Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 December 1894 — WILDER WITH THE WITS. [ARTICLE]

WILDER WITH THE WITS.

He Heard An the Drolleries of Cleveland, Harrison and Depew. How Grew* Men Make Fan—The Merry Little Maa Write* Abont the Amw Itlee of the Wine aah Wai* not Period. tCOPTBIGBT. 1894.1 They do such things and they say each things—at dinners. During the day after-dinner speakers make their livings with their heads, at night they make speeches with their hearts. At big dinners you get souls set to Dvorak symphonies. The “inmost me” percolates through the diaphragm of the day-worker and drops oat at the joint of the tongue—word by word. The smoke of the work-a-day world breaks up and scatters and disappears in a breeze of bon mots. Imagine Chauncey M. Depew, president of the New York Central railroad, cracking jokes, even in his mind, during business hours. He dare not. They would pop like torpedoes all along the track and result finally in a general wreck from end to end of the •Vanderbilt system. No; President Depew thinks no trifles “during hours.” If he do, Col. Duval smothers them in committee, and they die a deserved death. But, oh, what a difference in the evening! Dr. Depew then pulls down the blind on President Depew and -gives Chauncey a chance. Thus at dinners, he comes to be “Our Chauncey.” Gen. Horace Porter has wit, humor, memory, but he lacks the magnetism and “go” of “Chauncey.” Dr. Depew’s great power lies in his power for trotting up the right word at the winning time, as when at a late hour one evening he compared himself Ito the chamois because he found himself continually going from jag to jag. Of all dinners, those of the Clover club stand unique for sparkle. It is hard to describe a Clover club dinner—might as well try to bottle up electricity. The company is a group of guyers. Moses P. Handy, a former president of the club—the gentleman who gave publicity to the world’s fair —is a prince of guyers. By the by, he Is the best dinner chairman I ever met. One night at the Clover club in Philadelphia Handy arose, with Senator Jones, of Nevada, sitting near, and after having graphically outlined the attractive personality of that silver magnate by way of introduction, I noticed even that veteran of the upper house squirming and reddening in his eeat, knowing well the guy guns that would be turned upon him as soon as he got upon his pins. He was visibly affected for the worse, but not mane so than another gentleman, for no sooner had Handy worked the senator up almost to the starting point than he said: “Notwithstanding such Seductive talent within reach, we can peg a hole higher by calling upon Col, Thomas Ochiltree, of Earth, who will now address you.” It is needless ■to say that both gentlemen looked as lif they had just been shot out by mistake from Zalinski’s dynamite gun on the Nictheroy and missed the mark. And it came to pass in that time that the said Ochiltree had had his leg broken by the Pennsylvania railroad. He was suing the railroad because his leg was broken—or he was broke—one or the other. The officials all knew of this, and yet loved him. One of these officials was present. Col. Ochiltree •had been using crutches in order to •keep the leg from healing while the suit was in progress. But it was foully suspected that he was merely doing the litigative limb. For one day, on seeing some pretty young lady friends across Chestnut street, he dropped his crutches, ’twas said, and went with a skip to greet them. When the colonel was called upon, the Pennsylvania officials remarked: Colonel, where are your crutches?”

