STORIES OF THE LATE J.L. TOOLE.

Otago Witness, Issue 2734, 8 August 1906, Page 59

STORIES OF THE LATE J. L. TOOLE.

ENGLAND'S GREATEST COMEDIAN.

M. A. P

John Lawrence Took clung to work as he clung to life. The last time I saw him on the «tagv>— tlj*? stage of his own little theatre in Kinsf William street — he was evidently suffering great bodily pain, and I learnt when the play was over that he had been in agonies for a whole fortnight, but had btuck to work in the hope that it might keep his mind from brooding over what he plainly suspected to be the beginning of the end of his public career. The comedy he was appearing in then was J. M. Barric's first stage work, "Walker, London," and as most of the action of the piece took place on the "upper deck" or roof of a boathouse ("The Wild Duck"), Toole had more climbing to do than he could comfortably manage. One night, when his gout was more than usually painful, and his efforts to reach the top of the houseboat proportionately laborious, he was heard by those on the stage to be saying softly to himself: "Thank goodness, this is only a wild duck ! Sure I could never — oh, my poor knee ! — get to the top of it if it had bcon— oh. lor. oh lor! — a wild &«an!" I

T It was not so very long ago that Too!* made one of his "jokes" as he lay seriously ill in bed. A few friends had gone to see him in his room at the Old Ship, and it" was not long- before the plays and the 'players of the past formed the chief topio of conversation. One of the party was trying to* remember the name of a piece in which Irving appeared in his early days, and in endeavouring to recall the play to the minds of his hearers he dw^elt incessantly on the manner in which the late tragedian was attired, saying repeatedly,

"You know — all fur," his hands movinjr with his mind, and stroking imaginary lengths of fur evidently supposed to bo trimming the front of a long robe. His hearers made many suggestions as to the title of the piece, but they were all wrong, and their companion went on repeating the . words which he fancied would be most likely lto revive the play- in their memory. Sud- : denly when there was' a pause in the talk- ! ing, -and the men in the room were ajl • deeply engaged in serious thought, there ; came from the invalid's bed the subdued i and husk inquiry, "Was it 'All F' Her,* . d'vou think?"

Another word-twister from the comical mouth of John Lawrence Toole. Among a- number of friends who had called in upon the comedian at the Old Ship was an , operatic singer whose real purpose for visitj ing Brighton was to interview on a matter j of business a famous impresario who had sent for him, and who is rather in the I habit (cr used to be) of disappointing: singers after leading them to suppose they are in lor a long and profitable engagement. With his usual hospitality, a hospitality ' which in his time must have cost him many I thousands of pounds, Toole asked the singer to stay to dinner. The singer could not accept the invitation — he had to be with the i impresario in a few minutes. "Then can't 1 offer you a drink?" asked loole. I "No, thanks," said the sinfifer; "I want to be in the best voice for old . He's 9ure to want to hear me before he settles terms. I think he wants me for Orpheus, ; but, of course, for you know what a jibber i old is, it may all end in smoke !"

"Well, then," suggested Toole, brightening up under the influence of a hatmv inspiration, and motioning to a large box of Havanas on the table, "can't I Orpheus cigar:" After his retirement from the stage Toole practically deserted London and his house in Maida Vale for ever. His residential whereabouts might quite safely have been covered by the statement, If he is not in Brighton he is in Margate, and if he is not in Margate he is in Brighton. Of Brighton he was particularly fond, for so many of his friend? had houses here, or were in the habit of spending week-ends at the place, .■md this meant that when he felt like having company, which was by no means an uncommon fcensation with him, it was always *>a>ilv to be had. Miss Marie Corellr, when &he lived in Regency square, frequently called upon him ; and I remember a little "joke" Toole made one Christmas afternoon on one of her gloomiest but moat popular novel*. It was not only an afterdinner joke, but an after-a-Christmas-dlnnsT joke, and must be judged lightly.

He and his friends (I among the number) had reached the stage of a late dessert, when the boad waiter of the coffee room announced Miss Marie Corolli. There vis ' quite a -"Hainv Christmas" air about the | groat novelist as she presented Toole with i a 'argc bunch of beautiful flowers and 1 cheered him with seasonable wishes, and when she had beamingly taken her departure one of the company exclaimed, "To think that that nice, bright, cheery woman should be the author of a book like 'Wormwood' ! The story of that wretched man escaping from the imprisonment of , hin grave only to find his wife in the company of — -.veil, the story positively grates against me !" Toole stared across the table at the speaker for a moment, and remarked huskily : "When you talk of escaping from imprisonment, you shouldn't cay that 'Wormwood' grates. You should say that 'Wormwood Sorubbs' l" The best of friends will sometimes disagree with one another on matters of opinion, and although Tole and John Billington were the closest of comrades, they had theJr 'little^ differe-ncea, and now and again they permitted the sun, perhaps two or three "suns, to go down upon their wrath. Here is an amusing story about a disagreement the two veteran players had when they were staying at the "Whit© Hart" in Margate. Toole had a cardparty, and the party stayed so late' that the giver, towards the end of the evening, became a little drowsy, and began to show play that fell a long way short of his usual form — for Toote,- on the who'.e, was a very shrewd card-player, and until the gams tired him was an extremely formidable opr ponent. Billington pointed out to his old friend that he had made a certain mistake, but Toole denied that he had played wrongly and told Billington he was a silly old fool. At this Billington took offence, and went up to bed without bidding Toole god-night. When the guests had departed, Toole, whose bedroom was on tho floor beneath Billington's, laboured up to his friend'a room and tapped at the door. "Jack!" he called in a repentant tone. "Jack, are you awake?" Billington was fast asleep, and Toolo knocked and called louder. Still there was no answer. Louder yet knocked Toole and louder yet he called, until Billington awoke, and demanded in a somewhat oIT-hand way, for the wound to his dignity had not quite healed up, what on earth Toole wanted to wake him up at that hour for. This rather annoyed Toole, for he had expended much phyeiacl exertion in the cause of sentiment, and he had expected Billington to melt instantly at his plaintive appeals through the keyhole. But he knocked again, and again, in a bender voice, called "Jack !" Whereupon Billington, unable to maintain any longer the feeling of re&entfulness, lowered himself out of bed and shuffled to the door asking, as he unbolted it, "Well, Johnny, what is it, old man?" "Oh!" replied Toole, in a casual sort of way, "I only wanted to tell you that you were still a silly old fool !" And with that he laboured slowly down the stairs again, and disappeared, chuckling-, into hip room.

One mi£ht go on for ever talking of the quaint wit of Toole, but 1 will giv< but one more instance of the quick working of his mind and tongue, even at a time when he ha<l for many years been an invalid, and was supposed to have given up the itch for punning. One day, after a severe attack from his old enemy, he was discovered by his doctor taking a glass of champagne with his lunch. He had been strictly forbidden to touch champagne for at least a week, and CTle doctor talked to him somewhat seriously of the dangers of disobeying hi*

Orders. Toole was- in a merry mood, and answered his medical adviser iight'.y, whereat the doctor "was much annoyed, and said to the patient with bitter sweetness, as he reached lor his hat and stethoscope, "All right my dear friend, if you like being ill, why should I worry? Everyone to his taste!" "Just what I say, old boy," returned Toole, with a cunning twinkle in his eye — "<?hacun a son— gout I"