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REMINISCENCES OF > MR JOHN L. TOOLE I MXATJTO BY HIMSELF, AND CHRONICLID BY JOSEPH HATTON. ILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED BRYAN. j [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] I TOOLE AT ALBERT GATE. I 1. Under the shadow of great sorrow, caused by the ioss of his son, Mr Toole for several months disappeared from public life. Seriously ill when bis sou died, he sought health and change of scene abroad. his meuical adviser eventually insisted Upon a return to work as the only remedy tor both mind and body. He removed from Orine-square to Albert-gate, and went back to work at his pretty theatre in King William-street, where he met with a cordial welcome at the hands of his old friends, the public. Three years ago, one quiet night at the Gariick the subject of these Toolepapers croppedup afresh, and in August 1885, I visited the comedian at home and began tins present chapter. Toole had suffered from a serious attack of gout during the year,aud had beeusent to Aix-les-Baing. As one of is friendly callers I had seen him durlng his illness* HIH patience under physical agony is Hot remarkable when one considers the solid generosity of his character, his seiisitivenpss about diving others pain or trouble, his equable temper, bis habit of taking lie as it comes. He wrote several letters to me from Aix-les-Biins, decor- ated with the suggestive figure of a bather being carried in something like a sack on a hurdle from the batb. "This is how they cariy me," he writes, "like Guy Fawkes I was a little better yesterday and feit 1 must do something, so I put my head out at the top and made a face at one of the carriers an a small auiiience, but they noue of them laughed I suppose they pitied me, I must have looked like a lunatic; I felt. one, atilt therefore subsided once more into Guy Fawkes." Later, I had letters from Geneva. "It is very beautllul-the lake," he wrote, "but as I sit looking at it, and the sun is setting in the west, as the poets say, 1 would give something to sea the Stiand and have a chat at the club in my own language." He returned from Ax a new man, and his delight at getting back again among his friends was something very pleasant to contem- plate. The hall of 17, William street, says the narrator of these reminiscences, opens upon a tine stair- case, and into a suite oi rooms which belong to this narrative of gossip, chat, excursions and I reminiscences. They are the rooms in which Mr Toole receives his friends. Before we enter, with our host, let us glance at the souvenirs which decorate the hall. A bust of Shakespere, and one of Micready (" given t" n.e by Lowne, who was a friend of the great tragedian," says Toole), a few engravings, and a large model of the Maypole Inn, immortalised by the stoiy of Barnaby Kuoge," are the most noticeable things. The Maypole is a clever realisation of the picturesque inn, with models of the leading characters of the novel grouped in trout of F, the whole under a glass case. It was a feature of the dining-room of the Hen and Chickens, at Birmingham," says my host. "Dickens saw it there and greatly aomiieu it. I tried to buy t, but the proprietor would not sell it at any price. He came to a kind of agreement with me. however, that if ever he parted witij it I should have it. Wiien he retired from the Hen ana Chickeus he sent it to me. Unfortuuately, Dickens was dead when the model came, and my chief purpose in desiring to buy it was frustrated 1 wanted to give it to the author of "Barnaby Rudge," I ain not a gieat reader—never have much time to read books except those belonging to the parts I piay but I have experienced inteuse eDj yment over tlie wouueriui stories of Dickens. What always delights lIIe with his work are his perfect stuaie-; of character; to me this aide of his art is the most fascinating. To have known from bis own iips that he approved of my efforts to realise some of his creations on the Iotage has always given me the greatest gratification." While we are talking we have pissed into the ante-room of the library, where a pleasant fire is burning, ami the host's arm chair, with a reading lamp placed conveniently above it, is drawn cosiiy within the warmth of the heathstoue. We stroll through the room, into the libral y, and thence into the dinit>g-room, and back again. The walls are full of p.ctures, the uiniug-rooir devoted to paintings, the other rooms to engravings, water- tolours, and photographs, all more or less interest- ing, not only as works of art, but from their pleasant associations. There are landscapes oy Sam Bough, the wel'-kiu wii Scotch artist; portraits of James Wallack, Hobsoii, Wright, Webster, Widdu.itibe, Bucksione, LUton, Hailey, Compton, Thackeray busts of Irving, Shakespere, Dickens, and the Prince of Wales engravings from familiar works by Laudseer, Jerome, Frith, and Turner; I character