Some eminent Victorians: Personal recollections in the world of art and letters

by J. Comyns Carr

It is strange that there should be so much reluctance in the English mind to entertain the idea of a National Theatre. In regard to other forms of art, the need of public support is recognised and accepted. The treasures of sculpture and painting accumulated in the British Museum, the National Gallery, and the South Kensington Museum owe their existence, in part at least, to the expenditure of the money of the people, and when the Royal Academy failed to initiate any comprehensive system of art teaching, it was undertaken by the nation. On every ground of public policy the claims of the drama might be urged with even greater plausibility. Its appeal as an educational force is even greater and more immediate, and as a humanising influence it is capable of reaching that larger class who are not yet prepared to appreciate the masterpieces of ancient art. Of the countless thousands who can enjoy Molière’s incomparable humour, how many are there who would pause before Leonardo’s Monna Lisa in the Louvre? How many again in our own country, of those who are familiar with the tragedies of Shakespeare, ever find their way into the British Museum or the National Gallery?

And yet the prejudice against the public support of the theatre endures, and can only, I think, be broken down by the demands of the democracy. If a national theatre is to be established in England, it must realise that it has a national mission. The Theatre Français was established at a time when means of communication were difficult, and when, therefore, it was only possible to cater for the public of the metropolis. But under modern conditions a national theatre might, in a fuller and larger sense, serve the interests of the country as a whole. The great provincial cities might share the fruits of its labours; and when this is realised I cannot but think that, even though the Government may remain apathetic, the needful support for such an institution will not be wanting.

During the later years of his life upon the stage, Toole no longer held with any influence the attention of a London audience. In the earlier days of the Gaiety, where he had appeared as a dominant figure, his success in a material sense then far outstripped that of his comrade, and in some of Irving’s earlier engagements in the provinces Toole was his manager; but even in those later days, when the comedian had partly lost his hold upon the theatre, he remained a lovable and a fascinating figure in private life, and I am sure there was no one who welcomed with greater enthusiasm Irving’s steady advance to the front rank of his profession.

Perhaps the secret of Toole’s charm lay in an entire absence of pretence either social or intellectual. Something deeply human in his nature left him always at his ease in whatever society he might find himself; and, in a sense of humour which appreciated and detected without resentment the foibles of all whom he encountered, I think there are few men of his generation who could claim to be his equal. He laid no claim to any largeness of education, and I suppose there were few men who had read less, but in that knowledge that could be won without the aid of literature he was a genuine scholar. He read life truly and swiftly, genially and humorously. He knew it well because he loved it well. Put him where you would, in any company, however divergent their claims, and not an hour could pass before Toole had seized with quick enjoyment upon the separate characteristics of nearly every man at the table.

What he loved most, I think, outside of that part of his life which was spent in the theatre, was an aimless ramble in search of fun. Many and many such a vagrant day have I passed in his company, and not a barren one of them all. One such in particular I recall which may stand as a sample of many more. He had called for me quite early in the morning in his victoria, armed with only the naked suggestion that we should pay a visit to the city. For the city, therefore, we started, with no settled plan of operation, and it was only when we had reached the narrowest part of Thames Street that Toole seemed suddenly possessed with the outline of his programme for the day.

The portly figure of a uniformed porter standing at the gateway of some wholesale warehouse arrested his attention, and calling upon the driver to stop, he hobbled out of the carriage with his quaint lame walk, and at once engaged this forbidding-looking official in friendly converse. It was the time when the wheel-and-van tax had lately been imposed, and Toole drawing a note-book from his pocket declared to the amazed individual he was addressing that we had come down to the city to collect opinions on the subject. The man at first was stubbornly reluctant to enter into conversation, but Toole’s insinuating amiability of manner was not to be withstood, and he at last drew from this unfortunate individual an opinion, the purport of which I scarcely now remember, but which apparently, as Toole’s enthusiasm declared, clinched the subject.

“If that’s your opinion,” he said, “will you kindly see to it, as my friend and I are busy,” and with that enigmatic declaration he hobbled back to the victoria, leaving the unfortunate porter with a blank look of puzzled amazement on his face.

“To the Tower,” cried Toole to the coachman, “and as quickly as possible, for we have a lot of work to do.”

Arrived there, Toole at once, in tones of confidential secrecy, addressed the first Beefeater who stood by the gateway.

“What have you done?” he inquired in an anxious voice.