This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project to make the world's books discoverable online.

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.

Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the publisher to a library and finally to you.

Usage guidelines

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.

We also ask that you:

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for personal, non-commercial purposes.

+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.

+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.

About Google Book Search

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web

at|http : //books . google . com/

Vv^

s.

^4;

/

•^^3;,^ £^,^n»"

.^vy '

:V'-'

rrxvv Tr[E KX/TUO**^

Af

^ AND Ar

B CM WlTJi IX

|ifc<|h tde K fv:itr ActreM» u well n r

thi^ugt of lilt Prtseu LB&uttf aail Atftko:,

OLIV AN

TARMELKK ft 00.,

OlMMATI, O.}

1870.

' ^r

BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS

BEHIND THE SCENES:

A BOOK ABOUT

"THE SHOW BUSINESS"

IN ALL ITS BRANCHES:

WnO^ PTTPPKT BHOWB TO ORJLKD OPKIUl ; FROM MOTJimBAKKJi TO

MSNAaSBlEB; FROM LBARKED FlOa TO LfiOTimERS ; TBiOU

BUBLBSQUE BLONDES TO

ACTORS AND ACTRESSES:

WITH 80MR OBgERTATTONS AlTD KEPLECTTOirS (ORlonTAL ANU HE- FLECTZD) on MoEALITY AJTD lUfMORALITT IN AMUSEMENTS:

Tbui ExMld^g the "SHOW WOfiLB^ m

SEEN FROM WITHIN,

Through the Eyes of the Former Actress, as wejl as from Without^ through the Eyes of the Present Lecturer and Author.

OLIVE LOGAN.

>*ThLi World li ^ ft 7k«tiii« Skmif.'^

nl f.p-

PAR ME LEE & CO.,

PniLADKLPniA, Pa.; CINCINNATI, O,}

MIDDLETOWN, Oo«t.

1870.

h)

(^¥f

650781

lM«rttd, teeordinff to Act <d CoBfr«M, in th« jmx 1860, ¥y PABMILII k CO., I* Um Cl«rk'f OflM of th« Dfftrlct Court ft>r tbo of pMiiiaylTBiU*.

• • • 1

• • • •-•

IV PREFACE.

girlhood to womanhood, through a life which has been fall of strange vicissitudes.

I give my work to the world in the sincere and earnest hope that it will do good. If it strips off some of the " gauze and vanity *' from the " show world," I hope it also exhibits that world in a fairer and juster light to many who have hitherto looked on it with ungenerous and un- enlightened eyes.

OLIVE LOGAN.

AuTHOBS' ITkion, 264 Pearl St., New York, December, 1869.

Pf-/

(ioT fff TH-IS Of^iJe.^;

A LIST OP

I Xj XjTJ SO? K. JLTI O ITS.

1 Olive Logan.

2 Anna Dickinson,

3 RiSTORT.

4 Paeepa Hosa«

6 Kate Bateman,

6 Edwin Booth.

7 Joe Jefferson,

8 John Brougham,

9 J. S, Clabke.

10 Edwin Forrest,

11 Balladist. ,^ 12 Ballet,

13. Utiutt.

14 Trapeze r£BFOB3Loros#

15

le

17 18 19 80 - 21 22

S3 24

cobiedian. * Buffoon. Acrobat. Danseuse.

MlNSTREL-

Clown^

How Animals are Caught* A Grave Yard Scene. Elephant Attacring a Locohotive* Th£ Rehearsal.

7,

LIST OP ILLUSTRATIONS.

^f^f

MENAGBRm ON FiRB -

a soldiee aubiencb.

Ye Fibstb Billiard Toubnajcsnte*

Mother and Daughtee. ^v^ — __

Alfred Penntweight. — -^ f7SL

Manager (Rather Deaf). — /7j^

Wardrobe Keeper,

Artiste DePad.

Striking an Attitude, *" ^ -^

5-25" 3S2

—s^a

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I - n

Introductory. — Why the Book is Written.— The Resulta of an Actreaa** Study and Ke flection. ^ The Mimic World a Land of Mystery. — Fiilae Conceptions of the Stajj© Life. — What tho Theme Em oraces.^ — The "Show Business" in all its Branches, — The Extremes of Ei- traragant Dpniinciation and Servile Flattery. — Tho Golden Mean of Truth and Justice. — The Truth to be told^ at all Hazards.

CHAPTER n, - ^^

ReooIlectionB of Early Life. — CorneliuB A. Logan, Comedian^ Critic and Poet. — Vicissitudes of a Strange Ciireor. — How a Family of Girh Took to the Stage. — ►Reminiscences of Cincinnati. — Floating Down the Ohio. — ^Residence in Philadelphia. — The Comedian as His Cotempora- Hea saw Him. — The Critic and the Poet, ab Rk Works show Kim.— fiU I>efeuflo of the Stage.

CHAPTER m. ' ■

Mt First Visit Behind the Scenes, an Infant in Long Clothes* — My Thirst Appearance Before an Audience, a Child of Five Yeara.^Chif- dron as Actors. — Ristori'a Debut a? a New-Born Babes. — Drilling Children in the Art of Acting, — My Early Distaste for the Life. — Precocious Dramatic Children,— The Butt*mim Sisters. — Amusing Anecdotca of Children on the Stage. — A Healthy Infant,

CHAPTER IV. -

Training for the Stace. — False Notions ahout ** Genius.*' — ^The Road to Suoeesa a Road of Hard Work.— How Fnnny Kf-mble Studied Walk, Gesture and Accent for Years beforo mnking a Public Appearance.— The Severe Training of Rachel the Tragedienne. — A Wonmn-a Criti- citm^of Rachel. — Her Wondirful PowerSj her Serpent-like Movements, berThrillinff Intensity. — Brief Sketch of Her Life, — Kate Bateman*8 Training,— Anecdote of Julia Dean. — Mrs. Mowatt's TraiDing. — Bet- ierton, tie great English Actor. — The Severe Discipline by which ho Overcame tne most Extraordinary DiMdvantages, an Ugly Face) ft '^TOtesqua Figure, a Grumbling Voice and Great Awkwar&eaa,

7

CHAPTER VI. i

CONTENTS.

I CHAPTER V. ^ ^'b

\ The Memory of Actors. — How the Memory Strenglhena by Pmctice. —

i How u Distinguished Actor Commit Led ii Whnlo Pky to Memory, by

r Simply LiateEme: to it Once, n* Flayed on the Stage. — Mftrvcknia Pentfl

I of Memory. — '' Winging '' a Part.— Modes of Memorizing. — Learning

I A Whole Newspaper by Henrt. — Treaclierous Memoriea.^InBtaiicca of

V

Brronoous Ideas of the Gayety and Etiso of Life Behind the Scenes*— An

t Actor's Daily Duties. — Studying Piirt.i, Attending Rehearsnlsj and Per- forming at Night— The Mental Labor.— The Physical Labor. — The Mockery of Stage Glitter. — False Jewels and Flaring Gafilight* — How Actors Go Astray .^T!i(3 Stern Eules whieb Govern" Life Behind the Scenes. — Waiting for the Cue. — A Curious Incideat in the Life of a Celebrated Actress. — Ajsleep on the Stage.

How Behearsals are Conducted.— The Stage by Daylight. — Queens in 1 Calico Dresses. — Kin/^s in Threadbare Trowseni and Coata out at El-

I bow3* — Ball-room Belles in India-Rubber Overshoes, — Fairies in

I Thick Boots» and Demons in Sti>vepipn Hata. — The World Upside

I I>own. — ^How to make a Crowd of Democrats Yell. — Tbo Rehearsal a

I SchooL-^Humoroua Account of a Rehearsal in California*

CHAPTER Vn, 7/

CHAPTER Ym..

stage Dresses.— Hair Dresaew and the Like — The Exigencies of Attire. — Tno Art of DroeMng a Part to Suit tbo Character and the Period, — Ristori^s Attention to such Details. — Mistjiking Dress for the Chief Requirement of an Actor. — Absurd Anachronisms by Ignorant or I Careless Actors, — The Wardrobe Keeper.— Curious Instances of Effect

I in Oofltume. — Exaggerated Idea of Value of Stage Jewehn. — Tlie

I Mountain Robbers. ^ — The Stolen Crown, — My Jewel Bag in a Western

I Town.

CHAPTEIi ES, -

Making up the Face. — ^Ristori^s Skill in ibis Subtle Art. — Painting Ago and Youth on the t?ame Face. — Easier to Paint Old than to Paint Toung. — Tracing the Lines of Suffering, Sorrow and Despair.^ Daubing with Chalk and Rouge,- — A Lover's Disappointment. — How I the Arti!*t Rothermel changed Me from a Younij Woman into an Old

I One in Five Minutes.— Instructions in the Art of Making TJp. r— Col-

I oring for Indians, Negroes^ etc. — Magic Effects produced by Actors

I through Removing Color while Playiag a Part

comrBNTS.

IX

CHAPTER X' ^ ^

\)^J How Siilaries are Paid,— Thci Etiquette of Actors regardinR Salarieg,— Exagrgerated Ideas of the Pay of Actors.— The Truth in the Matter.-— Salaries of Leading Performers, Walking People, Old People, Utility People and Supernumerariea. — Why the Pay of Actors &eoms Larger than it really is.^Thoir Expenses for Droits. — The Cost of Kunning n Theatre.— The Pay of Stars.— Salaries in Old Times*

CHAPTER XL- ^^

The Noble Army of "Supes," — Custom of Laughing at those PeopTe.^ — Rough Trontnipnt by Manager!^. — A Frightened ** Savage." — Utility People^ — Fallen Fortunoa, — Upa and Downs of Actors. — 3Iakin|^ tho MoEt of One's Opportunities. — Attention to Trifles. — How the Celebra- ted Comedtnn Kobson mrido his First Hit. — *♦ VilUkins and Hill Dinah/' — The Story of a Utility Man.— Green Ibid. — The Summoni of Death,

• CHAPTER Xn. /

'Sticks" Behind the Scenes, — Bad Acting. — Murdering Parts.— The Woman who went Insane in a Theatre. — A "Scholarly'* Fool Plays Paru. — A ** Gentlemanly " Style of Dying on the Stage, — The Man who Died into the Orchf^stra — A Lady's Hand throws an Actor into a Perspiration of Bewilderment. — ** What vnll I do with li?'^ — Lack of Noble Incentives to tho Stage Life. — Mountebanks ra. Artiflta.

* CHAPTER Xm. /' 'T

The Property Man and his Curious Duties. — His Singular Surroundings, The Anode of a Lunatic. — An Actress Drinks a Bottle of In... by Mis- take*.— Amusing Inventory of ** Properties." — Quaint Picture of the! Property Man and his Powers.

CHAPTER STV.-- /^^'

The Scenic Artist — His Strange Workshop in the Clouds, — Up in the FHbs. — Magic Transformations. — Streets turn into Open Fields

— Rivers into Dry Land. — The Stiige Manager and his Duties,

Curiouf! L«*tters between two Old Managerg, — Borrowing Assassins.

Lending Shepherds^— A Cupid who had to Find his own Wings. ^Th©

Prompter and his Duties,

CHAPTER XV.

^•'^

7

About Managers.— The Top of the Theatrical Heap. — Kew York Managcrs.-^Speculators^ Merchants and otiierg hs Theatre-Owners.— Actor:? and Dramatists as Managers.— How Expenses »n> Cut Down — What Managers Should Be, and What, alas! They Are,— Swindling -' AgeaU" Turned Managers.— The Sharks of the Profession.

CHAPTER XVI.

My Return to tbe 8iage ia Wommihood. — The Dictato of Keceesity, — An Unwelcome Duty. — Getting AcquHinted wUh Life Behind the Scenes after a Long Absence. — My Debut at "VVallack's. — Following the Advice of FriendE.— Tho Eventful Night.— How it Went oft,— The Morning After. — The Interesting Character of Debuts. — Re^l- niscencea of the American De)>ut9 of Ole Bull^ Jeuny Lind, Alboni, Eftchcl, etc., by an Old Theatrr-Gocr, — The* 8tory of Loopoldine, a French Debutante.— Exdtinfi^ Tim© in the Theatre.— The FiekleneM of a French Audience.— Bravery of the Actress. — Her Scornful Tre«t- K ment of her Fickle Admirers.- The Result.

^Th<

CHArTER XYH-

le Story of Carrie Lee, an American Debutante. — Driven to the Stage for a Livelihood. — S(?cureH an Engagoint^nt, — Hnrror of her Friends,- Ca«t for a Boy's Part. — The Recreaiit Lover. — The Eventful Night,—" Charlie.'*-" Will you put out Mine Eyes? *'— The Denoue- meat.

CHAPTER XVm.

<A

^RSge-Struck Toutlifl,— The Victim of an Unhappy Fever.— A Pitiable Obj ect . — Hi 9 Oe ne r al I m p ec u n i os i t,y . — H i .<i Van i ty an d Presu m p ti o n. False Ideas of the Stage Life. — Sticks and Stage-Drivera. — Worthy Industry, — Democratic Possibilities.— The Stage-Struck Heroes of the Midsummer Night's Dreara. — Modern Slage-8truck Youtba,^Quecr Letters to Managers. — A Girl of " Sixteen Summers, and Some aay €k>od-lookmg." — Two Smart GirU wish to »* Act upon the Stage/' — A Stngo-StruLk Bostonian. — A Pig with Five Legs, — A Stage-Struck Philadelnhian.— He Appears under an Assumed Name at the Chestnut Street Theatre, — Hi^ Lovo of the Coulisses.— ** The Most Delightful PUco in the World," — A Species of Infatuation, — A Disoontentc^d Manager, — An Actrcaa who "Married Well." — Her Yearnings for the Oid Life. — A Letter and an Epithet.

k

CHAPTER XIS.

Tho True Story of Mr. Alfred Pennyweight.— The Elegant Young So- ciety Beau.— Mr, Pennyweii^ht Demoralized. —He is Stage Struck, — He Wants to Play Macbeth. — Besiegins: the Managers.— An Engage- ment Secured. — Cast for the Bleeding Soldier. — Pennyweight Fright- ened.— Procuring the Costume, — The Wardrobe Keeper. — The Pad- maker Visited, — Pennyweight's Legs. —The Fearful First Night,— The Curtain Rings TJp, and the Play Opens. — Pennyweight's Debut. Effect on the Galleries, —The Catastrophe. — Good Advice to the Stag«-Struck, — The Cure for the Fever,- Ridicule, the Remedy,

i

coin?Birrs, CfHAPTER XX. -- /^(

My Tour in the West fts a Star Actreas.— Prom PnHf to Citicinnatli — My Critics.— My First Benefit* — Generals and Poets in the Green- room.— Down tlie Itivor to Louiavillo. — An Operatic Company. — My First ♦* Soldier Audience." — Military Necegsity* — Southfrn Befu- gees. — Queer Gratitude for an Actress's Services. — Trouble in G<*tting • to Nashville. — Cutting Down the Wardrobe. — Soldiers in the Cars. — The Mason«^ — A Guerrillti Attack. — The Ecbel Negro.

