A FIGHT WON (?)
MILES and BARTON, lessees of the Bijou Theatre, New York, took me under contract in 1886 and immediately I embarked for Europe in search of material. As I was scheduled to follow Henry E. Dixey, who had made himself famous at the time by his performance of Adonis, I realized that my task would be a heavy one. On my arrival in London I put myself in touch with several authors and succeeded in purchasing the rights of "Little Jack Shepard," "Erminie," "Turned Up" and a musical comedy called "Oliver Cromwell."
Armed with this material I returned to America with William Yardley, intending to open the season at the Bijou with the musical play "Little Jack Shepard" under his direction. We produced this play in the autumn, but did not realize our expectations. In the cast were Loie Fuller, who played the title rôle, Charles Bishop, Lelia Farrell and a prima donna whose name I forget. (She couldn't sing for nuts, but fortunately the first night she suffered from a severe cold which forced her to speak the lyrics.)
During the run of "Little Jack Shepard" I read the various librettos I had purchased abroad and while Miles (dear old Bob!) congratulated me on my perspicacity in procuring such material, Barton objected strenuously to one and all of them and advised me to dispose of them to the best advantage. I immediately sought Frank Sanger and disposed of all my holdings to him at just what they had cost me. I had previously read the book of "Erminie." Gus Kerker played the score for us. Barton, with his usual capacity for doing the wrong thing, violently protested against "Erminie," saying it was a reflex of the old play "Robert Macaire" and vastly inferior!
When business dropped with "Little Jack Shepard," Miles and Barton were in a quandary as to what would follow it and came to me with a request that I put on one of the plays which I had brought over from Europe. I asked them which they preferred and they decided upon "Erminie." "Very well," I said, "I will see what I can do, but unfortunately I have disposed of the rights to Mr. Frank Sanger." We called him up on the telephone and found that he had left the office at the request of the management of the Casino, but would be back in half an hour. I jumped into a cab, went to the office and saw Frank. He informed me that he had just sold the American rights to Aronson, manager of the Casino, who had engaged Francis Wilson to play the leading part. Sanger was much distressed about this as he considered that the part would suit me "down to the ground." Everyone knows the history of "Erminie." It made everybody connected with it rich. Through Barton's dogmatic stupidity we all lost fortunes.
I asked Frank if he had disposed of all the material that I had sold him and discovered that "Turned Up" was still in the market. He very kindly offered it to us for a thousand dollars down (he had previously paid me five hundred cash for it) and only (!) ten per cent of the gross receipts. We were forced to accept the play upon those conditions. We opened with it, in conjunction with a burlesque on "The Bells" written for me by Sydney Rosenfeld. In this I appeared as Mathias, giving an imitation of Henry Irving. We retained most of the cast that we had used in the previous bill with the exception of Robert Hilliard and Charlie Coote whom I engaged to play the two light comedy rôles.
I have never been associated with an entertainment which was received with such manifest appreciation as that double bill. We thought we were in for a run of at least one season and maybe two. So sanguine was Hilliard over the success of that evening that he spent two hundred dollars the following day in decorating his dressing-room. He was sure we had found our theatrical home for six months or a year.
Barton, one of the old-school managers, considered that the performance of "Turned Up," irrespective of its success, was destroying the policy of his little playhouse. The idea of Miles and Barton was to make the Bijou the home of burlesque and comic opera and while "Turned Up" was turning the people away Barton writhed under its success. It was produced without his sanction and success meant nothing to him when compared with his wounded vanity. The receipts went as high as nine thousand on the week and never dropped below six thousand during the entire run which was only eight weeks.
Much to our surprise, Barton one day insisted upon taking off "Turned Up." He figured that whenever the receipts fell below a certain figure (which should have been a sufficient profit for any playhouse), they were losing money and Miles discovered that instead of having the usual two weeks' clause in all of their contracts with the artists they were engaged for a stipulated number of weeks. This included even the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus. The result was that a salary list of about fourteen hundred dollars a week represented a company walking around doing nothing. There was no chorus in "Turned Up." I suggested that he sublet his people and not perform such a suicidal act as closing a gold mine, but I was voted down. We then revived "The Skating Rink" and "The Mascot" to only mediocre business.
About this time a New York critic, A. C. Wheeler, submitted a manuscript entitled "Big Pony," music by Woolson Morse, a very clever composer whose "Cinderella at School" I had previously produced at the Boston Museum. We accepted this play and gave it a magnificent production. On the reading I thought that the first and third acts were exceptionally fine and the title rôle, Big Pony, I fancied too. I suggested that the second act might be improved. The dialogue referred to political issues that were long since dead. Wheeler insisted that the play should be performed as he had written it and would not permit one change. He proved very obdurate and we were finally compelled to either accept it as written or give it up. We finally decided to produce it and much to my dissatisfaction I was compelled to deliver supposedly funny lines which I knew were funereal.
The first act proved a sensational hit, my entrance receiving such a tumult of applause that it was fully a minute and a half before I was permitted to sing my first song. This was a most difficult composition. The lyrics were in the true Indian language, which made it very difficult for any of the cribbers of the time to hypothecate it. (I am sure that the champion purveyor of songs, Seymour Hicks, would have encountered a "water jump" had he tried to. Hicks has often been called "Steal More Tricks" on account of his fascinating and "taking" ways.) We had a very good third act, but the second act was so terrible that the play proved an unmitigated failure.
