i [*i in ® @ @ iu m gj [*i ® a ® ® in ® in si in in m HATRY ALMOST ROPED HIM IN.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 19236, 25 November 1930, Page 7

i [*i in ® @ @ iu m gj [*i ® a ® ® in ® in si in in m HATRY ALMOST ROPED HIM IN.

SEYMOUR HICKS MAKES STRANGE REVELATION. (Special to the “Star.”) LONDON, October 15. It will be news to most of the countless admirers of Seymour Hicks, the actor, to hear that only a few years ago he nearly became a city magnate with a vast income, and in association with Clarence Hatry. Sej-mour Hicks makes this interesting revelation in his book, “Between Ourselves,” published this month. It was twelve years ago, just before Hatry s Commercial Bank and Glass Industries crash, that he was nearly persuaded to leave the stage and join Hatry in the city. “My guaranteed minimum income was to have been £30,000 a year,” he says, “and £40,000 was to have been deposited in my bank by Hatry as security.” Before accepting the offer, Seymour Hicks sought the advice of the late Mr H. Y. Higgins, the solicitor whose comment when informed pf Hatry’s elaborate establishment was: “That seems to me to prove beyond a doubt that he has taken a single ticket for Carey Street.” “However,” says the actor, “the solicitor met Hatry, and after much discussion as to what my duties were to be—it being specially stipulated that I was to have nothing to do with share transactions of any kind—even the objections of the doubting solicitor were overcome by or\e of the most persuasive men I have ever met, and he advised me to accept the offer. When Hatry Went Smash.” “I had four months to wait before joining the Hatry group,” adds Seymour Hicks laconically, “and during that time Hatry -went smash,'so I did not.” This book is crammed with good stories told in Seymour Hicks’s inimitable way. He first went on the stage—the fact is difficult to believe—in 1887, and since that time he seems to have met everybody of interest. He tells stories of eminent stage folk, of royalty, of Bohemians, of legal lights—even of criminals. Many great wits figure in these pages. Wilde is one of them and Seymour Hicks writes of that unfortunate genius with compassion. Who can forget, he writes, his aftswer to the gushing bore of a lady, who, after five minutes’ continual talk with Wilde, staring rather blankly at her, said, “but Mr Wilde, I don’t think you remember me. I am Mrs Smith.” “Of course, you are,” said Wilde. “How delightful it must be for you to be Mrs Smith. How stupid of me. I always remember your name, but I can never think of your face.” There is a good story about that brilliant and wayward poet and journalist, T. W H. Crosland. Margaret Cooper once asked him to lunch to persuade him to write some lyrics for her. “What about terms?” said Crosland, who was really hard up at the time. “Well,” said Miss Cooper, “for the first lyric I thought five guineas —you see, Mr Crosland, though you are a great poet I am not certain that my public might not find your work above them—and then a larger sum ifi the songs are a hit.” “Five guineas?” said Crosland. “Why, I can borrow that!”