Every one who writes an article upon Mr. Toole begins by telling his readers how entirely lovable a man he is, and I do not know why I should differ from every one else, for, in this case at all events, what every one says is true. There are few actors, either in the past or present, who have so thoroughly succeeded in placing themselves upon a footing of the most friendly and cordial nature with their audience as Mr. John Lawrence Toole. And not only has he succeeded in establishing such relations between himself and his audience, but he has been to the full as successful in endowing the characters he has undertaken with those same lovable qualities which have endeared him both to the public and to his own private friends. Few actors so entirely breathe into their parts the very spirit of their nature and essence of their being as Mr. Toole breathes into his. With high and low, rich and old, young and poor alike, he is a never-failing favourite, and the moment his kindly face appears upon the stage, and the familiar voice once again awakens the memories of bygone years, a burst of affectionate applause breaks out in welcome of the dear old favourite of our English stage. No matter where a man has been; in the Great Republic over the water, or in the burning lands of India, or in the New World under our feet; when he returns, after years of absence, to the old country, and the familiar faces have passed away, and all things have become new, yet there is still one face that is the same, one voice in which there is still the old familiar ring, and to many such a wanderer old “Johnny Toole” becomes the one connecting line between the dear old past and the cold new present. And who does not know the aspect of the man himself—the short, sturdy figure, the slight limp in his walk, the kind, pleasant face with the mobile mouth and the eyeglass screwed in the smiling eye, and the hair, now sprinkled with grey, brushed back from the broad open forehead? The genial, pleasant manner, the entire ease of the man, and the utter absence of all that detestable putting on of “side” which is too often characteristic of the young actor of the present day, how all these things go towards the explanation of his universal popularity!
mr. toole's house.
A great sorrow has overshadowed the latter years of his life, a sorrow from which he will never shake himself free, but which has only deepened the tenderness of the nature which is so characteristic of the man. I spent a morning with him very recently in his house at Maida Vale. As he entered the room and I asked him how he was, he replied, “Oh, well, I am pretty middling, thanks; an actor’s is such a hard life, you know,” he went on, confidentially, as he pushed me into a chair and took one himself upon the opposite side of the hearthrug. “I have just been reading a whole bundle of manuscript plays, and you never saw such rubbish in your life.
"i can't lay my hands on 'em."
And then”—he went on, plaintively enough—“I lose the things, you know; put ’em into a drawer, or with a lot of other manuscripts and papers, and I can’t lay my hands on ’em when they are sent for, and then, oh, goodness! there’s the deuce and all to pay; for I can assure you that no mother thinks more of her first-born baby than a young author thinks of his first play, and if you are not of the same opinion he regards you as the biggest idiot in the world.” “Well, but,” I ventured to remark—“why on earth do you bother about the things?” “Oh, well,” said he—“you know I can’t help myself; you never can get away from them. For instance, I go out to a harmless evening party, and a country parson comes up to me, the most unlikely man in all the world, you’d think, and he’ll say to me, ‘My brother has just written a play, Mr. Toole; I wish you’d just cast your eye over it.’ And I can’t say No, Mr. Blathwayt, I can’t say No. Well, now you’re here,” he went on after a moment, “you’ll like to have a look round, won’t you? I’ve got lots of interesting things here. Come into what I call my study—although,” continued he, with a laugh, “I am afraid I don’t get through much study. I am too busy to write, you know,” he rambled on in a voice and manner that was amusingly reminiscent of “Walker London.” So into the study we went, encountering on our way a big Australian black bird, which was wandering about the house in an aimless and irresponsible fashion, crooning to itself memories of its Antipodean home. Before we entered the study, Mr. Toole drew my attention to a beautiful model of the picturesque old Maypole Inn in “Barnaby Rudge,” with a number of the characters in the novel wandering about in front of the house.
mr. toole and his "raven."