CHAPTER XXT -'^1^

Nashville Experience. — A Candid Critic. — A Model Hotel {" Over the Left,") — More Military Necessity. — Two St, Clouds. — Hoe^s head Cheese. — A Sli{>pery Actor.— Miss Grigg.-*.— Visit to a Battlefield.— A Bellicoee Official. — Mrs. Ackley'a Sorrows. — The Blacksmith Shop. — £k)mebody's Darling.^ — From the Pathetic to the Ridiculous. — *'Let me Ki&s him for his Mother 7 " — Farewell to Nashville,

CHAPTER XXIL £ ■/

The «' Felon's Daughter."— Actresses* Cartes de Tisite,— The Flower Basket Nuisance. — Theatrical Critics in the West. — Dumb Waiters. — Ohio Legislators. — Western Hotel?, — Aiidersonville I — A High Private, — From the Shoe Bho|> tt> the Camp. — The Guide Book Nuisance, — ^ Chicago. — Miltonian Tableaux. — Number 99. — On the Cars. — Flirts and Babies en Route. — The Newly Married CoupIe.^ — The Gum-Drop Merchants, — The New York Hurled. — A Walk in a Graveyard. — A Terrible Gymnast. — Indiana Loafers* — Nomenclature.

CHAPTER YTTTT - ^fJX

Street Entertainments for the Million. — A Procession,— Juvenile Suffer- ings on Gala Days, — The Prominent Citizen in the Proces^iion, — The Day of Gloom. — Theatricals under the Cloud of Death. — The Theatrical Grandaddy, — Girl Waiters.- Erring' Women. — The Death of a Mag- dalen.— DoMng the Sock and Buskin— Homeward Bound— Travelers' Miseriefi— Funny Western Actors— The Balladist of the Parlor*

CHAPTER XXIV. - "^^O

About Audiences. — A Sketch of a New York Audience.— Specimens from the Audience. — The Rights of Audiences. — The Ri^ht to Hiss. — Carrying Dissent very Far.^An tFngrateful Pit.— A Furious Canadian^ Audience.— Row in French Theatre. — Restorinir Good Humor.^-An Actor who was Hissed to Death. -^The Ki^ht of Free Applause,— The Claqueur Nuisance* — Putting Down an Honest Hiss. — The Bouquet Nuisance. — Curious Swindlers, — The Encore Nuisance. — Coming Before the Curtain, — Bad Habits of Audiences, — Curious Anec- dotes,— The Audience that Had to be Told to Go. — ^A California Speci- men.— ** Won't you Light that Gas-burner ? *' — An Unbiassed Wit- j Hess.— Jenny Lind and the Hoosior, — Mrs. Partington at the Play.

^if,

1

zii ooNTBirrs.

CHAPTER XKV. - 3 '2

About Menageries and their Tenants. — How tba Animals are Obtained- — Dealers in Wild Beasts. — Prices of Hippop<jtamt, Leopards, Tigers, Hyenas, etc. — Curious Preak;* of Ciiged Animals, — The Trade in Snakes,— Cost of Boa Constrictors and EattlesDakea. — The Trwdd in Rare Birds. — Pheasants, Parrotd and Cot'katoos for iSalc. — llow Monkeys are Caught— Pright at a Wild Beast Show. — " Tlio AnimaU are Loose f " — Fire breaks out in the Winter Quarters of a Menagerie. — Terror of the Animals. — They escape into the Streets* — How they Behaved, — Wild Boasts Frightened by a Storm,— Cbkiroforming a Tiger,— Elephant Stories. — Cracking a Cocoa Nut. — ProLecling a Friend. — Afraid to Cross a Bridge. — Debarking an Elephant at the New York Wharf. — A Leopard attacks an Elephant and gets the worst of it. — An Elephant Attacks a Locomotive and gets the worst of it. — A Lion Loose in a Village in MisAissippj. — He Eats a Horse and Eficupes into the Open Country. — His Ultimate Fate.

CHAPTER XXVI. 535

About Jngsjiers and Gymnasts — Hazlitt and the Italian Juggler. — ^The Mountehanksi of Paris, — Lively ik-enes on tbc Champs Elysees. — Qui^er Juggling Tricks. — Pompous Street Spouters. — The Seven Indian Brothers, — ^Chineso Street Jugglers. — Arab Miraele^, — Conju- rors' Perils. — Japanese Jugglers and Acrobats. — -A Western Acrobat's Feat, — ^A Gymnast's Account of his Sensations in Falling from the Trapeze.

CHAl'TER XXVn. - 5 52^

Accidents to So-called *» Lion Tamers.^' — An Amateur Tamer torn to Pieces. — A Lion attacks it-s Keeper in Wisconsin, — Narrow Eseap* of on English Keeper. — zVlmosta Tragedy at Barnum's, — A Li^m Tamer's Story,— The Killing of Lucas, the Paris Lion Tamer. — What it Costs to get up a Menagerie, — The HeHdloss Rooster, — The Gorilla which had a Tail.— How the Happy Family is kept Bappy. — A I>og tbat wouldn^t be Put on Exhibition.

CHAPTER XXVm.

->J6

About Circuses and Pan torn imcs.^Children as Acrobats. — Barbarous Treatment of a Little Girl by her Traincr.^Cruclty of a Father to his Two Perlorraing Children, — Excitement in a Philadelphia Variety HalL— How Children are Driven to their Tasks in Circuses. — Death In the Ring. — The Clown ^s Dying Wifo.^ — LeapinjE; through a Hoop into Matrimony, — The Cost of a Circus, — Behind the Scenes in tne Circus. ^-How Engagement*? are Made. — Circus Clowns and Stage Clowns.— Fanlomime.— An Evening of English Pantomime.

ooNTEirrs. xUi

CHAPTER yXTY. ' 2 7 7

American and Porcign Theatres Contracted, — Scenic Superiority in thii Country. — Full Drese in London Theatres.— Curiosities of Accent, — The Pit and the Pea Nut.— The Drew of English and American Actre&acs. — Behind the Scenes.— Stage Banquets. — The Vaniahing Groen-rcKJtn, ^ — The New York Staee aa sfnju by English ^jei, — Decorous Audiences. — Peraistent Play-goers. — Tbe fc^tar System. — Poor Kncoumgemont to Dramatists. — The English and French Stage Compared.— " The Crofis of my Mother," — Decline of the British Stage. — The Dramatist's Power. — London Theatres. — The Moat Cele- hrated Playhouses of Europe. ^Theatres in Germany.

CHAPTER XXX. -

Literary AjFpectaof the Drama. — The King of Dramatists. — Shakeapeaw's Purity o! Tone. — Hiis Pictures of the P**riod. — His Contribution to General Literature, — Amusing French Blunders in Translating from Shakespeare. — '* Who wrote Sbikspur 7 " — An Amuping Tpaveaty, — Shakespeare Reconstructed— Where Dramatists get their Plots, — High Art and Common Sense. — Patrick and the BulL— Modern Comedy. — What it Needa» — Woman in Comedy. — Decency and Merriment. — Women Dramatists Wanted. — Tlio Pay of Dramatists. — An Old-time Letter. — American Managers and American PlaTwrights. — How a Philadelphia Manager fooled the Public. — The (Jcnllcman who im- proved on my ** Surf scone. — The Actor who Improved on his Ira- provement. — A Ghoulish Boston Notion. — Seneationa! Flaya. — The **Lady of Lyons" Laughed at. — The Traditional Stage Sailor,

CHAPTER XXXI. ' y i^

Dramatic Critics, How They Grow. — An English Critic on Criticism. - Snarlers and Gentlemen. — Triatam Shandy's Views. — Western Critics.- Macready'a Boy Critic.

CHAPTER XXXII.

/f:?«

The Personal and Priyate Lives of Playera.-^cial Distinctions of the Green Boom, — Smoking and Drinking Behind the Scpnes. — Curiosity of the Puhlicabout Actors' Private Liveji. — The WondorfulJoncs and Brown. — Clannish ness of Actors.— A Lively Green Room Scene. — Admitting Visitors Behind the Scenes, — A S^olitary Lcvce. — Actors' Privato Hftbit^ their Own Concern. — Persecution of Actors in F"irm^^r Days.— The Lesson of Charity. — Excu^^able Curio?ity. — Actors' Age?;. — llabita of French Actors — £ovo Letters of Actresses. — A Funny Specimen. — A Ludicrous French Lover. — Marriage of Actresses into High Life. — General Good Health of Players. — An Actress who went Mad,^ Players who Have Beached Great Age,— •* Old Holland,"— Dejazet.

XIT OOHTBNTS.

CHAPTER XXXm.-^3%

S^MCM«iUl Aclan.~0«om Fredoriok Oooke.—Success not alwmys the Ua*nloft ^^ Mwlt— kT L. Davenport and Miss Lotta.— Jeffenon, lkH4h and FV^iwt.— Booth's Wealth.— Booth as Hamlet ~ Forrest— TtM» SMok^nd-Bitskin View of Nature and Emotion. — Forrest's iVbut -^rA^riKm and Histori. — Foreign and Native Actors. — Jeffer- »vm ami KUaa hi^tfan.— JeffV^rson'sHome. — Wealthy Actors. — Upsand IVwiMk-^MaorMdy.— Tho Groat Riot in 1848.— JaliA Dean And Sizm

CHAPTER XXXIV. -^' 'b

Wr\^Uii« v^f Ihit l44K^ur«» Ftf^UI.— The Comio and the Pathetic in Lectores. \f>kU^ ls(«Mi» aUmi WonWru Audiences. — Doctor Gharletan — ^How I OhaH\HHl l\» *{\m\ l«<HHurt»r.— Mv First Trip. — Amusinelncidents. — NVaU«ha NVhal i\w AmorU^an InH'ture System is.— Its Perpetuity.— NVs^m^M^ l«ivluiH^r«, Anna DIokinson. — Descriptions of Everett and ltlH^HK^^ as l#\«lur«^.— Tho K^uisitea for Success.

rUAPTKUXXXV,

^^1f

K^\\^\^ W|«MI^* Aw^hIs^I^x Th^* Mad Kinij and the Drunken Actor.— WIUh r^^^His a^d %\\^ VfysA\^ IWU^ — t^he Irish Greek in Ion. — An K\'\\^\ ^Kv^lmd IU\hI Uvmi[ Kus^^rK. -A IMsifusting Glass.- The Cush- ^\^\s\ Mt^v»*u H^d iMr IM^i^r^^d IUU\^\y.— Queer Verbal Trips.— tM«\\U\M IU«hu\d a Hi^ii^sl TurlaUw Ih^ AuvUence Looking through a \\\<\\^ Us \\ ^\^\\\\A\^ ami Ih^ A)^|d^-^ Horrified Auditor of l^th Iu^M^mOIv* V ?*au\\v Hlai^* KU\tfv -A B\^ton Notion.— A Blonde's >\ U \^\\ \f>{ss^ \\\ \\\\^W\\t whvMM^mined to Do Himself Justice, H\^ m\\\^\ <\M \\s^ \S\\ Nol IVad \>t-*The Slipped Garter and the lM\i|t|»\'d «M^ \\\^\t Hhak^vAkHHir^^ IM\'kiiKl up a Glove while Playing. V I \u kl^ M l<ad MI\akU\ji I^Mlv^^ft ||«>adx--Ticklinff a Stage Ghost N(m^\uh m S\\^ tk\^<^L A rVW Alarm — Snow on Fir««

tMlAlTKU XXXVL "i

{ Ai^*. Old TlmtNi and N*w.— The Foul Plays

<l\\\.v of Ih^ IV^uiax <- ^^Mrm♦r Better Accom- %^ Mavk^sl Ohai\|^y» whloh ThiMitres have MvMor ?*^H»m*r)r and i\¥Hunies.— Better -,^., ,«ls»m lUarly lutrtnluvtlon of Private UUIvH'»aMs» lM«lii\v'lU^u. A Ourlou* Uosom- \\\^ ^\\\\ \\\\^ MsMh» \^f liivlurtnjir —vAn Old Play- \\\ m\\\ IHvA* 'tiio luvltKH^ut Old Tht>atres. nip 11 y WW AVv^vWl a Osiro of iMs Horrible Evil. ( V\im^ \'^\M\\\^s\ nosd ^l««^llh«» Th^nUo oau bo Elevated

Uyi^

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XXXYIL

XV

Ifi^

Opem Going. — luteresting^miniscenccs. — ^Kellog^, — Suaini. — BriguolL Old Times, — Truffi and BenodetU. — Boaio, — Stefianoni— Operatic Ex- penteft.— Salaries of Singers. — A Curious History,— Pal mo, tiie Ope- ratic Hunagcr. — Freoch Opera in America. — Offenbach, — Engluh Opera. — Mrs. Eicbings- Bernard and Madame Parepa-EoAa. — Behind the Scenes at the Opera. — The Singing Green-room. — An Operatic Behoarfal. — Bachel and La Marsellatse. — Music as a Medicine. — An Orchefltra conaiating of a Single Yiolin.

CHAPTER XXXVUL

-^(^h3

About Ballet Dancers. — What the Ballet is.^A Keminiscerice of Paris. ^The Duncine Greenroom. — The Ballet Girl's Mi^criee and Torture*. —The Story of Mtle. Eulalie.^Beauty and UgUnessat Odd*. — Religion among Dancing Girk. — Their Love of Mourning Eobei. — A BaUet at Bflheftrsal. — The Ballet in its Influence on MoraJi. — The Results of Obxcrvntion. — A Romantic Western Story. — Celebrftled Dancers,— Cubas^ Fanny Ellaler, Vestris, Taglioni, etc.— Serpents and Devila.