Wheeler, known as Nym Crinkle, one of the cleverest critics of his time, was a most unscrupulous fellow and he took his medicine as such fellows usually take it. Instead of accepting the inevitable as a true sportsman should, Wheeler attributed the play's failure to me and without my knowledge became my bitter foe. The papers were severe in their reviews of the play, but most gracious to all the players, particularly to me. This rankled in his diminutive heart. Having torn down so many houses, he could not stand having his own citadel stormed. While we often met in the private office and talked over the possibilities of resuscitation he would smilingly, yet stubbornly, refuse to alter a line or allow anyone to suggest changes. The play evidently appealed to his vanity. He never missed a performance, occupying a box with a lady who owned a half interest in the piece, a Miss Estelle Clayton.
We all knew that the play was doomed and knowing that it was shortly to be taken off many of us took liberties with the text and gagged whenever the opportunity presented itself. I remember a gambling scene that I had in the last act in which I threw dice with one of the characters, incidentally losing all my fortune and vast estates. One evening as my last dollar disappeared over the dice cloth I noticed Wheeler (as usual in the box) beaming at some of my sallies. I said to the opposite character, "Now, my friend, I will throw you for this play—manuscript, parts and all."
The players and the audience, knowing that the play was about to be withdrawn, screamed with laughter. Just as I was pondering over some other funny quip my heart came up into my throat as I saw the box party get up and file out, their backs expressing profound indignation. I said to myself, "My finish," and maudled through the rest of the performance. I had made an enemy for life of A. C. Wheeler and well he exercised his avenging powers. For years he assailed me from every angle, his vilifying articles never ceasing until his death. I was to blame, I presume, but I really intended no harm—only fun.
That same evening I unconsciously offended and made an enemy of another person, one of the box party, a Mr. Durant, a downtown broker who, I afterwards ascertained, shared half of Miss Clayton's interest in the play. Up to that time I had never heard of the gentleman and we never met until several weeks after. One day in Kirk's café on Broadway at Twenty-seventh Street I was approached by a half drunken individual who insultingly invited me to drink. I was seated at a table with dear old Anson Pond and politely refused several of his solicitations. He was most persistent, accompanying his requests with profane and obscene references to me and my work on the stage.
The place was packed with men who stopped and listened to the drunken tirade the stranger was heaping upon me. Pond, an athlete, calmly looked on and said nothing. One or two of the bartenders quietly signalled me to hit him on the head with something. I turned to Anson and said, "If this fellow doesn't stop it looks as if I must put one over." He smilingly approved. Then the drunken gentleman leered at me, again inviting me to drink. If that didn't appeal to me he was willing to accompany me to some adjacent room, lock the door and the one who survived would return the winner. Before I answered his belligerent request I swung my puny right which landed, fortunately, upon the point of his impertinent jaw and down he went in a heap.
This seemed to meet with the approval of the spectators and I calmly resumed my seat, thinking that he would take the count. Imagine my horror when I saw this huge man unravel himself, slowly rise and approach me with much ferocity. He was about six feet tall, and weighed in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds. That was the way he appeared to me, at all events. I naturally expected Pond or some of the on-lookers to interfere, but no such luck! As he viciously approached me he swung his right very hard at my head. I ducked it, got to my feet, determined to find out if he knew anything about boxing. I feinted him and discovered that he was ignorant of everything pertaining to the noble art. I also realized that if he ever caught me in his embrace it was "Goodnight to home and mother" for "America's Foremost!" I jumped about and finally with good judgment and better luck, landed a punch on the identical chin, in the same place, and down went the part owner of "Big Pony," again.
Still no interference! The bartenders continued nonchalantly wiping the tumblers. Pond kept on complacently puffing his weed and the spectators obligingly formed an extemporaneous ring. I was standing, gasping, in the center of the room. My right hand was split and rapidly becoming the size of a cantaloupe.
The gentleman on the floor slowly uncoiled himself and came at me again, only to receive a blow on the same spot and go to the floor. This time I nearly went with him! Weighing about one hundred and thirty pounds my work upon the human punching bag was beginning to tell. This kept up for two more rounds and still no one interfered. The reason was afterwards explained to me. I was "winning so easily!"
Winning, indeed! I was slowly dying and had I been possessed of the necessary courage I would have solicited interference, realizing that I must stop or faint! I was slowly but surely passing away. I had enough strength left in my legs to back towards the lunch counter, knowing that there were missiles on the table. As he closed in on me, instead of endeavoring to avoid him, I clutched him in a fond, yet tenacious, embrace. As we went down I reached up on the table, endeavoring to grasp the first article on which my hand came in contact. I clutched something, which proved to be a caster filled with its usual bottles. I hadn't enough strength left to lift the article but I dragged it casually down and let it fall gently upon the gentleman's forehead, which was beneath me. As the catsup, Worcestershire sauce and vinegar slowly trickled into his eyes he gently drew me towards him and whispered, "I've had enough."
He anticipated me by just a second!
I gallantly permitted him to rise, after gracefully tumbling off his stomach. Then in stentorian tones I said, "Get up, you loafer!" and walked majestically away. I pantomimed to Pond (I couldn't talk after that one burst of "Get up") to get me some brandy and water and under the pretext of fatigue I laid my head upon his shoulder—and passed away for about five minutes.
I explained this encounter to Ed. Buckley some weeks later and after receiving his congratulations, I queried, "Kindly tell me, Ned, how—when my antagonist was out the next day without a mark on him and I never left my bed for two weeks—how do you figure me the winner?"
Ned's silence was profound.
JOHN CHAMBERLAIN
For many years I always looked forward to my annual visit to Washington with a great deal of pleasure for two reasons—I was sure of magnificent results so far as my engagements were concerned and a jolly good time besides. I always arranged my tour so as to play one week there, followed by a week's vacation. It was a necessary precaution!
