You are entirely welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to my little picture-shop.
I couldn’t give you a very clear idea of the Mormons—and Utah—and the Plains—and the Rocky Mountains—without opening a picture-shop—and therefore I open one.
I don’t expect to do great things here—but I have thought that if I could make money enough to buy me a passage to New Zealand I should feel that I had not lived in vain.
I don’t want to live in vain.——I’d rather live in Margate—or here. But I wish when the Egyptians built this hall they had given it a little more ventilation.
I really don’t care for money. I only travel round to see the world and exhibit my clothes.These clothes I have on were a great success in America.
How often do fortunes ruin young men?I should like to be ruined, but I can get on very well as I am.
I am not an artist. I don’t paint myself——though, perhaps, if I were a middle-aged single lady I should——yet I have a passion for pictures——I have had a great many pictures—photographs—taken of myself. Some of them are very pretty—or rather sweet to look at for a short time—and, as I said before, I like them. I’ve always loved pictures.
I could draw on wood at a very tender age. When a mere childI once drew a small cartload of raw turnips over a wooden bridge.——The people of the village noticed me.I drew their attention.
They said I had a future before me. Up to that time I had an idea it was behind me.
Time passed on. It always does, by the way.You may possibly have noticed that Time passes on.——It is a kind of a way Time has.
I became a man. I haven’t distinguished myself at all as an artist—but I have always been more or less mixed up with art. I have an uncle who takes photographs—and I have a servant who——takes anything he can get his hands on.
When I was in Rome——Rome in New York State, I mean——a distinguished sculptist wanted to sculp me. But I said “No.” I saw through the designing man. My model once in his hands—he would have flooded the market with my busts——and I couldn’t stand it to see everybody going round with a bust of me. Everybody would want one of course—and wherever I should go I should meet the educated classes with my bust, taking it home to their families.This would be more than my modesty could stand——and I should have to return to America——where my creditors are.
I like art. I admire dramatic art—although I failed as an actor.
It was in my school days that I failed as an actor.——The play was the “Ruins of Pompeii.”——I played the Ruins.It was not a very successful performance—but it was better than the “Burning Mountain.”He was not good.He was a bad Vesuvius.
The remembrance often makes me ask—“where are the boys of my youth?”——I assure you this is not a conundrum.——Some are amongst you here——Some in America——some are in jail.——
Hence arises a most touching question—“Where are the girls of my youth?” Some are married——some would like to be.
Oh my Maria! Alas! She married another. They frequently do. I hope she is happy—because I am.——Some people are not happy. I have noticed that.
A gentleman friend of mine came to me one day with tears in his eyes. I said “Why these weeps?” He said he had a mortgage on his farm—and wanted to borrow £200. I lent him the money—and he went away. Sometime after he returned with more tears. He said he must leave me forever. I ventured to remind him of the £200 he had borrowed. He was much cut up. I thought I would not be hard upon him—so I told him I would throw off one hundred pounds. He brightened—shook my hand—and said—“Old friend—I won’t allow you to outdo me in liberality—I’ll throw off the other hundred.”
As a manager I was always rather more successful than as an actor.
Some years ago I engaged a celebrated Living American Skeleton for a tour through Australia. He was the thinnest man I ever saw. He was a splendid skeleton. He didn’t weigh anything scarcely——and I said to myself—the people of Australia will flock to see this tremendous curiosity. It is a long voyage—as you know—from New York to Melbourne—and to my utter surprise the skeleton had no sooner got out to sea than he commenced eating in the most horrible manner. He had never been on the ocean before—and he said it agreed with him.—I thought so!——I never saw a man eat so much in my life. Beef—mutton—pork——he swallowed them all like a shark——and between meals he was often discovered behind barrels eating hard-boiled eggs. The result was that when we reached Melbourne this infamous skeleton weighed sixty-four pounds more than I did.
I thought I was ruined——but I wasn’t. I took him on to California——another very long sea voyage——and when I got him to San Francisco I exhibited him as Fat Man.
This story hasn’t anything to do with my entertainment, I know——but one of the principal features of my entertainment is that it contains so many things that don’t have anything to do with it.
I like music.——I can’t sing. As a singist I am not a success.I am saddest when I sing.So are those who hear me. They are sadder even than I am.
The other night some silver-voiced young men came under my window, and sang—“Come where my love lies dreaming.”——I didn’t go. I didn’t think it would be correct.
I found music very soothing when I lay ill with fever in Utah——and I was very ill——I was fearfully wasted.——My face was hewn down to nothing—and my nose was so sharp I didn’t dare stick into other people’s business—for fear it would stay there—and I should never get it again. And on those dismal days a Mormon lady—she was married—tho’ not so much so as her husband—he had fifteen other wives—she used to sing a ballad commencing “Sweet bird—do not fly away!”——and I told her I wouldn’t.——She played the accordion divinely—accordionly I praised her.
I met a man in Oregon who hadn’t any teeth—not a tooth in his head——yet that man could play on the bass drum better than any man I ever met.——He kept a hotel. They have queer hotels in Oregon. I remember one where they gave me a bag of oats for a pillow——I had night-mares of course. In the morning the landlord said—How do you feel—old hoss—hay?—I told him I felt my oats.