regard to ourselves: the policy of the Lyceum was upon another plane.The Dead Heartis a story of the French Revolution, on the lines ofA Tale of Two Cities. The best scene in the play was between Irving and myself, in which we fought a duel to the death. A clever drawing of the scene—I regret failing to secure it when it was sold at Christie's—was made by Bernard Partridge. From all I have heard said of it, the fight must have been well done—real, brief, and determined. It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not leave it alive. I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who found himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a duel inThe Corsican Brothers, and boldly attacked his chief by suggesting that a little of the limelight might fall on his side of the stage, as Nature was impartial.
A tribute from Irving
One night during the hundred and sixty on whichThe Dead Heartwas acted, when we had acknowledged the applause which followed the duel, Irving put his arm round me as we walked up the stage together, and said: "What a big name you might have made for yourself had you never come across those Robertson plays! What a pity, for your own sake; for no actor can be remembered long who does not appear in the classical drama."
I fear egotism is getting the better of me. Irving once said:
"One point must strike all in connection with Bancroft's career—before he left the Haymarket, at the age of forty-four, he was the senior theatrical manager of London. In conjunction with that gifted lady who was the genius of English comedy, he popularised a system of management which has dominated our stage ever since, and the principle of which may be described as the harmony of realism and art."
It is to be much regretted that no really satisfactory portrait of Irving exists. The one painted by Millais, and given by him to the Garrick Club in 1884, is a beautiful work of art, but, to my mind, somewhat effeminate in itsbeauty. A portrait by Sargent, painted when Irving was fifty, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1888, was amazingly clever, but a somewhat painful likeness. The great painter showed something in the great actor—as he so often does in his sitters—which his gifted and searching eyes could not help seeing, and which, once having been shown, you cannot afterwards help seeing always. Irving hated the portrait, and when it was taken from the walls of the Academy it was never seen again. I heard Irving, at my table, tell Sir Edward Poynter that he hid it away in a garret, and when he left the old Grafton Street chambers, his solitary home for many years, he hacked the canvas to shreds with a knife. What a treasure lost!
Irving's hospitality was unbounded. At one of his many parties I recollect his saying to Frank Lockwood, when he was Solicitor-General: "The fortunate actor is the actor who works hard." He then pointed across the table to me, and added: "Look at that fellow, and remember what hard work meant in his case. 'B' is the only actor since Garrick who made a fortune purely by management of his own theatre—I mean without the aid of provincial tours and visits to America." After a pause he continued: "But he has paid thepenalty of leaving his best work as an actor undone."
Knighthood
It will ever be remembered that Henry Irving was the first actor to receive from his Sovereign the honour of State recognition: so placing his calling on a level with the rest, no more to be looked at askance, but recognised as leading to a share of the distinctions enjoyed by his fellow-men.
For a year or more before the end it was manifest to those who loved him that the sword had worn out the scabbard—it hung so listlessly by his side. This I strongly realised the last time he sat at our table, and was struck by his plaintive manner to my wife and to me. He then had a flat in Stratton Street, and left us at midnight, saying that he must be home before the lift ceased running or he would have to be carried upstairs.
In affectionate remembrance I close my tribute to Henry Irving. His remarkable career has taken its place in the history of his country, for he was one of the leaders of men who earned the privilege, given to but few, to become the property of the world.
It may also be truly said of Irving, as of one of the most distinguished of his predecessors: "He who has done a single thing that others never forget, and feel ennobled whenever theythink of, need not regret his having been, and may throw aside this fleshly coil like any other worn-out part, grateful and contented."
Although I knew and loved them from their boyhood, I find it difficult to write of Irving's sons, being, as they were, so overpowered by the dominant personality of the father.
"H.B." and Laurence
They both went to Marlborough. "H.B." afterwards to New College, Oxford. Laurence left school for Paris, to perfect his knowledge of French, his ambition and inclination being the diplomatic service. He then passed some three years in Russia, acquiring mastery of the difficult language. Unhappily, his wished-for career had to be abandoned for want of the imperative funds. "H.B." was called to the Bar, but lacked the necessary patience, and so abandoned a profession, as was thought by many competent judges, in which he was eminently qualified to take a high position; while his "hobby" until the end was criminology, and he wrote remarkable books on that fascinating subject.