CHAPTER XXXTX, 5

The Leg Businese. — The Blonde BiiTlee<|uerg, How thej Grew. — History

of the Nude Woman Question in America.— The Black Crook. — The White F»wn. —Irion. — ^The Deluge. — Padded Legs Wriggling and Jij.%^ v«T the New York Stage.— Obscenity, Vulgarity and In-

dcri Ting Riot. — The Wild Orgies of the Hour. — The Effect

on Um ii.' .*v.iicftl World. — Managers Lose their Sen»ei. — Decent Ac- tresgios thrown Out of Employment — The Temptations of Debauchery. How I came to attack this Shame. — The First Kesulie of My Attack. Abuse, Threats and Contumely ; Praise, Encouragement and Wordi of Cheer.— The Religious World tw*i« the Nude- Woman World. — A Deapairing Poet.— The Final Results.— Flight of the Foul Bixda.— Tlie St*ge Beturning to its Legitimate Uses.

CHAPTER XL.

The Moral Aapaota of life Behind the Scenes and Before the Footlighta.

Can the Theatre bo Purified at all ?— Arguments on Both Sides. — ^The Views of Dr. Channing. — The Error of Whole^e Denunciation.^ — Nothing on Earth Utterly Bad. — The Bad should be r>enounced, and the GtH*d Recogniaed. — Candor the Great Requirement of our Moral Ccn«*orB. — Twaddle Fit for Bahe.». — Men Laugh at It. and Satan Churkles. — S<>mt> Divines who have Spoken with Candor, — Dr. B^*iU»w«t*»» Dt'fentonf the Stage. — Grave Mislakos.— Vice* Not Amuse- roenti,— A Baloful Feud.— Amusement Defon«iblo.— Advice to Play- ers.— Thr* Perils of Theatrical Life. — Preaching and Practice. — A Kobltt Domaad. — Cokclusioit.

INTRODrCTORT.

17

BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS,

AND

BEHIND THE SCENES.

CHAPTER L

IntroducloTj. — Why tho Book is Written.^The Resulta of an Actreaa'a Study and Reflection. — ^Tho Mimic "World a Land of M jstery.~-False Conceptions of the Stage Life. — What tho Tliemo Embrace** — The "Show Business*' in all its Branches. — The Extremes of Extravagant Denunciation and Servile Flattery. — The Golden Hean of Truth and JuBtice.-^Tho Truth to bo Told at all Hazards.

When I retired from the stage, five years ago, I, being then a woman with clearer judgment, of course, than I had had as a child, began to make a somewhat searching examination of the stage life, its influence on morality, the scope it afforded, especially to women, as a means of fining a livelihood, its evils and its virtues, its beauties and its perils ; in short, to look at it in a cool, rational manner, unheated by the fire of prejudice, either pro or con.

I had read, besides the works of all the great dramatists, numberless treatises, sermons, and literary effusions of various kinds which dealt with the subject, to enlighten my mind as fully as possible before I should put pen to paper myself.

The same fanlts which I found in those who denounced the stage, I also found in those who defended it. On both sides unreliable statements were made, the one painting that locality known as *' Behind the Scenes** in all the sombre hues of Hades, with devils and pitchforks freely 6

18

THS GOLDEN MEAF.

intermixed; the other tinging it with rose'Color, tipping it vAth goldj perfuming it with a fragrance to which violets and new-mown hay are nothing in comparison, and berating violently such persons as would not or could not look upon it as an earthly paradise.

I saw that, as usual, between extremes, there was a middle ground, where truth and justice lay; that the theatre — either Before the Footlights, or Behind the Scenes — was not all black, nor all white ; that actors and actresses, who have long felt the social obloquy which frequently greets them, as outrageously undeserved, cruel and libelous, were not so perfect as they deem themselves, although far from being as imperfect as many of their critics deem them.

In this spirit of justice, fair play, and candid judgment, I have written occasional articles for some of the leading magazines in the country, in which I have treated the state of affairs as they really existed, both for good and for evil.

I cannot say that the result was in all respects pleasant to me, though in the knowledge that I had done what was riffht — that I had told the truth, and nothing but the truth, without extenuating or setting down aught in malice,— I had my reward for the vials of wrath which were poured upon my head by both parties.

Religionists assailed me with the cry, "You have told so much that is wrong, wby do you not be brave enough to admit that alt is?" I replied, "Because that would not be true,"

Theatrical people clamored with ten-fold the violence of the religionistB, *'Why expose our frailties, which are no whit worse than those of other people, who get off without any abuse ? Why not give unequivocal praise to the life behind the scenes?'* I reply, "Because that would not be true."

WHAT THE BOOK PROMISES.

19

Taking this stand, it will easily be seen that I brought about my ears a swarm of enemies from the violent ones of both parties. Letters by the score, denouDcing me in unmeasured terms, poured in npon me. Anonymous communications, accusing me of the wildest and vilest motives, appeared in some of the newspapers.

But I did not allow myself to be affected by this nnreasonable tornado. I pursued the course I had marked out for myself, and continued my writing.

In this book I shall continue as I have begun. I shall try to honestly lay bare the mysteries of life behind the scones ; shall tell the truth without fear or favor, over- estimating nothing that is good, and glossing over nothing that is bad,

I shall try to bear in mind the great truth that in order to set public opinion to coursing in healthy channels, you have but to iyiform it Show the people the truth — let them examine details for themselves — give them the opportunity to see the pictnre on all sides, its comic aspects, its pathetic aspects, its amusing as well as grave aspects, — and trust to the spirit of American fair play, backed by American intelligence, to form its own opin- ions, and form them on the side of Right.

I have read numberless newspaper and magazine^ arti- cles bearing on theatrical subjects, listened to many ser- mons which had for their object the denunciation of the stage, heard many learned people discourse on dramatic topics, but to read a line or hear a word which vibrated with the real truth concerning what passes behind the scenes, was the exception, and a rare one.

The reason is very simple ; the authors of these articles,

the speakers of these words, were usually outsiders^ some

of whom had never even been ineido of a theatre, Before

the rootlights, much less Behind the Scenes. Often it

BO happened that fierce denunciators of the theatre

20

THB SHOW BUSINESS.

boasted of thia fact, blind to the irresistible iDfereoce which at once suggested itself to their hearers or readers, that if they had never been to a theatre at all, they were very unfit persons to pass jadgmont on the merits or demerits of an institution which has enlisted the efforts of some of the finest and noblest intellects the world has ever known, — whose partisans both in the past, and in the present, include among their number some of the purest and best men the world knows, or has known, — ^its moat polished scholars, its truest gentlemen, its moat liberal minds, and its moat Christianly Christians,

This, however, is not the place to discuss the question of the merits or demerits of the stage. These will come under consideration, to some extent, in the course of the chapters, as they progress.

A word of explanation regarding the technical term "The Show Business." In a former work I have ex- plained, in brief, the meaning of this curious term, which is in common use among professionals, and embraces in its comprehensiveness all sorts of performances.

In this term is included every possible thing which is of the nature of an entertainment, with these three requirements : 1, A place of gathering* 2. An admis- sion fee. 3. An audience.

This remarkably comprehensive term covers with the same mantle the tragic Forrest, when he plays; the comic Jefferson, when he plays; the eloquent Beecher, when he lectures, and the sweet-voiced Farepa, when she sings. It also covers with the same mantle the wandering juggler, who balances feathers on his nose ; the gymnast, who whirls on a trapeze ; the danseuse, who interprets the poetry of motion ; the clown, who cracks stale jokes in the ring ; the performer on the tight rope, the negro minstrel, the giant and the dwarf, the learned pig and the educated monkey.

PUT ASIDE PREJUBIOB.

n

So the book will find place, in some of its pages, fo^ illustrations of all these phases of the "show business." But, at the same time, the chief concern of the book will be with the theatrical world proper, the stage, the drama, actors and actresses, theatres and those who are employed in them, in various capacities.

Here, at the gates of the subject, I have only one re- quest to make of ray reader, — namely, that he or she will put aside prejudice, either for or against the <*fihow" world, in any of its branches, remembering that between the two extremes of extravagant denunciation and servile flattery there is a golden mean of truth and justice.

This honest middle ground I shall try to occupy as fairly as I can. And of one thing the reader may rest assured, namely, that throughout this book, whether dealing with lofty themes or with little ones, the aim of its author is to furnish the truth in everything. What- ever faults these pages may exhibit, one virtue I am determined they shall possess, — the virtue of truthfulness. For the truth is the one thing in the world of literature which is the rarest. Of critically excellent books, of itertaining books, of books which do credit to the 3tellectual powers of their producers, the world has no lack; but of books which tell the straightforward truth, there have never been enough, I take it, for the w^orld^s good

22

EARLY LIFE.

CHAPTER n.

Eecollections of Early Life, — Cornelius A. Logan, Comedian, Critic, and PoeL — Vicissitudes of a Strango Career,— How a Family of Girk took to tho Stage. —Rem imacencefl of Cincinnati. — Floating down the Ohio, — Renidence in Philadelphia. — Tho Comedian as hia Contcmpo- rarica Saw Him, — The Critic and the Poet as hia Works Show Him, — His Defense of the Stage.

Mj earliest recollections are of the city of Cincinnati, whither I was borne while yet an infant, and where I spent the *'happy days of childhood,"

There are many magniiiceot monuments at the ceme- tery of ** Spring Grove,*' in Cincinnati, but for me it contains but one grave. A simple headstone, %vith name and date of death, and then only tho solitary line :

"Our Father w^ho art in heaven."

This is the grave of^^Corn^ Critic and Poet** ^^Ty father'8 3oraeBtic circle was a large one, and eom- poaed principally of those troublesome members of the human family,— girk. Six girls, two boys, father and mother, — ten persons whose livelihood was to come from tlve dusty precincts of behind the scenes ! It is not, per- haps, in the best taste to put forward biographical details when one is not writing a biography, but my father's history has always seemed to me so fnl! of romance, so very much out of the beaten track of ordinary life, that without further apology I will here jot down some of its salient events.

My father's family were people of rank in Ireland, who had once owned large estates, and held important offices in Church and State ; but misfortune having overtaken

i

MY FATHEB.

28

religious

tbetQi the younger members of the family resolved to leave the greeu hills and the emerald lakes of the iiiifor* tanate Islaad, and see if Fate would not have better thiDgs in store for them in this far-distant laud.

Soon after their arrival^ my father was born. In early years his family decided that he should cuter the priesthood, and placing him in a Catholic College, near Baltimore, they looked forward fondly to the day when he should emerge from this educational and sanctuary with the greatest honors.

But these bright dreams were never to be realized. Whether from a restless disposition^ on my father^s part, or from undue severity on the part of the priests who had his body and mind in charge, he chafed under his bon- dage, and finally ran away from the college, — escaping at night, like a prisoner from jail.

After this his life was like a boat drifting on an open flea. Eighteen years of age, with magnificent health and peculiar personal beauty, an indignant family, otitraged tutors, a classical scholar, and not a cent iti his pocket.

He went to sea.

Shipwreck, mutiny, horror, rat-eating, China !

He came back again.

Poverty, — ^family still angry,^ — nothing to do.

Nothing to do, that is, but fall in love and marry.

Then children, and the universal problem which so troubled the old woman who lived in a shoe.

First, the literary life — notorious for its starving pay, — then tutorship — more stan^ation, — then to writing newspaper criticisms on the actors; then, with a profound conviction that he could act better than the men he was writing about, he went on the stage, — and did act better.

And in this way the theatrical life — the hard battle with the world, with unjust prejudice, with many profes- iora of religion, whose hearts, beyond any oue*8 else in

S4

EARLY LIFB IN CINCINNATI.

the world, Bhould bo open to the woea and the weaknesees of all, — began not only for father and mother, but, in course of time, for six innocent and pure-minded girls.

The boj8 were, like all boys, more fortunate than their BiBtera ; all the tradea and professions are open to boys. One chose to be a doctor, the other a lawyer. But what medical college, or what law office, would graduate ^Vfa, fifteen or twenty years ago ?

And BO, one by one, as necessity urged, myself and every one of my Biaters were made familiar with the hard- ships and the pleasures, the jealousies, the vanities, the wit, the jollity, and the toil of life Behind the Scenes*

But my reeol lections of Cincinnati are not altogether of a theatrical character. In the earliest years of my girlhood my own connection with the stage was very Blight My father was ambitious that his children should be thoroughly prepared for the battle of life, and to the fiiU extent of his ability furnished every educational facility to them. I attended the "Wesleyan Female Seminary in Cincinnati during a portion of my girlhood; and memory says much that is pleasant to me in that con- nection. Still, I have never been one of the sort who look back upon their school- days through a rose-colored pair of spectacles. To me, the fairy tales of youth are told chiefly in connection with the Ohio river, whose boatmen's song was once so popular with the negro min- strels : —

**0h— bol On wo go I FlimtiQ' dowQ du O-bl^or*

I mind me well during the months favorable for navi- gation, how much the fashion it %vas for the gilded youth of Cincinnati, male and female, to takp boat at the spacious wharf of their Queen City, and — not because they wanted to go there, but only because they enjoyed the trip, — be off to Louisville early in the morning — "Oft' to Louisnlle afore de broke ob day."

4

^

i

8TEAMB0ATIKG ON THB OHia.

25

The gilded youth took boat — and such boats as they were. The Ben. Franklin, the Lady Washington^ the Faskton-^uc'Sais jef These were the boata^ my fidende, you haire read about

The jolly Captain, red of face, flash of pocket, heavy with antique watch-fob and glittering diamond pin, with a curious golden tail spreading over the snowy shirt front; he who interested himself personally in the comfort of every traveler — ^especially of every lady traveler — and made himself beloved by every creature in or out of liia service- Oh, where is he ?

Wlmt merry, merry parties have sailed down that muddy old Ohio, landed at the towns on its shores, waved handkerchieta to passing craft, laughed, danced, and sung ! The beautiful Sallie Ward, whose loveliness was renowned from the eourees of the Ohio to the Gulf; Therese Chalfant, the belle of the Queen City for many a long day ; Olivia Qroesbeck, who married Geii. Hooker two years ago, and died a few months since, at Watertown, N, Y, ; all these were frequent passengers by the "Louce- ville packets."

I was only a child when I used to see these fair women come aboard — come aboard with their cavaliers, who w^ere dressed "up to the nines,'* as the saying went; regular *' bucks" you know; for a "swell** was a **buck** some ten or fifteen years ago.

I have questioned memory since I began writing this, how it happened that / came to be a passenger so fre- quently on the **Lou€€ville packets,'' and memory has answered that I went to school with a girl whose father was a river captain, and whom (for he loved her passing well) he allowed to bring her schoolmates for the *'trip and back'* on the riven Wc lived on the boat while we lay in port, I remember, and very good living it was.

