LETTERS TO THE PRESS - 1

Stormbeaten

The Spectator (1 January, 1870)

MR. BUCHANAN AND HIS PUBLISHERS.

[TO THE EDITOR OF THE “SPECTATOR.”]

SIR,—I observe in last Saturday’s Spectator a review of a work entitled “Stormbeaten,” published by Messrs. Ward and Lock, and purporting to be a new work by “Messrs. Robert Buchanan and Charles Gibbon.” As the publication of the work at the present moment involves a double deception, permit me to offer some words of explanation.
     Some years ago, when I was a lad of 19, subsisting entirely by my pen, I published, in conjunction with another young lad of my own age, Mr. Gibbon, a little Christmas book of prose and verse, consisting chiefly of reprints from cheap magazines. The book was named as the joint work of “Williams Buchanan and Charles Gibbon,” the former being a kind of nom de plume attached by me in those days to work issued under my direction, but not necessarily the literary production of myself solely. “Stormbeaten,” as the book was called, was issued to the press, reviewed, and sold rather extensively, and then, as the author confidently expected, died the natural death of all trifles produced only for the temporary amusement of the hour. My own portion of the work, indeed, had by that time served a double purpose, for the poems you reviewed as new work last Saturday had previously appeared in Mr. Dickens’s All the Year Round, being written and published when I was about 18 years of age.
     Note now the deception on the public. The work you reviewed last week, and which has been issued everywhere to the press and the public as a new work, is the same “Stormbeaten” published, issued to the press, and reviewed nine years ago. You are not the only critic who has fallen a victim to this deception.
     Note now the second unfairness,—that upon the authors. Secretly, without one word of warning, reckless apparently of all consequences, the publishers have re-issued a work which was, as I maintain, their property for a Christmas season nine years ago, and which ever since has been the sole and undisputed property of the writers. Of course there is now only one court of appeal,—that of the law; and into that court the matter will be carried without delay. Meanwhile let me hope that through your columns this matter may be brought under the notice of the Press generally, and that reviewers may be warned away from the trap into which even so astute a critic as yourself has fallen.—I am, Sir, &c.,

                                                                                                        ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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Walt Whitman

Daily News (13 March, 1876)

THE POSITION OF WALT WHITMAN.
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS.

     SIR,—Simultaneously with your American Correspondent’s article on the new poem by Walt Whitman there appears in the Athenæum [of yesterday] a startling series of extracts from the West Jersey Press relative to the poet’s own temporal and worldly condition. For full particulars of the truth I must refer the public to the pages of your contemporary. It is enough to explain here that Whitman, “old, poor, and paralysed,” is in absolute and miserable poverty; that his “repeated attempts to secure a small income by writing for the magazines during his illness have been utter failures”; that the publishers will not publish, the book-storekeepers will not keep for sale, his great experiments in poetry; and, lastly—“O rem ridiculam, Cato, et jocosam:”—all “the established American poets studiously ignore” him, while he lies at Camden preparing, largely with his own handiwork, a small edition of his works in two volumes, which he now himself sells to keep the wolf from the door.” This is neither the time nor the place to discuss in detail so solemn a matter as the claims of this discarded and insulted poet to literary immortality. If those claims are as true as I and many others in England deem them to be, God will justify his works to an early posterity; but this is certainly the time, and your columns are possibly the place, for an expression of English indignation against the “orthodox American authors, publishers, and editors” who greet such a man as the author of “Leaves of Grass” with “determined denial, disgust, and scorn.” One can understand the publishers, for American publishers have been justly described by Whitman himself as “mostly sharks;” one can forgive the editors, for all men know of what pudding a typical Yankee editor’s brains are made; but as for the “orthodox American authors” and the “established American poets”—orthodox perhaps in the sense of their affiliation to the Church of English literature, and “established” truly in their custom of picking the brains of British bards—there is but one word for them, and that may be lengthened into a parable. He who wanders through the solitudes of far-off Uist or lonely Donegal may often behold the Golden Eagle sick to death, worn with age or famine, or with both, passing with weary waft of wing from promontory to promontory, from peak to peak, pursued by a crowd of prosperous rooks and crows, which fall screaming back whenever the noble bird turns his indignant head, and which follow frantically once more, hooting behind him, whenever he wends again upon his way. The rook is a “recognised” bird; the crow is perfectly “established.” But for the Eagle, when he sails aloft in the splendour of his strength, who shall perfectly discern and measure his flight?
     Perhaps, after all, the so-called “established poets” of America, despite their resemblance to the birds that blacken the fallows and stubbles of English literature, may claim to be at least as indigenous as the loon, the snow-bunting, and the whip-poor-will, birds well “recognised” even here in England and duly “established” in popular liking. For such denizens of the Bostonian pond or farm-rail to crouch down in disgust and scorn when the King of Birds passes overhead is no more than natural. It is less conceivable that that other eagle of American literature, aquiline of breed but born and degenerated in captivity, should see in silence the sufferings of his freer and sublime brother, should utter no note of warning or of sympathy, should seem to approve by tacit and implicit silence the neglect and scorn of the little New England songsters who peck about his cage. It was the voice of Emerson—a noble and a reverberatory voice then and now—which first proclaimed the name of Whitman to America, in words of homage such as not twice in one century is paid by one poet authenticated to another obscure. It is the voice of Emerson which should be heard again for the vindication of the honour of America, now likely to be tarnished eternally by the murder of its only remaining Prophet. It cannot be that a long captivity in the cage of respectability, and daily association with the choir of hedgerow warblers, has so weakened the heart of Emerson that he falters from his first faith, that he no longer recognises the wild eagle his kinsman, because that kinsman’s flight is afar off, and his wings, though old and feeble, are still free! There is in England no sincerer admirer of Emerson than the present writer, who awaits with anxiety the moment of explanation and justification.
     Meantime is Walt Whitman to die because America is too blind to understand him? or rather shall not we in England, who love and revere the Prophet of Democracy, pay our mite of interest on the debt which we accept, and which America is backward to disown? Speaking in the name of many admirers of Whitman, I unhesitatingly suggest such a course as will be at once a help and an honour to the “good gray Poet”—a help temporary and feeble it is true, but given for love’s sake, reverently, to one far nobler than ourselves.

We never bowed but to superior worth,
Nor ever failed in our allegiance there!

