XITHE UNEXPECTEDRobert Hilliard and I and a Dog.—Hartford’s Actors and Playwrights.—A Fit that Caused a Misfit.—A Large Price to Hear a Small Man.—Jim Corbett and I.—A Startled Audience.—Captain Williams and “Red” Leary.—“Joe” Choate to the Rescue.—Bait for a Dude.—Deadheads.—Within an Inch of Davy Jones.—Perugini and Four Fair Adorers.—Scanlon and Kernell.
Robert Hilliard and I and a Dog.—Hartford’s Actors and Playwrights.—A Fit that Caused a Misfit.—A Large Price to Hear a Small Man.—Jim Corbett and I.—A Startled Audience.—Captain Williams and “Red” Leary.—“Joe” Choate to the Rescue.—Bait for a Dude.—Deadheads.—Within an Inch of Davy Jones.—Perugini and Four Fair Adorers.—Scanlon and Kernell.
In one respect personal experiences are like jokes—those least expected cause the most lasting impression. I may be excused, therefore, for recording some of both.
Some years ago a party of ladies and gentlemen, among whom were Mr. Hilliard and myself visited David’s Island, an important military post on Long Island Sound. We were handsomely entertained during the day, so at night we endeavored to return the compliment. There was a large gathering in the mess room, the post band gave a few selections and Mr. Hilliard announced that he would recite “Christmas Night in the Workhouse.” Instantly a large Newfoundland dog who had been quite conspicuous, looked sad, dropped upon the floor and went to sleep. The joke was on Bob and every one was obliged tolaugh. But when my turn came and I announced a few stories about camp life that dog arose, looked straight and reproachfully into my eyes and walked out of the door. When the laughter subsided I felt obliged to say:
“I don’t blame you, old chap.”
As I was a Hartford boy, I have always had a special liking for the men and women whom that city has given to the stage and platform. They make an imposing array, too—William Gillette, Mark Twain, Otis Skinner, Harry Woodruff, Lew Dockstader, Francis Carlyle, Musical Dale, Frank Lawton, C. B. Dillingham and Mesdames Lucille Saunders and Emma Eames.
I greatly admire Mr. Gillette’s plays; they contain so wonderful a variety of characters that it seems to me he must have searched the whole country for originals. One day he told me of a pleasant trip he had made on the St. Lawrence River and said:
“I’m going to live up there.”
“Are you? Where?” I asked, supposing he would name a hotel where a large lot of human nature could be studied, but he named a lonely part of the Thousand Islands, and said he owned an island there, so I asked:
“Why do you go there? You will be all alone.”
“I want to be alone,” he replied.
“Will no one live there but yourself?”
“No one but a hen—a little bantam hen.”
“What do you mean by that? What do you want of a hen?”
“Well, I’ve always had great fondness and respect for hens, but have been unable to get acquainted with them, but this is my chance.”
Mark Twain was once asked to write a testimonial for a map of the world, and this is what he wrote:
“Before using your wonderful map, my family were afflicted with fits, but since using it they have nothing but freckles.”
There was a time when I wished for Mark’s wonderful map, for I was afflicted by a fit. It was at an entertainment at Long Branch given in aid of the Monmouth Hospital. Many actors and actresses who were stopping at “the Branch” gave their services, among them Neil Burgess, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Dowd Byron, Mr. and Mrs. Matt Snyder, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Chanfrau, Miss Maggie Mitchell, Miss Theresa Vaughn and others. I was to appear, and when I arrived, I saw Miss Vaughn and Mr. Snyder, who was stage manager, holding an animated discussion. Snyder came over to me and said:
“Miss Vaughn has been billed to follow you, but she doesn’t wish to. She would like to precede you.”
“All right,” I replied, “I’m perfectly willing.”
She went out and made a great hit. Then my turn came, and I had just got a recitation under way when a woman in the audience began to have a fit, at the most critical part of my number. I had to stop as it was not a duet, and go off of the stage. Mr. Snyder asked:
“What’s the matter, Marsh?”
“There’s a woman out there having a fit.”
“Oh, go back and do the best you can,” he replied.
“This is not where I fit,” I answered. But I went back and told my pianist to play number seven of my repertoire, which was called “Poor Thing!”
The audience saw the joke, and helped me out, but I wish my readers could have been in my position if they do not believe that fit was an affliction—one which Miss Vaughn was fortunate enough to escape.
A great many men have told me they greatly wanted to hear me recite, and I am convinced that one in particular meant what he said. I refer to Bingham the ventriloquist. He chanced to be in a town where I was to appear before the Young Men’s Christian Association. He went to the hall to reserve a good seat, but was told that no tickets would be sold; the entertainment would be for members only.