I was a child of the most uninteresting age when all

26

AWKWAILDl^SS OF YOUNG GIRLS.

this happened, A tall, scraggy girl, with red elbows^ and salt-cellars at my colkr-boDes, which were always exposed, for fashiou at that time made girls of this age imcover neck and arms. It alao made them put on "paotalettes/* the ugliest garment that ever rendered a girl hideous.

I think twelve or thirteen is a very trying age for a girl. Too old to play with dolls, too young to play w^ith love, she looks with disdain oti her jtiniors* and with burning envy on her seniors ; and when the Sallie Wards aud the Theresa Chalfants, and the Olivia Groesbecks came aboard with their "bucks,** it is not strange that the girl should stare at them wonderingly, admiringly, and then rush off in despair and go make faces at herself in the r glass because she is not pretty, and sees uo prospect of ever becoming so.

What luscious fare was provided on those boats, it is almost unnecessary to say. The thing has passed into a proverb. When, as frer|uently happens, w^e are told that such or such a hotel is kept by an old ex-steamboat captain, we know at once that at that place the inner creature will be sncculently pandered to.

Such steaming hot corn -bread, such tough hoe-cake, such overdone beefsteak, sailing in rich, brown gravy! Ah, those days of gravy! IIow we partook of it again and again, and soaked our liot biscuit in it, and drank strong coffee along wnth it, and never once stopped to think that we had sucli a thing as a digestion.

Alas ! those days are past, and gravy is now a matter for grave consideration.

Bat the eveningsports were best of all. After '^supper" everything would be cleared away, tables and chairs ranged snugly along the sides of the boat, and the long narrow cabin would be ready for the mazy dance. No opera bouffe indecencies, no improper Germans, nor shocking round dances, but the good old time cotillion, 'when all

STEAMBOAT MUSICIANS,

27

we had to do was to stand up and " jine in," no prior in- struction by dancing masters being necessary^ for the ** figures " were called out, and easily followed.

The muaiciana on the boat were generally ** niggers :" they were summoned from their other occupationB by the captain with a " Here, you black nigger, come up and play for the ladies and gentlemen/' and grinning red lips and a cracked fiddle would soon appear.

The fiddler on *' our *' boat was one " Wash " by name, but not by nature ; for cleanliness was not taught to the negroes then any more than the alphabet was.

** W^ash'' not only called the figures and played the fiddle, but he also kept time with his feet, and sang words to the tune he was playing. What made it most amusing was that the words were extemporaneous and apposite to the occasion, and often very shrewd hits at the company assembled. Many a bashful swain or '*buck" has been helped on to his avowa! by AVasli's lyric assist- ance, given in such style as this, for instance :

**MaMaa DictE b« lub Mia g&]l{o vretK

{Keeping time with both feel and callmg tltejigure very loudly.)

FORWABD FOUE ! Bat h4 ftlii*t £ot coanfe fbr to toll*

Bet to toitr partkkks, ani> Dosey Dob ! "

It is true^ life on the Ohio wave was not at all rose- €olourcd. Exjilosions were frequent ; to bu'st a b'ller was next door to an every day occurrence. Professional gamblers, ''sporting men*' (sad sport!) took up a local habitation on the packets, and fleeced verdant passengers traveling southward. Rows^ where the dreadful bowie was flourished and fatally used, were often seen. But such dangerous diversions seemed only to add zest to the dish, and I fancy travel was never interrupted for auy length of time by these " unpleasantnesses/*

TIMB'S OEAITGSS.

Now, all this is changed. Traveling by boat has become quite as hum-drum as tmveliug by raiL The cap- tain is still the leading spirit of tbe boat; but he lets you come aboard and go off with as much noochalance as the proprietor of a hotel does when you occupy one of his rooms over uSght Black men have more serious business now than fiddling ; sporting mea are at a discount; and bowie knives are vulgar.

In Cincinnati itself are to be seen very great changes. Toarth-st,, which was once a sort of Broadway and Fifth- rave, combined^ is now only Broadway in its character: the Fifth-avenue part is dead and dull, deserted byall save the old and quiet families who would be glad to surrender their places to trade, only trade objects, and says property eastward is not worth anything for business purposes ; and the city moves in the other direction.

Longworth's fine property — surrounded by grounds which used to be called the *' Garden of Eden/' and which, in early days, I really thought had some direct connection with Paradise — stands still intact; but to the eye of one who knew it of yore, and loved it (and half believed that Adam and Eve had once lived there), the modern elegances of bronze lamps from Paris are a hateful innovation.

And year by year the population of Cincinnati increases, while that of Spring Grove — especially in cholera seasons — keeps fair pace.

Ay, turn where we will, to the "West or to the East, this spectacle meets our eyes. Death stalking grim and gaunt, hand in hand with teeming birth^ — smiting the aged, the youthful, the Thercse Chalfants, the Olivia Groesbecks, their bucks and beaux, and making the talk of their beauty and brilliancy as much a matter of indiflcrence as the loveliness and wit of Louise do la Valliers and Lady Mary Wortley Montague.

Thus, day by day, we build and build, and hour by hour we rot and rot, and thereby hangs a tale.

i

I I

ACTOR AND POET,

29

The correspondent of a Philadelphia jonrnal recalls tho period of our father's early residence in that city in these words : *' I remember, as if it were but yesterday, my first introdaction to Cornelius A. Logan, Esq., the eminent comedian, now, alas, no more. He resided, at the period alluded to, (embracing the years from 1825 to '80), either in Willow or Noble Street, I forget which, below Second. He had around hira a small family of children — children that have now become men and women,"

This was several years before the date of my birth — which took place in the village of Elmira, N. T., in the summer of 1839, when my father was filling a professional engagement there.

The reputation of Cornelius A* Logan as an actor is confined to comedy; but, like many others who, liave mistaken their forte^ he commenced his theatrical career as a tragedian. There can be no doubt that his powers as a comedian wore extraordinary. Ilia contemporaries seem to have had but one opinion of his ability to stir the merriment of an audience irresistibly. The critic of the New Orleans Delta declared that '^his dry quaint manner would almost elicit laughter from a dead eleplmut/* The Nashville American of Oct. 15, 1851, said : " Ho stands at the head of his profession — a position be has maintained for many years — and the ablest and most practiced critics in all the Atlantic cities have universally accorded to him the position of almost the highest and most original genius on the American stage/* His chief popularity was in the West and South.

Of his poetical works, my father neglected to make any collection. He was singularly careless of literary renown. One of his noblest poems, undoubtedly, was *' The Missis- sippi," written at the mouth of the Ohio river. This poem was copied 'mio ihQEdinhurgJtnnewv^Mh a handsome tribute to the author, and was favorably reviewed in several other European publications of high critical character.

80

BABLY HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

Of his critical essays, one of the mobt erudite and able was his reply to a distinguished divine who had preached I Against the stage. This production is so well suited to the pages of the present work that I have a double satia- faction in extracting largely from it — pride in the literary work of a loved aod honored father, and the pleasure which it ever gives me to furnish earnest defence of an honorable stage against its enemies both from within and from without,

"In the remoter ages of the world,'' wrote my father, ** the Drama was the onl]/ medium of human worship* Bacchus, and Mammon, and the whole host of heathen deities were imaginations of a much later date. The shepherds and husbandmen of the Nile — the earliest wor- shipers that tradition reaches — invented a sort of sacred Drama, of which the priests were the actors. The 'God of the Overflow ' was adored in a secondary character — that is, as represented by a sage, whose duty it was to watch the march of the heavenly bodies, and to predict the period of the inundation of the valley, A malignant spirit was also introduced upon the scene, who was crowned with a dead serpent of the Nile, and whose dress was com- posed of the leaves of the withered lotus. This mystery, like the melodrama of the present day, was interspersed with music, and the most magnificient temples were erected for its representation. These were the first churches. Thus it appears that Religion and the Drama were at first identical, but time has divided them. God has assigned to the one the high and holy mission of promulgating throughout the world his ineflable glory, and to the other he has delegated the power to sway the human heart by striking its subtle and intangible chords — to soften, to refijie, and to elevate. Tis true tha* Thespis on his ciir at Athens chanted odes to Bacchus; but Bacchus was not held by the Athenians as the God of Drunkenness, as

THE FATHER OP THE BEAMA.

81

many imagine. He was the God of the Vine^ doubtless, but he was honored for qualities distinct from ideas of sensual indulgence. Solemn temples were erected to his worship by a temperate people, and it is thus that with the name of this god the performances of the earliest pro- fessional actor are associated. As civilization advanced -^achylus rose — the father of the Drama. He was, like Shakspeare, an actor as well as a poet, and ' no Athenian of his day was so honored as ^schylus, for he created the Drama/ They bound his brows with laurel^ and when he walked forth at noon they sprung arches of oak over hifl head. Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristophanes fol- lowed ^schylus, and some of their w^orks live yet, unap- proached by human effort — an imperishable and somewhat iiDmiliating proof that whatever strides science may have taken in the world, the sublime genius of letters — mature flt its birth — has denied the honor to succeeding genera- tions of adding anything to its brilliancy. This divine tells us that 'the Drama has commenced its retreat, and will soon pass away/ Nothing can be more evidently opposite to the truth than both the assertion and the pre- diction. At no period of the world were theatres and act- ors so numerous as now. In most of the civilized nations of Europe the Drama is under the special protection of the crown, and in those countries where letters are most cultivated, and where refinement has attained its highest polish, the theatre is supported by the government. In this country, *ti8 true, the recent commercial distress, per- vading as it did all classes of the community, reached the- atrical amusements, and prostrated several establishments whose capital was too slender to bear the shock. * * ♦ ♦ * The claims of the theatre to holiness will not be insisted on.* No ; the theatre lavs as few claims to holiness as the Church does to comedy — each has its appropriate sphere. The Church is built upon the Rock of Ages, anc*

32

PLAIN ANSWERS,

the Drama is built upon the human heart; the divine truth of the one, and the sublime morality of the other, will Hod a living response in that heart aa long as it beats with a single attribute of the Deity. The doctor com- plains that ministers of religion are brought upon the stage to be ridiculed as ' dolts, pedants, or dullards/ The reply is that there exist ministers who are stupid, pedantic, and dull ; and should these be exempt from censure or ridicule more than the rest of mankind? Should 'such divinity hedge* all who wear the black robe, that they should not be held amenable to the laws by which other men are governed ? If there are reverend gentlemen who disgrace their holy calling by seduction^ adultery, forgery, simony, or hypocrisy, should our awe of the cloth they pollute screen them from the punishment with which the law should visit their crimes, or the satire with wliich the stage should lash their vices ?*•**♦ *What schooUhouses, academies, or colleges has it (the theatre) built T If the theatre added to its other import- ant powers the building or endowing of educational institutions, it would surpass as an instrument of good all human inventions. But, unhappily, its ability is not equal to such attempts. Its means of doing good are crippled by the pulpit. ******

streams of knowledge has it diftosed? What cultivated or explained?" Plays, for the most part, are founded on remarkable events in history, ancient and modern. Of the thirty-seven written by Shakspeare, twenty-four may for our present purpose be called poetical versions of well-authenticated historical passages. From no single historian can a tenth part of the truth of any event dramatized by Shakspeare be gathered. The im- mortal poet frequently drew his knowledge from sources which have not come down to our day. We can nowhere obtain so clear an insight into the characters, motives.

*What science

HISTORY EJfDOWKD WITH LIFE,

33

passions, and politics of the men who foaght the wars of the Ruses as in the plajs of this author. ^Tio ever mw^ except their own contemporaries, the heroes of antiquity, until Shakspeare introduced them to ns face to face — the living, breathing, speaking inhabitants of Greece and Borne, — their warriors, sages, orators, patriarchs, and plebians? To the man who reads history only, Marina, Sylla, Nero, and Caligula have none of the features of humanity about them. The chief acts of their lives being exhibited unrelieved by a statement of the means by which their deeds were accomplished, they appear like the grotesque figures in a phantasmagoria — ^fearful from their indistinctness, horrible from their mysterious bur- leeqne on human nature, and alike hideous whether we laagh or shudder at the monBtroue chimera. Turn to the page of Shakspeare, or behold his swelling scene at tlie theatre, and these men — seen, arriving at natural ends by natural means, — teach the eternal truth that the heart of man is the same in all ages, and that vice has produced misery and virtue happiness, from the beginning of the world. The doctor quotes Plato as averse to the theatre. Kvery man who has not forgotten his ecbool-boy classics ctti) quote passages in Plato which would make the doctor fm\ that he calculated too much on the ignorance of his hearers. And Aristotle, too, the divine drags into the argument. Why, every tyro knows that the only laws acknowledged, even to this day, for constructing comedies are those of this philosopher, who declares that 'tragedy IS intended to purge our passions by means of terror and pity/ And * Tacitus says the German manners were guarded by having no play-houses among them./ If that be true, the Germans have thought better on the subject dncathe time of Tacitus ; for one of the modern writers of that nation (Zingerman) says, *We are greatly a dramatic people. Nothing but good can result irooi tlie 3

I

I

VULNERABLE POINTS.

widest indulgence of this taste among us, unless it happen that the sedentary and imaginative student should, through his diseased appetite, draw poison from the stage, as the set^ent distils venom from the notritious things of nature/ The doctor next invokes Ovid to his aid. Surely nothing but a design to frighten us with an array of claasical names could induce the preacher to bolster his argument with the opinion of the most licentious poet of ancient or modern times, Ovid calling the theatre dissolute! and advising its suppression ! Why, 'tis like Satan denounc- ing heaven from the burning lake, or like a pickpocket advising the suppression of the penal code. Next we have a list of the formidable opinions of the early fathers ofthe Church, whowere unanimous in the condemnation of the theatre. Doubtless. So they were in the condemna- tion and burning of martyrs and witches. However pious were many of thera^ according to their unchristian and ferocious notions of piety, their sentiments on the subject of the Drama are not worth a moment's discussion. The doctor here arrives at a point where the stage seems indeed vulnerable. He alludes to the bars for the sale of liquors, and to the third row. * * * Bars are no more necessary to the theatre than to the pulpit. I am old enough to remember the time when men would assemble at the tavern nearest the church as goon as the service was over, and there discuss the merits of the sermon and of brandy and water at the same time. The Temperance movement, however, wrought wonders, and I believe the same men do not drink now, — at least not until they reach home. The other charge is a graver one — ^the third tier. This evil is no more essential to the Drama than the bars; norisit*an inseparable concomitiint of the theatre.* The separation has taken place in many towns of this country." And at the present time, I may add, the separation is complete throughout the whole

BARK DAYS,

land. In a future chapter I shall refer more at length to this subject, aud show how the theatre can be purged of vice and indecency, by proper effort. My father con- cludes: "Those periods in history in which the Drama declined are marked by bigotry, violence, and civil wan All the theatres in London were closed by order of Oliver Cromwell, and ten days afterward the head of Charles the First rolled from the block! Terror and gloom hong over the kingdom. The Drama waa interdicted — the arts perished — ^the woof rotted in the loom — the plow rusted in the furrow, and men's hearts were strung to the ferocity of fanaticism. Fathers and sons shed each other's blood ; and in the intervals of lust and murder, wild riot howled through the wasted land. Even if permitted by the laws, the theatre could not exist amid such horrors. But the actors were outlawed, and the bigoted Roundheads lixed that stigma upon the profession of a player which illiterate and narrow-minded people attach to it even to this day. The Pulpit too often depicts Virtue in austere and forbid- ding colors, and strips her of every attractive grace. The path of duty is made a rugged and toilsome way — ^narrow aud steep ; and the fainting pilgrim is sternly forbidden to turn aside his bleeding feet to tread, even for a moment, the soft and pleasant greensward of Sin, which smiles alluring on every side. The Stage paints Virtue in her holiday garments ; and though storms sometimes gather round her radiant head, the countenance of the heavenly maid, resigned, serene, and meek, beams forth, after a season of patient suffering, with inefiable reful- gence. Vice constantly wears his hideous features, and in the sure, inevitable, punishment of the guilty we behold the type of that Eternal Justice, before whose fiat the purest of us shall tremble when the curtain IbLIs on the Great Drama of Life."