portraits of E liuumt Kean, Bannister, Miss O'Neill as "Juliet," a "Vanity Fair" caricature of the host as üutfiu, and it prettily suggested incident in the life of the Bard of Avon." "The dainty bit of landscape you are looking at," remarks my host, as we pause opposite a water- colour thar, recalls Corot, is by Jefferson ('Rip Van Winkle,') who painted it for me it is a sketch cntlie Thames; it he had followed the art of painting instead of acting, they say he would have made just as great a mark as he has done on the stpge. I am very fond of that souvenir of Kip'; It always suggests to me the dreaulluess of Sleepy y Hollow. The pictures close by are two water colours by F. W. Topham, presented to me, and the next one is by Edward Duncan, old friends now Head. Here is a drawing by Wainwright which belonged to Charles Matthews Wainwright was a murderer, not the Wnitechapel criminal, his namesake, but not blood relations unless mur- derers can be called blood relations. The Matthews souvenir was the work of- that fiend in human shape who insured people's lives and then pcisoned them. He was a critic, I believe. My experience of critics has been ef the pleagantest, and the worst I have ever before beard of a critic is that he has poisoned the public mmd against an actor— generally a crushed tragedian—or stabbed an artistic reputation. I never heard of any other Crime laid at the door of a critic except in the case of Wainwright. Perhaps this is why Matthews treasured this picture." I But Wainwright was also an author, I believe, and a friend of Bu'wer and Charles Lamb, We mii-t look him up. "This is a statueite of Bouffe, the famous French actor, presented by the actor himself to Matthews. The little figure of Esmeralda belonged to Dickens, nd the wine coolers on the sideboard were among the interesting relics I bought at the Gad's Hill sale." I feel that the owner's brief descriptions of thr-se treasures are sufficient without any further indication of them, the more so that they suggest incidents and recollections of the past which give tbem at the moment their greatest value to both recorder and reader. I IdE TOOI-E AT BOME, I r)FA. j IL 0'», by the way," continued Tool?, hern is a picture l>y Montagu Stanley, a celebrated Edin- burgh actor. He was an admirable Crichton, poet, painter, preacher. He is buried -n the Clyde. He was with Murray—was, in fact, his great star. In those dsys the popularity of a tock actor was a matter of gieat importance to a manager, especially when the local star was content to remain in the provinces, and had no hankering after London. Stanley was of great value to Murray but he made up his r ind to leave the S'age and go into the Church. Long before he told Murray of this determinant ou he bad given bis confidence to some Church Iriends. Ha did not like telling Murray, because he knew it would trouble him. More than ouce h' delayed entering upon his new dut es, because be shrank from giving bis friend pain; but Murray had become acquainted with his decision. Tie secret had not been kept, and Murray was nu ch annoyed that Stanley had taken his confiden e elsewhere so when at last Stanley felt the time had really come when he could kuep the announcement back no logger, he found Murray prepared with a not very bind rep!y. 'G,tig to leave the Stage, are ye?' said Murray. 4 Weil, it is about time, I'm think- itig ye've done all ye can in the drama The cut was keenly felt by Stanley, but after a time the manager told him how he had been tempted to say the ullkind thing, and how he did not mean I it, and so the old friendship was renewed. Stanley became famous as a preacher." By this time we hay, returned to the cosy little from room, with its "old arm ch^ir," its heavy I portiere, its glowing fire, and the hum of outside jifV and bustle, "the everlasting music of t London." "The painting you were noticing in the dining- rillini, 'A Wet Day at Greenock,' is by Atkinson Gnm-diawe, ot Leeds," continues my host, "and bere i« axke'cli oi Miss Woolgar and myself in The Willow Copse beneath it is a photograph of iJroiigh aud myself as the two old men in "Dearer than Lite." The work of developing the negative was a innger business than it is now so while the artist was at work, Brouerh and I, in our vags—-it was a warm day in June—walked out into (Jiosvenor square and called at the house of a certain would-be swell, who prided h mself on his money, and was a great snob, so everybody said. The door was opened by a gorgeous footman Master in? we asked. 1*6 is not, said the flunkey, with a disdainful scare at our rags, and thoughts, no doubt, of the policeman rouud the roruer. Not in I Tell him his two brothers frcm the Workhouse called to see him.' That flunkey, I woald look dowo on bis master ever I »fte"ward*, "Hareis rxrrtnwt of MatkGp i he £ >l*T9d "Sb?