“Under the table, where you will be before the dinner is over,” and the scorer marked up a carom for the colonel against a goose-egg for the Pennsylvania potentate. Among the gentlemen at that dinner were Charles Emory Smith, Gen. Magargee, Gov. Bunn, E. Burd Grubb, Edwin 8. Stuart, John Russell Young, C. R. Deacon, A. K. McClure, James H. Heverin, Henry H. Bingham, Clayton McMichael, William M. Singerly, Frank Thomson, Albert G. Hetherington, J. William White and scores of famous guests from outside of Philadelphia. Col. Ingersoll came in late, when Gov. Bunn, catching sight of him, exclaimed in the midst of the decorated and delicious surroundings: “Ah, colonel, this is heaven, no place for you here.” The colonel blushed up to where the roots of his hair ought to be, and was conspicuous for his silence, whether it was because he felt out of place in heaven, I don’t know. He may go there yet in spite of himself. Mr. Cleveland, also, was there. The guy was put out on him, but Mr. Cleveland was on his mettle and made one of the best speeches of his life. Col. Cockerill came up for his share. But the colonel has been everything from drummer-boy in Sherman’s army to editor in New York city, and, with all his modesty, is a match even for Handy. Col. Cockerill is a dark horse for Depew’s place as a dinner speaker, should Depew go first. But evidently the doctor is not anticipating any such thing. For at a press club dinner given to Cockerill five years ago Dr. Depew said in closing his remarks: “I trust that Col. Cockerill may enjoy a long life and that I may live to pronounce his funeral oration.” Senator Hill said a felicitous thing that night when in making the request to follow instead of preceed Dr. Depew on the programme, he remarked that “the state of New York ought not to overshadow the United States and he deferred to Mr. Depew.” (Mr. Depew was then mentioned as a presidential possibility). At a dinner given by W. J. Arkell to the newspaper men at Mt. McGregor it was understood that there should be no remarks except by President Harrison, who was the guest of honor, to be followed by some knick-knacks by myself. I never enjoyed a dinner so little, though it was in the middle of the day. Up rose the president and made an impressive speech. The words kept buzzing in my ears, “Next comes his nibs; what’ll he say. Oh, what’ll he say!” In came Mt. Gregor. Then the president drifted to the death of Gen. Grant at that place—how eloquent he was on this • point, bnt«at the close. “AU the air a solemn stillness held.” Mirth of Mj. Had was dead to the work}.

Then came calls fbr me; but his nfba refused to get up. “You're a chump, said one friend.” “What’s the matter with you?” said another. After all was over the president approaching me said: “I didn't expect to speak of Gen Grant's death, but I knew your good taste would prevent you from saying anything of a jocular nature after I had done so.” By the bye! President Harrison could not be put down as a humorist, as I found out before the trip was ended. The party were going down the mountain to Saratoga in a special car. When walking down the aisle to where Mr. Harrison was sitting I said: “Mr. President, I am more than glad to have had you along on this jaunt. Yon will understand that a lot of people, a band of music and militia will be waiting to greet me at Saratoga. Of course, I don't tide the crush, but I thought I might miss you, and simply came to say, that in case I do, good-by.” Not a smile! I went down the aisle to my seat feeling myself touching the floor with a thud at every step. At Saratoga I hurried to a landau and ordered to be driven rapidly to a private hotel so as to escape the great demonstration to the president. “Get along as quickly as you can,” I said to the driver, and “he got”—through the band and the soldiers, who made way until we were blocked. Then formed the president’s line; the way was opened and I found myself heading the line, much to my own discomfiture, though 1 was hailed by many friends, one of whom said afterward at the hotel: “You are a good fellow to work up an ad.,” of which, however, I had no idea, as the very contrary was my intention. In London it is custom, instead of a benefit, as we give in America, to have a dinner under the auspices of the actors’ benevolent fund. At one dinner five thousand dollars were raised, which was expended for the actors of London. The -admission fee was one guinea and everything was strictly conventional, after the English style. There was a man—the toastmaster — who stood behind the chair who would address the diners after this fashion: “I crave your attention. I ask you to drink to the health of her the queen. Fill the bumpers.” At an actor’s benevolent fund dinner given in London in 1891, With Henry Irving in the chair, cards were furnished each one present with blanks to be filled by Christian and surname, residence and by the pounds, shillings and pence, either donated or put down as annual subscription. At these English dinners the speeches have, of course, lots of meat in them, but they lack the gravy. They have a peculiar sort of help-nie-over-the-fence kind of limp. They are slow and loggy by the side of American style. The Frenchman, if he ba present, is so polite, with a dash of violet, you don’t know whether he is going to say it or not, but he always suggests it. Much depends upon the guest of these dinners. During the annual dinner of the Green Room club given at the Crystal Palace, London, ab which among others were present Wilson Barrett, Cornyns Carr, the late Harry Petit, Arthur Jones and Sir Augustus Harris, with Mr. Bancroft, chairman, an animated discussion arose at the wrong time in which the guests even got to calling one another names. Finally when I was called on I found myself in a most trying position in the midst of the excitement. But luckily I was followed by that king of story tellers, Nat Goodwin, who soon put them all in a good humor. By the way, it.was Nat who said that “wit is the power to say what everybody else would have said, if he had thought of it.”

