The Idler, Volume III., Issue XIII., February 1893 by Various

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And so the sketch runs on, until, in speaking of the universal manner in
which music is appreciated in England by all classes, Mr. Grossmith goes
on to say: "We have made rapid strides, so have our servants. They don't
know how to dust the piano, but they can play it. Everybody plays the
piano, from the Peerage to the School Board. Then look how music has
crept into our homes and social circles. Besides the piano, the mother
and daughters play the banjo, the son plays the first fiddle, and the
father the second fiddle--as usual. I know of a Lord Mayor who plays the
trombone, a clergyman who plays the big drum--that's a nice
unpretentious, giddy instrument!--and I know of any number of members of
Parliament who blow their own trumpets!!" And so the notes go brightly
on through many pages.

[Illustration: THE STUDY.]
[Illustration: MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH.]

"This," explained my host, "is a fair specimen of the method I employ in
preparing a drawing-room sketch. As a rule, my audiences of that class
are capital. I always love a well-dressed audience, it is so cheerful.
You mayn't perhaps get as much applause as you do from the sixpenny
gallery, but then applause often spoils your point. Once, however, I
remember singing at a private house in the country to an odd assortment
of people. I was informed that the party followed a wedding which had
taken place in the morning. If it had followed a funeral it could not
have been more gloomy and depressed than it was. I played the piano and
the fool for three-quarters of an hour, and anything more dismal than
the result it would be impossible to conceive. A temptation seized me
suddenly, and I said: 'Ladies and gentlemen,--I am going to reveal to
you a secret. Pray don't let it go any further. This is supposed to be a
comic entertainment. I don't expect you to laugh at it in the least; but
if, during the next sketch, you would only once oblige me with a society
smile, it would give me a great deal of encouragement.' The audience for
a moment were dumbfounded. They first began to titter, then to laugh,
and actually to roar, and for a time I could not proceed with the
sketch. They were transformed into a capital and enthusiastic audience,
and the hostess told me that both her guests and herself were most
grateful to me. I am sometimes amused with the little eccentricities of
people who wish to secure my services for their parties. A gentleman
once wrote to me to entertain some friends of his, and, added he, 'I
trust that your sketches are strictly _comme il faut_, as I have several
young daughters.' I was so immensely tickled by this that, rightly or
wrongly, I replied that my entertainments _were_ as they should be, for
I was recently married, and hoped myself to have several young
daughters. He wrote thanking me for this assurance, and I was to
consider myself accordingly engaged. There is a story I tell in my book
which will bear repetition: A young gentleman once called upon me. He
explained that he was acting as a sort of ambassador for a friend of
his, Mrs. ----, of Mayfair, who wished me to dine at her house. I
replied that I had not the honour of the lady's acquaintance, and,
though appreciating her kind invitation, I did not see how I could very
well avail myself of it. He said that Prince Somebody or other and La
Comtesse de So-and-so would be dining there, and Mrs. ---- would be so
pleased if I would join the party, and sing a little song after dinner.
'Oh,' I said, 'if Mrs. ---- wishes to engage me professionally, that is
another matter, and if I am at liberty, I will come with much pleasure.'
'Well,' said the ambassador, 'I fancy Mrs. ---- is under the impression
that if she includes you in her dinner party it is an understood thing
that you sing afterwards.' 'I am afraid I do not understand that,' I
said. 'It would not pay me to do so. I only consume about ten shillings
worth of food and wine, and my terms are more than that.' There," said
Mr. Grossmith, "could you have believed that anyone would have been so
inconceivably mean and caddish?"

[Illustration: OLD ENGRAVINGS.]
[Illustration: MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.]
[Illustration: MR. GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN.]