- lock," as you know, when he was a hundred years old and here is a picture of Widdicome and Mrs Glover; and this is an interesting work, an unfinished portrait of Stephen Kemble as 'Fal- staff,' by Clint. Sir John Millais admired it immensely the other day, eaid it was very clever. On your right is a photograph of Paul Bedford, myself, and Billington, done by the instan- taneous process, the first tim6 they did photographs quickly. Paul bad posed himself by the mantel- shelf and did not hear the artist say it was all over so we let him remain standing until be wai tired. At last he said, Oh,bother this, dear boys, I'm cramped; when is the focussing going to finish r It has been finished and the picture taken loug ago,' we said. Here is a character portrait of Charles Matthews in the first part he played in London, and the quaint looking little boy, dressed like a oleigyman, is De Wilde's original drawing of Matthews, reproduced in the "Life of Matthews," by C i; ? < =< Dickens, junior. MR TOOLE AS "THE ARIFUL DODGER." tiere is a picture of myself as the Dodger —painted by whom do you think ? Keeley Ha'eswelle. He did it in 1854, and in the next room there is a specimen of his landscape art of last year—an admirable p-iinter I sat to Hales- welle for the Do(fger of Oliver Twist,' in the trousers I still use in the part; they are a first-rate property, really old from age, no patches, no arti- ficial rags, the dilapidations the real work of time they were given to me by Robert Wyndham,of the Elinbnrgh Theatre, when first I played the Dodger there. They had belonged to Murray, who had the theatre before Wyndham, a clever fellow, but though he was manager, he played minor characters he wore those trousers for a small part which he played in a version of the Heart of Midlothian Scott saw him, and was very complimentary ab)ut his performance; Mack,v was the great Scotch actor of the time; he was in the piece, but Scott seemed to he especially pleased with the realisation of the little part played by Murray. The trousers were old when Murray wore them in that very part; Charles Dickens saw me play the Dodger' in them, and I told him their pedigree and how Sir Walter had seen them. Dickens was very much interested it seemed to make him thoughtful, and he mentioned the name ,of Scott with some- thing like reverence." The age of that fine property in the wAy of trousers is considerably over half a century I" I suggested. "They are eighty years cl 1 if they Pre. a day, as my friend Jones, of Leeds, would say," he replied. "At Edinburgh four or five yeat-sag,), when I had occasion to make a speech, I told them what was a fact, that I met in Princess-street an old Scotch friend who said he hoped I was putting my money away for a rainy day, and recommended me to take, example by the thrift of the Scotch people, who, while they 1ived well and treated their friends, were a careful race. I said I did not think there was a Scotchman who was more careful than I myself, and I was sure he was not so careful in the matters of trousers. How did I mean ? he asked I said I was still wearing a pair of trousers that Wiie given to me five and thirty year3 ago! III. A QUESTION OF AGES. A little j-;st at the expense of a guest having been referred to, Toole recalled, as all example of the treatment he had received at the hands of his friend Irving, an incident of one of his early starring engagements. "I was playing in 'Dearer than Life' with Irving and Biilington at-Leeds; after the play several gentlemen were in the general room of the hotel where we were staying, and among them a certain Mr Jones, who professed to have a large acquaintance in the profession, and who appeared to fcave a local reputation as a ju,lgp, of ages. VýelJ, how uld,' ,nid some one, would you take Mr Toole to Le?' \Vell, said hp, 'sixty five if he'ci a day.' Di) you know ijitri ?' I i-ked. 'Oh, yes know him very well indeed.' All and how old should you take me to ba ?' Well, I should take you to be forty if you're a day.' Irving asked Mr Jones if he didu'c think Mr Toole was nearer seventy-five than sixty-five. 'No,' lie said, sixty-five if he's a day;' and the company present seemed to put it down that that would be my age. They had most of them been to the theatre aud seen me, for the first time probably, playing an old man, and as it was my first visit to the town, and we were going on by the mail trairrthat night, I had a fancy not to go away and leave them under the impression that I was this very old gentleman. I found that Jones was a decent sort of fellow, and I said aside to Irving that before I went I should just give him my card, and let him know what a mistake he had made. By and bye, when our cab arrived, we said good-night to our casual acquaintances, and taking Mr Jones asidp, I handed him my card, whereupon he said, ;0;i, indee i in a very offensive manner, turned upon his beel, and walked away. Well, I said to my friends, as we drove away, that's the most impertinent fellow I think I ever