Adventures and Letters of Richard Harding Davis | Page 7

a volcano of
oaths and for blocks continued to hurl thunderous broadsides at Richard,
which my mother insisted included the curse of Rome and every other
famous tirade in the tragedian's repertory which in any way fitted the
occasion. Nearly forty years later my father became the president of the
Edwin Forrest Home, the greatest charity ever founded by an actor for
actors, and I am sure by his efforts of years on behalf of the institution
did much to atone for Richard's early unhappy meeting with the
greatest of all the famous leather-lunged tragedians.
From his youth my father had always been a close student of the classic
and modern drama, and throughout his life numbered among his friends
many of the celebrated actors and actresses of his time. In those early
days Booth used to come to rather formal luncheons, and at all such
functions Richard and I ate our luncheon in the pantry, and when the
great meal was nearly over in the dining-room we were allowed to
come in in time for the ice-cream and to sit, figuratively, at the feet of
the honored guest and generally, literally, on his or her knees. Young as
I was in those days I can readily recall one of those lunch-parties when
the contrast between Booth and Dion Boucicault struck my youthful
mind most forcibly. Booth, with his deep-set, big black eyes, shaggy
hair, and lank figure, his wonderfully modulated voice, rolled out his
theories of acting, while the bald-headed, rotund Boucicault, his
twinkling eyes snapping like a fox-terrier's, interrupted the sonorous
speeches of the tragedian with crisp, witty criticisms or "asides" that

made the rest of the company laugh and even brought a smile to the
heavy, tragic features of Booth himself. But there was nothing formal
about our relations with John Sleeper Clark and the Jefferson family.
They were real "home folks" and often occupied our spare room, and
when they were with us Richard and I were allowed to come to all the
meals, and, even if unsolicited, freely express our views on the modern
drama.
In later years to our Philadelphia home came Henry Irving and his
fellow player Ellen Terry and Augustin Daly and that wonderful quartet,
Ada Rehan, Mrs. Gilbert, James Lewis, and our own John Drew. Sir
Henry I always recall by the first picture I had of him in our
dining-room, sitting far away from the table, his long legs stretched
before him, peering curiously at Richard and myself over black-rimmed
glasses and then, with equal interest, turning back to the ash of a long
cigar and talking drama with the famous jerky, nasal voice but always
with a marvellous poise and convincing authority. He took a great
liking to Richard in those days, sent him a church-warden's pipe that he
had used as Corporal Brewster, and made much of him later when my
brother was in London. Miss Terry was a much less formal and
forbidding guest, rushing into the house like a whirlwind and filling the
place with the sunshine and happiness that seemed to fairly exude from
her beautiful magnetic presence. Augustin Daly usually came with at
least three of the stars of his company which I have already mentioned,
but even the beautiful Rehan and the nice old Mrs. Gilbert seemed
thoroughly awed in the presence of "the Guv'nor." He was a most
crusty, dictatorial party, as I remember him with his searching eyes and
raven locks, always dressed in black and always failing to find virtue in
any actor or actress not a member of his own company. I remember one
particularly acrid discussion between him and my father in regard to
Julia Marlowe, who was then making her first bow to the public. Daly
contended that in a few years the lady would be absolutely unheard of
and backed his opinion by betting a dinner for those present with my
father that his judgment would prove correct. However, he was very
kind to Richard and myself and frequently allowed us to play about
behind the scenes, which was a privilege I imagine he granted to very
few of his friends' children. One night, long after this, when Richard

was a reporter in New York, he and Miss Rehan were burlesquing a
scene from a play on which the last curtain had just fallen. It was on the
stage of Daly's theatre at Thirtieth Street and Broadway, and from his
velvet box at the prompt-entrance Daly stood gloomily watching their
fooling. When they had finished the mock scene Richard went over to
Daly and said, "How bad do you think I am as an actor, Mr. Daly?" and
greatly to my brother's delight the greatest manager of them all of those
days grumbled back at him: "You're so