UT FIRST VISIT BESIND THE SCENES.

CHAPTER HL

My Pirei Tisit Belimd tho Scenes, an Infant in Loog Clothes.^ — My First Appearance Before nn Aiidipncc, a Child of Five Yrar*, — CliUdren as Actors. — Ristori's Debut as a New-born Babe. — Drilling Children in the Art of Acting. — Early Distaste for the Life.— Pre^ cocioua Dramatic Children. — The BatemHn Sisters, — Amusing Anec- dotes of Children on the Stage,— *A Hoalthy Infant.

I cannot reinember the time when I was not familiar with that curious place known both to theatricals and the fl outer world as Behind the Scenes* I know I was not born there ; but I think I must have been carried there when I was a baby in long clothes, I cannot remember fl when the musty stage trappings^ the pasteboard goblets, the wooden thrones, the canvas tombs, were unfamiliar __ sights to me. ■

I think I could not have been more than four or five years old when I made my first appearance on the boards — ^verymuch against my will, — and from that period until within five years ago, when I bade farewell to the mimic stage, I hope forever, I have played, off and on, sometimes with an intermission of years, sometimes every night in the year, from babyhood up. M

My childhood debut was made in the character of Cora's child in Pizarro, and subsequently as the child of Damon in the play of Damon and Pythias. ■

My father, if I remember rightly, was stage manager of the theatre in Cincinnati at the time.

Madame Ristori began her dramatic career earlier than ibis. Wben she was less than three months old, she was carried on the stage in a basket, to personate a new-born ^ infant. |

Cora*8 child and Damon's child have nothing to say;

CHILDHOOD S PAINS,

37

bat I can recall tins day the shndder of terror with which I received the news that I would be obliged to go on the stage at night, as Cora's child. For fancy a girl baby being fought over with broad aworda by a party of actors! One of them (Rolla) seizes the child, flings it upoa hia shoulder, and rushes across a shaking bridge, which, after he has crossed, he knocks down with his sword, holding the unhappy child high in the air with his left hand, while he is engaged in these playful diversions with his right.

I was always sadly frightened when I was called upon to play these little parts; and although the actress who played Cora generally gave me sugar plums for being ♦*good," I could not reconcile myself to it. My mother tried her best to relieve me from the irksome task. Sometimes they succeeded in finding another child, whose parents would hire her out for the night ; but it often happeued that at the last moment these people would fail to appear, and I was sent for, routed out of my first sleep to go on again to personate Cora's child.

By and by I got into "speaking parts,** such as the Duke of York in Richard the Third; the child in the Rent Day, a touching domestic drama^ now little played, and others.

Of course, a child has to be instructed in these speaking parts. It could scarcely be expected that the immature intellect of childhood could grasp the subtle wit of Shaks- peare.

For instance, the young Duke of York says to Gloster (afterwards Richard the Third), after his brother has said:

" My Lord of York wiU stiU be cross in talk :--

Uncle, your grace knows how to bear with nim»** Duke of York — ** You meftn to bear uip^ not to bear with m©.

Uncle, my brother mock^ both you and me;

Because that I am little, like an upe,

Hti ihiakfi that you should bear me on your shoulders,'*

88

PRECOCITY.

i

The last lino alludes to the hump on Gloster'a back, which the boy seema to thiuk would be convenient for carry lag bnrdeus.

Kow, it is of course evident that no actor comes to the morning rehearsal with a padded hnrap on his shoulders. Therefore, to the narrow intellect of a child it seems a stupid thing to say "This gentleman will have a hump oa his shoulder at night ; and you are to lift up your shoul- ders as if to imitate his deformity, and lay great streaa on the line

" * You should bear me oa your shoulders,' "

All of which I remember thinking very stupid and tire- some.

I never see a child on the stage without experiencing a throb of sympathetic pity j for it does not seem to me at if any child could really like it.

Among precocious dramatic children may be named the^Bateman sisters, Ellen and^Kaje.-^ two sweet little playmafeT'of mine. These little girls — with father and mother both celebrated in the theatrical world — were thrust upon the stage as early as the children of most theatrical people are. Their father (who was an excellent manager and tutor) conceived the idea of instructing them in the moat difficult tragic and comic parts, hitherto only attempted by grown people ; sueli parts m Richard the Third and Richmond, lago, King Lear, and many others.

Their success was very surprising. They appeared in all the principal cities of the country, attracting crowded houses; then went to England, played before the Queen, who expressed herself delighted with them, and tinally returned to their home in St. Louis with a snug sum of money acquired by their cleverness.

I

KATE BATEMAN.

GOINa TO BED IN THE DAY-TIME.

S9

During the entire time they remained the same pretty-, j sweet, unufttjcted, truth-loving children they had alwajsl been ; never putted up by their success, nor vain of the! adulation they received.

Although the theatrical life naturally absorbed much of the time of these children, it was curious to see how nicely the moments were parceled off by their careful mother, that as little detriment as poasible to the health and education of the children should result

For instance, every morning they pursued their educa- tional studies, their mother acting as instructress. At noon they dined, and soon after they went to bed. It was funny to see them put ou their night-dresses while the sun was still shining, and go to bed, dropping off to sleep almost immediately. At night they were fresh and wide awake for their perforKaances,

One of these little girls — Ellen — married a wealthy

gentleman, and never returned to the stage ; the other —

• Kate— now celebrated as Mi^si Bateman — returned to the

stage on reacliing^omanhond, and renewed the successes

of her youth.

Many amusing incidents are related about child actors. One of the latest relates to a performance Qf^^Doi^a,^** — a pretty play founded on Tennyson's poem of that name. When the lady who plays the part of Mary Blorrison made her exit to bring on her little Willie of four years, she was shocked to find a lubberly boy of at least fourteen, and as he was the only WiUie at hand, on he must go, though he was w^ell nigh as big as his mother. The Farmer Allen of the play, being equal to the emergency, instead of inquiring, "How old are you, my little man?" endeavored to remedy the matter by saying, *'IIowold are you, my strapping boy?*' But he failed, for the boy, who was instructed to say '^four to six^*' m' ^ m -nch a coarse, sepulchral tone as to drive tf tured

40

MRS. HALLER S CfilLBHSH*

gnindfuther to exclaim, *^Foriy-siz! You look it, my boy, you look it !*'

- Mr*^ ^Mowatt relates an incident which occurred to her at SavannaEpSa,, where she was playing. The play announced for the evening was **The Btranger." **I was informed at rehearsal that the two children who usually appeared as Mrs. Haller s forsaken little ones, were ill No other children could be obtained. Yet children were indispensable adjuncts in the last scene. The play could not be changed at such hasty notice. What could be done ? I was walking up and down behind the scenes, very much annoyed, and wondering how the difficulty could be overcome, when the person who temporarily officiated aa my dressing maid accosted me. She was an exceedingly pretty mulatto girl. She saw that I was dis- tressed about the absent children, and, with a great dea! of hesitation, offered to supply the deficiency* I bright- ^ened at the prospect of deliverance from our dilemma, rtelling her that I would be much obliged, inquired to whom the children belonged. 'They are mine, ma'am,* she answered, timidly. 'I have a couple of pretty little ones, very much at your service,* * Yours?' I answered, aghast at the information. * Yours ? why, Mrs. Hallcr's children are supposed to be white. I am afraid yours won*t very readily pass for mine;* help laughing at the supposition.

itook my distressed merriment good naturedly, and replied, *0h, my children arc not so very black, seeing as how their father is altogether white !* *Do you really think they would pass for white children ?* 'Why the little girl has blue eyes, and they have both got hnir nearly as light as yours ; then you might powder them up a bit if you thought best/ I sent her for the children. They were really lovely little creatures, with clear cream-colored complexions, and hair that fell in showers of wa\7' ring-

am

and I could hardly The young woman

A STAQB PANIC.

41

lets. I decided at once that they would do, and told her

to bring them at night in their prettiest dresses, to which I would make any needful additions. The children do not make their appearance on the stage until the last act After retouching their toilets, instructing them in what they had to do, and feeding them with sugar-phims, I told their mother to make them a bed with shawls in the corner of my dressing-room. She did so, and tliey slept quietly through four acts of the play. We gently awak- ened them for the fifth act. But their sleep was too thoroughly the sweet, deep slumber of happy childhood to be easily dispelled. With great difficulty I made them comprehend where they were, and what they must do. Even a fresh supply of sugar-plums failed to entirely arouse them. The sleepy heads would drop upon their pretty round shoulders, and they devoured the bon-bo7is with closed eyes. The curtain had risen, and the children must appear upon the stage. I led them to the wing, and gave them in charge of Francis. Francis walked on the stage, leading a child by each hand. The trio hardly made their appearance when the little girl, thoroughly wakened by the dazzling light, gave one frightened look at the audience, broke away from Francis, and, shrieking loudly, rushed up and down the stage, trying to find some avenue through which to escape. The audience shouted with laughter, and the galleries applauded the sport. The poor little girl grew more and more bewildered. Francis pursued her, dragging her brother after him. The unexpected exercise, added to his sister's continued cries, alarmed the boy. He screamed in concert, and, after some desperate struggles, obtained his liberty. Francis had now both children to chase about the stage. The boy he soon captured, and caught up under his arm, continuing his fliglijt after the girl. She ' lally

secured. The children, according to stage

1

42

A FUNirr SCElfK.

to be taken through a little cottage door, oa f ne left of the stage, Francis, pautiug with hh exertiooa, dragged them to the door, which he pushed opeu with his foot The straggling children looked in terror at the cottage. They fancied it was the guard-house, in which colored persona are liable to be confined if they are found in the streets after a certain hour without a ^paas.' Clinging to Francis, they cried out together^ 'Oh, don't ee put me in ee guard-house! Don't ee put me in ee guard-house!' The accent peculiar to their race, and their allusion to the * guard-house/ at ouce betrayed to the audience their parentage. The whole house broke forth into au uproar of merriment Francis disappeared ^ but the audience could not be quieted. I was Buttering not a little at the contemplated impossibility of producing the children at the end of the play. But nobody cared to listen to another line. 31rs> Ilalkfs colored children had uncere- moniously destroyed every vestige of illusion, I made my supplication to ^kias the features of the father in his babes/ in the most suppressed tone possible, jet the request produced a fresh burst of laughter. We hurried the play to a close. The entrance of the children, and the exeitemcut produced upon the parents by their pres- ence, wo left to the imagination of the spectators. The play ended without the re-appearance of the juvenile unfortunates.**

My ftiRter ^liza Logan ^ during her brilliant theatrical career, was very popular in Savannah. Once, after enacting the character of Mrs, Hallcr^ the little creature who had just figured as her child ran into her dressing room to return a pocket handkerchief which my sister had dropped as she fell at the feet of the unrelenting husband. Observing the child carefully, she detected her coior, and inquired wdio her mother hvas. The reply was that her mother was a colored woman.

THB SAMB CHILD.

43

** Singular, but I remember beariDg that Mrs. Mowatt, when she played this part bere^ bad a colored child for the part of William/'

" Dat'e so, missis ; I is de bery chile."

**You? why it*8 ten years ago."

" Yes midsis, but I is a Quadroon Dwaif, an' I beea playio' de Strouger's chile for all de StroDgeKs wot been com in' to Sawannah for de last twelve years.**

So It 18 clear that, whatever the vicissitudes of her de- but^ the frightened little heroine of ** ee guard-house " was not driven Irom the stage thereby.

44

TH£ NECESSrtT OF BTTTDT.

I

I

* CHAPTER IV.

TrMnlng for the Stage.^ — Pals© Notions about *' Genius." — The Road to Succeu a Koad of Hard Work, — How Fannj Kemble Studied Walk^ Oesturei and Accent for Years before Making a Public Appearance.^ — The Severe Training of Kachi?!, ih& Tragedienne, — A Woman/a Criti- ciam of RacbeL — Her Wonderful Powers, her Berpcnt-like Move* foentfl, her Thrilling Intensity. — Brief Sketch of Her Life.^Kate Bateman's Training, — AQecdoto of Julia Dean. — Mrs. Mowatt's TrainiiiEj,_Bettertonj the Great English Actor. — The Severe Disci- plino by which He Overcame the Most Extraordinary Disadvantages, an Ugly Face, a Grotesque Figure, a GrumbliDg Yoico, and Great Awkwardness.

I know tbat many people claim that actors, like poets, are **boni, not made;" but so far ae my own experience goea, I most say that I never knew an actor or actress to reach distinction without having passed through many long and weary years of study and toil. Of course the natural genius must be there, or all the study and toil would go for nothing; hut as well might you expect a painter or a sculptor to bring forth perfect works of art witliout learning the rudiments, as to expect any man or woman to give, without study, a perfect delineation of a part. On the other hand, all the study in the world will not make a genius, — dramatic or other.