"I have had some curious experiences on tour," he went on. "That is hard
work, if you like. I have gone a four months' tour without missing a
night. It takes it out of one terribly. But it is very paying work. In
the South of England I have made as much as L300 a week. My friends
tried to frighten me as to the apathy of my Scotch audiences; as a
matter of fact, I have no better audiences anywhere. I like performing
to country audiences. I am never nervous as I am apt to be at St.
James's, where there are a number of my friends. And it is on my country
tours that I have many curious experiences. Amateurs invariably call at
the hotel to see me, and to ask my advice as to their powers of
recitation. Some are quite hopeless, and I haven't the heart to condemn
them utterly, or to go beyond 'I tell you quite candidly, since you ask
me, that I have heard better.' As a rule they are very quiet and modest,
but now and again one encounters some fearful specimens. I remember once
at a country town, which we will call Mudborough, a flashy young cad, in
a very loud suit, called to see me with a parcel under his arm. He had
come, he told me, to learn my opinion of his singing. He further
informed me that he was known as 'the Mudborough Grossmith.' He didn't
have the courtesy to take off his hat; he walked up and down my room,
whistling, singing, and handing me over now and again specimens of his
powers as a water-colour painter. I looked at them. At last, tired of
the idiot and his airs, I said, 'I hope your musical sketches are better
than you water-colour sketches.' Nothing, however, could snub this
fellow. He proceeded straightway to sing me an improved version of 'See
me Dance the Polka.' 'Do your audience like it?' I asked. 'I should
think they did,' he replied; 'I will let you have that last verse if you
like.' I thanked him sarcastically, and at last he withdrew. I have,
however, come across some real talent in this way. For instance, that
admirable actor and entertainer, Eric Lewis, is a _protege_ of mine, and
you could not have a better man than he. Another amusing incident
occurred at Southsea. My secretary was in a shop one day, and he
overheard three ladies discussing the respective merits of Corney Grain
and myself. Two of them were for Corney Grain and one was for me.
Finding at last that the odds were too strong for her, she departed with
this final shot: 'Well, never mind, Mr. Corney Grain can't jump on to a
piano,' referring to my imitation of Minnie Palmer."

[Illustration: "A FLASHY YOUNG CAD, IN A VERY LOUD SUIT."]

Replying to a question I put to him as to his theatrical experiences,
Mr. Grossmith told me that it was in the November of 1877 that he
received the following letter:--

"Beefsteak Club,

"King William Street,

"Tuesday Night.

"Dear Mr. Grossmith,--Are you inclined to go on the stage for a time?
There is a part in the new piece I am doing with Gilbert which I think
you would play admirably. I can't find a good man for it. Let me have a
line, or come to Albert Mansions to-morrow, after 4; or Thursday,
before 2.30.

"Yours sincerely,

"ARTHUR SULLIVAN."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

"This was a great moment in my life, although at the time my father,
whose good judgment I valued much, was of opinion that I was not very
successful as an actor. Sullivan, however, who had heard me give a
musical sketch at a dinner party, was of the contrary opinion, and felt
sure that I should suit him. It appears he and Arthur Cecil were both
writing letters at the Beefsteak, when the former said, 'I can't find a
fellow for this opera.' Cecil said, 'I wonder if Grossmith--' Before he
had finished the sentence, Arthur Sullivan said, 'The very man!' And so
I was engaged. I am much indebted to these two Arthurs," continued the
bright little man with a laugh. "I reverence the very name of Arthur. I
remember when Gilbert wanted to engage me for the part of _John
Wellington Wells_, though I saw the part would suit me to perfection, I
said to him, 'I should have thought you required a fine man with a fine
voice for the part of a magician.' I can still see Gilbert's humorous
expression as he replied, 'That is just what we _don't_ want.' I played
_Sir Joseph Porter_ in 'Pinafore' every night for nearly two years. Long
runs don't affect the nerves of the actors nearly as much as they affect
the performance. Constant repetition begets mechanism, and that is a
terrible enemy to contend against. I make a point of playing my best to
a bad house; for it is a monstrous thing to slur through one's work
because the stalls are empty, and thereby punish those who _have_ come
for the fault of those who _have not_. Still, I repeat it, constant
repetition is a dreadful thing. Fancy playing 'Pinafore,' as I did, for
700 nights without missing a single performance!"

[Illustration]
[Illustration]

As he said this Mr. Grossmith led the way out of the room in which we
had been talking, and which he told me was his own special sanctum,
"into which no one is ever allowed to come except my wife, for anyone
rushing in here when I was composing or thinking out a sketch would
inevitably drive every single idea from my head," and we went upstairs
together. Here in the drawing-room he set himself down to a spinet which
bore the date of 1770, and he struck a few exceedingly sweet-sounding,
if slightly tinkling, chords from it. "And this," said he, "is the
oldest _Broadwood_ in England. You can see for yourself the date--1795."
Downstairs he showed me a beautiful model of a steam engine, upon which
he was enabled to ride, and which he could drive himself. "I thoroughly
understand locomotives," said he, as he pointed to a shelf full of all
the works upon the subject which he had been able to discover.

* * * * *

A BLIND BEGGARMAN

BY FRANK MATHEW.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. PEGRAM.

"Left dark among mine enemies."