Both sons drifted on to the stage. Before that step was taken I had seen "H.B." at Oxford give a striking performance, for one so young, ofKing John.
Later on, I had no wish to see him act a long round of his father's old parts.
Towards the end of the War he left his work at the Savoy Theatre and devoted himself to hard work in the Intelligence Department at the Admiralty, which proved to be a great strain upon him. We met frequently at that time, by appointment, at the Athenæum, hard by, and had luncheon together, as he did with his close friend, E. V. Lucas. It was manifest then that his fatal illness had begun.
Laurence was a more frequent guest of ours than Harry, especially at Christmas time, having no children to command his presence at home; he was not so trammelled on the stage as his brother; it was easier for him to escape from perpetual reminders. The performances I remember best on his part are his high-class acting inTyphoonand the admirable drawing of a character he played inThe Incubus, who is, in point of fact, his mistress and has become sadly in the way. My wife and I saw the play together from a stage box, and were much amused at the end of it by a conversation between what we took to be a young married couple in the stalls, just beneath us.
The girl said: "Good play, isn't it?" The man answered: "Capital. I've only one fault to find with it." "What's that?" "Title." "Title, why it's a perfect title." The man: "Rotten title—it's nothing about an incubus."The girl: "It's all about an incubus." The man: "The thing was never once mentioned." The girl, in amazement: "What is an incubus?" The man: "Why, one of those things in which they hatch chickens."
The sons died at an age that is not closed to hope and promise, which now must be handed on to another generation—Laurence and Elizabeth, the children of Harry Irving, both gifted with good looks and charm. The boy distinguished himself during the War in the Air Force and now shows promise as a painter. My love descends to them.
J. L. Toole
Extremes meet; they always do and always will. The closest friend Henry Irving had was J. L. Toole. The strong affection between the two men, which lasted until the end, began when Toole was making a name on the stage in Edinburgh and Irving only a beginner. The famous comedian belonged, as it were, to "the City," and was educated at the City of London School. He was a close second to Sothern in inventing practical jokes, generally harmless, and would take as infinite pains to carry them through. I remember a silly story he loved to tell, how, after a bad baccarat night at Aix-les-Bains, he went to the bank to draw money on his letter of credit. Tapping at theguichet, he inquired of the clerk in feeble,broken English how much the bank would advance upon a gold-headed cane which he carried. As might be expected, the little window was slammed in his face. Nothing daunted, Toole made his way to the market-place hard by, and bought from various stalls some small fish, a bunch of carrots, and a child's toy; he then returned to the bank and arranged his purchases on the counter, with the addition of his watch, a half-franc piece and a penknife. When all was ready he again tapped at the window, and, in a tremulous voice, implored the clerk to accept these offerings in pledge for the small sum needed to save him from starvation. The clerk indignantly requested Toole to leave the establishment, explaining, in the best English at his command, that the bank only made advances upon letters of credit. At the last-named word Toole broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of credit, handed it to the astonished clerk, with the explanation that he would have offered it at first had he thought the bank cared about it, but the porter at his hotel had emphatically told him the bankers of Aix preferred fish.
Toole was never the same after the painful death of his son: he became more and more a slave to "late hours," but was still a delightful,buoyant companion, beloved by his comrades and friends.
Wilson Barrett was a good actor of the robust type. He had an adventurous career: sometimes high on the wave of success, at others deep down in the trough of the sea of failure, but always strictly honourable. At the old Princess's Theatre, in Oxford Street, he made large sums by good dramas likeThe Silver KingandThe Lights of London, and lost them through the failures of ambitious efforts, which included a youthfulHamlet, to be wiped out in turn by the enormous success ofThe Sign of the Cross, a religious drama that appealed to a large public which rarely entered theatres. The play provoked Bernard Shaw to say that Wilson Barrett could always bring down the house with a hymn, and had so evident a desire to personate the Messiah that we might depend upon seeing him crucified yet.