Often I omitted rest altogether, just continuing the round of pleasure without pause. Dinners were followed by suppers, suppers by breakfasts! After a night at John Chamberlain's famous hostelry one felt that one never wanted to go to bed.
At that time Chamberlain's was the best known and the most popular resort of the cleverest men in the United States. For here one was sure of the best food in the country. The wines were of the finest quality. It is little wonder that it was known as the rendezvous of the enlightened.
Generally after the matinée and always after the evening performance I would wend my way to Chamberlain's and bathe in the atmosphere of the clever men who were the habitués. Here were congregated such men as Roscoe Conklin, James G. Blaine, President Arthur, Senators Brice, Beck, Blackburne and Jones, Secretary of the Treasury John G. Carlisle, William Mahone of Virginia, Arthur Pugh Gorman, Grover Cleveland, Speaker Crisp, Tom Reed of Maine, the first Czar of the Senate, John Allen, Lawrence Jerome, the witty father of William Travers Jerome later to become District Attorney of New York, Amos Cummings, Blakely Hall, Joe Howard, Jr.—but why enumerate all the leading characters of the United States? Men who were making American history congregated at this noted tavern and over a bottle of wine or an apple toddy discussed national affairs or the latest leg show. Chamberlain's was indeed the Hall of Fame.
For a period extending over twenty-five years John Chamberlain was as well known on the streets of Washington as any man occupying the executive chair. A portly man, weighing over two hundred pounds, his rotund figure was visible every pleasant afternoon as he strolled along Pennsylvania Avenue, always in company with some distinguished statesman. John was friendly with the mightiest.
John was one of the most affable of men. Never ruffled, he took the world for what it was worth and smiled with equal facility whatever came—whether failure or success (and he had his share of both). Beginning life as a roustabout on the Mississippi River he later blossomed forth as a professional gambler and soon was the most conspicuous member of that fraternity. It was in this way that he became immensely wealthy. But ill-luck overtook him as it chased him down the Road of Chance and Speculation and he landed on the rocks.
When men make fortunes by their wits, playing and preying upon the credulity of mankind, and misfortune overtakes them they are as a rule as helpless as children. Age has dulled their mentality. The charm that appeals to the gullible has vanished. Inventions to trap the credulous are more up to date and aged grafters must give way to the younger and more enlightened.
Poor John realized that his day had come, but taking advantage of the many friends he had made during the days of his prosperity and realizing that a spark of the old brilliancy yet remained he interested a few friends in a scheme to open a high-class restaurant, where the quality of wine and food could not be excelled in America and the prices prohibitive to any but those who could afford such luxuries. Having himself been a bon vivant for years John was of full form, "with good capon lined." No one was better fitted to cater to the tastes and inclinations of American statesmen. The Blaine residence was secured and Chamberlain was launched. It consisted of two houses thrown into one. We all met in one large room on the corner, a room about a hundred and fifty feet long and forty feet wide. In that room I have met the men as I have mentioned.
Many a night I have listened to dear William Mahone later known as "Little Billy," relate his experiences in the war. I have gone upstairs and watched the heavy play at poker (for stakes that would have amazed the many had they known the amount played for). I have watched the stolid Roscoe Conklin, as he came and went, recognizing hardly any one, majestic in demeanor, suggesting a proud turkey contemplating his barnyard companions. Then comes the magnetic James G. Blaine, in direct contrast to his adversary, Conklin, who cost him the Presidency of the United States. Blaine most often was listening to the caustic, rasping tones of Tom Reed who ordered his apple toddy in a voice another man would use to give an enemy the lie! I have hung on the words of brilliant Bob Ingersoll as they rolled from his colossal brain, gone from one table to another—to find each one more attractive than the last!
Richard Carle, Fred G. Stanley, Nat Goodwin, Walter Jones, De Wolf Hopper
It was like sitting at a dress rehearsal of a play where all the actors were stars. I was in a theatre, a truly national playhouse, where plays were written every night. The plots of these dramas were so thrilling as to make their telling cause for envy! I count it one of the greatest privileges of my life to have seen these players as I saw and heard them.
Well, the hostelry is torn down, the landlord has paid his rent and sought a perpetual abode. All those whom I have mentioned are John's guests, wherever he is. He will meet them with a cold bottle and a hot bird and in some far off star I fancy I can see them all reunited, old Mammy, the cook, still quarreling with the head waiter as he communicates to Peter, "The season for canvas-back ducks is over, but Mr. John has just ordered some Philadelphia capon that he can highly recommend."
Chamberlain is now only a memory as far as Washington is concerned, but he has left a monument at Old Point Comfort where the hotel that bears his name now stands. It took him years to consummate the deal whereby the government gave him the concession that enabled his friends to advance the money to build that magnificent hotel. John never lived to see it succeed. Before he died the property went into the hands of a receiver and his friends lost their money. His grief undoubtedly hastened his end.
Which star do John and the brilliant men I have mentioned occupy?
I wonder!
W. S. GILBERT
One of the most gifted men I have ever met was W. S. Gilbert, of Gilbert & Sullivan fame. He was not a very pleasant companion socially as he was more of a cynic than a wit, but at intervals he would make his cynicism subservient and become most agreeable.
At the Crystal Palace one evening I had the pleasure of being seated next to him at a banquet, where, Bernand, Editor of "Punch," was chairman. Bernand, I was told, was very jealous of Gilbert, which became rather apparent as the banquet progressed, both he and Gilbert indulging in several combats of repartee.