Long ago, the Fairies often stole children; they chose the prettiest,
and carried them to Fairyland--the Kingdom of Tyrnanoge,--leaving
hideous Changelings instead. In those days no man had call to be ashamed
of his offspring, since it a baby was deformed or idiotic it was known
to be a Changeling.

[Illustration: "THE PIG WAS A FRIENDLY ANIMAL."]

It is sixty years now since old Mike Lonergan, who lived in a hovel in
Moher Village, was robbed of his child. It was his wife first found out
the theft, for she had seen her unborn son in a dream, and he was
beautiful; so when she saw the sickly and ugly baby, she knew that he
was not hers, and that the Fairies had stolen the child of her dream.
Many advised her to roast the Changeling on the turf-fire, but the White
Witch of Moher said it would be safer to leave him alone. So the child
Andy grew up as a stranger in his father's hovel and had a dreary time
of it, he got little food and no kindness. The Lonergans gave him
neither offence nor welcome, hoping that he might see fit to go home to
Tyrnanoge and yet bear them no grudge. He grew up an odd wizened little
wretch, and everyone shunned him. The children loathed him because they
were afraid of him, so they hooted him from a distance, or stoned him
from behind walls.

Indeed, at this time his only ally was the pig that lived in one corner
of the hovel. The pig was a friendly animal, his front half was a dull
white and the other half black, and this gave him a homely look as if he
was sitting in his shirt-sleeves. Andy would shrink into the corner, and
sit cuddled there with one arm round the pig's neck. Old Mike Lonergan
took to drink, and spent every evening at the Shebeen--small blame to
him--for how could a man be expected to stay at home with a Changeling
sitting in a corner and staring at him?

When the pig was driven to the Fair at Ennistimon, Andy was left
friendless, and then--in all winds and weather--was to be found on the
Cliffs of Moher. Sometimes he stopped out all night, till hunger would
bring him back when the Lonergans were rejoicing at his disappearance.
He knew every inch of the Cliffs, and spent half his time lying on the
edge of the grey precipice, looking down at the sea, six hundred feet
below, or watching the clouds of sea-birds; he found new paths down the
cliff-side and clambered like a goat; he knew where the gulls nested,
but never robbed them, and the caves where the seals lived, and the
seals shouldered their way through the water close by him, looking at
him with soft eyes.

When he was about fourteen, the Famine Year came; fever and "The Hunger"
swept Clare. The fever took Lonergan and his wife, and they were buried
in the dead-pit at Liscannor; it left Andy, but it left him blind. Then
the neighbours began to have their doubts whether he was a Changeling
after all; for the Fairies are faithful, and who ever heard of a
Changeling being left blind and penniless? If he was only mortal he had
been cruelly treated, so to make amends they gave him the fiddle that
had belonged to the "Dark" Man--that is the blind man--of St. Bridget's
Well, who had lately starved. There was still a feeling that he was
unfit for a Holy Well, so he took up a post at the Liscannor
Cross-roads, and there levied a toll on passers with the professional
heart-broken cry:

"Remember the Dark Man! For God's sake, remember the Dark Man!"

* * * * *

For nearly twenty years Andy haunted the Cross-roads, he came to be
honoured as one of the institutions of Moher, though the folk considered
there was much that was uncanny about him, he was so silent, and he
hated the smell of whisky. Now those were the times when Cornelius
Desmond ruled Moher in the old open-handed haphazard way, never
troubling penniless tenants. But "Corney" died and the daisies grew over
him, so the estate was managed by an agent who made short work of
paupers, and evicted "Dark" Andy from his ancestral hovel. Andy did not
seem to know his misfortune. He spent the day of the eviction, as usual,
at the Cross-roads, and came back at night to a ruin. His neighbour,
Larry Ronan the blacksmith, was grieved to see that he took the change
as a matter of course, and that after groping in the four corners of the
cabin he sat on the window-ledge as if unaware that nothing was left of
his home but the walls.

Next day it was rumoured that Bridget McCaura, of Moher Farm, had
sheltered Dark Andy. Bridget was a warm woman, a "woman of three cows,"
a masterful old maid, who in her time had refused many a pretty fellow,
perhaps because she suspected them of hankering after her live stock,
her poultry, and her sixty acres of rocks. Then the old parish priest,
Father Peter Flannery, rode over to see her. Bridget was called out of
her house to speak to him; he was afraid to dismount. She stood in the
narrow gateway in front of her farm, with her arms akimbo, ready to
defend her home against all comers. Peter's heart trembled; he has a
great dread of angry women.