William Terriss
A restless, untamable spirit was born in William Terriss. He tried various callings before settling down to the one for which he was so eminently fitted. He embarked in the mercantile marine, but the craze only lasted a fortnight. Then came tea-planting in China. The next experiment was made in medicine, to be followed by an attack upon engineering.He then positively bluffed me into giving him an engagement, and made his appearance on the stage. Suddenly he decided to go sheep farming in the Falkland Islands. He made an early marriage, and his beloved Ellaline was born there. Of course he soon came back; returned to and left the stage again; next to Kentucky to try horse-breeding. Another failure brought him to his senses. Five years after he had first adopted the stage he was an actor in earnest and became one of its greatest favourites.
His career was chiefly identified with the Lyceum and the Adelphi; but he first became prominent by his acting as Thornhill inOlivia, under Hare's management at the Court Theatre. His bright, breezy nature was a tonic, and, like his daughter and her husband, Seymour Hicks, he carried sunshine about with him and shed it on all he met. He was as brave as a lion and as graceful as a panther.
Alas! one Saturday evening the town was horrified as the tragic news quickly spread that Terriss had been fatally stabbed by a malignant madman as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre to prepare for his evening's work. At his funeral there was an extraordinary manifestation of public sympathy.
Lionel Monckton told me a curious story ofhow when he reached home he found that a clock which Terriss gave him had stopped at the hour of the murder.
However briefly, I must record grateful thanks for past enjoyment given us by Corney Grain, as great a master in his branch of art as that friend of my youth, John Parry. His odd name was often wrongly thought to be assumed, as was that of a dramatist of those days, Stirling Coyne, who rejoiced in the nickname of "Filthy Lucre."
I always remember the stifled laughter of my wife and Corney Grain, who was present with ourselves at a dinner party, when a distinguished foreigner, accredited by Spain to the Court of St. James, was announced by a nervous manservant as the "Spanish Ham..."—a long pause being followed by a trembling sotto voce—"bassador."
"Gee Gee" and "Wee Gee"
George Grossmith, the elder—"Gee Gee"—is of course best remembered by his long connection with the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. To their great success he contributed a share of which he was justly proud. After he left the Savoy Theatre he toured as an entertainer, with excellent financial results, both here and from two visits to the United States. When he returned for the second time, I remember his saying to me, in his funny,plaintive way: "Do you know, my dear 'B,' things are really very sad. The first time I came back from America I found myself spoken of as 'Weedon Grossmith's brother,' and now, after my second visit, I am only 'George Grossmith's father.'"
I have always looked upon Weedon Grossmith—"Wee Gee"—as an admirable actor, and his death as bringing a personal loss, having valued his friendship and his company. On the stage I best remember him in Pinero's comedies,The Cabinet MinisterandThe Amazons, inA Pantomime Rehearsal, and, towards the end of his career, in a remarkable performance of a demented odd creature, who believed himself to be the great Napoleon. My wife was so impressed by the acting that she wrote to our little friend about it in a way which delighted him beyond words. Weedon was educated as a painter, and became an exhibitor at the Academy and other galleries. I have two charming examples from his brush, which I bought at Christie's.
The Great War dealt severe blows to the stage, many a young life of promise being taken. The toll was heavy; but they are honoured always by their comrades and remembered for their valour, as are those who served so bravely and survived. During thoseterrible years the stage also lost E. S. Willard, Lewis Waller, Herbert Tree, William Kendal and George Alexander—all men in the front rank; every one hard to replace.
I associate Willard with his success inThe Silver King, and afterwards in Henry Arthur Jones's plays,The MiddlemanandJudah. In these he had a prosperous career through the United States—as in the part in which I best remember him—the old man in Barrie's comedy,The Professor's Love Story, a charming piece of artistic work. He owed a modest fortune to the appreciation he met with in America.
Willard had an ambition to build a theatre at the top of Lower Regent Street, where the County Fire Office, so long a London landmark, stood; but, granting the site to have been available, it had no depth: the theatre could only have been erected on a part of the Regent Palace Hotel, and reached by burrowing under the road—so far as my architectural knowledge serves me. With the demolition of the County Fire Office the last fragment of the old colonnade disappeared, which, I remember, in my boyhood extended on both sides of the Quadrant from the Circus to Vigo Street.