Gilbert was telling us a rather amusing incident at which we were all laughing very decidedly, when Bernand shouted down the line of diners, "Are you chaps laughing at those funny sayings of Gilbert, which he sends to 'Punch' and never gets in?" Gilbert quickly replied, "I do not know who sends the funny things to 'Punch,' but I do know that they never get in."
Gilbert was once asked his opinion of Sir Herbert Tree's performance of "Hamlet." "Well," he said "it was very, very funny and not at all vulgar."
HENRY E. DIXEY
Equal if not superior to myself in the versatility of "ups" and "downs" in the theatrical firmament has been the career of Henry E. Dixey. Twenty-five years ago he was the toast of the Town. As Adonis his fame was heralded from coast to coast and even permeated across to England. His appearance on any stage was an event. When he appeared in Boston after a run of nearly two years in New York he stopped the traffic and multitudes swarmed the streets as he passed through the city on his way to the Adams House. He was finally forced to appear upon the balcony to acknowledge this tremendous reception. Ten years after I saw him smothered nearly into oblivion as one of the members of Weber & Field's burlesque company on Broadway, the scene of his former triumphs. My heart bled for him, as I had seen him previously give splendid character performances in the melodrama "Romany Rye." A few years after I saw him come forth again resplendent as David Garrick in Stuart Robson's play of "Oliver Goldsmith," only to disappear again as a legerdemain performer and in vaudeville. Then he scored a tremendous hit in one of Miss Amelia Bingham's plays. So it has gone on for over twenty-five years. Undaunted, the graceful Harry jumps over the rails of failure into the pastures of success. He is truly a wonderful man. We have known each other for many years appearing as long ago as 1876 in Rice's "Evangeline" at the Boston Museum, when Dixey performed the character of the forelegs of the heifer not the hind ones, my dear pal, the late Dick Golden, performing that equally strenuous rôle. I doff my hat to Henry E. Dixey and wish him a long prosperous career on his journey down the other side of the mountain of life. He, like myself, has passed the fifty mark, and he tells me he is just learning how to act and Mr. Oliver Morosco tells the public he has no use for middle aged actors. Think it over Mr. Morosco. Dixey has just scored one of the hits of his life in young Mr. Mackaye's play of "A Thousand Years Ago." I'm glad and I congratulate my good friend, Henry E. Dixey.
SWAGGER NEW YORKERS OF ANOTHER DAY
When I was quite a lad in New York I had the good fortune to mingle with some of the swagger men-about-town. They were the real society men of the time, not the milk sops of the present day. My acquaintances were men like Leonard Jerome, known as Larry among his intimates, William P. Travers, Wright Sanford, Cyrus Field, John Hoey, Neil O'Brien, whose sobriquet was "Oby," and many others. And they were all witty, clever men of the world. My talent for mimicry was the cause of my association with these charming men.
Among the wittiest of the lot was Mr. Travers, who was handicapped by an impediment of speech, a slight stammer, that was almost fascinating. One day, he asked me if I knew where he could purchase a good dog that could kill rats. A lady friend had commissioned him to purchase one. I took him to a dog fancier's in Houston Street and introduced him to the canine connoisseur.
In a few moments Travers was the possessor of as fine a looking terrier as I ever saw. When I told the proprietor who his customer was he was overwhelmed and, taking him to one side, said, "Mr. Travers, I want to give you a practical demonstration of what that dog can do with a rat."
"Ger-ger-a-go to it," replied Travers, "b-b-bring on your rer-rer-rat and I'll rer-rer-referee the ber-ber-battle."
In a few minutes the man returned and threw the largest rat I ever saw into the pit. It had flowing gray whiskers and looked every inch a fighter as it stood on its hind legs ready for battle. The dog looked at it for a moment as if in surprise at the bellicose attitude of the rodent. While the terrier hesitated the rat acted! With one flying leap Sir Rodent fastened his teeth upon the upper lip of the dog. Howling with pain the canine finally shook off the rat and with a yell jumped over the pit and ran yelping down the street.
The owner started after him, but Travers held him back, saying, "Nev-nev-never mind the d-d-dog, wha-wha-what'll you take for the rat?"
One day Travers was inspecting one of the palatial steamers that had been built by James Fisk, Jr., and Jay Gould. As he passed down to the main saloon, he was confronted by two huge medallions, painted in oil, of Fisk and Gould, on each side of the stairway. He looked at them for a moment, then turned to one of his companions, saying:
"Where is the per-per-picture of our Saviour?"
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
It was just after I had learned of the serious illness of that delightful poet and blessed friend, James Whitcomb Riley, the Bobby Burns of America, that I penned the following:
How cruel of Nature to take one of her favorite children if she decides to!
Why make humanity weep and chill our hearts?
Why cause the Indiana flowers to cry for a gardener—for who will sing their praises when dear Jim has gone?
Why clog "The Old Swimmin' Hole" with weeds? When our truant fancy wanders to "That Old Sweetheart of Mine," we won't purchase tickets for "Grigsby's Station" for "The Latch String" will have been severed. No coffee will be served "Like Mother Used to Make" for "Dat Leedle Boy of Mine."
Only the barren, dusty road of decay will mark the meadows of melody that Riley has planted with the seeds of song and when Dame Nature commands his spirit to join the other singers in the celestial choir we who are left saddened can only kneel upon the sod made fragrant by his presence and entreat the messengers to bear him gently over the hills out to "Old Aunt Mary's" where the "Raggerty" man will whisper "Good-bye, Jim; take care of Yourself."