Strong as is the prejudice in some circles even here against Whitman—for alas! even England does not lack its “orthodox authors, publishers, and editors”—I believe there is scarcely one living English poet who will not rejoice to lend his aid in a cause so righteous, yet so forlorn. But for the general public—for that public which runs as it reads, and judges as it runs—it is necessary to explain that Whitman is not merely an author whose literary claims set authors by the ears; that he is something far nobler even than a great poet—a martyred man, perhaps the best and noblest now breathing on our plane, one to whom good men would almost kneel, if they knew his beneficence; one whose hand I, at least, would kiss reverently, in full token of my own unworthiness and infinite inferiority. He has acted as well as preached his gospel of universal love and charity; he has given away his substance to his poor brethren; and he has contracted his hopeless disease solely through his personal devotion to the sick and wounded in the late American war. “The pity of it, the pity of it, Iago!” Even those Americans who deny his poetic claims admit (with a ....) his ineffable goodness; but, alas! goodness is not a commodity in demand among “orthodox authors, publishers, and editors,” nor is it strictly desiderated among “established” and money-making poets. Nevertheless, only this last consecration of Martyrdom was wanting to complete our poet’s apotheosis. As Christ had His crown of thorns (I make the comparison in all reverence), and as Socrates had his hemlock cup, so Walt Whitman has his final glory and doom even though it come miserably in the shape of literary outlawry and official persecution. Meantime, while the birds of the fallow are chirping and cramming, he leaves, as certainly at least as the second of these Divine sufferers, a living scripture to the world; which the world will read presently; which for every ten that know it now will count hereafter its tens of thousands; which will not be lost to humanity as long as poetry lives and the thoughts of men are free.
     What I have to suggest is simply this. I have already said that Whitman is preparing an edition of his works in two volumes. Now, let a committee be formed here in England, and a subscription instituted to collect subscriptions for the purchase, to begin with, of (say) some five hundred copies of the poet’s complete works. This, calculating the price at 10s. per copy, would require only some £250; and such a sum, which a prosperous writer may make with a few strokes of the pen, would be more than sufficient for the poet’s temporary needs, while furnishing at the same time a substantial proof of the honour in which he is held here in the heart of England. If the five hundred copies could be extended to a thousand, or more, so much the better for the poet, so much the more honour to En gland, so much the more shame to the literary coteries which emasculate America. With regard to the copies of the works so purchased, I should suggest their gratuitous, or partly gratuitous, distribution on some such plan as that adopted and admirably carried out by the Swedenborgian Society. To many a poor and struggling thinker such a gift would be as manna, such teaching as that of Whitman would be as Heavenly seed. I throw out the hint for what it is worth; but to save misconception, let me disclaim entire sympathy with Whitman’s materialistic idealism, which seems to go too far in the direction of illuminating the execrable. One scripture, however, supplements another, and he is perhaps the wisest who harmonises them all. That the teaching of Whitman is destined to exercise an extraordinary influence on the future of religion as well as poetry, no one who has read his works will deny. Unfortunately the process of perusal, which is usually supposed to be preliminary to literary judgment, is just the process which general readers and particular critics refuse to apply in this instance; and still more unfortunately, Whitman is the worst poet in the world to be judged by mere “dipping,” or by any amount of extracts, however admirably chosen.—I am, &c.,                                 ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     March 12.
     P.S.—Any communications on the subject of this letter may be addressed under care of Messrs. Strahan and Co., 36, Paternoster-row, who will, I am sure, as enlightened English publishers, further the object in view by all means in their power.                                             R. B.

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Daily News (14 March, 1876)

MR. WALT WHITMAN’S POEMS.
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS.

     SIR,—You cannot, I am sure, have foreseen the probable consequences of publishing Mr. Robert Buchanan’s letter. We Americans are known to be a thin-skinned race, and I do not see how we can possibly survive the expression of Mr. Robert Buchanan’s opinion of us. True, Mr. Robert Buchanan’s name is unknown in America; but the Daily News is well known there—known as a journal usually friendly to us, and always as civil as circumstances permit. So, when we learn from your columns that we must abandon henceforth those claims to distinction in literature which we have lately been told were our best title to respect, I can think of nothing so likely to occur in the States as a general happy-despatch. What publisher can value life after being called by Mr. Robert Buchanan, a shark? What “Yankee editor,” when he is told that “all men know of what pudding his brains are made,” will not hasten to blow them out? What verse-writer will not take flight to a better world to escape being catalogued in a “choir of hedgerow warblers?” With a splendour of ornithological erudition I cannot sufficiently admire, Mr. Robert Buchanan likens our American poets to snow-buntings, whip-poor-wills, and loons, to rooks and carrion crows. They are creatures who have lived and fattened by “picking the brains of British bards.” Whether Mr. Robert Buchanan means to complain that his own brains have gone to furnish the empty skulls of Lowell and Longfellow, I do not know, any more than I know whether he himself expects immortality as British Bard under the name of Robert Buchanan, or as Scotch Reviewer under that of Thomas Maitland. His American victims may find some slight comfort in the fact that no one of them has yet been accused of singing his own praises under a fictitious signature.
     As to Mr. Walt Whitman’s claims, for the pushing of which Mr. Robert Buchanan has striven to insult every other American writer, living or dead, I do not care to express an opinion. I know the English public well enough to believe that Mr. Whitman will be judged on his merits, and that they will not second Mr. Buchanan’s efforts to raise a new idol on the ruins of old reputations. Nor, on the other hand, ought Mr. Whitman to suffer because he has incurred Mr. Robert Buchanan’s praise.—
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
                                      AN OBSCURE AMERICAN.

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS.

     SIR,—I have read—and read with much general concurrence and satisfaction—the letter by Mr. Robert Buchanan, published in your paper of to-day, urging that the English admirers of Walt Whitman should show their feeling towards him by some such act as the purchase of a large number of copies of his forthcoming books. As this is a matter in which I am warmly interested, and to some extent personally concerned, I take leave to address you on the subject. It was to me that Whitman wrote those word, published in the Athenæum of last Saturday, vouching for the entire truth of the statements regarding him made in the West Jersey press (also partially reproduced in the Athenæum). Several days ago, in conjunction with another of Whitman’s English admirers (a lady), I wrote to the poet commissioning for each of us a certain number of his forthcoming volumes—in fact, therefore, I have already done what Mr. Buchanan suggests; and so has the friend just mentioned, and another friend, a distinguished literary man, who has been in frequent communication with me for months past, as to this or any other appropriate form in which English sympathy and regard for Whitman might take shape. In writing to the poet to bespeak the books, I asked him expressly whether he would like the same course, or any other course, to be adopted by others of his admirers in this country, and in the event of his replying affirmatively, I offered to undertake the requisite correspondence at starting. His answer may probably reach me within a fortnight or so. Let us therefore trust that, what between the steps that have been already taken, and those that will almost for certain ensue upon Mr. Buchanan’s printed letter, some substantial expression will shortly be given to the feelings of a good number of English, Scotch, and Irish admirers of this powerful and moving poet. Will his own countrymen yet exhibit the fruits of a late repentance, and allow themselves to be encouraged or shamed into some measure of justice to his claims?—Your faithful servant,
                                          WM. MICHAEL ROSSETTI.
     66, Euston-square, March 13.

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Daily News (16 March, 1876)

MR. WALT WHITMAN.
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TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS.