In my remarks about Englishmen I must except Sir Edwin Arnold who is a prince of talkers as, also, is Henry Irving. Sir Edwin, speaking of Mr. Gladstone said that the premier lacked humor and that no one ever heard him make a witty remark, and further on in his talk said Sir Edwin; “Laughter lives next to the most tender tears.” I supposed he must get this exquisite aptness of speech from his gifted American wife. Many people have an idea that actors are poor talkers outside of their lines. The fact is they are becoming more adaptable every day. Mr. Irving can be very charming upon occasion, as he was at the dinner given him on his last visit to America by the Lotus club. What delicate humor this: “May I find even an increase of the consciousness of virtue which now and then animates you, for if it be a task oto climb up additional steps it shows an amount of self belief which experience alone can prove justified, when after such a banquet as to-night you are not afraid to venture down them. Again, I understand that an inquiring mind at Detroit has discovered that our friend Bacon wrote not only the whole of Shakespeare, but also Christopher Marlowe, Edmund Spencer, and Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. I mention this to show you that even in New York you don't know everything, and that it is possible that you may wake one morning to leqrn that the spirit of Bacon dictated the constitution of the United States. But limited as your knowledge may be, there is no limit to your good will and your good fellowshop.” At the Lambs club dinners actors are to be heard at their best, though the playrights are in the lead. There is no more lovely wit anywhere than is heard upon such occasions from Gus Thomas, Sydney Rosenfeld, Milton Lackaye, Bronson Howard, Charley Hoyt, Nat Goodwin, Gus. Thomas, the gentleman with the mellow passionate throw of the Hawaiian seas in his eloquence, covers more keys perhaps than any man in this city. Had he been a lawyer his fame as an orator would have been world-wide.

When an American gets up at these English dinners, the Englishmen regard him with wide-eyed wonder. They expect to see him “blanketed” and flop around like the Vigilant did when she dropped in a dead faint by the side of the Valkyrie in the first day’s race. They don’t see it; the American carries his sail full of wind and after one or two glasses of wine you see him setting his spinnaker and as he comes around the lightship, the Britishers are too dumb with astonishment except to grunt: “He’s a corker!” But the American has no cinch. Many of his most darling jokes faU as dead as mine did on Mr. Harrison. Of course, this does not apply to the Savage and Green Room clubs or clubs of that kind, where American humor has fought its way to the front and where by much practice the members, have come to know the places where common courtesy demands a laugh. But they are improving, as I have discovered during my visits to England for the last ten years-

It would not do to omit here Johnny Wise or CoL Fellows, the two repartee and epigram men. At the dinner given three years ago at the Astor house to Judge Pryor, where Dr. Depew spoke of Cleveland as the typical American, Johnny Wise dropped into this pleasantry concerning Judge Pryor: “A word as to the honored guest. What is the name of that opera in which a wild boar rushes across the stage with flames breathing from his nostrils? Well, the name doesn't matter, but whenever I witness that acene in it, I think of the manner in which Roger A. Pryor edited the Richmond Enquirer. That is the kind of fiery cuss he was.” Parke Godwin’s talks are full of meat, in fact he forgets himself and sometimes goes too long. Few men can make a quick speech. Murat Halstead can write better than he can speak, but when you know him you can forgive all this. Then let us be thankful for those dinners that after all give us the only true glimpses of men who otherwise would be unknown to their fellowa Long live dinners! Merrily yours,

MARSHALL P. WILDER.