Early retirement from management prevented intimacy with several prominent actors, who otherwise might have been associatedwith our work. For instance, Lewis Waller was only once our guest, as things happened. Of his acting, my wife and I were among the warm admirers. The first play in which he commanded our attention wasThe Profligate, which Pinero wrote for Hare when his management of the Garrick Theatre began. One recalls with admiration his acting as Hotspur, Brutus, Faulconbridge, and King Henry V.
I am sorry I did not know him better, or see more of him. He was a great loss to the stage he loved.
Too many windows
It was, naturally, a satisfaction to my wife, as to me, when Herbert Tree became our successor at the Haymarket. We felt the future of the theatre to be secure for a while, and that its traditions would be worthily maintained. He did all sorts of good work there, ranging fromHamletandHenry VtoThe Dancing GirlandTrilby, until he was responsible for building its beautiful opposite neighbour, the present His Majesty's Theatre, where he migrated. During its erection I was walking one day on the opposite side with Comyns Carr, who asked me what I thought of it. He seemed to be greatly amused by my answer: "Too many windows to clean."
Good fortune continued to smile upon the smaller house under the joint management ofFrederick Harrison and Cyril Maude. Much of its deserved success was due, in those days, to the art of Winifred Emery, which was then approaching its best, before cruel disease came in the plenitude of her powers and robbed her of that very front position which is reached by so few, and which I think she would surely have attained in her maturity.
Herbert Tree was for many years a power and an authority upon our stage: he rendered its alluring profession great service. I still trust in the hope that successors may be found with something of his splendid courage, his boundless imagination, to follow in his firmest footsteps and leave as memorable marks.
In private life he was an amusing creature, a delightful companion, a perfect host. It was once said of him, not altogether without truth, that he walked in a dream, talked in a dream, ate in a dream, drank in a dream, smoked in a dream, and acted in a dream.
He had enormous energy in starting things, but less strength in carrying his ideas through: he grew tired quickly through his love of change.
I will end with a comic note, for which I am indebted to Pinero. It so happened that the names of Arthur Pinero and Herbert Tree were announced for knighthood in the same HonoursList. A man who was an old friend of both wrote a letter of felicitation to each of them; but unfortunately he put his letters into the wrong envelopes. The one Pinero received was as follows: "My dear Tree. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why Pinero?" The distinguished dramatist sent this letter to the distinguished actor with the necessary explanation, and in return had from him the note intended for himself. This was it: "My dear Pinero. Hearty congratulations. You ought to have had it long ago. But why Tree?"
The Kendals
"Will" Kendal, until he "passed into the night," chanced to be my oldest theatrical friend. We first met at Birmingham, in our early struggling days, and not again until he had planted his feet firmly at the Haymarket. Mrs. Kendal I knew in the following year, when we acted together in the country. She was Madge Robertson then, and a "flapper" of fifteen, already foreshadowing her brilliant future. After the Kendals married, my wife and I had the great advantage of their services in our company for two seasons. When, later on, their successful partnership with Hare came to an end, they travelled much in America, where they became special favourites and amassed a large fortune.
Kendal was an actor in the foremost rank, being trained by some years of hard work in the provincial "stock companies," as we of the "old brigade" all were. There were certain parts he played to perfection. I never saw his equal as Captain Absolute inThe Rivals, young Marlow inShe Stoops to Conquer, and Charles Courtly inLondon Assurance.
It must be full five and forty years since George Alexander called upon my wife one Sunday afternoon with a letter of introduction from our dear friend, Sir Morell Mackenzie. We were sorry, for all our sakes, that we could only offer him encouragement. He had much in his favour; was acting with a travelling company in the Robertson comedies, and warmly recommended for a London engagement, which he soon received from Irving at the Lyceum. Many pleasant tributes from Ellen Terry were paid to him during his stay there, and he rendered yeoman service to his chief. Alexander's long and successful management of the St. James's Theatre was beyond reproach, and for years gave stability to the stage and good repute to those who worked with him. He was a staunch friend to English dramatists and produced plays written by Arthur Pinero, Henry Arthur Jones, Alfred Sutro, Anthony Hope, Claude Carton, Haddon Chambers, LouisParker, Stephen Phillips, Oscar Wilde, and Henry James: a worthy record.