That is a very prevalent error in regard to '^genius,*' which believes it capable ot rising superior to the raechan- ical appliances of art. No more dangerous a fallacy can the mind, gifted by nature, but uncultured by art, labor under, than that of easy reliance on the intangible thing called genius; and there can be no doubt that laany great intelligences, in every department of learning, art, and science, have deleated their own noble missions from their very self-sufficiency as regards their native power, and their culpable neglect of the practical methods by which

COMMON EREOHS,

45

alone that power can be fostered and developed. This is espeeiallj true of the dramatic art, and yet the fact is far from being recognized by the world at large, or even the exponents of Shakspeare themselves.

It is willingly conceded that genius, and that, too, of a Tcry high order, is indispensable to a great actor, but like the gift of the poet, it is expected to be all-suffictent, — indeed, there are many people who would be amazed to learn that there is any regular apprenticeship to be served to the trade of acting. It seems to be tacitly agreed that great actors spring, Minerva-like, into the full possession of their histrionic powers at a single bound.

Vfe often hear the remark, "Ob, what a splendid actress ^fiss 0. would make !** or, **If John would go on the stage he'd make his fortune !"

NoWj in nine cases out of ten, the individuals in ques- tion, if put to the test, would fail signally. I remember a ease in point:

A young married lady, who had two yeara before, when she was a girl of seventeen, vainly urged her family to allow her to go on the stage, took a sudden resolve to relieve her pecuniary embarrassments by be- coming an actress.

She called on an actress for instruction ; hut so well aasared was she that she possessed inherent tragic power that it was out of the question to teach her much* She was a genius, — everybody said it, and if further proof were needed, Ae/eU it!

Mysterious feeling, — it was in her !

She was little, to be sure, but so was Kean, Stage- fright had no terrors for her ; oh, no, the illusion would carry her far beyond and above the reach of anything like that!

The important night ar~ * but, as may be expected, she failed to establish he worthy successor of the

i^^i

46

A YOUNG LADY EXCITED.

Keans and the Kembles. With the feeling and the asswr- once as strong as ever, she had no voice, no presence, no power; in other words, she had not the stage-training.

When she gained it, as she afterwards did by accepting, with the martyrdom of a crushed genius, a small situation in a stock-company, it made of her a very good serio- comic and souhrette actress, in the course of some years.

A young lady of good standing in society had from childhood evinced the most ardent liking for the stage, and it is probable she would have adopted it but for the scruples of her family. As it was, she contented hej'self with committing to memory passages from Shakspeare and the poets, and reciting them for the edification of an admiring circle of friends.

On the occasion of a re-union at her honae, an ex-actresa of great ability was present Recitations were the order of the day. The young lady declaimed. Her enthusiasm was perceptible in every vibration of her voice, in every flash of her brilliant eyes ; her feeling was genuine ; her emotion carried her far away from her e very-day surround- ings.

Surely, here was a case of self-asserting genius !

Not so; the feeling was all in herself; she had not the art to impart it to her audience of admiring friends^ who saw in her merely a pretty girl, with large, luminous eyes, laboring under strong excitement, and reciting in a hurried tone tamiliar lines.

But when the trained actress arose, how different ! She may have differed from the impulsive girl in not feeling herself, but she certainly imparted the feeling to others.

Her practiced, methodical use of her eye alone, held the fpectators spell-bound, and her assumption of passion and pathos carried away their feelings as if by some subtle « magnetic force* Q

The voice should be skilled for speaking as it is for

I

I

KATURE VS. CFLTURE.

siDging, and it is capable of almost as many fine gradations in one as in the other, A young friend of mine, on the stage, felt the necessity of having a marked course of instruction to pursue, and expressed a wish to learn elocution.

**Elocution r* exclaimed a young and ^'promising" actor; "Oh, that*B all played out; be natural, and let elocution go/*

Natural ! Look at the people all around you — ^sensiblo, educated, and intellectual people, no doubt,^ — but just fancy every one of them on the stage, acting naturalhj^ each retaining his or her individual peculiarities or defi- ciencies !

**Be natural ! let elocution go !'* As well say to an uneducated singer, "You have a voice — be natural — let instruction go/*

It is as absurd to assume that innate dramatic force and fire take proper shape unaided, as it would be to assert that a brilliant conversationist is indebted to nature alone for his powers. If Madame de Stael had one of the most striking and original minds of the age, she also had one of the most highly polished.

Unfortunately, nature, does not often bestow upon the votaries of the dramatic art the ready requisites for i^ts highest interpretation, and the history of its great expo- nents proves this beyond a doubt.

I can recall but few instances of actors having acbieved great distinction, who had not previously ser\^ed an apprenticeship to toilsome drudgery; and the sudden flashes of genius whicb electrify the world are gen- erally the carefully prepared result of long and arduous endeavor,

Fanny Kemble, wno belonged to the greatest dramatic family that ever lived, walked about her house every day, in England, for three years^ in t ^f ?^ triirrr^iTv qneen

48

MBS* CEMBLE — KACEKU

— the trailing shoulder robe, the crown, the long train,^ — that she might acquire perfect ease in the management of these nniiraal garments. The consequence was, the vety first moment she stepped on the stage, she looked every inch a queen ; and was as oDconcemed about her costume as if it had cocsisted of a calico gown and snn- bonnet

Thia minute training ertended to every part of her performances. Every word, every gesture, every syllable, was carefully studied ; and yet so skilfully bad this per^ fection been attained, that eveiy word fell from her lips in what seemed to be a charmingly natural way — in short, M the **art which conceals art'* was here in its perfection- When she first appeared on the stage, it was said oi her, that the mantle of her renowned aunt (Mrs* Siddons) had &llen upon her ehoulders, and that she had never trod the boards in any inferior capacity.

One of the most striking examples of the value of train- ing, that the world has ever known, is famished in the case of the great French actress, Rachel — who certainly could afford to dispense with training if any one ever could — for in her case the dramatic ability was so marked, so conspicuous, that there is little doubt she would have shone a^ a veiy bright star even without the aid of train- jiog. Iler empire as dramatic queen would not, of course, rbave been the undisputed one it now i^, but genius was in t woman's breast, if it ever was in the breast of woman- Rachel studied with the greatest of French tutors from I ifldhood, and consequently the prevailing supposition she, an ignorant girl of eighteen, interpreted with _ il perception the greatest dramatists of her own or ■ re, and blazed before the astonished world, a self- an untutored genius, is wholly without founda-

I

i

A that she was but an echo of her great master,

CAST IK BROKZS.

a grand and magnificent echo, truly, yet but an eclio ; and it has been added that even were this undeniable, the master had many pupils, and the world had but one Rachel!

Undoubtedly; but without her master and their joint labors for years, would the genius of Rachel ever have found a perfect utterance ?

Mrs. Jameson, the English authoress, has drawn a pic- ture of Rachel which so vividly illustrates the eiiect of training and practice on the artist that I quote it — premi- sing, however, that Mrs. Jameson was very far from being a partisan or even an admirer of Kachel. With most English women, the possibility of anything French being worthy of mention in the same breath with anything English, is not admissible; and Mrs. Jameson shares the peculiarity so far as to deny Rachel a place as an artist alongside of the tragedy queens of England. ** The parts in which Rachel once excelled — the Phcdrc and the Her- micne^ for instance — ^have become formalized iind hard, like stadies cast in bronze; and when she plays a new part it has no freshness. I always go to see her whenever I can, I admire her as what she is^ — the Parisian actress, prac- tised in every trick of her mSiur trade, I admire what sba does, I think how well it is* all done, and am inclined to clap and applaud her drapery, perfect and ostentatiously studied in every fold, just with the same feeling that I ap- plaud myself.

As to the last scene of ' Adrienne Lecouvreur,' (which those who are avides de sensation^ athirst for painful emo- tion, go to see as they would drink a dram, and critics laud as a miracle of art;) it is altogether a mistake and a fidlure. It is beyond the just limits of terror and pity — beyond the Intimate sphere of art. It reminds us of the story of Gentii BeUini and the Sultan. The Saltan much Vtctore of the decollation of John the Baptist,

&0

A BSAUTUrUL 8SRPK1T.

bat informed him that it was inaccurate — surgically — ^for the tendons and mnseles ought to shrink where divided ; and then calling for one of his slares, he drew his scimitar, and striking off the head of the wretch^ gave the horror- fftmek artist a lesson in practical anatomy. So we might possibly learn from Rachers imitative representation^ (studied in a hospital as they say^) how poison acts on the frame, and how the limbs and features writhe unto death. 1 remember that when I first saw her in Hermiont^ she reminded me of a serpent, and the same impression con- tinues. The long meagre form, with ita graceful undula- tiDg moveraenta, the long narrow fiace and features, the contracted jaw, the high brow, the brilliant supernatural eyes which seem to glance every way at once ; the sinister smile ; the painted red lips, which look as though they had lapped, or could lap, blood ; all these bring before me, the idea of a Lamia, the serpent nature in the woman's form. In Lydia, and in Athalia^ she touches the extremes of vice and wickedness with such a masterly lightness and precision, that I am full of wondering admiration for the actress. There is not a turn of her figure, not an expres- sion in her face, not a fold in her gorgeous drapery, that is not a study ; but withal such a consciousness of her art, and such an ostentation of the means she employs, that the power remains always extraneous^ as it were, and ex- citing only to the senses and the intellect/*

A glance at the life-history of Rachel will show more L f how gradual was her progress toward perfection, how I ough was her training, how laborious the means by I 1 she " clutched the dramatic diadem," She was the I ter of a Jewish pedler, who pursued his calling in

^^ parts of Switzerland and Germany, and was fol- ^B n his wanderings by his family, consisting of his ^H ir daughters, of whom Rachel was the second, and

bachel's debut.

61

a son. At Lyons, where they took up their residence temporarily, Rachel and her sister Sarah contributed to the common support by singing at the cafes and other public resorts; and at Paris, whither the family removed in 1831, the two sisters similarly employed themselves on the boulevards. Choroo, the founder of the institutioa for the study of sacred music, struck by their performance, took them both under his iustructioo ; but finding that the talent of Rachel, to whom he gave the name of Eliza, was dramatic rather than vocal, he transferred her to the care of M* St. Aulaire, a teacher of declamation, who carefully grounded her in the chief female parts of the standard classical drama. Her admirable personation of Hermione^ at a private performance of " Andromaque" procured her admission in 1836 as a pupil of the conservatoire ; and shortly after slje obtained an engagement at the Gymnase, where on April 24, 1837, she made her public debut under the name of Rachel, in a vaudeville. Whether the part was not adapted to her, or she had not yet acquired confi- dence in her own powers, the performance attracted little attention, and for upwards of a year she did not again ap* pear prominently before the public.

In the meantime she studied assiduously under Samson, an actor and author of great experience, and on Septem- ber 7t 1838, startled the Parisian public by a personation of Camillc in "Les Horaces'' at the Theatre Francais, bo full of originality and tragic intensity as almost to obliter- ate the traditions of former actresses in the same part. At her third appearance the receipts rose from about 300 francs on the first night, to 2,040, a fabulous sum for a performance of a classical drama; and thenceforth she stood alone on the French stage, confessedly the first actress of the day, and never probably rivaled in her peculiar walk of tragedy. 1!^jg[^^ neglected plays of Comeille, Racine and Yoltai ^e^ily revived for

MIBS BATBMAK.

tf'

her, and slie appeared with peculiar success in the leading characters. **Iu personating the«e characters she paid little regard to the eherislied traditions of the stage, and the actors performing with her were frequently confused and even startled by tones and gestures so difterent from those established by custom as to appear to them wholly foreign to the play. The studied declamation of the old school was exchaiiged for an utterance at once natural and impressive, and the expression of her face, her gesture or attitude, scarcely less eloquent than her voice, conveyed a follncss and force of meaning which made each part a new creation in her hands. She excelled in the delineation of the fiercer pasBions, but jealousy and hatred were so subtly interpreted^ that the mind was even less aflfected by what she expressed than by what she left to the imagina- tion/'

Ko actress owes more to training than^Kate Bateman, Tier severe discipline began, as I have shown, in earliest childhood, at the hands of a father whose skill in this re- gard is second to that of no man I ever met. But even wdien Miss Bateman attained to more mature powers, she ever considered herself fully competent to play even the implest part that fell to her lot without severe study and practice.

An actress who played with her in Boston during the engagement in which she produced l^Leah*' for the first time on any stage — (a character in which she has since obtained world-wide celebrity )^ — told me that she practised the one single feature of rushing on the stage pursued by the town rabble, during two long hours every day regu- larly for a w^eek, before she trusted herself to do it before the public on the first night. The consequence was that the effect was magnificent— the persecuted and lovely Jewess flying with swift feet before the vile rabble of a bigoted German town, hooting at her, stoning her — she

I

DEAN — MOWATT — BETTERTON.

58

as a climax turning and defying them — that one effect was enough to carry the weight of the entire play and make it a success.

Julia Dean, who obtained great celebrity, especially in the Western and Soathern States, is another actress who was severely drilled by her father. She found it difficult to overcome a certain listlessness which was of course a great drawback to the truthful character of certain pas- sionate scenes.

On one occasion, while she was playing Julia in "The Hunchback/* her father, annoyed at her listless manner, advanced close to the dge of the scene, and cried out to her in a hoarse whisper, "Fire, Julia, fire!'*

The poor girl, taking him at his literal meaning, gave an agitated shriek, and, to the blank amazement of the audience exclaimed, "Where, father? where?''