As events transpired it was I who nearly started on the last long journey—and Jim recovered. And one day in 1912 came this message to ease my bed of pain:—
Indianapolis Ind Oct 9 Via Long Beach Calif Oct 10th 12
Nat Goodwin,
Ocean Park Calif.
Heartiest appreciation for your good birthday greetings and all best wishes for your speedy recovery Loyally as ever.
9 28 a. m.
James Whitcomb Riley
DIGBY BELL AND DE WOLF HOPPER
It is a supreme satisfaction to look back over a period of 25 years, and realize one has retained the friendship of even one man. I have been successful with a few, but the most gratifying has been the continued friendship between Digby Bell, De Wolf Hopper and myself. We began our respective careers in the seventies, at about the same time, and have appeared often in the same characterizations, principally in comic and light opera, and always enjoyed the other's performances much better than our own. We have frequently appeared at benefit performances and always enjoyed ourselves immensely, irrespective of the pleasure we were contributing to others.
Bell and Hopper, are directly opposite to one another in make up and manner, although both are gifted with conspicuous personalities, particularly Hopper. They gave a keen sense of humor accompanied with much gray matter, and I consider them two of the most intelligent men on our stage to-day. Both are gifted with the power to amuse off the stage as well as on, being splendid raconteurs. Hopper is particularly happy as an after-dinner talker and before the curtain speech-maker, and his Casey at the Bat, has become an American classic.
Bell and Hopper, make charming companions and one never regrets an hour or two spent in their society.
They say the only true way to know a man is to travel with him, or be associated with him in business. I had the privilege many years ago to spend many happy days in the society of Hopper, enjoying a holiday spent abroad. We intended making a journey over the Continent, but London proved so attractive that we remained there most of our time.
I had the pleasure of introducing Hopper to my English friends and some of the London clubs, and he very soon made a host of friends.
Rather a funny incident happened during our stay in London. A Miss Bessie Bellewood had made a tremendous hit in the music halls at this time, and I was particularly anxious that Hopper should witness one of her performances, as I considered her one of the cleverest vaudeville artists I had ever seen. Hopper was doomed to disappointment, however, as he had tried several times to witness her acting, but on these various occasions, something happened which prevented the clever Bessie from turning up at the hour she was advertised to appear, and when her turn came, instead of her name being pushed into the receptacle which announces the respective performers, they would shove in a sign which read, "Extra Turn," and somebody would take her place.
Back in the eighties
One afternoon I met Hopper and told him that I had made arrangements for us to accept invitations to luncheon, dinner and supper, but I, not feeling well, decided I would only accept the latter, and intended to go to my hotel preparatory to joining him at supper. He condoled with me and we parted, I ostensibly to go home and secure my much needed rest, Hopper determining to accept all three of the invitations. As he was returning from his dinner engagement, he noticed Bessie Bellewood was to appear that afternoon at the London Tivoli Music Hall, Hopper determined to take another chance, his seventh, at seeing the elusive Bessie, purchased a ticket after inquiring the time which she was to appear that evening, and went, full of expectations. When the time came for Bessie's appearance, to Hopper's horror, again was the card thrust into the aperture saying, "Extra Turn." He arose and went into the street filled with rage, and meeting a friend, he said that he did not believe any such artist lived as Bessie Bellewood. The friend assured him there was, and if he would take time to cross over and look into Romonas' Restaurant, he would find the festive Bessie, with his friend Nat Goodwin, at a sumptuous repast, where they have been sojourning since two o'clock that afternoon. Hopper came over, his massive form appearing at our table and said, "I thought you were home in bed," to which I replied, "I was on my way my dear 'Willie,' but meeting my friend Miss Bellewood, we came in for a quiet tête-à-tête, and have been tête-à-têting all the afternoon."
I apologized for interfering with Bessie's professional duties, but told Hopper that if he would accompany us upstairs, Miss Bellewood would volunteer to sing three of her latest songs. We adjourned to one of Romonas' private music rooms where Bessie regaled us with song and anecdote, which caused us both to miss our supper appointment. He agreed with me that Bessie Bellewood was the best music hall artist he had ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
BLAINE AND INGERSOLL
"Eddie" sothern, De Wolf Hopper and I were returning to America after a most delightful trip abroad when we suddenly decided to stop off at Queenstown and take a drive through Ireland in a jaunting car.
The driver of the vehicle proved a most loquacious fellow who bubbled over with Irish humor. It took him but a very short time to set us down as Americans.
Hopper and I actually are!
I took a seat beside him and began to question him about the possibilities of Home Rule. He evaded my questions for a time, but presently in a spirit of confidence told me that he was convinced that the time was ripe for the freeing of Ireland. He even gave me a date when they would be relieved from thraldom. He leaned quietly forward and imparted the information, under promise of profound secrecy, that there were ninety thousand men hiding in the County of Kildare, 110,000 in Tipperary and among the hills, rocks and caves of Killarney, 200,000 on the outskirts of Dublin and an equal number distributed through County Cork, combined with several secret organizations throughout Ireland numbering more than 600,000! The hills were well stocked with dynamite and Winchester rifles, sent from America and closely guarded. He further assured me that when the "head-centre" was satisfied all the forces would be concentrated and Ireland would be free.
"Why don't you do it at once?" I asked.
"Begorra, the police won't let us!" he replied.