"Is it thrue?" he asked--and was so frightened that he looked even
sterner than usual--"is it thrue what I'm afther hearing, Bridget
McCaura, that ye've taken the Dark Man, Lonergan, to live with ye--to
live in the Farm?"

"Is it thrue? 'Tis so," said Bridget.

"But ye're not going to keep him, are ye now?"

"Keep him? I am that," said Bridget.

Peter screwed up his courage and told her warily, that though it was
well-meant of her, and "'tis you have the kind warm heart, Bridget me
dear," still, that propriety forbade it.

He was afraid to look at her as he spoke. Bridget was purple.

"What! a misfortnit ould omadhaun the likes of that?" she cried.

"I know, I know," said Peter (this is a pet phrase of his and usually
means that he does not know). "I know, I know, but 'tis because ye're a
lone woman, tell me now are ye listening to me? If ye'd been married
now, 'twould have been another thing."

"Married!" cried Bridget with infinite scorn--"Married! If that's all,
I'll marry the craythur to-morrow!"

And so Dark Andy was married to the richest woman in Moher. He seemed
indifferent; as for Bridget, she had made up her mind to shelter him,
and there was an end of it, she took pleasure in astounding her
neighbours.

[Illustration: "I'LL MARRY THE CRAYTHUR TO-MORROW!"]

There was never such excitement in Clare as when those banns were read.
Everyone saw that poor Bridget McCaura--"dacint woman"--had been
bewitched. All the old stories about Dark Andy came to life, there was
no room for doubt now, and the bravest unbelievers trembled before him.
There was many a woman would never hear his name without crossing
herself, and he got the credit of every misfortune between Kilkee and
Kinvarra, though some doubted whether a blind man could have the Evil
Eye. It was felt that he should be asked to give up his post by the
Cross-roads, since it was inconvenient for the neighbours to have to
climb two stone walls to avoid passing him. However, no one could be
found to suggest this to him, so he still sat there daily, for he liked
to feel that he was earning his own livelihood.

* * * * *

One rough afternoon during my first visit to Clare I was caught in a
storm of rain, and took refuge at the Liscannor Cross-roads under a
thick clump of trees that are stunted and bent eastward by cowering from
the sea-wind. As I reached them I heard a shrill cry, "Remember the Dark
Man!" Then I saw the blind beggarman sitting huddled in a ragged
great-coat so much too big for him that till he stood up I did not see
how tiny he was. He had a doleful peaked face, set in a shock of grey
hair. By him sat a little brown dog--the queerest of mongrels--with a
tin can tied round his neck.

Andy was friendly that day, and talked eagerly in a shrill, stammering
voice. I found later that he was wretched in still weather, and loved
the malicious rush of the rain; he was happiest when the wind rattled in
his ears and the rain whipped his face. "Call that rain?" he said, "sure
th' air is flooded, an' ye might as well swim as walk."

Many times after that I went out of my way on my long solitary walks to
pass the Cross-roads, but as often as not he was glum and silent, and
then Bonaparte, sharing his mood, would growl like a small thunderstorm.
The seat was well chosen, for the cowering trees are like a shed over
it, and there is a pleasant landscape in front (though that mattered
little to Andy), a landscape of dim green moors--with brown stains on
them where sedge grows and black shadows where bushes huddle in
clefts--chequered by a grey net of low walls, dotted with the white
gables of cabins, and framed by a wavering line of hills.

Sometimes I found him playing his fiddle to keep himself company, but he
stopped when he heard me, and, to tell the truth, I was glad of it, for
his playing was uncanny. Sometimes I met him shambling along the brink
of the Cliffs--a grotesque little figure, with his old shapeless hat,
his huge coat flapping behind him, and the mighty blackthorn he
carried--he knew the ground so well that he walked as if he could see
(indeed, he saw more than I could, for while to me the breakers were
only streaks of light, he spoke as if he was close to them on the wet
weedy rocks), or I came on him lying by the edge, listening to the
grumbling of the breakers and the cries of the gulls.

[Illustration: "LISTENING TO THE GRUMBLING OF THE BREAKERS AND THE CRIES
OF THE GULLS."]

