It is amazing to find how rich is Mr. Booth's collection of memories in spite of the generous out-pourings of his previous volumes. But when it is realized that as a boy he paid a visit to Tode at the actor's own theatre and enjoyed the box of chocolates which the old gentleman kept for his younger visitors, was able to meet Sarah Bernhardt under the guidance of Beerbohm Tree, and came in contact with all the music-hall giants and giantesses of the palmy days of "The Pink Un", surprise is diminished. oe On theatrical matters he has much to say of the thoroughness of the training which the old school gave. Ee shudders to think what Irving would have said to the modern actor who informs the producer that he "cannot see himself in that part"—for Irving, Terris, Beerbohm Tree and the rest all regarded acting as a business and it was the actor's business to fit himself to whatever part came his way. As an example of this versatility he instances the achievements of Jessie Millward, into whose life the murder of William Terris brought such tragedy. In her younger days she had played with Irving in such parts as Hero in "Much Ado About Nothing", and then in partnership with Terris she was the leading lady in many a melodrama—the melodrama of the old Adelphi type—and also in classical or half-classical plays. Yet when she returned to the stage after a long retirement owing to the shock of Terriss's death, she shone in modern comedy and played in America in such plays as "Mrs. Dane's Defence," "The Hypocrites", and "Lady Frederick'
Mr. Booth gives a piquant picture of the clash between the warm-hearted, impetuous, generous-hearted Jessie Millward and the older and more experienced Madge Kendal, who came to be known as "the Matron of the Drama:"
"Oh, shall I ever be able to use my hands properly!" cried the young Jessie at rehearsal in the days of novitiate, the cry being half to herself.
"Never, my dear," retorted the Matron promptly, primly, "you were not born on the Stage"
These reminiscences are bristling, with new sidelights on old stories, Here is the manner of Gracie Fields' first step to fortune. Gerald Clu Maurier hed heard of a promising girl from Rochdale who was at the Alhambra, and he wanted a small part in a new production to be filled:
"She was sitting on a basket when I went in," he would relate afterwards, "Hullo!' she aid, 'Who ore you?" 7 name': Clu Maurier,' I told her, 'Ah!' said Gracie Fields, 'I know—Bulldog Drummond. I saw the pictures of you cop in West End, outside theatre, but I didn't like the look o' you. I didn't go in!"
The rise of "Tipperary" to fame as a wartime song has often caused wonderment to the Old Contemptibles, for, as "everyone knows, it was by no means r_ favourite tune. Its popularity, in fact, was a fluke and very largely a myth and it was never Tommy Atkins's song. Here is the story as Mr, Booth tells it When the first of the Expeditionary Force disembarked at Boulogne, George Curnock, of the Daily Mail, heard the men chorusing "Tipperary s they marched down the gangways; the song was new to him, and in his description of the scene he quite naturally recorded what he had heard.
The publishers were quick to sense their opportunity: the papers were as quick, and "Tipperary" won lasting fame in a day was all by the purest chance; half an hour twenty minutes later, Curnock might But "Tipperary has passed into war and musie-hall history ae In tribute to this historical fame a brass tablet was erected on the front wall of Ye Olde Plough Inn where the supposed composer, Henry J. Williams, was said to have worked, and his grave at Coventry bears the inscription:
Author of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary Give me the making of the songs of a nation, And let who will make its laws, Over four years ago, however, this tradition was exploded. Mr. Jack Judge, of Tipporary Gardens, Oldbury, Birmingham, pricked the bubble by this statement:
I claim to be-the author of the woris and music of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary", and hereby declare that the late Harry Williams did not write a single.word or note of the song. The established facts are as follows:
Mr. Harry Williams and his brother, Benjamin Thomas Williams, were joint proprietors of the Malt Shovel Inn, Oldbury, near Bir-bingham, when I lived next door, J was in the fish trade at the time, which was prior to my creation of the song "Tipperary", The deceased Harry Williams used to assist me financially in my fish trade, so one day I publicly declared that if ever I. wrote: and published a song, I would put his name on the and share the proceeds with him. Not only did I generously fulfil that promise, I placed tis name with mine on many more of my own published compositions, thereby presenting him with a small fortune. I have no desire to injure or humiliate the surviving relatives of Mr. Harry, Williams, but in justice to my family and myself, also to the public, I shall request the removal of the brass tablet and the marble stone, as I am ready to produce overwhelming evidence that I alone am the author and composer of "Tipperary" and every other published song bearing the names of his hand, and, after careful scrutiny:
Those who occasionally hear the veteran Florrie Forde on the wireless will be interested to know that "Tipperary" was first sung by her in the summer of 1913 in the Isle of Man, but its real fame is due not to that distinguished artist's patronage, but to the casual report of a war correspondent.
