The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 24, 1898, Page 18

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, JULY 24, 1898. Sood JOSEPH JEFFERSON. NAT C. GOODWIN. WILLIAM H. CRANE ROFESSIONAL comedians are seldom or never funny in real life, yet all of them are actors in nes upon the real stage of existence that are quite as funny as any in which they ever take part upon the mimic stage of the theater. In response to a request that they would relate the funniest thing that has ever come under their observa- tion, some famous stage favorites furnish the follow- ing anecdotes: About as funny a thing as I can recall in a theatri- cal way just at this moment is a story about Tom T Keene, the tragedian, which HARRIGAN. | no one tells better or laughs | at more merrily than himself. vears ago, when he was leading man at um in New York, which was managed by George Woods. Mestayer was the co- median of the company at Woods' Museum at the time of which I speak. Every theater had a permanently lo at that time. Both Keene and Mestayer suffered from an ir: stible tendency to guy, which in stage lance means to do everything pos- sible to K E 1f and everybody else on the stage laugk e n the most solemn scenes. As the ¢ s’ had to play at twelve per- svery afternoon and every night, had three or four parts a week cadily understood that many of s letter perfect by any nes of their own com- 1 those of the playwright. One Saturday Fanchon” was put up. Keene, of course, while Mestayer personated Didier. the members of the company all at in one of the proscenium boges and watched the entire play. Neither Keene » knew their parts, and I have heard t they did not speak half a dozen of the for them. The spirit ofguy seemed to possession of them. in had scarcely fallen when “The Gov- often his custom after a first perform- enes, evidently in a very bad an pacing up and down the stage, his knitted, his mouth twisted up as only mouth, and his toes turned in in that ch all who knew him knew so well ed. Both Keene and Mestayer 1 t he thought of the performance, but each ded to do so, thinking it by no means improbable that he might discharge them for guying. 1 g all his courage and resolution, oes lest “The Governor” should n him that terrible anathema, “Depart d,” Keene approached him and . how did you like my Landry called Woo vely The best I ever saw,” was Iways thought them a couple 1 them that way.” people who visit the theater -by-night” applied to minor d unstable theatrical com- i but I believe there are v few, if any, v ho under- n among the present generation few who know how the term vs when old Sol Smith had h played in only the smallest mall and queer towns in the West. Smith and his company were playing Stories By DE WOLF HOPPER. FRANCIS WILSON. STUART ROBSON. a varled repertoire, as every company had to Ido at that time, of which “Macbeth,” with all of Locke’s originalj music, was a prominent feature, but the public proved, his company were at low water mark, and at length’ found themselves stranded in a little Kentucky town, from which a flinty-hearted landlord refused to permit them to remove their baggage until they had liquidated his claim against them for board. Smith felt that he was equal to the emergency, hav- ing ‘‘been there” often before, and he cast about in his mind for some means of deliverance. At length he hit on a plan. He engaged a countryman to bring a heavy * wagon, drawn by a team of sturdy horses, under the window of his room at the back of the tavern at a cer- tain hour on a certain night. The members of the com- pany were let into the secret, and it was arranged that on the night in question they should throw the landlord off his guard by assembling in the parlor and practicing one of the witches’ choruses com- posed by Locke for ‘“Macbeth,” and entitled “We Fly by Night,” in which those words ave repeated over and over again. Meanwhile Old Sol and his most trusty henchman were to lower the trunks from the window to the countryman, who was waiting below to receive them. This programme was carried out to the letter. The company were singing “We Fly by Night” for dear life in the parlor, while Smith and his man Friday were letting down the trunks® with as much celerity and quietness as possible, but alas! not, as they fondly thought, into the hands of the countryman who was to convey them to a place of safety, but into those of the landlord, who had somehow got wind of the scheme. At length the work was completed. Old Sol and his companions, with a great load lifted from their minds, joined the company in the parlor and united with them in singing “We Fly by Night.” But just as they had sung those words for the third time, the