Mostly he was unsociable, he shrank from his neighbours because they had
been cruel to him when they were children, and the dislike was more than
returned; yet I think that, but for the loneliness of his whole life, he
would have been friendly enough. No one knew more of folklore--I think
he half believed that he was a Changeling, and found comfort in the
thought of that former life when he was one of the merry "Little Good
People"--and sure old Mike Lonergan and his wife ought to have known
best. He knew the ways of every ghost in the county, and it was even
said that he was on speaking terms with the Headless Man who haunted
Liscannor. Of course he knew all about Fairies. When the fallen leaves
scurried past his feet he knew that the "Little Good People" were
playing football, when the wind whispered in the leaves overhead he
heard them chatting, and when it whined in the creaking bare branches,
heard the poor little folk crying with cold and bewailing the days when
they found shelter by snug firesides and sat there unseen but not
unwelcome. Once, before the world grew hard, they gathered in the
cabins, and the roughest fare grew pleasanter, the saddest hearts
lighter, from their good wishes; but no one cares for them now, and they
cannot rest in unfriendly houses.

[Illustration: "HE WAS ON SPEAKING TERMS WITH THE HEADLESS MAN OF
LISCANNOR."]

As he grew older, he talked more of them, grew more moody and restless,
could not sit quiet while the wind was up, and spent night after night
out of doors. My friend Father Peter Flannery, who is my chief authority
for this history, told me that often, riding on his sick calls in stormy
weather, he met Andy staggering along the rough roads.

Last year on November Eve--the night when the Fairies have power, and
the dead wake and dance reels with them--the blind beggarman started out
from the Farm. An Atlantic gale was shattering seas against the Cliffs,
the air was salt with foam, and throbbed with the pulse of the breakers.
Bridget tried in vain to stop him; he said the "Little Good People" were
calling him. She watched him disappear into the darkness, the whimpering
of his fiddle died into the shrieks of the wind. "'Tis a quare divil, he
is," she said, "God help him!"

Once in the night she thought she heard a snatch of the "Fairies' Reel";
but Andy never came back. Next morning they found Bonaparte whining on
the edge of the Cliffs; there was no sign of his master. He must have
gone over the Cliffs in the darkness, but the waves gave no token.

Some folk in Moher believe that the Fairies took back their child, and
that the old blind fiddler lives now in the Kingdom of Tyrnanoge, and
makes music for their dances in that enchanted country where the old
grow young and the blind see. Some say that he still haunts the
Cross-roads, and only a week ago, Larry Ronan, coming back at night from
Ennistimon Fair, saw a black shadowy figure under the black trees, and
heard a heart-broken voice cry "Remember the Dark Man!" Larry's natural
surprise at this accounted for his being found next morning asleep in
the ditch. But it is agreed in Moher that Andy left life on November
Eve, whether he became the playfellow of the Fairies or the plaything of
the waves.

* * * * *

CHURCH AND STAGE.

A REVIEW OF HENRY IRVING,

BY THE REV. DR. JOSEPH PARKER.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM F. BARNARD AND J. BERNARD PARTRIDGE.

[Illustration: MR. IRVING AS "HAMLET."
(_From the Portrait by EDWIN LONG._)]

[Illustration: MR. IRVING AS "DIGBY GRANT" IN "TWO ROSES."]

The innumerable reviews of Mr. Irving by literary and artistic experts
have left room enough for an amateur estimate by a man who is accustomed
to regard human life mainly from a religious standpoint. A complete
review of the Stage by the Pulpit could hardly be the work of a single
pen; for my own part, therefore, I can only make a very small
contribution to such a review by indicating a few points which have
occurred to me in the study of one particular actor. At once, however,
the question arises, Is Mr. Irving a man who can be thus summarily
characterised? In a dramatic sense, are there not many Mr. Irvings? When
a man can act "The Two Roses" and "The Dead Heart" with equal effect,
when he can at will be as vulgar as _Robert Macaire_, or as dignified as
_Cardinal Wolsey;_ when he can be either as young as Hamlet or as old as
Lear, the inquiry as to his plurality becomes natural and pertinent. For
my part, I rank Mr. Irving the comedian above Mr. Irving the tragedian,
just as I rank Nature above Art: each may be highest in its own way, yet
the one may have a charm which the other cannot boast. Mr. Irving's
tragedy sometimes requires working up, but his comedy is spontaneous and
immediate. The needful working up of tragedy is no fault of the actor.
Tragedy should hardly ever begin at once. The murder may come too soon.
Premature rage is followed by untimely laughter. _Digby Grant_ begins at
once, and can be his best self in the very first sentence, but _Macbeth_
must move towards his passion by finely-graded ascents. In Mr. Irving's
exquisite representation, _Macbeth's_ anxieties and perturbations, his
rapid alternations of courage and cowardice, make delicate but obvious
record of themselves in deepening the grey of his hair, and ploughing
more deeply the lines of his face. A comedy may be judged scene by
scene, almost sentence by sentence, but a tragedy can be truly estimated
only when viewed in final perspective.

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