     SIR,—A large number of sympathetic letters have already reached me in response to my letter concerning the American poet Whitman, and I have every reason to believe that substantial help will be forthcoming. Meantime I take cognisance of the letter from Mr. William Rossetti, published in your columns of to-day, and as that gentleman is, I am glad to see, prepared to undertake the organisation of a fund for the purchase of Whitman’s works, I think all future correspondence, subscriptions, &c., should be addressed to him. For my own part I shall be glad to co-operate in any scheme for Whitman’s benefit. I would only quote one expression from a letter just received from the Rev. John T. Robinson—“Bis dat qui cito dat; your plan, I fear, would work too slowly. I am sure it would be easy to send help at once in some pleasant and brotherly way that would not be offensive to Whitman’s feelings.” It is gratifying to observe that most of my correspondents are men of business, who understand the holiness and dignity of labour. No man has sung so nobly as Whitman the righteousness and beauty of Work; and high and low, from him who works with his brain to him who works with his hands, would be strengthened by the poetic scripture of this colossal workman and bard. Some one—a voice in the dark—an “obscure” echo—accuses me of abusing “Lowell and Longfellow.” I take leave to observe—with timidity, lest my praise may “injure” the pride or the pockets of those prosperous poets—that I should be ungrateful indeed if I failed to remember with pleasure the voice which sang “the Present Crisis” and “the Courtin,” or that other voice which has made immortal for every fireside the story of “Evangeline.” I trust I have a heart for every true singer who makes music, whatever his rank may be in the poetic choir. It would be a better reply to my general complaints if any American, “obscure” or otherwise, could tell me how much sympathy either Mr. Lowell or Mr. Longfellow, or any other wealthy and influential singer, has shown for the great Poet and Martyr who now lies neglected, insulted, “old and paralysed,” at Camden dedicating his completed work, as another great poet and martyr did before him, “To Time,” which obliterates the pigmies, and only preserves the mastodons, of history and literature.—I am, &c.,                                        ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     March 14.
     P.S.—I have to acknowledge subscriptions of one pound each from Messrs. John browning, R. Salaman, and Alfred Marks; a promise of one pound each from Messrs. William Robins and John T. Robinson, and of three pounds from Mr. A. D. Smith. All these unknown correspondents stipulate, I am proud to say, for copies of the poet’s works.
     [We cannot acknowledge further subscriptions.]

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE DAILY NEWS.

     SIR,—It is unfortunate Mr. Buchanan should have clouded a question of benevolence with untimely literary fervour. There appear to be different opinions as to the merits of what Mr. Whitman believes to be poetry. Some persons apparently admire it vastly, and regard his literary method as a new revelation. Others conceive “prose-poetry” to be at best a sort of “two-headed nightingale,” curious as a study, but not otherwise pleasant to contemplate. Time will arbitrate between them. But I have never heard but one opinion as to the nobility of Mr. Whitman’s character; and while folks argue, he starves. I for one revere a man who aspires to be a poet, whether he succeeds in being one or not, and still more the man who in a greedy age, abandons profitable employment to follow what he thinks his vocation. Therefore, let every one bring his obolus, if it really be required, without any reference to canons of criticism. At the same time, I believe the American people to be second to none in native kindliness of heart; and though they may not think Mr. Whitman a poet, I am sure they will be the first to help his distress. He nursed their wounded during their sad fratricidal war with incessant charity; and to have done this is to have done more than to have composed all the poetry that was ever written.—Your obedient servant,
                                             ALFRED AUSTIN.
     March 14.

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The Shadow of the Sword

The Era (15 April, 1882 - p.5)

MR. BUCHANAN’S PLAYS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—Although The Shadow of the Sword, founded on my novel of that name, and now being represented at the Olympic Theatre, has been largely advertised as a new drama of my composition, I am not altogether responsible for it as it stands. Some time ago I showed to Mr John Coleman a drama on the subject, which was afterwards largely remodelled and rewritten by him. I need not explain the circumstances which led me to permit Mr Coleman’s alteration of my text; but it should be clearly understood that some of the incidents and much of the dialogue is the actor’s own invention. To make matters quite sure, and protect himself against any scruples on my part, Mr Coleman abstained from inviting me to attend even a single rehearsal; so that for the cast of characters, the stage business, and the scenic arrangements, he is entirely responsible. My own conception was an idyllic drama full of local colour, after the fashion of L’Ami Fritz, but with a few exciting incidents superadded. Such flights of poetry as the curse at the end of the second act are far beyond me, and I trusted, had I been consulted, to have avoided the vagaries of the conventional stage “peasant.”
     While making this little explanation, let me express my sympathy with Mr Coleman in his unfortunate difficulties with the stage carpenters. They were not responsible, however, for the cast of characters, or for any of the dialogue. With regard to my other play of Lucy Brandon, now being represented at the Imperial, I admit full responsibility. Although some of your contemporaries have been kind enough to attribute the lavish applause on its first production to a claque of friends (who must have been present also on the second afternoon, since the same enthusiasm was repeated and the author called and recalled again), I really think they are exaggerating. If not, I have more friends than I dreamed of. I never counted London dramatic critics among them, however; nor do I expect fair play when gentlemen of the press, on account of some slight inconvenience, loudly proclaim at the doors their intention of having vengeance.
                                                                      I am, &c.,
                                                                               ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     Imperial Theatre, April 12th.

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The Era (15 April, 1882 - p.14)

“THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.”

     Mr John Coleman, the lessee of the Olympic Theatre, appeared at Bow-street, on Wednesday, to a summons taken out by Joseph Bennett, an assistant-stage carpenter, claiming the sum of £2.17s. for wages alleged to be due.
     The complainant stated that on the 6th there was a dress rehearsal prior to the production of The Shadow of the Sword. He received instructions to work a “rise -and-sink” scene, and for this purpose had some men summoned to assist him. He alleged that they were not skilled mechanics, and as life and limb were imperilled in the working he refused to obey the order given. Thereupon the rehearsal was dismissed, and the defendant discharged him.
     The defendant said he did so because complainant had refused to obey his instructions, and had told him that he was not his employer, but that he only accepted orders from the master carpenter. As this individual was alleged to have been in a drunken and incapable state, coupled with the complainant’s refusal to work, it was utterly impossible to proceed with the rehearsal. With reference to the scene in question, no skilled labour was required, it only being necessary to turn a windlass to obtain the desired effect, there not being the slightest danger to any one concerned. In consequence of the complainant’s conduct dissension had been caused amongst the other men, resulting in their dismissal, which had caused a serious pecuniary loss to the defendant.
     Mr Vaughan expressed his opinion that the complainant had acted most unjustifiably. He considered that merely manual labour was required, and this having been provided, the complainant ought to have made an effort to obey his instructions. This he had not done, and whilst it was important that employers should not ask anything unreasonable, it was still more important than an employé should not take upon himself to refuse to work on the grounds complainant had mentioned, unless he had first made some effort to do as he was directed. He considered that complainant had acted most unreasonably, and greatly to the detriment of the defendant, and dismissed the summons.

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The Era (22 April, 1882 - p.8)

THEATRICAL GOSSIP.
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...

     MR ROBERT BUCHANAN has been terribly unlucky in his latest dramatic essays. Lucy Brandon has already been withdrawn from the boards of the Imperial, and The Shadow of the Sword, which began so badly at the Olympic on Easter Eve, collapsed on Thursday last.

...