“But I want to hear Mr. Wilder,” he said, “and this is my only chance within sight. Is there no way of my getting in?”
“None: unless you join the Association.”
Incredible though it may seem, Bingham did join the Y. M. C. A. for the sole purpose of listening to me. He never asked me to refund his initiation fee on the ground that he didn’t get the worth of it, either, though I’ve scrupulously avoided recalling the incident to his memory.
“There’s James J. Corbett!” “Which One?”
“There’s James J. Corbett!” “Which One?”
Nothing is more unexpected by any one than to be mistaken for some one else. One day while I was walking with James J. Corbett, the handsome actor-pugilist, who is about twice as tall as I, two young ladies passed us and one exclaimed:
“Why, there’s James J. Corbett.”
“Which one?” the other asked.
Light-weight though I am, there was a time when I got Corbett badly rattled. He was living at Asbury Park, training for one of his fights, and I, while in a railway car with him, got out some friends—a pack of cards—and did some tricks for Jim. Soon I got him so puzzled that he exclaimed:
“Hold on there, Marsh! These tricks get me nutty.”
It was the unexpected that brought James Young, the actor, a roar of laughter one evening when he addressed as follows an audience composed entirely of his own acquaintances:
“My friends—I cannot call you ladies and gentlemen, for I know you all.”
It was the unexpected, too, that only severely jarred Capt. Alex. Williams, a noted ex-police official in New York. A woman fainted in the street, the captain caught her by one arm, and “Red” Leary, a noted criminal by the other.
“Cap’n,” said “Red” politely, “this is the first time you and me have ‘worked’ together.”
Minister Choate—“Joe” Choate, has a reserve fund of the unexpected. Some American dishes were served up at a breakfast party in England, one being ham and eggs. A young lady at the minister’s right was ignorant of the slipperyways of fried eggs on a dish, so she accidentally spilled the contents of her plate.
“Oh, Mr. Choate!” she exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do, for I’ve dropped an egg on the floor,” and Choate replied:
“If I were you, I’d cackle.”
“Ignorant of the Slippery Ways of Fried Eggs.”
“Ignorant of the Slippery Ways of Fried Eggs.”
Matt Snyder, the actor, found at his table one night a young man so elaborately dressed as to be a startling dude, so he asked his daughter:
“What did you bait your hook with to catch that?” but he was floored by the sweet reply:
“Cake, papa.”
Sometimes the unexpected will cause a man to be grievously wounded in the house of his friends. Here is an illustration, clipped from a New York newspaper:
“Marshall P. Wilder, the professional humorist, was in the Lambs’ Club, surrounded by some spirits, yesterday evening. He looked at his watch and remarked wearily, ‘I’ve got to run away, for I’ve got to go up-town to be funny. It’s an awful bore.’
“Wilton Lackaye, who has been taking up the rôle of smart cynicism left by poor Maurice Barrymore, drawled, in his most irritating manner: ‘I wouldn’t do it, then. Why don’t you give your usual entertainment?’
“‘Cruel boy,’ chirped Wilder, as he made for the door.”
Lackaye is also the man who gravely suggested to a patriotic Scotchman that the reason the bagpipes were put in the rear of a regiment in battle was that the men would be so anxious to get away from the music that they would run toward the enemy.
One of the greatest nuisances of the entertainment business, the theatre and all other “shows,” is the persistent “deadhead.” Every good fellow in the profession likes so much to have his friends see his performance that he provides free tickets to the extent of his ability, often paying cash for them. But people who are not friends—some who are not even acquaintances, are the most determined deadheads; to have heard about their deceased mother-in-law is reason enough—tothem, for a demand for a free ticket. Yet a man on the stage or platform is sometimes startled by seeing close personal friends in the line, cash in hand, at the box-office, and is reminded of the story Senator Jones of Nevada tells about crossing a river out west. He reached the ferry but no boat was there. He saw a man across the stream chopping wood, so he shouted, “Hello, there! Where’s the boat?”
The Passengers Consisted of Three Men and a Half.
The Passengers Consisted of Three Men and a Half.
“No boat, wade across,” was the man’s answer, “and I will direct you. Walk ten feet to the right,—five feet to the left. Look out—there’s a d⸺ big hole there! Now three feet to the right.” Arriving on the other side of the stream, the senator asked, “What shall I pay you?”
“Wa-all,” said the man, “there’s been a dozen men across this ferry, and you are the first that ever offered to pay anything, so I guess I’ll let you dead-head it.”