door opened, the landlord entered, and their horror was beyond expression when he said, ‘“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, bu* you will not fly by this night, for I have possession of your trunks.” From that time to the present all queer dramatic and musical companies have been known as “fly-by- nights.” aoe TN When Minnie Palmer’s compa..y was playing at the old Arch Street Opera ~““ouse in Philadelphia, in the g T season of 1°76-80, the comedi- an of the company was stop- e O 34 BT ping at the Continental Hotel, where Dean Stanley, the famous English churchman, now dead, who was then making his first £nd only visit to this country, was also stopping. Now the dean and the actor who played the first old man with the Palmer company were about the same age and bore a most striking and remarkable resemblance to each other, especially in point of size and the general outline of their figure. It chanced one day that as Dean Stanley was ng upstairs the comedian of the Palmer com- pany was coming up behind him, and mistaking for his old friend and associate, the first old man of the Palmer company, he playfully gave the dean a sharp thrust with his thumb in a very sensitive portion of his anatomy, which happened at that moment to be especially prominent. Poor Dean Stanley, bellowing with rage and anger, turned hastily around to see who had taken the liberty, and beheld the comedian, who was overwhelmed with mortification and regret to find that had been so familiar with one of the heads of the English church. “O, sir,” he exclaimed, “I beg your pardon. I really FRANCIS WILSON. unappreciative and times were hard. Soon 0Old Sol andy did not know who you were. Pray pardon me. I would never have taken such an unwarrantable 1 I not mistaken you for one of our company. for me. piece, heads. The dean reversed the precedent of Hamlet's Fath- er's Ghost, and regarded him more in anger than in sorrow for a moment, and then said in his most digni- fied voice and manner, “One of your company? Young man, what kind of company do you keep?” It is always customary to pass free into theaters any person who is a member of the dramatic profes- Some years ago there was a large minstrel company One of the cleverest things ever said on the stage on the spur of the moment emanated from Theodore NAT C. GOODWIN. Some years ago when the “Pinafore” craze was at Its height, the actor who impersonated SirJJoseph Porter | which transformed him into an exact fac-simile Admiral Murray of the Uhited | tates Navy, who was then stationed at New Orleans. One night an old salt of Murray's command was DE WOLF HOPPER. STUART ROBSON, making a street parade in every town in which it per- formed, all the members wearing high silk hats, which, as they were constantly exposed to the weather, re- quired a great deal of attention to keep them in order, thereby making it necessary that one or two profes- slonal hat-ironers should travel with the company. One night, while playing in a Western city, I was called to the stage door to see a man who had inquired “What can I do for you?” I asked. “Do you pai “Certainly, ing with?” ““The Mastodon Minstrels.” “What is the line of your business?” ‘‘Hat-ironer.” That professional was not passed. hat company are you play- understand Rt you must know that the snow used in winter scenes is made of white paper cut in very small pieces, and that deadheads are known as “paper,” because, instead of getting in on tickets, they are admitted by paper passes. Business at Wallack’s had been bad, and detérmin- ing to have a good house on the first night of a new Moss had packed the auditorium He was standing on the stage with Wallack, who, after peeping out through the hole in the curtain, turned to Moss and said gleefully, “We have a splendid house to-night.” “Yes,” replied Moss, In his inimitable Hebrew lect, “but I think we had better cut it up for snow. | during a production of operh at the Varieties Theater, New HENRY E. DIXEY. ED STEVENS. & When Sir Joseph Porter made his fir e he gazed upon him for a nc- meent as if doubting the evidence of s, and then muttered te hin blessed if that isn't Old Mur- ng from his and making he called ou “Good day, your honor.” The special officer was going to eject him immediately, but the manager of the house, who had observed him, forbade, and told the officer to let the old fellow enjoy himself to his heart’s content so long as he did not bec > S0 boisterou. to disturb the performance. Whenever Sir Joseph came on or went off the stage the old tar saluted him, and we l>arned arterward that when he went aboard ship they had to put him in irons for refusing to obey an order from his superior officer unless that functionary