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THE OLYMPIC DISPUTE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—There last week appeared a report of a Bow-street police case, having reference to a dispute between a stage carpenter and Mr John Coleman. With the litigants’ differences, however, I have nothing whatever to do, further than I, with others, was discharged at a moment’s notice, without being aware of the cause until I saw the report in question. From Mr John Coleman’s evidence, as published, I learned, to my chagrin and surprise, that my unceremonious dismissal was the natural result of drunkenness! Now, when a man makes an assertion, and on oath, he should be extremely careful as to the veracity of his statement, as perjury is an indictable offence, especially when it tends to the destruction of another’s character. In vindication of myself I must beg to differ with Mr John Coleman, and aver that I was at the time, and at all other times, as sober as he was; and he was not drunk; he was excited—and so was I. I have been engaged at the Olympic Theatre as master carpenter for a period of nearly ten years; and my character has never before been attempted to be tainted. On the contrary, I have been invariably complimented by the different managers under whom I have served, and they have been legion, for sobriety and industry, which my testimonials and presentations will amply prove. To be discharged without cause or notice, is bad enough; but publicly and in open court, to be stigmatised as a drunkard, is adding insult to injury. The attack on my character was made with impunity because it was made in my absence, like stabbing a man in the dark; and I have no other alternative, but through the same medium, of repelling a gratuitous statement that is so likely to prejudice me in the minds of those who, otherwise, might give me employment.
           Obediently yours,                         JOHN COLLINS.

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The Era (29 April, 1882 - p.7)

“THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—In doing me the honour to acknowledge me as his collaborateur in the authorship of the drama of The Shadow of the Sword, Mr Robert Buchanan is pleased to express his “sympathy for the mishaps incidental to the working of the scenery on the opening night, but disclaims all responsibility for the cast, dialogue, &c.” This assurance will, doubtless, be received in the candid and generous spirit in which it is given; and, as I do not wish to deprive the poet of a single leaf of his laurels, permit me with equal candour, and, I trust, no less generosity, to “disclaim all responsibility for the cast, dialogue, &c.,” of Lucy Brandon, which has recently achieved so brilliant a success at the Imperial Theatre. With reference to “the poetic flights of fancy involved in the curse,” which Mr Buchanan alleges is “beyond his scope,” permit me to say a word or two. Must we henceforth assume that the great masters have the exclusive privilege of monopolising the great big D’s?
     Here are a few choice extracts quoted from memory, to begin with the bard of all time:—Lady Anne to Richard—“Either heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, or earth gape open wide and cat him quick!” Lear to Goneril—“Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!” “Roast me in sulphur, wash me in steep down gulfs of liquid fire!”—Othello. Brutus to Tarquin—“May the red, flaming sun strike you with living plagues; vipers that die not slowly gnaw your heart,” &c.—Howard Payne. Eve to Cain—“May the woods deny thee shelter, earth a home, the dust a grave, the sun his light, and Heaven her God!”—Byron. Carl Von Moor to Schuflerle—“May that fire burn in thy bosom till eternity grows grey!”—Schiller. Tom Robinson to Hawes—“May your skin rot from your flesh—your flesh from your bones; and may your black soul split on the rock of eternal perdition!”—Charles Reade.
     I could multiply these passionate apostrophes ad infinitum, but I have quoted enough to show that if I have erred I have erred in a company I am not ashamed of keeping. Besides, it must be admitted that poor Rohan had great provocation—his father murdered in Egypt, his elder brother dead beneath the snows of Russia, his younger one shot before his very eyes, his mother dying from a broken heart. If these be not wrongs deep enough to evoke a curse—“a curse to kill”—I have no knowledge either of human nature or dramatic art. The circumstances connected with the production of this work are so remarkable as to be worth narrating.
     It was an ambitious effort; three bigger “sets” than the Grotto of St. Gildas, the Mountains, and the Inundation have never been placed before the public. Four painters, more or less distinguished, and an army of carpenters had been at work day and night for more than a month; we were in sight of port when, at the last rehearsal, we broke down through insubordination amongst our operatives; and, unfortunately, the whole working staff elected to follow the ringleader in this rebellion. Under these circumstances, had I been a millionaire, I should, of course, have closed the theatre a week for preparations; but I was in extremis. There was no help for it but to open; so, relying on an energy and industry which, up to that time, had never been wholly defeated, I engaged a new master carpenter and another staff of men, who worked without intermission through the whole day and night up to half-past six on Saturday morning, when I left them hopeful and confident that we should surmount all difficulties; but I had reckoned without my host.
     On the night previous, after everybody else had left the theatre, I went round with my stage-manager, acting-manager, and gasman, and locked every door. On returning at an early hour the next morning I found that one of the doors had been broken open; but it was not until Saturday night I discovered, while the performance was actually going on, that the act-drop had been “fouled” and the whole of the ropes put out of gear; hence the series of mishaps and delays which followed. Mr Gates, Mr Charles Brew, Mr Gompertz, Mr Maltby, Mr Laws, and his men did all men could do in the few hours at their disposal, but they were unable to overcome this “rattening” combination—my misfortune, not their fault. Despite our mishaps the public were more than kind. There were calls and recalls at the end of every act, and, although the curtain did not fall until a quarter past twelve, there were two distinct calls even at that late hour.
     Upon subsequent representations we finished nightly at a quarter to eleven, and the play, up to its last performance, was received with genuine enthusiasm; but, alas! the mischief was done the first night, and we had to strike our colours for want of ammunition to carry on the war. The Shadow of the Sword has, doubtless, many faults, but it received many foul blows; and under the circumstances, to which I called attention at the time, was entitled to more generous treatment than it received at some hands.
     The other day I read in various journals that on the first night of Othello at the Odeon the curtain did not fall until a quarter past one on Sunday morning. To-day I learn that the curtain did not fall upon Odette until midnight. Yet the only critical deduction made by the majority of critics is that under these circumstances “criticism will be reserved until a more favourable opportunity.”
     Now, surely, “kissing goes by favour” here, or is it the case that some of your gentle colleagues deem it their duty to welcome new comers after the fashion of the Good Samaritans of Pudsey, who upon seeing a foreigner “within their gates” playfully exclaim to each other “Hi, chaps, here’s a stranger—heave half a brick at him?” He who does not accept defeat with dignity is a fool, but he who fails to respect the vanquished is a cad, and often cads are to be found even in your noble profession;

As where’s that palace whereinto foul things
Sometimes intrude not?

     And now, Sir, in taking my leave for a short time, I desire to offer to the public and the gentlemen of the Press, who here or elsewhere have always been prompt to give generous recognition to whatever conscientious work I have attempted or achieved during a life devoted to the art I love, my thanks and my gratitude.
                                                   Yours, &c.,                    JOHN COLEMAN.
     Olympic Theatre, April 27th.