met.' Whereupon Bdiington and Irving went into fits of laughter, and confessed that they had warned Mr Jones that I was continually passing myself off as Toole, and that he was to be quite prepared for my handing hlrrt a card and continu- ing the imposition with him." t TOOLE AND CHARLES DICKENS. "You told a capital story at the Theatrical Fund dinner last year," I suggested. "About the Cratcbett piece at the Adelphi?" he said interrog<\tiveJy. "Yes/' I answered. "It is a first-rate story; I told it to Dickens shortly after it occurred, and lie was quite touched -fiear ce by it. What a fine-hearted, kindly, merry gentle- man he was-he once told me he had at one time almost made up his mind to be an actor. I said it was a good thing for some of us and a splendid thing tor literature that he changed his mind. He seemed to possess everything that goes to make success on the stage, in comedy especially, bigh- class comedy and I never knew anyone with such a keen eye for character, with such a quick appreciation of a joke." While he was talking lie was fishing among his pi pers for the Cratcbett Story. "Ah, here it is in print dou't often get my stories into the dignity of print, except when George drops one into the ear of a critic or a friendly editor you can read it for yourself." I was not going to be denied the pleasure of hearing him telllbe story, and I returned him the reprint. A good story is never old, though print gives it a familiar kind of look," he said, 'It was when I was playing 'B(,I, Ci-ateliett in "The Christmas Carol' at the Adelphi, under Mr Webster's management, and every night at eight, for forty nights.I had to carve a goose and a plum-pudding. Mr Webster provided a real goose and a real plum-pudding, which were served smoking hot for 'Mrs Cratchett' and the seven 'iittle Cratchett. of course including 'Tiny Tim.' "The children always had enormous portions g,ven them, and all ate heartily every night; but what really troubled me was the conduct of the little girl who played TinjtTim.' That child's appetite appalled me. I could notfihelp noticing the extraordinary rap idity with which she consumed what I gave her, and she looked so wan and thin, and so pitiful, that her face used positively to haunt me. I used to say to myself before I began, 'Well, 'Tiny Tim' rliall have enough this time, at all events,' and I piied her plate more and more each evening, until, I remember, she had on one occasion nearly half the bird, besides potatoes and apple-sauce. It puzzled me to know how she could even carry it away to the fireplace, where she sat on a low stool, in accordance with the story, much less eat it. To my amazement she carried it off and cleared her plate as quickly and as eagerly as ever, push- ing forward for plum pudding with the others. I grew alarmed, and sp> ke to Mrs Alfred Mellon, who was playing 'Mrs Cratebett,' respecting this strange phenomenon. I doti'G like it,' I said I can't conceive where a Pfor, delicate little thing like that puts the food. Besides, although I like the children to enjoy a treat' (and how they kept on enjoying it for forty nights was a mystery, for I got into such a con- dition that if I dined at a friend's house and goose was on the table, I regarded it as personal affront). I said, referring to 'Tiny Tim,' 'I don't like greediness; and it is additionally repulsive in a refined-looking, delicate little thing like this;- besides, it destroys the sentiments—and when I, as 'Bob,' ought to feel most pathetic, I am always wondering where the goose and the pudding are, or whether anything serious in the way of a fit will happen to 'Tiny Tim before the audience, in consequence of her unnatural gorging.' Mrs Mellon laughed at me at first, but event- ualiy we decided to watel) 'Tiny Tim together. Well, we watched as well as we could, and the moment Tiny Tim was sea ted and b> gan to eat, we observed a curious shuffling movement at the stage fireplace, and everything I had given her, goose and potatoes and apple-sauce, disappeared .behind the sham stove, the child pretending to eat as heartily as ever from the empty plate. When the perform ince was over, Mrs Mellon and myself asked the little girl what became of the food she did not eat, and, after a little hesita- tion, frightened lest she should get into trouble, which we assured her could not happen, she con- fessed that her littl« sister (I should mention that they were the children of one of the scene-shifters) waited on the other side of the stage fireplace for the supplies, and that the whole family enjoyed a hearty supper every night out of the plentiful portions tc which I, as B)b.' had assisted 'Tiny Tln1-' Dickens was very much interested in the incident. When I had finished, he smiled a little sadly, I thought, and then, shaking me by the band, be u.ictt Ah. you ooght to have given her Ulo othwe *90*4.

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