Mrs. Mowatt relates that for months before she made her dtbut^ she took fencing lessons, to gain firmness of position and freedom of limb; used dumb-bells to over- come the constitutional weakness of her arms and chest; exercised her voice during four hours every day, to in- crease its power; wore a voluminous train for as many hours daily, to learn the graceful management of queenly or classic robes ; and neglected no means that could fit her to realize her beau ideal of CampbelUs lines : —

*• But by the miglitj actor trou^ht, /

niasion'a pt•^f^ct triumpha coma; YerSQ ceoflM to Ims iiiry tbongbt. And K nipt arc to bo dumb.**

Betterton, who was perhaps the greatest actor the Eng- lish stage ever possessed, w^ith the sole exception of Gar- rick, furnishes one of the most extraordinary examples of the value of training tliat the world has ever known. Almost incredible accoi *ain to us of the efl:ect8

produced by his perfort magnetic influence of

54

BBTTERTON'S DISADVANTAGES,

tone and expression seemed to mesmerise an audience, and make them the followers of his slightest intonation. Almost without speaking ho could let them into the work- ings of his mind, and anticipate hia next motion^ as if it arose from their own volition. And yet, cheer up, my dumpy friend with the passionate will to tread the hoards! If you have only the tremendous energy which likes to surmount difficulties rather than glide along without an obstacle, never mind your inelegant figure and utterly ungracious face — ^your scrambling walk and clod-hopping calves. K you feel the divine fury in your heart, and know it to be no exhalation from the stagnant marshes of your self-conceit, but the genuine fire that warmed the Btuttering Demosthenes till he became an orator^ and the skeleton Luxemburg till he rivaled the Ciesare and Alex- anders of ancient story, be not afraid of external deficien- cies. We don't see them when our eyes are filled with tears. We don*t believe in them when the pulse is stopped in terror and surprise. Read the following description of JJetterton, and take courage. It is quoted from a pamphlet by Anthony Aston, called '* A Brief Supplement to Colley Gibber, Esquire, his Lives of the Famous Actors and Actresses/* "Mr. Betterton, although a euperlativo good actor, labored under an ill figure, being clumsily made, having a great head, short thick neck, stooped in the shoulders, and bad fat short arms, w^hich he rarely lifted higher than his stomach. His left hand frequently lodged in his breast, between bia coat and waistcoat, while with bia right he prepared his speech. His actions were few but just He had little eyes, and a broad face, a little pockpitten, a corpulent body, and thick legs, with large feet He was better to meet than to follow, tor his aspect was eeriouB, venerable and majestic — in his latter time a little paralytic. Uia voice was low and grumbling; yet he could time it by an artful climax, which enforced

THE STAGE BENEDICK. (Cofiudtf "f - ^fucfi Ado about IfotMng.")

ADDISOK ON BBTTERTON.

65

universal attention even from the fops and orange-girls. He was ineapal)le of dancing, even in a country-dance, aa was Mrs. Burry, but their good qualities were more than equal to their deticeucies/'

Surely this is the picture of & chawbacon, qualifying, by a long course of awkward stolidity of look and attitude, to grin Buccessfully through a horse collar at a fair ! Yet this quintessence of the sublime and beautiful threw the brazen Duchess of Cleveland into hyBterics, and moved the talkative Nell Gwynne to silence. Of him ako Addi- son WTOte a criticism distinguished by his usual refine- ment:

"Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be recorded with the same respect as Roacius among the Komaus, I have hardly a notion that any performer of antiquity could surpass the action of Mr. Betterton in any of the occasions in which he has appeared upon our stage. The wonderful ftgony which he appeared in when he examined the cir- cumstance of the handkerchief in the part of Othello, the mixture of love that intruded upon his mind upon the innocent answers Desdemona makes, betrayed in his ges- ture such a variety and vicissitude of passions as would admonish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and per- fectly convince him that it is to stab it to admit that worst of daggers — -jealousy. Wlioever reads in his closet this a^lmirable scene will find that he cannot (except he has as warm an imagination aa Shakspeare himselQ find any but dry, incoherent, and broken sentences. But a reader that has seen Betterton act it, observes there could not be a word added^ — that longer speeches had been un- natural, nay impossible, in Othello's circumstances. This is such a triumph over difficulties, that we feel almost per- suaded that the deficiencies themselves contributed to the Buceesd.*'

€6

A I'LORENTINB FEAt.

CHAPTER V.

The Memory of Actors. — How the Memory Strengthcna by Practice. — How a Distinguished Actor Coramitted a Whole Play to Memory, by Simply Lifltening to it Once as Played on tbo Stage. — Marvelous Feats of Memory, — ^** Winging'^ a Part.— Modes of Memorizing,*- Learn mg a Whole Newspaper by Heart. — Treacherous Memoriea.^ — Inatanccs of Parts being taken at Short Notice.

By dint of practice, tlio memory of actors becomes remarkable for its quickness.

Kot to have '*a good study/' as it ia technically called, would bo an almost fatal drawback to the success of a histrionic aspirant, and such cases are rare.

Even a poor memory becoines woDderfully improved by the practice of memorizing stage parts, while the exploits of some actors whose memories must have been naturally good, and which have been strengthened by practice, are almost beyond the reach of credibility.

One actor, I remember, not a very long time ago, while in London, saw a play presented at one of the theatres; and returning to his room sat down, and aided Inj memory alonc^ wrote it all down, word for word, from beginning to end, three lengthy and complicated acts, with long and diversified parts for as many as a^ dozen persons, running through the piece.

His copy was brought to New York and played. So completely identical was it with the author's manuscript, that it was of course supposed that he had obtained a written copy from some person who was not authorized to sell it* Wlien he took oath that he had written it out from memory, many uninitiated people were inclined to doubt the statement; but any actor or actress could easily testify to its entire credibility.

A SHIFT OF NEOBSsrrr.

67

The practice of "winging a part" is one so common among actors as to excite no surprise whatever among those who have been bred to the stage.

This consists in going on the stage to play a part with- out having studied it at all. The actor carries the part in his pocket, and when he vanishes from the sight of the audience, pulls it out and falls to reading the words, ^ standing in the "wings" to do so. "WTien his cue is called, he pockets the part again, goes on, and speaks it as well as he is capable of doing.

Of course, under these circumstances he is not expected to speak the part correctly. It is one of the shifts of necessity which sometimes arise in theatres, and an actor gets over it as well as he can, — speaks the words as far as he remembers them, and substitutes words of his own when he don't remember, — any way to get tlirough the part, and enable the other actors to go on properly with theirs.

An old writer, in a quaint work, now obsolete, gives some interesting particulars relating to this subject. lie says : **In provincial theatres, instances of memory occur nightly that are little short of marvelous. Mr» Munroe^ now of the Ilaymarket Theatre, has on several occasions studied twelve to fourteen lengths from re- hearsal until night; and I remember his playing Colonel Hardy i|Uite perfect, having received notice of it at four o'clock, and going to the theatre at halt-past six — the part is at least five hundred lines. I have known others study a hundred lines per hour, for five or six hours in succes- sion, but these are extraordinary instances. Most actors find that writing out a part greatly facilitates the acquisi- tion of it. Slow writers impress the words more on their memorj' than rapid ones j and it is said that you study more perfectly from an ill-written copy than a good manuscript, as the pains taken to ascertain the sentences

J

68

AGTOES' PECULURITIES.

impress them indelibly on the raemory. Thia is carrying matters perhapa a little too far. Catbcart (late of the Coburg,) never wrote oot a part, or kept a book ; once stodied, he never forgets a line* Munroe never wrote oat a line in his life, and will repeat parts at one reading that he has performed a dozen years before. Mr. Bartley, of ^ Covent Garden, poseases a wonderful raemory, and advo-™ cates repeating the part aloud, as the best means of study* Knight always learned the entire scene in which he waa engaged, and not the words of his part alone. My readers are familiar with the story of Lyon, a country actor, learning the contents of a newspaper by heart in one night. The thing seems incredible ; but it will be remembered that when this feat was performed, news- papers did not contain one-third of the matter they do at present, and their contents were not half so miscellaneous. H A member of the present Covent Garden Company, while " Bojoorning at Greenwich, a few years back, undertook to get by heart a copy of the Times newspaper; in the course of that week he had also to study seven parts for the theatre, yet he completed his task, and won his wager, delivering the whole of the journal, from the title and date to the end. This was averaged at six thousand lines; but the wonder consists more in the perplexiug nature the thing studied than the quantity.**

Dr, Abercrombie mentions an instance of treacherdus memory, which was communicated to him by an able and intelligent friend, who heard it from the lips of the indi- vidual to whom it relates. A distinguisbed theatrical performer, in consequence of the illness of another actor, had occasion to prepare himself, on very short notice, for a part wbich was entirely new to him, and the part was long and rather difficult lie acquired it in a very short time, and went through it with perfect accuracy, but im- mediately after the peformance, forgot every word of it

LOGAH A3 BLACK RALPH.

59

Characters which he has acquired in a more deliberate maiiDcr he never forgets, but can perform them without a moment's preparation ; but in the character now men- tioned there was the further and very singular fact that, though he has repeatedly performed it since then, he has been obliged each time to prepare it anew^ and has never acquired in regard to it that facility which is familiar to him in other instances. When questioned respecting the mental process which he employed the first time he per- formed this part, he says that he lost sight entirely of the audience, and seemed to have nothing before him but the pages of the book from which he had learned it ; and that if anything had occurred to interrupt this illusion, he should have stopped instantly,"

There are great numbers of interesting stories afloat concerning feats of memory of actors, in taking parts at short notice, and performing them, A year or two since, it is said, Mr, J^ W, WaUagk^ Jr., went on at a theatre in Washington entirely perfect in the part of Brierly^ in the ''Ticket-of-Leave Man," having acquired the words in thirty minutes. It is related that Mr, Edwin Booth once, when a boy, got through Richard lily in the illness of his father, without having studied it

One evening, when my fether was playing in a Cana- dian city, several years ago, he was suddenly called upon to take the powerful part of Black Ralph, The performer who was expected to enact this part was taken ill at six o'clock in the evening, and some one must play his part, or the performance could not go on. Black Ralph is a very long tragic part, and my father was the '* funny actor'' of the company ; yet, in spite of this feet, he agreed to take it and do his best with it.

It was six o'clock when the Dart " -'^ '^laced in his hands. At half-past-seven o' in rang up.

In this short interval my fail * <^he part from

«0

THROWN OFF HIS G0ARD.

I

beginning to end, besides changing bis drCBS, and maldng np his laughter-provokiDg and genial face into the aspect of fierce and brutal villainy.

He went on the stage, and proceeded for some time with perfect ease, while a gentleman who sat in the audience followed him, word by word, by means of a printed copy of the play, which be held in his hand.

Suddenly father caught sight of this gentleman with the play-book. He stopped short, stammered, and was barely able to proceed, M

As soon as he got behind the scenes, he sent word™ round to the gentleman in the audience, requesting him to put the book out of sight, for it so confused and annoyed him that he could not go on with his part.

The gentleman very obligingly did as he was desired, and my father played the part to the end without making a single mistake. To this the prompter testified,^ — be having,' of course, followed the part through, word by word,

Tew people realize what little things can throw an actor oW his guard at times, and make him forget bis part, or so stumble tbrougb it as to make it a hopeless mess. The rustling of a newspaper, the crying of a baby, the getting up and going out of a scineak-booted man, — these and other such trifles have at times had the effect of disconcerting the performer completely.

A LABORIOUS CBAPT.

61

CHAPTER VI.

time H if nc

1_ «

I

BiTOneous Ideas of the Gayety and Ease of Lifo Beblnd tliQ Scenes. — An Actor's Daily Duties. — Studying Parts, attending Reliearaala, and Performing at Nigbt, — Tlio Mental Labor.— The Physical Labor. — The Mockery of Stage Glitter.- — False Jewels and Flaring Gasliglit. — How Actors Go A«tray. — The Stern Rules wliiob Govern Life Behind the Scenes. — Waiting fur the Cue* — A Curious Incident in the Lif<3 of a Celebrated Actress.^Asleep on the Stage.

I have met a great many people who had a fixed idea that theatrical life was an idle life; one in which there was positively nothing to do but to carouse away the time ill frivolous nonsense, in chatting and merrymaking, if not in actual debauchery !

Kothing can be farther from the truth.

Recreation is the incident in the life of an actor or an ess; work — hard work— is the rule.

"Work! an actor work?'' I hear you say, as I have beard many eay.

Ay, and hard work* Bead what the American Ojclo- pedia says on this point :

** The profession of the stage is perha-pa the most hbo- riotts of all crafts, requiring an almost unceasing mental and physical effort."

Both mental and physical, you observe. The lawyer works hard with his brain, so does the editor, the bank- clerk, the book-keeper ; but all of these are nearly free from physical labor.

On the other hand, the carpenter, the mason, the hod- carrier, earn their bread by sweating brow and fatigued Umbii ; but every one knows that this is the heaviest part of A mechanic's toil, There is little or no brain- work to torturo him..

62

AN ACTOK S HEKTAL LABOB.

I

^'Wellj if an actor works, what in the name of goodDesa does he work at V

^'Tho duties of an actor comprise a study of new partaj and recovery of old ones, occupying, on an average, from two to four hoora a day ; an attendance at rehearsal in the morning, occupying, on an average, two hours a day ; and a performance each evening, occupying in winter /owr, and in summer about three hours."

This, you perceive, gives an average of six hours* daily labor, and four hours' evening labor for the actor, the year round. But even this conveys little idea of the specially fatiguing character of his work.

K any of my readers would like to test it somewhat, ml the privacy of their own homes, let them draw down a volume of Shakspeare, and try to commit to memory in a hurry any one of his important male or female characters, — Michard the Thirds or Queen Catlumiiey OthcUo^ Lady^ Macbeth^ Juliety or Hamlet. "

Every word must be exact, remember; the interpolation or dropping out of a single syllable is enough to lay an actor open to the charge of inexcusable ignorance, or im- pertinent singularity.

This will give you an idea of an actor's daily mental labor ; for, except in the larger cities, where plays fre- quently have long "runs,*' (that is, are repeated night after night for weeks, or even months,) it is the rule in theatres for the play to bo changed every night, and con- sequently for every actor or actress to study each night a new part — long or short, as the case may be.

So much for the mental labor of the actor. Now for the physical* ^

This includes standing up the most of the time he is in the theatre. On the stage, of course, he must never sit down, except when it is so indicated in the play. Fancy

HIS PHYSICAL LABOR.

08

Samlet sitting down comfortably while talking to the ghoet of hia father ; or Macbeth inquiring —

**I3 this a dag[ger that I aoo before me, The handle towards my band ?"

from amidst the soft cushions of a parlor sofa !

A great many male tragic parts require the actor to fence, and that this is hard work for a slender man (or a stout one either, for that matter,) any one will testify who has seen Edwin Booth in Hamlet, or Romeo^ or Richard the Thirds or Forrest in ih^JjladiatoT or Jack CaJ^.

The freqnent changes of dress madewhile the actor is off the stage, and many perhaps suppose him to be resting, also tend to increase his physical fatigue* The rushing up and down of delineated fury, tlie stamping of feet, the loud and hurried speaking, — all this is what goes to make up the physical fatigue of the actor*e life.