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The Era (29 April, 1882 - p.8)

AUTHORS AND MANAGERS.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—There are few personal misfortunes which cannot be put to some use as examples to warn others, and since I have been during the past weeks exceptionally unlucky—having had a play righteously and justly “damned” at one theatre and a second play withdrawn at a day’s notice from the boards of another—I am in a position to point the morals of two sad bits of experience.
     My first moral, or word of advice, is addressed to my brother authors, and runs to this effect:—“Never under any circumstances allow an actor or manager, however ‘experienced,’ to alter your text at his own wild will, and never, at any rate, have your name attached to a production which is one-third your own and two-thirds interpolation, which is cast and rehearsed without your supervision, and which, when produced, seems like some hideous nightmare, instead of your own sane invention.” If this advice is listened to, authors will avoid my cruel experience during the performance of The Shadow of the Sword at the Olympic Theatre. The play, as there represented, was no more my production than Poole’s burlesque of Hamlet was the production of Shakespeare. For the alteration of the motive, the introduction of useless situations, the mal-characterisation, the general idea of lopsidedness and higgledy-pigglledyness, Mr Coleman is responsible. He is also responsible, by the way, for the programme, which has been laid, with the other sins of commission and omission, at the martyr’d author’s door.
     My second word of advice is addressed to authors in particular, and to the theatrical profession in general. It runs thus:—“Avoid business transactions with managers whom you discover, after a brief acquaintance, to be in pecuniary difficulties.” Some months ago the managers of the Imperial Theatre accepted my play of Lucy Brandon, agreed to mount it liberally, to procure a first-class company, and to “run it for, at least, five weeks.” As a guarantee of good faith they introduced me to their “monied” partner, who also subscribed my agreement. To make a long story short, this man of money turned out in good time to be a man of straw—or a man, at all events, who cared not a straw for his liabilities; and the piece was hardly produced when the storm burst. In the innocence of my heart, I had disbursed considerable sums, to tide the management over “temporary” difficulties while their capitalist was “realising.” Every penny of the first week’s takings was spent in paying old arrears, and when Saturday came there was no “treasury” either for the unfortunate author, who was so much out of pocket, or for the still more unfortunate artistes, who had laboured so zealously to make the drama the success I still affirm it to have been.
     In giving this explanation, I am far from soliciting any sympathy; nor do I wish to cast any reflection on the managers, who acted throughout, I feel sure, in good faith, and have been almost as ill-treated as the author and the company. The whole unfortunate affair, however, contains a lesson which the theatrical profession should get by heart; and I have, therefore, undertaken, in justice to all concerned, to publish the facts.
                      I am, &c.,                           ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     London, April 25th, 1882.

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The Era (6 May, 1882)

“THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—Whatever other “lessons” Mr Buchanan may have learnt from his recent misfortunes, they do not appear to have taught him that a poet’s faculty of invention should be limited to his verses, but that it is imperative that the realities of life should be measured by the more prosaic standard of the code of honour which prevails among gentlemen. It was my desire to have remained silent on this subject, but since Mr Buchanan now dares to insinuate that he was in total ignorance of my revisions and alterations it is time for me, in self-justification, to speak out.
     When our drama was first submitted to me, it was a crude, invertibrate sketch, which had been offered to nearly every theatre in London, and had been refused everywhere. I undertook, with the author’s concurrence, to revise and reconstruct it. I did so, invented new characters and incidents, and gave a human motive for Rohan’s refusal to serve in the conscription. When my alterations were completed, they not only met with Mr Buchanan’s approval, but they were absolutely incorporated with our contract of purchase; and, furthermore, I affirm—
     1. Prior to the production of the play here, the original prompt copy was placed in his hands for final revision.
     2. That he returned it to me duly revised, and that the parts were collated and compared with the MS.; in effect, every line of the play, exactly as it was acted, received Mr Buchanan’s sanction, except the “curse,” with which I did not permit him to interfere.
     3. For twelve months prior to its production in town this play has been announced as the sole work of Mr Buchanan, and during its progress through the provinces he has accepted the almost unanimous eulogies of press and public as tributes justly due to him alone. But observe. The moment the shadow of misfortune darkens The Shadow of the Sword he repudiates all responsibility, and leaves me to bear the brunt.
     Be it so; I am responsible for everything in connection with the production. There is not an artiste concerned in the representation, not a line I have written, not a scene I have devised, a note of music, or a costume I have selected, or even a stage direction I have given, which I am ashamed of. And now for a word or two with reference to my present relations with this gentleman, and then I hope to have done for ever with him and with this subject.
      When he first introduced himself to me, at the Queen’s Theatre, his fame as a dramatist was confined to the authorship of a play which, aided by the prestige of the Haymarket company, with a cast including Mrs Kendal, Mr Buckstone, Mr Kendal, Mr Howe, &c., achieved a run of one night in London, and another in Glasgow. This unpropitious commencement of Mr Buchanan’s dramatic career only enlisted my sympathies on his behalf and I introduced him and his dramas to Mr Neville, who accepted The Queen of Connaught. I brought Mr Buchanan’s sister-in-law on the stage, giving my tuition without fee or reward. I paid him for The Shadow of the Sword before the play was produced in London; in addition to which I gave him my adaptation of The Mormons. “On their own merits modest men are dumb,” and you will doubtless observe that my amour propre as author, adapter, what you will, is not excessive; therefore, when this drama failed, although convinced it would have succeeded under other auspices, I did not think it generous to direct public attention to the (with one or two exceptions) inefficient cast, the injudicious alterations, and bungling stage-management which murdered The Mormons.
     The insensate egoism of the author appears in the present instance to have occasioned an aberration of intellect which makes Mr Buchanan oblivious of even common decency. A chance has occurred to him which has never yet occurred to any author, living or dead. Two of his plays are produced in one day in two metropolitan theatres—both are unsuccessful. It is useless now to inquire into the cause. Any one but an idiot can see that no sane man, far less an experienced manager, would be likely to expend valuable time and good money upon a play without doing his best to make it succeed. I did my best, but circumstances were too strong for me, and the logic of fact is inexorable. But first compare Mr Buchanan’s position with mine. He has received every shilling of his money; I have lost mine, and six weeks’ hard work to boot; besides which I am in debt. My friend has lost upwards of £1,000 on the production, and, more grievous than all, my company are thrown out of employment.
     Whatever reputation as a dramatist he may ultimately achieve, my distinguished collaborateur as yet has not “set the Thames on fire.” Now I did leave a little reputation behind me; at any rate, you were all good enough to pronounce my Henry the Fifth a great work. I return to London, to lose money and imperil reputation on a much smaller enterprise. What then? I accept the inevitable with equanimity. The vanquished of to-day is the victor of to-morrow. “Time and me against any other two.” I am equal to anything in the future, except another collaborateurship with Mr Robert Buchanan.
                                                        Yours, faithfully,
     Olympic Theatre, May 3d, 1882.                    JOHN COLEMAN.

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The Era (13 May, 1882)

“THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.”

