Among Wills’s friends, admirers, and associates—of which his affectionate disposition always brought him a following—was Calmour, the author of some pieces full of graceful poetry of the antique model. Like Mr. Pinero, he “knew the boards,” having “served” in the ranks, an essential advantage for all who would write plays; had written several slight pieces of a poetical cast, notably ‘Cupid’s Messenger,’ in which the graceful and piquant Mary Rorke had obtained much success in a “trunk and hose” character. But a play of a more ambitious kind, ‘The Amber Heart,’ had taken Miss Terry’s fancy; she, as we have said, had “created” the heroine at a matinée. It proved to be a sort of dreamy Tennysonian poem, and was received with considerable favour.
‘The Amber Heart,’ now placed in the bill with ‘Robert Macaire,’ was revived with the accustomed Lyceum state and liberality. To Alexander was allotted the hero’s part, and he declaimed the harmonious lines with good effect. I fancy the piece was found of rather too delicate a structure for such large and imposing surroundings.[43]
Whenever there is some graceful act, a memorial to a poet or player to be inaugurated, it is pretty certain that our actor-manager will be called on to take the leading and most distinguished share in the ceremonial. At the public meeting, or public dinner, he can deport himself with much effect.
There are plenty of persons of culture who have been deputed to perform such duties; but we feel there is often something artificial in their methods and speeches. In the case of the actor, we feel there is a something genuine; he supplies a life to the dry bones, and we depart knowing that he has added grace to our recollections of the scene. Nor does be add an exaggeration to what he says; there is a happy judicious reserve. This was felt especially on the occasion of one pleasant festival day in the September of 1891, when a memorial was unveiled to Marlowe, the dramatist, in the good old town of Canterbury. It was an enjoyable expedition, with something simple and rustic in the whole, while to anyone of poetical tastes there was something unusually harmonious in the combination offered of the antique town, the memory of “Dr. Faustus,” the old Cathedral, and the beaming presence of the cultured artist, of whom no one thought as manager of a theatre. A crowd of critics and authors came from town by an early train, invited by the hospitable Mayor. At any season the old town is inviting enough, but now it was pleasant to march through its narrow streets, under the shadow of its framed houses, to the small corner close to the Christ Church gate of the Cathedral, where the speeching and ceremonials were discharged. The excellent natives seemed perhaps a little puzzled by the new-found glories of their townsman; they were, however, glad to see the well-known actor. Equally pleasant, too, was it to make our way to the old Fountain Inn, where the “worthy” Mayor entertained his guests, and where there were more speeches. The image of the sleepy old town, and the grand Cathedral, and of the pretty little fountain—which, however, had but little suggestion of the colossal Marlowe—and the general holiday tone still lingers in the memory. Irving’s speech was very happy, and for its length is singularly suggestive.
It was in October, 1887, that a memorial was set up at Stratford, a clock-tower and fountain, in memory of Shakespeare. It was the gift of the wealthy Mr. Childs, of New York, who has been hitherto eager to associate his name, in painted windows and other ways, with distinguished Englishmen of bygone times. It may be suspected that Childs’s name will not be so inseparably linked with celebrated personages as he fondly imagined. There is a sort of incongruity in this association of a casual stranger with an English poet.
Many a delightful night have his friends owed to the thoughtful kindness and hospitality of their interesting host. Such is, indeed, one of the privileges of being his friend. The stage brings with it abundance of pleasant associations; but there are a number of specially agreeable memories bound up with the Lyceum. Few will forget the visit of the Duke of Meiningen’s company of players to this country, which forms a landmark of extraordinary importance in the history of our modern stage. With it came Barnay, that accomplished and romantic actor; and a wonderful instinct of disciplining crowds, and making them express the passions of the moment, as in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar.’ The skilful German stage-managers did not import their crowds, but were able to inspire ordinary bands of supernumeraries with the dramatic feelings and expression that they wanted.
I recall one pleasant Sunday evening at the close of a summer’s day, when Irving invited his friends to meet the German performers at the Lyceum. The stage had been picturesquely enclosed and fashioned into a banqueting-room, the tables spread; the orchestra performed in the shadowy pit. It was an enjoyable night. There was a strange mingling of languages—German, French, English. There were speeches in these tongues, and at one moment Palgrave Simpson was addressing the company in impetuous fashion, passing from English to French, from French to German, with extraordinary fluency. Later in the evening there was an adjournment to the Beef-steak rooms, where the accomplished Barnay found himself at the piano, to be succeeded by the versatile Beatty-Kingston, himself half German. There were abundant “Hochs” and pledging. Not until the furthest of the small hours did we separate, indebted to our kindly, unaffected host for yet one more delightful evening.
The manager once furnished a pleasantly piquant afternoon’s amusement for his friends on the stage of his handsome theatre. Among those who have done service to the stage is Mr. Walter Pollock, lately editor of the Saturday Review, who, among his other accomplishments, is a swordsman of no mean skill. He has friends with the same tastes, with whom he practises this elegant art, such as Mr. Egerton Castle, Captain Hutton, and others. It is not generally known that there is a club known as the Kerneuzers, whose members are amateurs enragés for armour and swordsmanship, many of whom have fine collections of helmets, hauberks, and blades of right Damascene and Toledo.[44]
Mr. Egerton Castle and others of his friends have written costly and elaborate works on fencing, arms, and the practice of armes blanches, and at their meetings hold exciting combats with dirk and foil. It was suggested that Mr. Castle should give a lecture on this subject, with practical illustrations; and the manager, himself a fencer, invited a number of friends and amateurs to witness the performance, which took place on February 25, 1891. This lecture was entitled “The Story of Swordsmanship,” especially in connection with the rise and decline of duelling. And accordingly there was witnessed a series of combats, mediæval, Italian, and others, back-sword, small-sword, sword and cloak, and the rest. Later the performance was repeated at the instance of the Prince of Wales.
Irving has often contributed his share to “benefits” for his distressed brethren, as they are often called. In the days when he was a simple actor he took his part like the rest; when he became manager he would handsomely lend his theatre, and actually “get up” the whole as though it were one of his own pieces. This is the liberal, grand style of conferring a favour. Miss Ellen Terry “takes her benefit” each year.