The lady now approached, and asked if she could be of any service. The messenger repeated his story and stated his errand. The lady smiled blandly, and said that, if the small box on the upper tier were reserved, matters no doubt would be amicably arranged in the evening, and so that man went away rejoicing.
At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman who had in vain been sought so urgently arrived in high spirits, accompanied by a lady, handsome but not portly. When the circumstances were explained to him, he agreed to use the smaller, and upstairs box.
There ended our share in the transaction; but hardly were the unfortunate man and his attractive companion left alone than the portly lady reached the theatre and asked to be shown to Box X. She was conducted there; the door was opened. Tableau! What explanation was given as to the business trip to Liverpool we never knew, or whether the third act of this domestic drama was afterwards played at the Law Courts before "the President."
Grave illness
It was in the winter of 1871 that the Prince fell seriously ill from typhoid fever. The national excitement reached so high a pitch and the craving for the latest news of his condition grew so great, that the bulletins from Sandringham were read out in the theatres between the acts, and the National Anthem and "God Bless the Prince of Wales" were nightly played by the various orchestras.
The Prince was hardly expected to survive from hour to hour, but when reassuring bulletins were issued I vividly remember the relief they caused. The extraordinary manifestation of loyalty to the Throne and attachment to the Prince which this illness set ablaze culminated on the day of General Thanksgiving, when London was en fête, and Queen Victoria, with her convalescent son, went to the service held at St. Paul's. My wife and I were fortunate in being invited by the Lord Chamberlain to represent the stage—young managers as we then were—at the Cathedral. I shall never forget the effect when the great west door was thrown open and a loud voice announced "The Queen." The imposing ceremony, the aspect of the building, with its splendid assemblage of people, have only since been equalled at the Jubilee Thanksgiving of 1887 in Westminster Abbey, at which we were also present. On the day which followed I remember being at the corner of Pall Mall and St. James's Street while the decorations were being taken down. I said to a police constable: "You fellows must have had a long and very tiring day, yesterday." "Yes, sir, we had," the man replied, "and we'd willingly go through it all for her again to-morrow."
I also recall an amusing incident which took place at that time in the grounds of Chelsea Hospital. There was a parade of the old Pensioners, looking as if they had stepped from the canvas of Herkomer's "Last Muster." The Prince and Princess of Wales, with other Royalties, including the Duchess of Teck, who was in a bath-chair, passed along the line, the Prince in his kindly way stopping now and then to say a pleasant word. The breast of one old man was ablaze with medals—the Prince handled them and said: "You have indeed seen a deal of service, my man." The old fellow drew himself up, saluted, and answered: "Yes, your wusshup!" The Prince controlled his amusement at the new title and passed along, but, as she was drawn after him in her chair, the Duchess did not repress the merry laughter for which she was loved by all sorts of people.
Dinners to actors
Among my treasured memories is that of the dinner given by the Prince at Marlborough House to the principal actors of London—one of the many acts by which he endeared himself to the theatrical profession. On this occasion I was honoured by being placed on the right-hand of our host. This was in 1882. Without having realised it, I found that I had already been the senior manager in London for some years. Thirty-eight were at table, the actors present being Henry Irving, J. L. Toole, John Hare, Charles Wyndham, Charles Coghlan, W. H. Kendal, John Clayton, David James, Arthur Cecil, Henry Neville, Lionel Brough, Hermann Vezin, George Grossmith the elder, and myself. H. J. Byron was invited, but serious illness kept him away. I am the only survivor of that happy company. Of the guests invited to meet us, Lord Lincolnshire (then known to his intimates as "Charlie Carington") alone is with us still. Lord Knollys, a charming guest, the trusted servant of three monarchs, and Sir Dighton Probyn, for so many years Queen Alexandra's devoted henchman, have both recently gone from us.