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—I owe you my best thanks for your insertion of Mr John Coleman’s last letter in your columns; since I gladly purchase for a little coarse abuse the admission that Mr Coleman did alter and mutilate my play, and that he is the author or adaptor of The Mormons.
     But Mr Coleman’s letter contains a few mis-statements of fact which I take the liberty to correct.
     1. I never approved of Mr Coleman’s alterations, though in a moment of weakness I agreed to some of them, particularly stipulating that they should cease on signing of the agreement. So far from ceasing they were multiplied, Mr Coleman’s restless inspiration urging him to repeated alterations and interpolations.
     2. A few days before the Olympic production, after I had been demanding for months to see the manuscript, an almost illegible copy was sent to me (minus the curse and other flowery matter), with the request that it might be returned at once duly revised. I read it rapidly through, correcting an expression here and there; but I saw at once that it was hopeless work. Foolishly enough, I refrained from doing what I was legally advised to do—interdict the performance on the ground of my broken agreement. For the same good-natured reason I held my peace until I had seen the play. Had I spoken a word before production, Mr Coleman, I knew, would have accused me of prejudicing the public against the piece, and have laid all the burthen of failure upon my shoulders.
     3. During the performance of this play in the country I was unable to see it. I received, however, many accounts of the performance, which were so far encouraging that I made Mr Coleman several distinct offers, when he came to town this winter, to cancel our agreement. Had he done so my own “crude invertebrate sketch” (as he chooses to call it) would at once have been purchased by Mr George Rignold, who thought it quite good enough for him, minus curse, and minus all Mr Coleman’s ingenious emendations.
     And now, having stated such facts as are really pertinent to the case, let me add a few remarks which, though less pertinent, are necessary under the circumstances.
     Mr Coleman, having failed in his scheme to build up a pecuniary success on a system of old-fashioned mutilation, having destroyed a fine conception by vain-glorious bungling and unparalleled blundering, now attempts to add insult to outrage. His assertion that my Haymarket play failed, that it was acted only one night in London and another in Glasgow, is a falsehood. It was produced for the late Mr Buckstone’s benefit on the last night of the season, and it was played throughout the provincial tour of the company with unvarying success. In Liverpool and Glasgow it was repeatedly played to splendid houses, and Mr Buckstone himself, on his return to London, published a special statement to the public, expressing his deep regret that the “secession of Mrs Kendal and the return of Mr Sothern” prevented its reproduction, although it “had been uniformly successful wherever acted.” But surely I waste words in refuting this gentleman, who would gladly treat an injured author as he has treated a helpless stage carpenter. While on this subject, let me state that the person whom his violence drove from the Olympic Theatre, and whom he afterwards tried to ruin by a cruel accusation, was in my employ for a long period last year; that he was uniformly civil, diligent, and obliging; that with his zealous co-operation The Mormons—a play of seventeen elaborate scenes—was produced without one hitch, or one minute’s unnecessary delay; and that no one who knows Mr Collins or has ever employed him believes one word of Mr Coleman’s insinuations.
     To conclude, despite this gentleman’s insulting remarks on my dramatic work, I shall not retaliate by criticising his own work as an actor. Of that the public is the fit and only judge. But I take off my hat to him now he informs us that Henry the Fifth was his own “great work.” I had always imagined that Henry the Fifth was the work of William Shakespeare. Being now better instructed, and aware that Shakespeare’s “crude invertebrate sketch” had the benefit of Mr Coleman’s “improvements,” I can quite understand how that production also, like The Shadow of the Sword, had so splendid a reception in a London theatre. Well, I am glad to find Mr Coleman writing so cheerfully, and promising a speedy return to London. I wish him all success; but I hope that when he comes again he will victimise a departed author—not a living one; seeking a collaborateur among the shades of the illustrious dead, who cannot be much injured by his blundering, and are beyond the reach of his abuse. I am, Sir,
                                                                      ROBERT BUCHANAN.
     Grosvenor Club, W., May 9th, 1882.

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The Era (20 May, 1882)

“THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.”
_____

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—Mr Buchanan argues, as the Parthian fights, flying; save that the noble savage, when he “makes tracks,” throws javelins at his pursuers, while my opponent, in his flight, throws dirt at me, hoping that if enough of it is thrown some of it may stick. He is mistaken. “The blackest crow that sails across the sky cannot darken the daylight.”
     Ignominiously defeated in a discussion which ought never to have been raised, with characteristic good taste Mr Buchanan now seeks to obtrude a wholly irrelevant issue, which does not concern him directly or indirectly, and which is dragged in merely as a pretext to fling mud at me. In my public capacity I am fair game for any blockhead who knows how to use, or misuse, pen and ink; but, when my honour as a man is assailed, there is a limit to me forbearance.
     Now, Sir, leaving sonorous superlatives, and high falutin epithets to him who is most accustomed to their use, I confine myself to the simplest possible statement of facts.
     During my management, Mr Buchanan never crossed the threshold of this theatre prior to the production of The Shadow of the Sword but once (and that was when he came for the purpose of receiving the balance of the purchase money and of delivering up the prompt copy, duly revised and approved of by him). Consequently, it must be obvious that he was not present when my late stage-carpenter was dismissed, and that, therefore, he can have no knowledge of the “condition” of his friend; or the circumstances connected with his dismissal, except what he has obtained second-hand, and that from the most tainted source.
     Here is my reply to this malignant and mendacious allegation. The statement Mr Buchanan has the audacity to impugn was made on oath in a court of law, where I challenge him and his confederate to meet me if they dare.
     Meanwhile, “I am armed so strong in honesty, these miserable imputations pass by me like the idle wind, which I respect not.”                                  Yours, &c.,
     Olympic Theatre, May 17th.                                                       JOHN COLEMAN.
     P.S.—However great my provocation, I always fight fairly, and I accept Mr Buchanan’s correction that his maiden drama achieved a run of three or four nights, instead of two, but I deny that he ever made “a distinct offer to cancel our agreement.” What he really did do was to dun me incessantly for the balance of the purchase money, until he had every farthing of it.

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—In your issue of the 13th current I see that your correspondent, Mr John Coleman, has once more reverted to a subject which, common sense should have dictated, had better been left alone. I allude to the cruel and misleading accusation brought by your correspondent against the late master carpenter of this theatre. Having once asserted what Mr John Coleman proclaims and reiterates as a fact, he, no doubt, feels himself bound, by some mysterious chain of reasoning, to uphold his original expression of opinion. It seems to be a matter of absolute indifference to him whether his charge is founded on fact or myth; the fiat has gone forth, and under no circumstances can the accuser recant. It is a case of, whether right or wrong, hold-on tenaciously to the last—a kind of bulldog courage that commends itself to the “fancy,” though I fancy it is not strictly comme il faut. This peculiar trait, however, is not at all inconsistent with the characteristics of a man who, having made a venture and failed, still endeavours to induce the world to believe that his collapse—brought about by himself—was the result of “painful circumstances” over which he had no control—no more than he had over his own temper. The “painful circumstances” refer, no doubt, to the victimised carpenter, whose truthful rebutting letter appeared in your issue of the 22d ultimo. It is to this letter that Mr John Coleman now refers, reiterating his assertion that the carpenter in question is an inebriate. Consistency, in a good cause, is exemplary; in a bad one, not only repugnant, but criminal—morally, if not legally. Mr John Coleman instinctively “declines to discuss the subject.” Is it because discretion, in some cases, is the better part of valour? He is, however, “prepared, should it be necessary, to prove, by abundant corroborative testimony, the accuracy of the statement made by him in Bow-street!” This is throwing down the gauntlet to a man who is incapacitated from picking it up; a proof of how daring a man may show himself when no antagonist is forthcoming. As to this “abundant corroborative testimony,” it would be, I opine, something after the fashion of Mr John Coleman’s rhetoric—flowery, but void of potency—as the amount of reliable evidence that could be brought forward to rebut the “abundant corroborative” would, I have no hesitation in saying, make the latter insignificant indeed. Truth, however, must and will prevail in the end, even though it be opposed by “abundant corroborative testimony.” Let Mr John Coleman give to the world an insight into this “corroborative testimony” faction, that I might be enabled to advise the few members composing it what their characters are, because of the company they keep. I must not omit to mention that Mr John Coleman came to the Olympic with the view to prove to the “counter-skipping duffers” of London how superior were his histrionic abilities compared with their puny efforts. And what has been the result? Not the laches of his carpenter, but his own ability to restore vitality to a creation which, though brought into the world by another man, was cruelly vivisected by himself. Exasperated at the miserable outcome of his folly, he falls foul of the man who might have been his friend had he not exhibited his ingratitude, accuses his carpenter of being a tippler, and fails to meet his engagements, for which I can vouch, being one of the sufferers. Mr John Coleman probably may be sophistical, and argue that he had no control over the inevitable—certainly not, for the inevitable is the sequence generally of want of tact, common sense, and means, which means, if you succeed, pay; if not, why—no pay! a code of honour that has but scant recommendation. All letters from Mr John Coleman in The Era, I perceive, are dated as from the Olympic, although he has not shown himself here since the date of his collapse, now some four or five weeks intervening; of course, it is incompetent for me to say what his motives may be for assuming that he is at the theatre when he is not. This enigma, however, may be solved by acknowledging that Mr John Coleman is uncommonly discreet. Recording this special trait in his favour, I modestly retire from the scene of the Olympic dispute, and subscribe myself,
                                                       Obediently yours,
     Olympic Theatre, May 16th, 1882.                  CERBERUS.