Occasionally the unexpected is delightful in the extreme.
Before Charles Frohman became the busiest man and Napoleon of the dramatic stage, he used to affiliate frequently with the Lambs’ Club, of which he was a member. One day the Lambs gave what they call their “washing,” otherwise their summer treat or picnic, at an island in the sound owned by Lester Wallack. At high tide boats could land passengers on the island, and in the morning the Lambs were safely landed. But at night the steamer which brought us was anchored out about a half mile from the shore. When the entertainment was at an end, the members had to be rowed in small boats to the steamer. The oarsman of the boat I was in was a large, corpulent chap. The passengers consisted of Charles Frohman, also a heavy weight, George Fawcett and myself, making three men and a half. This weighed the boat down to almost within an inch of the water, and coupled with the fact that neither Mr. Frohman, Mr. Fawcett nor myself could swim, I fully expected it would be our last sail, but we reached the steamer in safety. One little false move onthe part of either of us would have caused the head of the Dramatic Syndicate, an excellent actor and “Merrily Yours” to be busy—for a moment or two, in “Davy Jones’s Locker.”
Augustus Pitou tells a suggestive story of the unexpected. Late at night he asked for a barber at a hotel. It was “after hours,” but after much delay one appeared and asked as a favor of Mr. Pitou if he would kindly lie on the lounge and let him shave him in a horizontal position. Mr. Pitou consented. The touch was so gentle he fell asleep. When he awoke and felt of his chin he said:
“That’s the gentlest shave I have ever had.”
“Well, sir, you are the first live man I have ever shaved.”
The man was an undertaker’s barber!
Nat Goodwin tells how Billy Mannering, a brilliant old time negro comedian, sprang the unexpected on a hotel proprietor. The company was having hard luck on one night stands. Country hotels were as bad in those days as now—even worse. The boys were eating breakfast one morning when Bill came down late and said:
“Boys, how is it? About the same as all the rest of the hotels?”
“Yes, Billy.”
In came the proprietor and said: “Good-morning, gentlemen.”
Billy asked: “Who are you?”
“I’m the proprietor, sir.”
“So you’re the proprietor! Do you know you are a brave man? If I were you, I would live out in the woods, and not come near the hotel. I would be afraid to face my boarders.”
“How’s that? Are not the beds all right?”
“Yes, but we can’t eat our beds. Still, you have two things here that can’t be improved on.”
“What are they?” asked the proprietor, filling out his chest.
“Why, your pepper and salt.”
I played the unexpected on several people aboard a certain ocean steamship, on which my friend Perugini was a passenger. Several of the ladies on board became enamored of “Handsome Jack,” and were very anxious to be introduced to him. They made me their confidant, but Perry was not much of a “masher” and did not care to meet them. At this time, he had an affliction of which I am glad to say he has been cured; he was deaf. One morning I rapped on his stateroom door, and getting no response, I concluded I would run the risk and go in. There he lay, sound asleep. His valet had preceded me, and everything looked as neat and cozy as could be. Perry did not hear me, no matter what noise I made. I went on deck, found four of the young ladies and said:
“Now’s your chance to meet Perugini; just follow me.” They accompanied me and all four looked in at the door, but were afraid to go in.
“Oh, don’t he look lovely,” said one.
“Isn’t he charming—I could just hug him!” said another. I went in; as he did not hear me they took courage and one by one they stole in and got near to Perugini. I slipped toward the door and quickly closed it. The girls were too frightened even to cry out. Then I took hold of Jack and gave him a shake that awakened him. Poor Jack! He was more frightened than the four girls put together. All I got out of him when he and I got on deck was,
“Oh, Marsh! How could you?”
Kyrle Bellew was a passenger on the same steamer. My acquaintance with Mr. Bellew is a most pleasant one, so I know he will forgive me if I detail this little joke, which, like all my jokes, was played in good nature.
On the ship he wore a yachting cap and a full yachting costume, including a big cord around his neck, to which was attached a telescope. In the evening he would walk up to the side of the steamer, pull out this glass full-length, gaze out on the ocean at some distant ship, close it and again walk down the deck, posing in an effective manner, seemingly unconscious of the amusement he afforded the other passengers. In aburlesque spirit I arranged, as best I could, an imitation of him. I got a seaman’s trousers, blouse and hat, and extemporized a sort of wig as like to my friend’s as possible; to a piece of rope about my neck I attached a Belfast beer bottle. At a safe distance I walked up and down the deck and gave the passengers the benefit of my burlesque. I don’t believe Bellew ever saw me. If he had, I fear it would have been my finish; still, I think he would have enjoyed the practical joke afterward.