would follow the example of the gallant captain of the “Pinafore’ and say “If you please.” vy The late John Stetson was generally regarded as the Mrs. Malaprop of the profession, and countless stories B are told of his “soston bulls.” |- wiLLIaM H. cRaNE. | He was 2 manager in that LA | city for year: at an orchestra rehearsal he sa /ing, and asked the reason. teen bars rest h was the reply. n,” I pay you to play, not a cornet . . e Once at a performance of “King Lear” by the late Edwin Booth, I witnessed the meeting of two old T = T —| friends in the audience, and HENRY E. DIXEY after etings had been ex- ¢ B Ce e ) i d to the other, “I saw Ned Booth p! t’ last night. First time Id en him for twenty years, and he was= just as chip- per and peart as he was then, so I thought I'd come to-night and see him play ‘King Lear,” and I'm gettin’ goll-durned tired of that old cu with the long white hair and beard that's carryin’ on with them pe: daughters of his, and if they don't b Ned Boot out soon and let him play King Lear ‘I be gosh shanged if I don’t have my money back. & e Atnong the guests at the hostelry w' number of cho: spirits s a pro? nal, yclept e T Bruno—a practical joke | ED STEVENS who joked not for fame or S Ay 7 plaus not even for the sther apparently from some pecu- ersion of one of his ntal : crowded, narrow thor- Boston—delayed traffic limped to a car he the conductor to across, bowed to the id a chorus of invection. ve: of the hotel were Upon locating the v were found to emanate from Bruno, whose protruding from the transom over his door. u the fireman?”’ was his first question. the reply “Well, bring me a bucket of ich sheltered a r idiosy wheels. e it was who, on t oughfare—Washington stre for some time, while he had hailed, and, o the platf coal, wil AnotHer day three men were carrying a piano up- P LEWIS MORRISON. 1/@’;@ 7 N N\ —) EDWARD HARRIGAN EZRA KENDALL - ed upon the broad expanse of man cer end of the instrument, and ¥ h him, kick him and ar nt fury of tk stairs. Bruno gaz supporting the low seen to rush upon him, punc epithet upon epithet. The impote man, unable even to look around, let g piano, and tt he made, when later he in v sought his : hed me with laughs I ever ir of the hear d in. But, as I said, humor a question of envi ent, and to really appreciate the humor of the situation you must, per- haps, carry a piano upstairs. know: e days ago I was surprised, upon returning to n, to see curious faces peering at me from the e windows that line the hw{gvi ZRA KENDALL corridor. it was mnot unti o come time afterwards that I discovered why I h est to my neighbor: A Cn my room at the hotel T have scattered about a number of photographs of my family and friends. Among them is one of Willlam Jennin Bryan. The rooms adjoining mine are occupied by an old gentle- man and his wife, who, curious to the occupant of the next room, questioned the chambermaid upon the subject. This functionary, who must be suffering frurln myopia to a considerable degree, said that she dld_n t know his name, but would show them a picture of him. ‘Whereupon she made a trip to my room and promptly returned with Bryan’s picture. : “Are you sure,” they asked her. “Oh, yes, quite sure,” she said. And they took me for Colonel Bryan till they saw me. Som 1 been an object of so much inter- $ow w It was in Cairo, Tllinois, and we had been playing “Faust”” Every one who has seen the play will re- T ——————— member the Brocken scene. LEWIS MORRISON. | It repr s hell and pande- e ! monium reigns. Bugs and birds fly in the air, animals of all descriptions scream and screech, and a rain of fire descends. The next morning when the colored waiter brought my breakfast to my room, he stood, tray 1n hand, and closely. “Set it down,” I said. the door, still looking at me v I said, “That will do, you ma when I want you.” “When do re: i and h He did so and backed toward ry hard. go. I'll send for you want me,” he sald, nd trembling on the »* show last night.” a. “Did yo “Mm’'m I'se gw e good, I am. plation. I loo! rd at that scene yo’ got there full of fire. I looked ard. I didn’t = hell.” the grand finale scene, where e That same Mephisto descends thr i Marguerite and Faust f enough to leave my s and long red feather p trap would not go any furtk which, of course, delay one of the carpenters sai son.” Just at this moment a voice in the gallery called out: “Hully gee! Hell's full!” the floor. all effort e, Finally <, Mr. Morri- ing throu de fii)C‘OO00'00OOODODDODDOODDd,dtifi)&QUCUIIQDQDQQC‘fiDi:fl:!’):ii:iCU:!CSfififififififit‘bfififibfififlfififififififibfi33‘0!51533335(330'0fiifiQGUC‘OfiGDOQDOGGfiQQQififi'fififiOUGOOOQQOQUQCOOOOGQQQQ N e z % THE WAR AS DEPICTED BY THE CARTOONISTS. 4