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The Era (27 May, 1882)

THE OLYMPIC DISPUTE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—From time immemorial it has been a favourite amusement for ill-conditioned dogs to “bay the moon with howling;” but although countless generations of curs have barked sans intermission since the world began the lady moon still sails serenely on.
     I follow her ladyship’s example, and shall continue to do so, when “Cerberus” and his brother curs, having howled themselves hoarse, crawl back to their kennels, scourged and chap-fallen.
     As for the farrago of irrelevant mendacity and puerile impertinence fabricated by this person, who, ashamed of his own nomenclature, assumes that of the foul-mouthed, three-headed dog of Hades, I simply say what the late Bishop of Oxford said on a similar occasion, “No amount of obscene noises emitted from filthy mouths can disturb the even tenor of my way.”
     I think it is George Eliot who somewhere remarks “Impudent assertion is a sort of filthy smoke puffed from the dirty tobacco pipes of those who diffuse it; it proves nothing but the vile taste of the smoker.”
     Instead of diffusing “filthy smoke from dirty tobacco pipes,” why do not “Cerberus” and his confederates accept the challenge of the man whose honour they vainly seek to impugn, and confront him on the spot where his oath is chronicled to attest the truth?
     I will tell you. It is because they know it is much pleasanter, and far less hazardous, to circulate calumnies on paper than to commit perjury in court.
     But I will not waste more words on my anonymous and ignoble slanderer.
                                                                    Yours, &c.,                        JOHN COLEMAN.
     Theatre Royal, Bath, May 24th.

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TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—You and your readers must be well-nigh tired of this matter; but the letter of “Cerberus” in your issue of the 20th inst., following upon Mr Buchanan’s of the 13th inst., provokes me to break, with your permission, the silence I should otherwise have gladly kept.
     It is a novel thing in my experience to prefer a charge of wilful perjury in the columns of a newspaper, and I emphatically protest against such a course on public grounds. Mr Coleman has now twice challenged the party aggrieved to meet him in open court, and prove his charge of perjury. If he declines to do so, but still continues through his friends to reiterate his charge in The Era, the public will know how to judge. It has been a matter of surprise to me that he did not long ago, if he was sure of his case, anticipate Mr Coleman’s challenge. I now learn from “Cerberus” that he is “incapacitated from taking up the gauntlet!” What! Incapacitated! When backed by such powerful influence as that of Messrs Buchanan and “Cerberus”! But how incapacitated? Because—so “Cerberus” seems to imply—he is ignorant of the “corroborative evidence” which Mr Coleman states he is ready to produce. But then “Cerberus” should not have said “incapacitated;” he should have said “afraid.”
     With reference to Mr Buchanan’s letter, so long as that gentleman confines himself to the expression of his own belief, his interference, however uncalled-for, may be allowed to pass. The value of his belief may be gauged by the fact that he was not present on the occasion in question. But when he assumes to state the belief of an indefinite number of other persons, I am tempted to ask him this plain question. Did he—yes or no—ascertain beforehand from each and all of those persons the exact state of their belief on this particular point.
     The nom de plume “Cerberus,” no doubt, suggests the exalted position the writer holds at the Olympic, and thus must greatly increase the credibility of his evidence. To my certain knowledge he had left the theatre a long time before the incident in question occurred. “Cerberus” is evidently the “superior person” of the theatre, the watch-dog and guardian of the theatre’s morals. I did hear there was a certain person employed in the theatre whose boast it was that he had availed himself of his position to collect materials for the future exposure of certain details affecting the private characters of former occupants of the theatre. I did not believe there was such a man. “Cerberus” is shaking my belief on this one point at least.
     When “Cerberus” has the courage to sign his own name his statements may merit consideration. As it is, I content myself with denying point-blank two of his assertions, that Mr Coleman ever called the party concerned an “inebriate” or a “tippler,” and that Mr Coleman has not shown himself at the Olympic since the date of his collapse.
     My immediate object in writing this letter is to state that I share with Mr Coleman, morally if not technically, the responsibility of the late master-carpenter’s dismissal. Mr Coleman acted in accordance with my advice; that advice was based on what I had seen; and, if called upon, I shall be ready to justify it at the proper time and place.
     I am promised in return for this the abuse of “Cerberus” and his pack; it will not affect me, nor the opinion of those who know me. The opinion of those who do not know me, but are affected by it, is indifferent to me.
     One word more. I do not rush into print to asperse another man’s character, especially that of an open antagonist. If incidentally I have done so, the fault lies with those who have provoked this rejoinder, not with me. And the same spirit of fair play which has actuated what I have already said obliges me to add (and I do so with pleasure) that I have received from two gentlemen, who have had abundant opportunities of judging, and whose integrity is spotless (I am not referring now to Messrs Buchanan and “Cerberus”) the highest praises of the late master carpenter’s sobriety, ability, and character. I confess I am unable to reconcile the seeming inconsistancy; if I could do so, I could also probably explain many other things which are still a mystery to me in connection with the late production at the Olympic.
                                      I remain, Sir, yours faithfully,
                                                                        F. PEMBERTON,
                      Late Acting-Manager and Treasurer, Olympic Theatre.