Even a book-canvasser can be floored by the unexpected. James Whitcomb Riley tells of an insinuating member of this profession who rang the bell of a handsome residence and when a specially aggressive looking servant opened the door he asked politely:
“Is the lady in?”
“What do ye mane?” the girl asked. “I’d have ye know we’re all ladies in this house!”
In another part of this book I have referred to entertainments I gave at an insane asylum—a place where the unexpected should be the rule, to the performer. But at the Bloomingdale Asylum I once saw it work the other way, and to an extent that was pathetic all round. Among the inmates were Scanlon and Kernell—two men who had thousands of times delighted great audiences with song and joke. I knew of their presencebut how they would look or feel I had no means of imagining.
One of my assistants for the occasion was Miss Cynthia Rogers of Toledo, Ohio. The programme was not printed, nor arranged in detail, so we were in ignorance as to what songs had been selected. Miss Rogers “went on” dressed as an Irish lad, beginning in a copy of Scanlon’s familiar make-up, the most popular song of his own composition, “Mollie O.”
Everybody looked at Scanlon. His face was suddenly aglow with interest. His lips followed, word by word, the course of the melody. He raised one hand and motioned as if he were directing the music. At the close of the first verse, when the building shook with applause, he smiled happily. He was living his triumphs over at that minute, oblivious to his surroundings. He was impatient for the next verse; he followed the words intently; his face was flushed, the old inspiration showed in his eyes, and when the applause broke forth again he laughed and bowed his head.
“Did you see that man?” Miss Rogers asked me a second later. “Did you ever see such an expression? Who is he—that young man yonder, with his head bowed?”
“Why, I thought you must have known,” I replied. “That’s Scanlon.”
“Scanlon the actor?”
“Yes. The author of your song.”
Miss Rogers was tearfully uncertain, as she went on to respond to an encore, whether she had done right or wrong. She sang “In It” and the “Latch Key in the Door.” Then Scanlon was brought back to us and Miss Rogers was introduced to him.
“I want to thank you,” he said simply. “I felt as I used to, you know. Some day I will sing it again. You are very pretty and you sing well.”
If there was one man in the audience blind to the pathos of the scene which had just occurred it was Harry Kernell, the comedian. He had looked on quietly, his face impassive, his hands clasped loosely over one knee. He smiled when Scanlon came back to the seat just in front of him; then his face became fixed and vacant as before.
Kernell raised his face again as his wife who had been sitting beside him, left her seat. He seemed to have forgotten her, and to be hearing nothing and seeing nothing, when I announced the next number on the programme.
“We have a pleasant surprise for you,” I said, smiling in anticipation. “Mrs. Kernell is here; she came up to see her husband, my old friend, and we wouldn’t let her refuse to sing for you.”
But Kernell did not look up until his wife, Queenie Vassar, began singing. The little woman watched him tenderly. The poor fellow understood. After that, no lover could have been more appreciative than he was. It was the one voice in all the world that could move him. Scanlon turned and whispered to him, but Kernell’s soul was in the song. Quickly he looked ten years younger than he does ordinarily. He seemed grateful for the applause, and eager for another song, and another, so Mrs. Kernell sang “Peggy Cline,” “Sligo” and “The Bowery.”
After that Kernell sat still and gloomy. The spell was broken that had made him young. The deep lines came back on his face, his shoulders stooped and he was an old man again, listless and helpless. One could hardly imagine him the man that scattered sunshine so royally, laughing his way to fame, building his triumphs on the happiness he gave to others.
Miss Claude Rogers played a mandolin solo of her own composing with “Il Trovatore” for an encore. Later she played again, and was encored repeatedly. As for me, I had as difficult an audience as ever confronted a humorist, or any other sort of speaker, but the success was complete and the fun was contagious. It was curious to see how an audience, of so many different states of mind, could be affected by humor andmusic. I have had far less appreciative audiences among sane people, and have been at my wits’ end to rouse them. Here is a story that tells how Digby Bell once roused a cold audience without giving offense; it proved the biggest hit of his act. He recently had to deal with a particularly frigid audience, and the best of his jokes met with but indifferent success. There happened to be a little flag fastened on one side of the stage, and the humorist, after delivering his last joke ineffectually, ran over, gravely pulled the banner down to half-mast and made his exit. The audience appreciated the sarcastic proceeding, and applauded him till he was obliged to give them a little additional entertainment, and this time he had no need to complain of their appreciation.