"Mrs. Tanqueray"
The finest feather in Alexander's managerial cap—hispanache—was the production of Pinero's great play,The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. He alone had the courage—a quality most essential in theatrical enterprise—to risk what thirty years ago was a dangerous undertaking, the truth and humanity of the play, which has kept it vigorously alive, being at the time of its production lost sight of in the sensation caused by the selection of such a daring scheme and subject for the stage. That fears existed for the success of the play on that score may now excite wonder in the minds of the present advanced generation.
The part of Paula has been a vehicle for the widely differing genius and conceptions of so many eminent actresses—Mrs. Patrick Campbell, Duse, Jane Hading, Mrs. Kendal, Miss Gladys Cooper, and numerous other distinguished foreigners—that special interest attaches to the curious incidents surrounding the first production of the play and the original casting of the heroine.
The play was in the first instance offered to Hare, who very decidedly refused it. On Hare's rejection, it was offered to Alexander, who, though greatly impressed by its strength,also, but reluctantly, declined it. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that he should do the play at amatinée, without being asked for any author's fee. This proposal was agreed to; and the play was announced for a series of morning performances. It happened, however, that Alexander's forthcoming production wasLiberty Hall, a comedy written by Claude Carton, who, not unnaturally, represented to Alexander that the performances ofThe Second Mrs. Tanquerayin the afternoons might militate against the success of the regular evening bill. (An odd little coincidence is that one of the characters inLiberty Hallwas originally named Tanqueray—a name which Carton, out of consideration for Pinero, changed to Harringay.) Alexander thereupon undertook that, if Pinero would release him from his agreement to give morning performances ofThe Second Mrs. Tanqueray, he would at the earliest opportunity put the play into the evening bill. In these circumstances the play was produced towards the end of the season of 1893.
The first Paula
In the ordinary course the original Paula would have been Winifred Emery, but the expected arrival of one of her daughters robbed her of the chance. The choice at the time was very limited, actresses of prominence all being engaged. It happened, however,that at the Adelphi a young and handsome lady of no long stage experience, named Mrs. Patrick Campbell, was acting in a drama by G. R. Sims. There were doubts whether the methods of an actress who had graduated at the Adelphi were suitable to the St. James's, but Pinero suggested to Alexander that they should see what impression she produced upon them in a talk with her in a room. The interview took place, and after it Pinero told Alexander that, if she would act on the stage as she talked in his office, he felt pretty sure that she was the woman for the part. But her engagement was dependent on her release by the management of the Adelphi. Word promptly came that this was refused, and once more the author of the play and the manager of the St. James's were up to their necks in difficulties. Pinero then proposed to Alexander that he should wind up the matter by engaging Miss Elizabeth Robins, who had lately made a striking success in Ibsen'sHedda Gabler, and he proceeded to do so.
As was the custom then, the date and hour were fixed for the author to read his play to the actors and actresses who were to represent it. Alexander was engaged to have luncheon that day in Portland Place, and Pinero arranged to call for him on his way to the theatre. Ashe drove up in a hansom, Alexander came out of the house in a state of great excitement, crying out: "We can get Mrs. Campbell!"
It appeared that he had only just heard from her that, thanks to pressure put upon them by G. R. Sims, the managers of the Adelphi had consented to release her. On reaching the St. James's Theatre, Pinero said to Alexander: "Look here; this is your job. I will go for a walk in St. James's Park and come back in half an hour to read my play either to Miss Robins or Mrs. Campbell, as it may turn out."
Alexander went to his room, rang the bell, asked if Miss Robins had arrived, and on learning that she was in the theatre requested her to come and see him. She soon entered, holding the book of the play. Alexander told her that an unexpected condition of things had arisen. He would put his cards on the table. Did Miss Robins know that the part of Paula had been first offered to Mrs. Campbell, who, in fact, had been engaged to play it? He was answered: "Yes." Alexander then said: "She has been set free, and is in the theatre. What am I to do?"
Pointing to the book in her hand, Miss Robins replied: "Mr. Alexander, this is the chance of my life. It is also the chance ofMrs. Campbell's life. She is a friend of mine, and I will not take the chance from her."
It was, in my opinion, a great mistake on Alexander's part to add the cares of the London County Council to the management of an important theatre. The strain, I have no doubt, shortened his life, which was of great service to his calling.