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The Era (3 June, 1882)

THE DISPUTE AT THE OLYMPIC.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—With reference to John Coleman’s string of pot-house invectives, levelled against me in your issue of the 27th ult., I must say it is a source of gratification on my part to learn that the man whose ambition it is to pose as a gentleman has, by his unseemly language, that of abuse without argument, revealed himself in his true colours. In his rage he forgets himself, and throws off the mask, an uncontrollable impulse for which, no doubt, by this time he is very sorry, if not heartily ashamed of. In even noticing this tirade of vulgar expletives I am aware I derogate from my self-respect, because, like a modern Socrates, I condescend to stand side by side on the same platform with a modern, though masculine, Xantippe. It seems to me that John Coleman is much more happy in his quotations, though now and then out of place, than in his characteristic mode of expressing his antipathy to good advice; the mixture, certainly, is somewhat anomalous, though it tends in a great measure to confirm the accredited assumption that a certain obnoxious personage is in the habit of quoting Scripture for a purpose which I need not imply, as it is well understood. In my time I have been accustomed, even in the warmest disputations, to be treated with, at least, an outward sign of courtesy; but never, except in the lowest stratum of society, have I encountered such ignoble and degrading expressions of virulence and animosity. It is, however, futile to continue this kind of recrimination, especially as it concerns a matter in which neither party can, or will not, be convinced against his will. So, as a finale to my original contradiction, I here, for the last time, emphatically state that I adhere to the same in its every detail. And whatever vulgar epithets, impotent rage, malice, or jealousy John Coleman may apply to me in his future effusions, I can conscientiously say that, at least, I am honest.
     As to your other correspondent F. Pemberton, of the same date, I must say I look upon him as being under an obligation, or may be necessity, to obey the behests of his liege—i.e., to say and ac as he is dictated to; and, although his communication does not bear the impress of rabies, there can be no doubt that the two inspirations spring from the one source. F. Pemberton acts as a kind of talismanic agent to his liege, for he carries about with him a charm as a protection against mishaps such as occurred at the Olympic a few weeks ago! The shadow (not of the sword) is, as it were, an immaterial, and yet at the same time a material, as well as a necessary, adjunct to the substance, both of which are clearly defined by the tenor of their respective onslaughts on me in your recent issue. Why each of my dual opponents should prate so much about “honour” and “honesty” is beyond the scope of my comprehension, unless it be they are full to overflowing of those virtues, and desire to part with the overplus, which I, at least, should be sorry to accept, either as a gift or by purchase, at any price.
                           Obediently yours,                        CERBERUS.
     Olympic Theatre, June 1st, 1882.
             [This correspondence must now cease.—Ed. Era.]

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Rumours of Buchanan’s marriage to Harriett Jay

[From The Newcastle Courant (21 April, 1882 - Issue 10816)]

Daily News (24 April, 1882)

     Mr. Robert Buchanan has issued a statement to the effect that the sudden withdrawal of his adaptation of the late Lord Lytton’s “Paul Clifford” at the Imperial Theatre is “due to causes entirely unconnected with its dramatic success or failure.” Mr. Buchanan adds that it will shortly be reproduced elsewhere, with the original cast. Of the simultaneous withdrawal of the same writer’s new play, “The Shadow of the Sword,” after an equally brief career at the Olympic, no explanation is afforded.

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The Era (29 April, 1882 - p.8)

A Correction.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—An author’s work is public property, and even malignant criticism is endurable; but the newspaper press transcends its functions when, to gratify some secret spite, it intrudes upon private life and domestic sorrow. During the past week a paragraph has been widely circulated to the effect that I have been recently “married, in Switzerland, to Miss Harriet Jay, my deceased wife’s sister.” My wife, beloved by all who knew her, and most beloved by her to whom she was (as it were) both sister and mother, died only last November, and the public are asked to believe that her husband has already forgotten her, and that her noble-minded sister, sharing this forgetfulness, is also oblivious to the love, the self-sacrifice, and the saintly devotion of the departed. How this cruel report arose, and by whom it was originated, I am at a loss to guess; but I write this letter to affirm that it is without the faintest shadow of foundation, and in the name of public decency to protest against such violations of the sanctity of great and enduring grief.
                                                                   I am, &c.,
     London, April 25th, 1882.                                ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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Daily News (1 May, 1882)

     We have received the following note from Mr. Robert Buchanan, from which, however, we have omitted one passage on account of its libellous character:

     I hope, and indeed feel sure, that you would not willingly do me an injury. Be that as it may, I must ask you to add to your paragraph of last Monday this explanation. That the “Shadow of the Sword” failed through no fault of mine, since the piece was a mutilated and brutalised version of my drama, produced without my supervision and in spite of my remonstrances; and that “Lucy Brandon” could not under any circumstances have been kept in the bills, because .  .  .  These are the facts; nor need I add to them by any explanation of how I have been personally befooled and impoverished. If you will at the same time contradict a cruel statement (made first, I believe, in a Glasgow paper, and afterwards copied into the Figaro and other journals), you will do me a substantial service. This statement, utterly groundless and malicious, says that I have “recently been married, in Switzerland, to Miss Jay, my deceased wife’s sister.” When I tell you that my dear wife died only last November, and that of all human beings her sister was most devoted to her, you will understand how much pain the report has given to all concerned. I will say nothing of my own feelings in the matter, save to say that the bitterness of my personal loss is renewed by the mere thought of such a want of respect for the beloved wife who was my friend and helper for 20 years.

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Western Mail (Cardiff) (1 May, 1882)

     Mr Robert Buchanan has found it necessary to deny a very cruel rumour of which he is the subject. A story has been actively circulated that he was recently married in Switzerland to Miss Harriet Jay, the authoress and actress, who happens to be the sister of his wife, who died only five months ago. “By whom it was originated,” says Mr. Buchanan, “I am at a loss to guess;” and “in the name of public decency” he protests against “such violations of the sanctity of great and enduring grief.” Everyone will sympathise with Mr. Buchanan in having to make such a denial. Unfortunately, he has a good many enemies on the London press, as was shown by the severity of the criticisms on his recent dramatic efforts, “The Shadow of the Sword” and “Lucy Brandon.”
     But inventions which deal with the sanctity of private life, and can only possibly find their way into the papers in consequence of carelessness which borders on the reckless, can never have a vestige of justification. Mr. Buchanan truly says that the press “transcends its functions when it intrudes upon domestic sorrow.” Of course it may very well be that he is wrong when he talks about the gratification of “some secret spite” as an explanation, but, nevertheless, the insertion of such a report on what must have been the vaguest of hearsay evidence is not creditable to journalism.

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The Sunday Herald (Syracuse, N.Y.) (28 May, 1882 - p.4)

     The English law which prevents a man from marrying the sister of his deceased wife has caused Robert Buchanan to take a matrimonial journey to Switzerland, where that absurd regulation is not in force. His new wife and former sister-in-law is—or rather was—Miss Jay, author of the “Queen of Connaught.”

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Lucy Brandon

The Era (4 November, 1882)

A Word of Explanation.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ERA.

     Sir,—In your report of the bankruptcy of Messrs Mansell and May, late managers of the Imperial Theatre, you adopt the mistake made by the newspapers—viz., that they were adjudicated for the amount of fees due to me for performances of Lucy Brandon; and one of your contemporaries, with characteristic generosity, assumes that the bankruptcy of the managers is a consequence of these performances. Permit me to say, therefore, that the £76 12s. 9d., the amount for which these gentlemen were adjudicated, was simply a moiety of private money lent in cash previous to the production of the play; that the fate of the management had nothing to do with that production; that in addition to the losses in hard cash, I have also been mulcted in large sums on guarantees given by me to several tradesmen and to Captain Hobson, of the Aquarium; and all this in connection with a speculation in which I had no share, save as the author of a piece accepted for performance. Those who know me are aware how little disposed I am to be exacting in money matters; those who do not know me may be assured that the action I have taken was absolutely necessary, and in no sense arbitrary. A few weeks after the closing of the Imperial the same managers found money enough to take the Opera Comique, to pay down a large sum for rent in advance, and to produce a comic opera. Verb. sap.                  I am, &c.,
     Grosvenor Club, W.                                                 ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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