“I don’t think I’ve grown very much since,—except in experience,” he said the other day in the course of a morning chat in his handsome bachelor apartments. “I thought, by leaving home, I might at least grow up with the country.”
“But you didn’t grow, after all?”
“No, I haven’t found the country yet that can make me grow up with it. I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with being a plain expansionist.” [Mr. Wilder is nearly as broad as he is long.]
“How did you happen to choose the amusement profession?” I asked.
NATURE’S LAW OF COMPENSATION.
“I was always a good mimic,” he replied, “and I found my talents lay in that direction. I created a new business, that of story-teller, imitator of celebrated people, and of sleight-of-hand performer, all without the aid of costumes, depending solely on my facial expression to give point to the humor. Nature had certainly tried to make amends for her frowns by giving me facial power,—the power to smile away dull care. There is a niche in life for everyone, a place where one belongs. Society is like a pack of cards. Some members of it are kings and others are knaves, while I,—I discovered that I was the little joker.”
Mr. Wilder is a bubbling fountain of wit, whose whimsicalities are no less entertaining to himself than to his hearers. As he quaintly expresses it, they are “ripples from the ocean of my moods which have touched the shore of my life.” His disposition is so cheery that children and dogs come to him instantly. Eugene Field has the same trait.
HOW HE TOOK JOSEPH JEFFERSON’S LIFE.
His first appearance on any stage was made in “Rip Van Winkle,” when he was a boy. Joseph Jefferson carried him on his back as a dwarf. The great “Rip” has remained his steadfast friend ever since. Only a few years ago, Wilder left New York to fulfil a church entertainment engagement in Utica. He got there at three in the afternoon. Mr. Jefferson’s private car was on the track, containing himself, William J. Florence, Mrs. John Drew, Viola Allen, and Otis Skinner. They hailed him instantly and induced him to pass the afternoon in the car and to take dinner with them. His church engagement was over at half past eight, and at Mr. Jefferson’s invitation he occupied a box at the opera house. The house happened to be a small one, while the church had been crowded to the doors. After the theater, the Jefferson party again entertained the humorist in the car, keeping him until his train left, half an hour after midnight. As Mr. Wilder was leaving, Mr. Jefferson pretended to get very angry and said: “What do you think, my friends? Here we have entertained this ungrateful young scamp all the afternoon, and invited him to dinner. Then he goes up to town and plays to a big audience, leaving me only a very poor house. Then he comes down here, partakes of our hospitality again, and before leaving takes my life!” Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Jefferson handed the young man a copy of his “Life and Recollections.”
His first attempt at wit was at a little church in New York, where he was one of the audience. A tableau was being given of “Mary, Queen of Scots,” and in order to make it realistic they had obtained a genuine butcher’s block and a cleaver. As the executioner stood by, the lights all turned low, and his dreadful work in progress, a shrill voice arose from the darkened house:—