One of the most remarkable of Victorians in stage-land was Dion Boucicault, father of my life-long little friend, "Dot," the accomplished husband of Irene Vanbrugh. Boucicault produced his first comedy, London Assurance—a brilliant one in its day—about the date of my birth, when he himself was not more than twenty-one. He was a colossal worker as author, actor, and producer until 1890; a career as distinguished as it was lengthy. His delightful Irish plays, The Colleen Bawn, Arrah-na-Pogue and The Shaughraun, were among the joys of my youth. I first met Boucicault at Birmingham, where I was specially engaged to act his own part, the counsel for the defence in his drama The Trial of Effie Deans. I learnt much from him at the one rehearsal he travelled from London to attend. When about half way through the trial scene he took me aside and told me I was wrong in my treatment of the part, adding: "Let me rehearse the rest of the scene for you, and I am sure you will grasp my own idea of it directly." I saw at once how right he was, how wrong I had been. The result was a considerable success for me. In the early days of our managerial career we produced a comedy of his, How She Loves Him—clever, but not one of the best. A situation at the end of an act became very muddled, after being tried at rehearsal in several ways. An idea struck me, which was a distinct improvement, but I hardly dared to interfere with so great an autocrat, kind as he had always been. At last, in despair, I suggested to Boucicault that his original ending of the act was more effective than that he had changed it to. He said: "What was that?" I then boldly explained my own idea as if it were his. No doubt he saw through the strategy, but merely said: "Perhaps you're right," and rewarded my shrewdness by adopting the suggestion.
When, years afterwards, I asked his consent to my making some alterations in London Assurance and combining the fourth and fifth acts, he replied from Chicago: "Your shape of London Assurance will be, like all you have done, unexceptionable, and I wish I could be there to taste your brew."
Rest and rust
Later on, when my wife was taking only a small part in some of our plays, he wrote:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Will you feel offended with an old soldier if he intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark?
"Why are the Bancrofts taking a back seat in their own theatre; they efface themselves! Who made the establishment? with whom is it wholly identified? of what materials is it built? There—it's out!
"Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive as rest if persisted in; you must alter the vowel—it becomes rust, and eats into life. Hers is too precious to let her fool it away; she is looking splendid, and as fresh as a pat of butter. Why don't you get up a version of The Country Girl? Let her play Hoyden and you play Lord Foppington."
Boucicault was a perfect host, a brilliant talker and sympathetic listener. I first dined with him, when a young man, in the delightful company, I remember well, of Charles Reade, J. M. Bellew and Edmund Yates. On the menu was printed: "The wine will be tabled. Every man his own butler. Smiles and self-help." And there was cognac of 1803 from the cellars of Napoleon III. I had many years of unbroken friendship with Boucicault. His final words to me were in a letter from America, following on an illness:
"I doubt whether I shall cross the ocean again. I am rusticating at Washington, having recovered some strength, and am waiting to know if my lease of life is out, or is to be renewed for another term. I have had notice to quit, but am arguing the point ('just like you,' I think I hear you say), and nothing yet is settled between Nature and me."