“Philadelphia, January 9, 1912. I am staying here with Mr. and Mrs. Jayne, in a beautiful house, with great kindness from my host and hostess. We opened very well last night. We had a very appreciative audience. Mr. and Mrs. —— afterwards gave a supper for me and presented me with an immense basket of roses.
“We dined on Sunday night with Dr. Furness, the old Shakesperean scholar. We went by rail and had to walk a little way to his house. It was four degrees above zero but so still it didn’t seem cold. There has been a good deal of snow, and the streets are very slippery. It is impossible to walk at all without goloshes.
“Mr. Jayne went after dinner to a meeting of a philosophical society founded by Franklin. He brought back philosophers and learned men of all sorts. We talked on astronomy. I told them I had once walked down the tube of Lord Rosse’s big telescope. Mr. Jayne told of Herschel having his telescope brought to him when he was old that he might look at Orion and remember it as his last view of the heavens.
“The Jaynes and some of the philosophers went on to a ball at the Assembly Rooms, and I was invited. It gave me a sense of Philadelphia being a community of its own—very entertaining.
“A Rev. John —— called on me yesterday, sending in a message that I used to teach him his catechism at Killinane Church. I had forgotten, but remembered him as a little Protestant boy. Something made me ask what church he belonged to. ‘Catholic.’ I said: ‘My catechism didn’t do much good then?’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I was an Anglican clergyman for a great many years.’ ‘Why did you change?’ ‘Because of authority. I wanted authority, and I cannot give up the belief in the divinity of our dear Lord.’ ‘But we believe that.’ ‘No, it’s being given up little by little, and the bishops seemed uncertain. I wanted authority.’
“When we parted we talked about Roxborough thirty-eight years ago. I said, ‘We must say a little prayer now and again for each other.’ He said, ‘Will you please say a great many for me.’
“By orders from New York two secret service men were sent to see me safely home from the theatre, quite unnecessary for Mr. Jayne, who is a leading lawyer, was sufficient escort.”
“January 16th. We had a little trouble last night, the first of The Playboy. The first act hadn’t gone far when a man got up and protested loudly and wouldn’t stop. Others shouted to him to go out or keep quiet, and called out ‘New York Irish,’ but it was a good while before the police could be stirred up to remove him. By that time another man in the stalls was calling out ‘This is an insult.’ The men near were calling to him to clear out, but they didn’t help to evict him. It was Robinson who came at last and led him out like a lamb, but I believe he made some disturbance in the hall. By this time others had started a demonstration in the balcony and there was a good deal of noise, so that for about ten minutes the play couldn’t be heard. I went round, but didn’t make the actors repeat it, for I thought the audience ought to be made to suffer for not being more helpful. About twenty-five men were ejected or walked out, but all were given back their money at the box office, and I am sure will think it a sacred duty to spend it in the same way again. Two were arrested for assault. Nothing was thrown but a slice of currant cake, which hit Sinclair, and two or three eggs, which missed him—he says they were fresh ones. I lectured at the University this afternoon; some of the students had come and invited me. A very fine attendance, many of the audience standing. I spoke only half an hour, but made quite a new little lecture and it held them. I gave eight tickets to be given to athletes among the Pennsylvania students as A. D. C.’s for me to-night. They would have been very useful putting out offenders and taking messages to the stage. I rehearsed this morning, and then lectured and went to a ‘College Club’ tea—and I am tired and won’t write more.”
“January 17th. The riot last night was not so serious as I had expected. The agitators had been so gently dealt with the first night and had had their money returned, one felt sure they would try again, and when I got to the theatre, one of the officials told me he had been watching the box office during the day, and had seen ‘murderers’ taking four or five seats together. The auditorium was very full, and at the back, where I sat, there were a great many suspicious-looking characters. One of them began to cough loudly during Kathleen ni Houlihan when Miss Allgood was singing the first little song, and to mutter, so that people near told him he was not the only person in the theatre. Others joined in coughing, but I sent a message round to have the lights put up, and the moment they were turned on, the coughs stopped. I pointed out this man, and was amused to see him sit through the play looking sullen but silent except for an occasional mutter or cough, which was stopped at once, for a policeman in plain clothes had been put on each side of him. Near the end, where all on the stage rush out after Christy when he is going to ‘kill his father the second time,’ he could not resist laughing, and then he walked out discomfited.