Sir Frank Benson
"Alec" was always my good friend; and when he summoned a meeting of the leading actors and managers in 1916, the year the Shakespearean Tercentenary was to be celebrated at Drury Lane Theatre, he put the matter so strongly to those assembled that there was no gainsaying his suggestion that I should there and then be invited to speak the address on the occasion if, as he hoped, I would undertake the task. It was no mean effort, and I am afraid that egotism is again fast getting the better of me and urging me to print the result of my labour. My excuse is that the event had national importance: a dramatic episode being the knighthood conferred by the King on Frank Benson, who had given the best years of his life to spreading the love of Shakespeare throughout the land.
Here is the address:
"I am proud, indeed, that it was thoughtfitting by my comrades to give me the unsought honour, on this great day, of addressing you on their behalf. I thank them for the privilege with all my heart, and promise to bear in mind the wise counsel of Polonius, 'brevity is the soul of wit!' I can only speak from my point of view. There are debts which can never be paid in full; there is homage which never can be amply rendered; there is love no tongue can truly tell. All these are Shakespeare's. As every tribute must fall short of what is really due, I resolved to speak my own words—the best in my power to frame—rather than be but the echo of an abler brain.
"In my early days in theatreland, with the audacity of youth, I acted many characters in Shakespeare's plays and then laid some budding leaves of a modest chaplet at the shrine of the master whose works have made the stage eternal. Now, in my old age, I rejoice in the remembrance that I have been what William Shakespeare was—an actor. With a boundless prodigality he has enriched this England which claims his birth—the dear land he loved so deeply and called:
'This fortress built by Nature for herself,This precious stone set in the silver sea.'
"We owe to Shakespeare the most alluring, the most entrancing creations in our mother-tongue. How much poorer should we be if we lacked the imperishable charm of thosePrincesses of the drama—Juliet, Rosalind, Ophelia, Beatrice, Viola, Miranda, Portia, Imogen, Desdemona, and Cordelia. They are not withered by age, nor stricken by decay. The Angel of Death passes them by. They are celestial and immortal. What joy that mighty pen must have given for three hundred years to the gifted women who have portrayed those matchless heroines.
"As Shakespeare is 'for all time,' so is he for all men the 'guide, philosopher, and friend.' From whom can even monarchs surer look for majesty? Who so inspires the statesman with true patriotism? Who so teaches the gentleman his conduct; the preacher simple piety; the soldier chivalry and courage? Who gives the poet nobler themes; the painter loftier models; the lover sweeter idols; a son such sound advice? Who so plainly tells the player of his faults? and by whom is youth so upheld by hope, or declining years so soothed with consolation?
"I remember well a visit I paid upon a dusky evening to Westminster Abbey. As I walked beneath its stately roof, to the sounds of the organ, twilight shadows were cast down the sacred aisles. It seemed easy under such influence to believe the legend that, while writing the awful scene between Hamlet and his father's ghost, Shakespeare passed a long night alone within those hallowed walls. In the fading light I looked upon the monumentin Poets' Corner and read the lines fromThe Tempestas they are inscribed there:
'The cloudcapt towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;And like the baseless Fabric of a VisionLeave not a wrack behind.'
What grandeur, what pathos, are in the words; but we will not believe them—at least not of him. The lustre—the undying lustre—Shakespeare's transcendent genius has shed upon the world marches down the ages undimmed by time."
I lately came across a tribute to Shakespeare which provoked alike my admiration and surprise: the author being that brilliant wit and humorist, Douglas Jerrold. These are his words:
"The great magician who has left immortal company for the spirit of man in his weary journey through this briary world—has bequeathed scenes of immortal loveliness for the human fancy to delight in—founts of eternal truth for the lip of man to drink, and drink—and for all time to be renovated with every draught."
Charles Wyndham
Of that accomplished and delightful comedian, Charles Wyndham, there are bright thoughts of the happiness he gave to playgoersduring an exceptionally prolonged career. Its only blemish, indeed, was its length, when the inevitable decay, which at last declines to be warded off, became manifest towards the end.