On my arrival home I told this story to Robert G. Ingersoll and James G. Blaine at a luncheon given me at the former's residence in Washington. They were very much interested in my narrative. In fact they took it seriously, Blaine being particularly impressed with the amalgamation of the Irish forces and in their serious intentions. As I went on, repeating the number of troops that were supposed to be in hiding I noticed a twinkle in Ingersoll's eyes. Blaine looked somewhat surprised, but credulous.
As coffee was being served, I sprang the climax of my story with the result that the coffee spread its course over the damask table cloth. They must have laughed for five minutes.
I always knew that Ingersoll had a tremendous sense of humor, but I never credited Blaine with any. Whenever we met in after life, he never failed to refer to my jaunting car story.
JIM CORBETT IN ENGLAND
Some years ago James J. Corbett, the ex-champion pugilist of the world, was appearing at Drury Lane Theatre in London much to the dissatisfaction of the resident actors, authors and managers. They considered it in the light of a sacrilege for a prize fighter to desecrate the boards which a Kean and a Macready had trod.
One night at the Green Room Club I was taken to task by that clever dramatist Hamilton for allowing my countryman and fellow player, as he sarcastically put it, to appear upon London's sacred stages. I disclaimed all responsibility.
"I know, my dear boy," he insisted, "but you Americans should not allow one of your countrymen to take such liberties with the drama; you should take the necessary means to prevent such acts of vandalism!" He continued with a tirade of abuse, accusing me of being a party to Corbett's appearance. He finished his remarks with, "Do you and your enlightened countrymen consider Mr. Corbett a good actor?"
By this time I had become very much angered at his many impertinent remarks and I said, "No, but he can whip any man in the world and that's why we worship him—not as an actor, but as a representative of the manly art of self-defense!"
As I warmed to my argument I went on to extol the man's gifts that have made him famous in Fistiana, using terms and expressions utterly unknown to Hamilton who was aghast at the adulation and adjectives I applied to Corbett.
"This man not only combines the prowess of the average heavy-weight," I explained, "but he can counter, side-step and swing! In avoiding punishment he has the agility of a feather-weight! In fact," I concluded, "you can't hit Corbett with a bullet!"
"What a pity!" said Hamilton.
THE COCKNEY CABBY COMEDIAN
I was returning from the Newmarket races in England after a very poor day, having failed to back a winner. Arriving at Waterloo station I found it was raining in torrents. Not fancying hansom cabs in that kind of weather I permitted the crowd to rush along the platform in a frantic endeavor to secure a cab, having made up my mind to content myself with a four wheeler. It is not a particularly attractive vehicle (four wheelers are generally in use all night and retain a stuffy and most uncomfortable aroma therefore), but it is safe!
At the station there is an opening of about fifty feet from one platform to another, unsheltered and roofless. I looked across and discovered a solitary cab with an old man holding the ribbons listlessly. The downpour fell about his narrow shoulders which were meagerly protected by the thinnest of rubber covering. After I had shouted several times for him to come over and get me he slowly turned around and replied:—
"You come over here; my beast is a bit weary."
I dug my head into my coat and waded across the street, drenching myself to the skin in that short interval. I quickly opened the cab door, fell upon the damp cushions and gasped, "Carleton Hotel."
"Righto, Governor," came the response from the all but drowned cabby and the vehicle began its weary journey, fairly crawling down Waterloo Hill. Having a very important dinner party on hand and realizing it was late I became somewhat anxious. Leaning out of the window I shouted:—
"My good man, send your horse along. I am in great haste."
"He's doing his level, governor," he replied. "I can't shove him. He's human as we are and besides he's been out all night."
I sank back onto the cushions biting my nails in sheer desperation as the cab moved even more slowly. Again indulging myself in a shower bath from the open window, I looked out and pleaded.
"For heaven's sake, driver, send that horse along; he's simply crawling."
"He's striving 'ard, governor," came back the reply, "but he's no sprinter at his best. I'll get you to the Carleton, never fear."
By this time I was frantic. I opened the door and stood on the step disregarding the rain and shouted:—
"You fool, I'm not going to a funeral."
"Nor me to no bloomin' fire, neither," replied the cabby cheerfully!
A GILDED FOOL AND OTHER PLAYS
In looking about for an author capable of writing me a play wherein I could endeavor to exploit comedy and pathos I met with much opposition until I finally ran across Henry Guy Carlton. Carlton was living in Boston, financially on his uppers. He had just indulged in the dissipation of writing two tragedies, "Memnon" and "The Lion's Mouth" and when I approached him with this idea of mine he quite agreed with me.
I invited him to be my guest for a few weeks and during that time we evolved the plot of "A Gilded Fool." I produced it that spring at the Providence Opera House with a carefully selected cast, including Clarence Holt, Theodore Babcock, Arthur Hoops, Louis Barrett, John Brown, Robert Wilson, Mabel Amber, Minnie Dupree, Estelle Mortimer and Jeane Claire Walters. Five of this cast have joined the vast majority.
We spent but little time in preparation and after only three weeks' rehearsals produced it at the Providence Opera House. I was not particularly hopeful as to the result. In fact a few days before its production I became somewhat depressed and sent for my dear old mother to run down from Boston to join me. I needed her consoling words, to hear her tell me once more what a great actor I was. She "always knew" I was "a genius." Of course the dear old lady came and after witnessing one rehearsal pronounced it "absolutely perfect."
One of the best casts I ever saw
At the last rehearsal I became very pessimistic. We rehearsed from ten in the morning until four in the afternoon and then we hadn't reached the last act, so I dismissed the rehearsal, mother and I went to dinner, which was followed by a short siesta. I went to sleep predicting all sorts of failure.
