FROM A REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK

Dominion, Volume 22, Issue 53, 26 November 1928, Page 9

FROM A REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK

STORIES OF THE NEWS FROM NAPOLEON TO A CLOWN If all doors are open to the doctor, no less—whether voluntarily or not—they must be open to the reporter, and by the same prescriptive right—the common welfare of humanity. lor news is not a luxury; it is a vital necessity of our civilisation. And the reporter’s business is of all perhaps the most human. His material is the stuff of life, and he handles it not with the detachment of teacher or preacher or scientist, but with the sympathy and interest of the man in the street. Ho has no ulterior ends to serve; his readers provide all needed commentary. In “Random Records” J* B. Hall calls upon a memory rich in experiences, and bis records are winnowed by the trained “news sense” of the journalist. The book is full- of quotable stories aud amusing recollections. The author once had an Interview with the proprietor of a travelling wax-work show in the West of Ireland. Most of his exhibits seemed to change their “personality”' from time to time. ' “What are the most drastic changes you ever ventured to put a . figure through?” I asked, “Well,” said my good friend, reflectively, “it’s not easy to say off-hand. But do you see that specimen at the door? That’s.‘Billy Patteson.of Powell’s Circus’ ’’—indicating a well-got-up figure in the familiar - motley—“l bought him second-hand as Napoleon, and I turned him into Robert Emmett, and had him in a forester’s uniform. But it wasn’t •. p'to the mark, so I made him Signor Caruso for a- while, and after that Tom Donovan, of Cork, when he was Mayor. But a fire we had at Sklbbereen melted away most of the likeness, and so I fixed him up as you see—and a very g< ' clown, too.” Macbeth in “Fancy” Dress. This remarkable Shakespearean performance took place in a theatre that was -little better than a barn in Eunistymon, County Clare: — “The costumes were very remarkable, not to say unique. Duncan was imposingly splendid. A fillet of tin, scalloped at the edges, rounded his kingly brow. His legs were ornamented with what looked like moccasins, and a faded opera, cloak, dotted with innumerable spangles, hung gracefully from his shoulders. Malcolm rejoiced in an almost complete uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Donalbain was truly glorious in a kilt of green calico in addition to a policeman’s tunic, the tails of which overlapped his skirt. Lenox’s attire was provokingly miscellaneous. He wore pink tights under trunk hose; his skull was compressed into a cavalry forage cap and his belt was enriched with what seemed to be a couple of carving knives and a butcher’s steel.” During a long experience in the Press Gallery of the House of Commons, Mr, Hall gathered many amusing specimens of the Irish bull: — A very persistent member implored the House “not to take that white elephant under your wing”; and another, who was talking against the War Office administration, described it as “absolutely iron-bound in red tape.” It was the same gentleman who exclaimed : “As long as Ireland is silent upon her wrongs, England is deaf to her cries,” and further, “The cup of Ireland’s misery is overflowing, and believe me it is not full yet.” An Ulster member, who subsequently became a Judge of the High Court, speaking In opposition to Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill, observed that “half the lies which the Irish Nationalist - leaders tell the people are not true.” Colonel Saunderson, a genial, stalwart Tory, once indignantly denounced those “Nationalist mob orators, who fire their barbed arrows at the Chief Secretary in the hope that some of the mud will stick.” The Cautious Creditor. Spranger Barry, about whom the following story is told, was a famous Irish actor, who scored many successes, especially in Shakespearean parts: — “He was, indeed, universally popular and beloved by a large circle of friends in all sections of society. His insinuating address, pleasing conversation, and amiable disposition endeared him to all who met him. A good story is told illustrating the fact. ‘Don’t be in a passion, my friend,’ he soothingly said one day to an importuning creditor who stood storming at

his door, ‘but do me the favour to step upstairs and we’ll speak on the business.’ ‘Not I,’ answered the. man. ‘You owe me £lOO already, and if you get me upstairs you won’t let me leave you till you owe me £200,’ ■ Charles Kean had a favourite Newfoundland dog named Lion, who accompanied him everywhere, and usually remained in his dressing room while he was on the stage:— “One evening during ‘Richard 111 the door happened to be left open, and Lion, hearing the well-known voice in loud excitement, bounded out and appeared at the wing just as Richard and Richmond were on the point of engaging in the last scene. Lion growled at his master’s antagonist, exhibited his teeth and rushed forward, whereupon the terrified Richmond, deeming the odds too serious, fled from the field. Kean, being left without an antagonist, was obliged to fall and ‘die’ unwounded. Lion bestrode his master in triumph, licking his face and barking vociferously, while the curtain fell amidst roars of laughter and applause. Richard was then unanimously summoned before the curtain and made his bow, but the gallery boys insisted on Lion also making his appearance, which he did, looking the picture of joy and satisfaction.” Ingenous Irving. R. M. Levey, who told this story to Mr. Hall, was the, Conductor of the old Theatre Royal orchestra,. and he describes his earliest-experience of the famous actor, who was performing in a play of the blood and thunder type: — . “T‘he dramatic situation . required that as the prisoner was filing away at the bars to effect his escape, the Warders were to enter, present their firelocks, and shoot the captive dead. Sb far so good. The warders did, in fact, enter; they also presented their muskets, and presumably pulled the triggers. But, alas! not the faintest sound followed, and the two intelligent ‘supers’ backed off the stage in a most inglorious fashion. It was essential, however, that the robber must be killed then and there somehow, and lo! Irving was equal to the occasion. He dropped from the window, assumed the aspect of hideous internal convulsions, clambered towards the footlights, and, gazing up towards the gallery, shrieked, ‘Merciful heavens, I’ve swallowed the file!’ —and died forthwith. ‘And so,’ added Levey, ‘I formed the opinion that young Irving was a man of considerable resource.’ ”