The other dey when Herr Hitler forbade German' parents to give their children topical names, an attempt was made to recall the old music-hall gibe at that practice as it, existed at the time of the South African War. Here is the correct version of that song:
The baby's name is Kitchener Carrington Methuen Kekewich White Cronje Kruger Powell Majuba Gatacre Warren Colenso Boojer Capetown Mafeking French Ladysmith Thorneycroft Bobs Fighting Mac Union Jack Lyddite Pretoria Blobbs Of course Mr. Booth has a lot to say about the soldiers' songs of the Great War und of war-time magazines with their parodies and jests. The temptation to.quote is irresistible and it will be indulged in respect of two:
This dates itself as being in the early days of munition shortage:
"In a weak moment our artillery fired 2 few rounds, which were replied to by as many, hundreds from the Boche batteries. factious Tommy, having stood it in unconcealed impatience for some time, arose in his wrath, and shouted across to the Boche lines:
"Ave a cart, Fritz: ay a cart!
We've broke our bloody gun!'"
And here is the food problem in the early days of the war:
"A small issue of bread was served out to the battalion, and was found to pan out only to one small loaf a section, One section consisted of sixteen men, and the corporal carefully divided his loaf into sixteen pieces, paraded his men and proceeded to distribute. One bright lad received his dole in the palm of him hand, and, after careful scrutiny: "Eh, corporal, w'a's this?'
"That, m'lad, is your bread ration,'
"Blimy, A thowt it were ely communion!
Of Arerican humorists and amateur cricketers Mr, Booth has much to write, He adored Mark Twain in the flesh just as he had adored "Huckleberry Finn" and "Tom Sawyer" in print, and his affectionate character-sketch is worth noting With Mark Twain, the humorist, the shrewd, kindly observer, the dry wit, the world was familiar, There were other facets in his nature, as one grew to realize when riper years developed judgment and observation. Then one realized that often enough behind the wildest gibe there was a touch of bitter pessimism, of disillusionment. Whenever I have diverged from custom and principle and uttered a truth, the rule has been that the hearer hadn't strength of mind enough to believe it", was a dictum of those later years, with more than a tinge of bitterness behind the smile—poles removed from the gaiety of a wholly false description I heard him give in earlier days of his Civil War experiences:
"Last in wor, first in peace, and not idle between whiles." The tragedy of Mark Twain has been written, and it is not for the mere acquaintance to touch upon, But even in the later years the old spark was not wholly extinct, and the old contempt for intolerance of any kind persisted, 8
Bret Harte did not impress Mr, Booth in quite the same way and this is attributed in part to the fact that as Bret Harte took up an official post in Europe he found himself in the anomalous position of being popular only outside his own country At home they called him non-American, pro English; in England he came to be looked on as the typical American poet, and writer of the wide-open spaces and of the life of the West and South. At heart ever a fervent patriot, the irony of his position embittered him, and he made no concealment of his bit-torness.
But all this savours of ingratitude, for did not Breat Hazte one memorable evening, of his own volition, pick up a volume "of his poems, and read aloud to a youthful audienc® the immortal tale of the "Heathen Chine". and then—it was the Christmas season, and there had been dinner-table talk of Dickens and the English Christmas—that little poem of the mining camp, and of the minders who listened to the story of Little Nell, when The pine trees stopped to listen.
He read well, and as he read one caught a glimpse of the man behind the veil of discontent and disappointment,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.