Before going to the theatre that night my old dad came down. He had witnessed one rehearsal a few days before and gone home disgusted. We both predicted defeat. I really could see nothing in my part. He shared this opinion with me. (I regret to say he never thought me great in anything. There you have a discerning old gentleman!)
Night came and much to my surprise my first line provoked great laughter. As it had some reference to drink perhaps that was the cause! It always seems to appeal to an audience! Each scene seemed to go better than the preceding one and when we got to the poor, despised and neglected last act it proved to be the most agreeable one of the lot. That night we knew that we had a success.
Charles Frohman who came out from New York to witness the production said, "You have made a great hit to-night, Nat, and I only wish that John Drew, whom I contemplate starring next year, had so good a vehicle."
The following year John began his starring tour with a play equally as strong, by the same author, called "The Butterflies." In this play Maude Adams sprang into fame.
"The Fool" made a great metropolitan success and I still play it in repertoire.
Carlton was a most amusing and unique man, although a bit uncomfortable to associate with. He was cursed with an awful impediment, a stammer. With a keen sense of humor and an unusual amount of funny stories at his command, his ability to lampoon you made an afternoon spent in his society somewhat trying. He was fully cognizant of his infirmity, but seemed to revel in it and in the discomfiture it caused his friends. One day he called me up over the 'phone and after vainly endeavoring to say "Hello" took one long breath (he generally spoke inhaling and coughing his sentences, reminding you of a person endeavoring to speak through a thunderstorm, while on horseback, jumping hurdles) and, after a paroxysm, said, "Nat, have you half an hour to spare?" I replied, "Yes." He coughed his reply back through the instrument, "Well, if you have half an hour to spare, I want five minutes conversation with you!"
I once complimented him upon some medals which he wore. They bore inscriptions for bravery displayed in an Indian war. He said he was never entitled to receive them. "Why not?" I asked.
"Well," he answered, "I was leading some troops down a ravine when we were suddenly surrounded by the Indians, lying in ambush. I was frightened stiff and tried to give the order to retreat. For the life of me I couldn't say it. All I could get out of my throat was 'Charge! charge! charge!' and the more terrified I became the louder became the commands! The result was we turned defeat into a victory and I became a hero!"
When I was firmly convinced that I had put the pathos of "A Gilded Fool" over I at once looked about to secure a play where the comedy was subordinate to the pathos, as I was determined to launch an ultra-serious play—not that the latter is more difficult; on the contrary, I consider that it is harder to make people laugh than to cry (when the humor is applied legitimately)—but the old precept of Cazauran was forever singing in my ears:—"Remember, no one remembers a laugh." I was determined to obliterate if possible the memories of my preceding laughter epoch.
I imparted my views to Augustus Thomas who had just successfully produced "Alabama" and he fell in with my ideas. We at once arranged the terms for an original play.
The following June I met Maurice Barrymore who told me that he had just come from the reading of my new play by Thomas. I had no idea that the play was finished nor what it was about. Thomas had not even sent me a scenario for which I was most grateful (I hate scenarios; they are always so misleading.) I asked Barry what he thought about the play.
"Well, I like it immensely," he said, "but I don't know how it will strike you, my boy. It is out of the common and most original. All the parts are exceptionally well placed."
"What kind of a part is mine?" I asked.
"You play a Missouri Sheriff," he replied.
"Great Scott!" I thought, as visions of a low-browed, black mustached, heavily armed gentleman appeared before me. I could see myself coming on and saving the heroine, frustrating the plans of the villain and arresting everybody at the end of the play.
Barrymore was most reticent concerning the play and non-committal as to what he thought it would yield, or how he thought the character would suit me. He simply said, "Go and hear Gus read it."
That evening, a sultry night in June, I called on the author, who was just preparing to leave for a holiday in the country. The room was in disorder; in fact, there was nothing for me to do but sit on a huge Taylor trunk. I settled back as best I could as Gus quietly unfolded the script.
I listened intently through the first act and was spell-bound. At the end of every act I simply said, "Go on," and at the finish, "When do we produce that play?" I wished it were the next day. "I am ready whenever you are," he answered. We got together in a few days and selected one of the best casts with which it has ever been my good fortune to be associated, including Jeane Claire Walters, Minnie Dupree, Mabel Amber, Burr McIntosh, Frank Carlisle, Neil O'Brien, Louis Payne (now the husband of Mrs. Leslie Carter), Arthur Hoops, Louis Barrett and Robert Wilson.
We produced it at Hooley's Theatre, Chicago, in September, 1893, and I added one more success to my list and pegged another pin in my crib board of pathos as "In Mizzoura" was born.
The simple little sheriff Jim Radburn I adored. He was so true, so lovable, so honest! I never have grown weary of Little Jim. I have seen two or three actors play him, but—whisper—I really like my performance the best!
The rehearsals of "In Mizzoura" were replete with incident. It was the first time that I had placed myself in absolute charge of a stage manager and it proved a most delightful experience for one who had always borne the weight of a production to become an automaton, moved here and there under the guidance of Thomas who proved an excellent stage director. My! How we all put our shoulders to the wheel after Thomas had made clear the many hidden meanings that were not apparent at the reading! The play as read did not appeal to many of the company. Some even condoled with me. But I knew we were right and we went ahead. We called the company together on a Thursday, the opening being set a week from the following Monday. We rehearsed the entire play Friday, called the first act perfect Saturday, two acts perfect Monday and the entire play perfect Tuesday, when everyone came dead-letter-perfect, as it is called. Thomas in the meantime had written in two new scenes. After the opening we never called a rehearsal during the entire season.
