Couldn’t Fool Him
It was in Pittsburg, and Mr. Irving was playing Shylock, when from the gallery “a voice fell like a falling star,” “Great gosh!” It fell from a countryman from Moon township, who, when the play was over, went to the stage door and wanted to thrash the actor. But he didn’t. Later, at a hotel, he was asked if he saw Shylock. “Yes, I seen him,” said he, “and it’s not the first time, either.” “When did you see him before?” “Why, I seen that fellow in Moon township last week peddling notions. It’s the same Jew, and you can bet a hundred if he ever comes out there again we will not split hairs with him about a pound of flesh, for Frank McGinnis and I will skin him alive.” “You are certainly mistaken about the man.” “No, sir. He was trading cuff-buttons for wool, and he had the same pair of scales and the same ugly look.” “But that Jew on the stage was Henry Irving, the celebrated English actor.” “That’s enough; you can’t fool me. I know my man, and I’ve been in the same fix myself as that young Antonio. That young fellow, Antonio, had been out ‘log-rolling,’ and having some fun with the boys, and that sheeny Shylock had lent him some money and then wanted the earth, and he would have killed the young fellow with that carver if I hadn’t been right there.” Critics will please never again say that Mr. Irving’s representations are “not natural.”