His early successes were made at the Criterion Theatre, in plays of an amusing and frivolous kind, such asThe Great Divorce Case,Pink DominoesandBetsy. These were followed by far better work, of a higher kind, and the production of those admirable comedies by Henry Arthur Jones,The Case of Rebellious SusanandThe Liars.
I confess to having thought, had I remained longer on the stage, how happy I should have been to have played some types of those delightful, helpful, elderly men, who often make life pleasanter to the young, and were so perfectly acted by Wyndham.
He retained his youthful appearance until late in life: the preservation of his "figure" was amazing, and he remained a good walker to the end, but never carried a cane.
To recall a peculiarity of his hard working days, I have frequently known him stop at a post office and scrawl a hurried letter or send a telegram to himself, as a reminder of something important that he had to remember or to do.
The memory of Charles Wyndham shouldalways be held in high regard for his unbounded generosity and devoted service to the Actors' Benevolent Fund. It was a pleasure and a privilege to me to propose that Lady Wyndham should be chosen to follow in his footsteps as its president.
Charles Hawtrey was a very old friend. We knew him first at his father's well-known preparatory school for Eton, where I sent my son. The next phase came soon afterwards, when he confided to us his wish to go upon the stage; a wish my wife and I at once encouraged. This appeared a little before we commenced our Haymarket career with a revival of Lord Lytton's comedy,Money. We said he could appear as a young member in the club scene, with a few lines to speak. Hawtrey enthusiastically accepted the offer. Unfortunately, an illness prevented its fulfilment, or he would have been the companion of Fred Terry in making his first appearance on that eventful evening.
Our paths in life, both on and off the stage, were much asunder, but we were always the best of friends, and I remember with pleasure a strong wish he expressed, during one of our meetings at Marienbad, when a scheme was on foot to build a theatre for him in the Haymarket, that he might christen it "The Bancroft."My wife and I were sorry when the scheme fell through.
He leaves the happiest memories to his shoals of friends—from the early days, ofThe Private Secretary; the middle stage, ofLord and Lady AlgyandThe Man from Blankley's; to end, with the gay maturity ofAmbrose Applejohn's Adventure,—and laughter all the way.
Charles Hawtrey was the actor I have alluded to who had the widest knowledge of the Bible of any layman I have known.
John Hare
My intimate and affectionate relations, both private and professional, with John Hare make me a little shy of writing about him with the warmth his long and brilliant career upon the stage deserves. I was his oldest professional friend, having been a member of the company he first joined. In the following year my wife offered him an engagement, and for ten years he was prominent among the attractive company of the old Prince of Wales's Theatre. No young actor was, perhaps, so fortunate as himself, appearing as he did in three such successive and distinctive character parts as Lord Ptarmigant, the sleepy old Peer inSociety, Prince Perovsky, the courtly Russian diplomat inOurs, and Sam Gerridge, the humble gasfitter inCaste. The delicacy and finish of Hare'sacting was of great service to the Robertson comedies, in all of which he appeared.
When he left us it was to enter into friendly managerial rivalry. I applauded the step as a wise one on his part; but, after so many years of close intimacy, I felt the wrench. From that moment the dressing-room he and I had shared knew me no more, and I found a lonely corner on another floor.
And a friendly rivalry it was. If we had ourDiplomacy, he had hisOlivia, a delightful play, in which Ellen Terry made so conspicuous a success and Terriss laid the firm foundation of his fine career. My sole disappointment in connection with this beautiful production was that Hare had not plucked up the courage to attack the part of the dear old Vicar himself.
It is not for me to dwell upon his career, which was always to the credit of his calling, or enumerate his successes, only naming Pinero's brilliant works,The Notorious Mrs. EbbsmithandThe Gay Lord Quex. In the first of them Mrs. Patrick Campbell clinched her previous triumph; in the second Irene Vanbrugh seized the opportunity of rushing to the front, where she has remained ever since.
On an occasion when Hare proposed my health in distinguished company, it was pleasantto listen to words which were too flattering to allow of their repetition.
Meissonier of our stage
I am inclined to say that Hare's best and most complete individual work was his delightful portrait of old Benjamin Goldfinch inA Pair of Spectacles, a performance which gave us something of the simplicity and benevolence of the immortal Samuel Pickwick. I think of Hare, in all he did, as the Meissonier of our stage.