We played to capacity business for four weeks, then foolishly went to New York, opening at the Fifth Avenue Theatre, where the play failed to draw. It received splendid praise, particularly in the magazines. Even the daily papers praised the play, but condemned my daring to rob them of their little funny man. I am sure, however, that I pleased the few who were courageous enough to come and have a cry with me. The play met with unqualified success throughout the country, with the exception of New York and San Francisco, the latter city condemning both the play and yours truly. The press was most severe, with the single exception of that gifted critic, Ashton Stevens, who had the courage of his convictions and whose praise of both play and star was as sweeping as the others' roasts were severe.
"In Mizzoura" was the only hit of my disastrous Australian tour.
I consider "In Mizzoura" one of the greatest of American plays.
It has inspired many authors, particularly David Belasco, author of "The Girl of the Golden West."
Wilton Lackaye met Sydney Rosenfeld, the author, on the grounds at the Chicago World's Fair. Lackaye said, "Where are you going to-night, Sydney?" Sydney replied, "I'm going to Thomas' opening, at Hooley's." Lackaye said, "Well, I'll see you there as I'm going to Nat's opening."
How clannish we actors and authors are!
During one of the rehearsals of "Mizzoura," Burr McIntosh and I had a scene that sadly bothered poor Burr. He fancied that he must be a trifle more pathetic than I. His speeches should have been given in a simple, matter-of-fact manner, but as I used a low tone Burr would go me one better until we were both down in the sub-cellar of the drama! We went over the scene many times but, try as he might, McIntosh failed to understand the meaning or motive of the scene. Thomas would go over the scene with me and place Burr in front to watch it to endeavor to make him comprehend the author's meaning. Then Burr would try and try, always forcing me to the basement. Finally, after hours of rehearsing this scene, Thomas said, "Burr, stop. The trouble is you're thinking when I wrote this part I had you in my mind. I did—but I wrote it for your feet, not your head."
After "A Gilded Fool" was launched I at once made a contract with Carlton for another play and in a few weeks he submitted a scenario to me which I accepted. This play was to follow "In Mizzoura." During the interim between "A Gilded Fool" and "In Mizzoura" Carlton wholly evolved the plot of "Ambition." In time he submitted two acts. I was more than pleased as the character of Senator Beck appealed to me. It had a fine story and all the parts were unique and full of character. After receiving the two acts I looked about for adequate people for the rôles and was fortunate enough to secure the services of Annie Russell, Henry Bergman and Clarence Montaine and with the other members of my company, I considered it a perfect cast. Later I was fortunate enough to be surrounded by such players as George Fawcett, Louis Payne, John Saville, Estelle Mortimer and Jeane Claire Walters.
I arranged to open my season early in September at Miner's Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York, and called my company for rehearsals of "David Garrick." I was anxious to appear in that rôle in New York, having previously performed it on the road with some degree of success. My idea was to put on "Garrick" for one week and follow with "Ambition." I still had only two acts of the Carlton play. I had been trying for weeks to get possession of the last act, having some anxiety as to how Carlton intended ending the play, but it was impossible to locate him.
He turned up on the first night of "Garrick," promising me my last act of "Ambition" on the following day, assuring me it was finished. I waited until Wednesday, but he failed to keep his word. I knew he was unreliable, but never thought him ungrateful. Through his negligence we were forced to announce "Garrick" for a second week. This was asking the public to accept a pretty tall order, but there was no alternative. One Friday, too late for rehearsal, I took it home with me and read it most carefully and was very much disappointed. It plainly showed the earmarks of hasty composition. However, there was no choice and I produced it as quickly as possible.
On the first night we were all extremely nervous and up to the ending of the second act I thought we had a failure. That ending, however, gave me a splendid moment and I received several curtain calls. The papers were very kind on the following morning, more so, I considered, than we deserved. I played it two weeks to gradually decreasing business, the last week being simply ghastly!
I honestly believe that I could have drawn more money alone, with a desk and a glass of water. I had no faith in the play and after the first performance began rehearsals of another called "A House of Cards" by Sydney Rosenfeld. Previously I had sent it into the discard after three rehearsals. It proved worthy of its title and tumbled down shortly after at the Garden Theatre.
The manager of a Philadelphia theatre, where I was to open after the engagement at the Fifth Avenue, came over and saw our performance of "Ambition" (to a $90 house) and entered a most violent objection to my appearing at his theatre in that play. I informed him that I had nothing which I could substitute and that it would take me at least two weeks to prepare any of the plays in my repertoire with the exception of "David Garrick." There was no alternative; he must accept "Ambition" or close his theatre. He concluded to take a chance and one of those psychological events which shapes the destinies of players took place.
We opened to nearly twelve hundred dollars—and that was the lightest house of the engagement! We played to capacity business there and everywhere all through that season. It proved to be one of my greatest successes.
I never understood Carlton's failure to furnish the play as he had agreed until a few days after I opened in Philadelphia I read the announcement of the production of a new play of his by a manager who had previously refused to give him a hearing. He forgot (!) I had lifted him from the streets of Boston, clothed him, loaned him money, and taken him to my mother's home. He forgot (!) that when he became suddenly ill it was my mother who nursed him back to health as if he were one of her own children!
The last time that I saw this gifted but ungrateful man was a few years ago at Atlantic City. He was a physical wreck, but mentally a giant still. He had invented some new electric appliance and his mind scintillated as I had never known it to scintillate before. I knew he was doomed and felt grieved. I left his chamber with a heavy heart.
Since writing this poor Carlton has joined the majority.