It is strictly forbidden to place chairs in tbe "wings," as the space at the side of the theatre, between the scenery, is called. Obliged thus to be standing up waiting for their "cue/* it is no uncommon thing to hear the poor players moaning with sad lamentations of weariness,

I have seen tears in the eyes of actresses, wrung from them entirely by physical fatigue.

If human machinery always worked well, there would

be less cause for this standing about the wings ; for it is

the prompter*3 doty to prepare notes for the call-boy, with

which to notify the players during the evening, a few

minutes previous to the time they are wanted ; and it is

the call-boy's duty to call out these written notes at the

^ door of the green-room at stated intervals ; thus enabling

'the players, who leave the green-room directly they are

"called," to arrive at the wing in good season for their

I coo to go on the stage, without unnecessary fatigue of

Iwaitiug.

64

DISCIPLINE BEHIND THE SCENES.

But between prompter and call-boy ibis often goes WToogj and the player not nnfrequently has the mortifica- tion of being late on the stage ; a fact which is perfectly clear, and always annojdug, to an audience.

There is little nse of quarreling about this; the call-boy (generally an iippertinent little imp) will always bo ready to beat you down that he did call you> and while you are calmly replying that "if j'ou had been called you should certainly have come on," the stage-manager quietly marks you down for a fine for having kept the stage waiting. So the safest plan is to stand around the wings, waiting through everybody's scenes, until your own cue comes.

The rules governing the conduct of actors and actresses vary greatly, according to the theatre, and according to circumstances. The best-condocted theatres, I need hardly say, are the most strict in enforcing their rules, and preserving the discipline of the green-room and« coulisses* V

The following may he considered a specimen set of rules, and every well-conducted theatre in the land may be expected to have a set of a very similar character, though not perhaps precisely on this pattern. Events are continually occurring to cause changes to be made in every theatre, and as the power of changing the rules is an arbitrary one with the manager {or the stage-managcr, as the case may be,) the change can be effected without holding a council of war on the subject.

GKEEN-HOOM KULES.

1. Gentlemen, at tho time of rehearaal or performance, are not to wear their hats in the Green Eoom, or talk vociferously. The Green Room is a place appropriated for the quiot and regulur meeting of the company, who are to be called thence, end thence on/y, by the call boy^ to attend on the Stage. The Manager ig not to be applied to in that ;e, on any matter of business, or with any personal complaint. For •Mcb of any part of this articlei fifty cents will be forfeited.

GREEN-BOOM RULES,

68

2« The calls for all rebearsab will be put up by tlie Prompter between tbe play and tho farco, or onrlior, on evenings of performance. No pica will be received that the call was not seen, in order to avoid tho penaUies of Article Fifth.

B. Any member of tbe^ company unable, from the eflecta of stimulanta, i to perform, or to appear at rehearsal, shall forfeit a week's salary, and be liable to be discharged.

4- For making tho Stage wait, Three Dollars,

5. After duo notice, all rehearsalB must be attended. The Green Koom clock or the Prompter's watch is to regulate time; ten minutes will be allowed, {(he firH call only) for difference of clocks; forfeit, twenty-five cents for each scene — every entrance to constitute a scene ; the whole rehearsal at the same rate, or four dollars, at the option of the Manager.

6. A Performer rehearsing from a book or part, after proper time has been allowed for study, shall forfeit Five Dollars.

7. A Performer introducing his own languago, or improper jests not ' in the author, or swearing in his part, shall forfeit Five Dollars.

8. Any person talking loud behind the scenes, to tbe interruption of the performance, to forfeit Five Dollars.

9. Every Performer, concerned in the first act of a play, to be in the [ Green Boom, dressed for performance, ten minutes before tbe time

of beginning, as expressed in tbe bills, or to forfeit Five Dollars. The Performers in the second act to bo ready when the first finishes. In like manner with every other act. Those Performers who are not in tbe last two acts of the play, to bo ready to begin the farce, or to forfeit Five Dollars. When a change of dress is neoeasary, ten minutes will be ' allowed.

10. Every Performer's costume to be decided on by the Manager^ and a Performer who makos any alteration in dress without tho consent of the Manager, or refuses to wear the costume selected, shall forfeit Three Dollars.

11. If the Prompter shall be guilty of any neglect in his office, or omit to forfeit where penalties are incurred, by non*observanco of the Bules and Begulations of the Theatre, he shall forfeit, for each ofiTense or

I omission, One Dollar.

12. For refusing, on a sudden change of a play or farce, to represent a character performed by the same pereon during the season, a week's

\ salary shall be forfeited.

18. A Performer refusing a part allotted by the Manager, forfeits a week*a salary, or may be discharged.

5

66

DmiISH RULES.

14. No Prompter^ Performer^ or Musician will be permitted to copy ftnf manuscript belonging to the Tbeatre without permission of the Manager,! under the peaaltj of Fifty Dollars.

15. Any Performer fiinging songa not advertised in tb© bill of the play, omitting any^ or introducing themi not in the part allotted, without first having consent of the Manager, forfeits a week's salary.

16. A performer reatoring what is cut out by the Monager^wiU forfeit Five Bolkra.

17. A Performer absenting himself from the Theatre in the evenings when concerned in the buamess of the stage, will forfeit a week's salary, or be held liable to be discharged, at the option of the Manager.

18. Any Performer unable, from illness, to fulfil his or her dutieS| either at rehearsals or in the evening performances, must in every ease give a written notice, certified hj a Physician, within a reasonable time, to enable the Management to provide a substitute ; and whewa a Per- former's duties are unattended to from repeated illness, it will be at the option of the Management to cancel the engagement. Any neglect to furnish the written notice and certificate, as above named, will be deemed tantamount to a resignation. The Manager reserves the right of pay- ment or stoppage of salary during the absence of the sick person.

19. No person permitted, on any account, to address the audience, but with the consent of the Manager, Any violation of thig article will subject the party to a forfeiture of a week's salary, or a discharge, at the option of the Manager. H

20. Any member of the company causing a disturbance in any part of the eatabliabment, will bo liable to a forfeiture of a week's salary, or

to be discharged, at the option of the Management. ^H

The rules in vogue in English theatres are very nearly " the same, as may be eeeii from the following resume of them: '*1. Every member of the company required tofl assist in the national anthem; also to give their services for the music of 'Macbeth,' masquerade and dirge of * Romeo and Juliet,* music of *Pizarro/ &c* 2. Tea min- utes allowed for change of dress* 3. Ten minutes grace allowed for difference of clocks, for the first rehearsal only. 4. No performer allowed in front of the house before or after performing the same evening. 6, Any member of the company going on the stage, either at rehearsal or at .nightf in a state of intoxication, to forfeit one week's

EULES FOB GRUMBLERS,

67

salary, or to receive immediate diBmissal, at the option of the manager. 6. For addresaing the audience without the sanction of the managementj to forfeit five shillinga. [In some theatres this is a guinea forfeit.] 7. For using bad language, or behig guilty of violent conduct, one guinea. 8, For neglecting Btage-buBiness, as arranged by the stage-manager at rehearsal^ five shilliDgs. 9. For being absent at rehearsal — for the first scene, one shilhng; for every succeeding scene, sirpence* 10, For crossing the stage during performance, five shillings, 11. For loud speaking at the wings and en trances during business, two shillings. 12. For being imperfect at nighty suffi- cient time having been allowed for study, five shillings.

13. For refusing to play any part, such character being in accordance with the terms of engagagement, one guinea,

14. For keeping the stage waiting, two and sixpence. 15- For detaining prompt-book beyond the time arranged by the stage-manager, two shillings. 16, On benefit occa- sions, pieces selected to be submitted for the approval of the management, before issuing bills or announcements." In addition to these reasonable rules there are others of a more stringent and arbitrary character. One is given which must have been invented by a wag: *' Rule twelve: Actors are requested not to grumble and stay, but to grumble and go." This must be regarded as a downright suspension of the constitutional privileges of petition and complaint of griveancee, but was doubtless only aimed at the clironic grumblers who infest every profession.

And now no doubt the question will present itself to many minds, "Why do people leave other pursuits to rush to the stage, if there are so many hardships there?"

The answer is that most people are ignorant of these hardships. They see the glitter of an actor*s life, and idly ancy that an actor's only care is to strut up and down a

68

ACTORS WHO GO A8TRAY.

stage, dressed in fine clothes, decked with falac jewels, and! bellowing high heroics for an admiring crowd.

The consequence is that idle apprentices, dissatisfied] grocers* clerks, and many other people who have not the smallest conception of the real duties of a conscientious actor, rush into the theatrical profession and swell the already large army of good-for-nothings, who bring down upon the heads of decent members such shame and ^ obloquy* H

These people, once they have been initiated in the very first steps of an actor^s life, usually see very clearly that fifty times more talent, tact, perseverance, and self-denial are required to make the smallest headway as an actor than to be the most successful grocer or tape-seller that ever lived. Thereupon they become discouraged at the prospect ; fancy themselves neglected geniuses ; grumble at the world; hang around drinking ^^aloons all day; go upon the stage drunk at night, ill-dressed, imperfect in their parts— the very meanest specimens of the human family extant- Then people cry, "Ah, yes — see what actors do! " But candid and just persons will acknowledge that it is not usually those who confer credit upon their profession who do this. No one ever saw Mr. Joseph Jefferson hanging around the bar of a drinking- saloon ; nor Lester Wallack; nor Edwin Booth,

One of the most striking illustrations of the weariness oc- casioned by the severe toil of a player, is furnished by Mrs, Anna Cora Mowatt. She relates that often atter a pro- tracted rehearsal in the morning, and an arduons perform- ance at night, she returned home from the theatre wearied out in mind and body; yet she dared not rest The character to be represented on the succeeding night still required several hours of reflection and application* metimes she kept herself awake by bathing her heavy

I

W£ABIN£SS.

m

eycB and throbbing temples with iced water as ehe com- mitted the words to memory. Sometimes she could only battle with the angel who

' Knit! up the nToUod •te»te of Gar«/

by rapidly pacing the room while she studied. Now and then she was fairly conquered^ and fell asleep over her books. Strange to say, her healthy instead of failing en- tirely, as was predicted, visibly improved. The deleteri- ous effects of late hours were counteracted by constant exercise, an animating, exhilarating pursuit, and the all- potent nepenthe of inner peace. She gained new vigor and elasticity* With the additional burden came the added strength whereby it could be borne.

As may be^ readily imagined, she was often weary to exhaustion, even during the performance. On one occa- sion her fatigue very nearly placed her in a predicament as awkward to her as it would have been amusing to the aodicDCC^ She was fulfilling a long engagement at Kiblo'ft, New York. She was playing Ladt/ Teazle^ in the '* School for Scandal.** When Lad^ Teazle^ at the an- nouncement of Sir Peter, is concealed behind_ the screen in Jos^eph Surfece*s library, she is compelled to remain a quarter of an hour, or perhaps twenty minutes, in this con- fiuement* Mrs. Mowatt was dreadfully fatigued, and glad of the opportunity for rest There was no chair. At first she knelt for relief. Becoming tired of that position, she quietly laid herself down, and, regardless of i<wf^ Teazle's ostrich plumes, made a pillow of her arm for her head. She listened to Placide*s most humorous personation of Sir Peter for awhile ; but gradually hia voice grew more and more nidistinct, melting info a soothing murmur, and then was hoard no more. She fell into a profound sleep. When Charles Surface is announced, Sir Fvier is hurried bj Joseph into the closet. Lady Teazle (according to Sheridan) peeps behind the screen, and intimates to

70

ASLEBP ON THE STAGE.

Joseph the propriety of locking Sir Peter in, and proposes her own escape. At the sound of Charles Surface's step, she steals behind the screen again. The cue was given, but no Lady Teazk made ber appearance. She was slum- bering in happy unconsciousness that theatres were ever instituted.

Mr* Jones, the prompter, supposing that Mrs. Mowatt bad forgotten her part, ran to one of the wings from which he could obtain a view behind the screen. To his mingled diversion and consternation, he beheld the lady placidly sleeping on the floor. Of course, he could not reach her.

Mrs, Mowatt continues : ** I have often beard him relate the frantic manner in which he shouted, in an imploring stage whisper, *Mr8. Mowatt, wake up! For goodness' sake^ wake up! Charles Surface is just going to pull the screen down! Wake up! You'll be caught by the audience asleep! Wake up ! Good gracious, do wake up !' I have some confused recollection of hearing the words * wake np! wake up!' As I opened my heavy eyes, they foil upon Mr. Jones, making the most violent geaticula- tions, waving about his prompt book, and almost dancing in the excitement of his alarm* The hand of Cfiarles Sur- face was already on the screen* I sprang to my feet, hardly remembering where I was, and had barely time 4:0 smooth down my train, when the screen fell. A mo- ment sooner, and how would the slumbering Lady Teazle^ suddenly awakened, have contrived to impress the audi- ence with the sense of her deep contrition for her impu- dence I how pursuaded her husband that she bad dis- covered her injustice to him during her pleasant nap!**

BEHBARSALS.

n

CHAPTER Vn.

How KcHcftrsaU are Conducted.— The Stage by Daylight. — Qufjena in Calico Dresses. — Kings in Threadbare Trowaers and Coats out at BlbowB. — Ball-room Belles in India Rubber Overshoes, — Fairies in Thick Boota and Demons in Stovepipe Hati. — Tbo World Upaide down.— How to make a Crowd of Bemocrata Yell.— The Rehearsal a Bcbool*'^HumoToii5 Account of a Rehearsal In California,

All plays have to be care f ally rehearsed by the actors before they are preaeated to the eagle eye of the critic8 and the admiring: eye of the public.

These rehearsals take place, of course, in the day time* It is customary for the stage manager to make ont before- hand a list of the characters, assigning the pertbrmance of each character to some member of the company; then each member is notified that he (or she) is "cast" for such or such a part in the forthcoming play of ao-and-so. In badly regulated theatres this is neglected, however, and DO actor knows whether he is to play in the piece until he comes to the first rehearsal.

The notice or *' call " for rehearsal is hung up in a con- spicuous place — generally in two places — behind the scenes, so that no one employed about the theatre shall possibly miss seeing it.

Obedient to the call, the players gather on the stage — usually about ten o*clock in the morning — for rehearsal.

With them come the scene-shifterSj the musicians, and everybody who has to do with the production of the piece at night.

But where, oh! where is that which so charms ua in the evening when the gas is alight? Instead of the brilliant flickering of innumerable jets of light from grand chan- deliers or sparkling dome, there is a dull, drowzy, dirty

f2 FUNNY SIGHTS.

daylight streaming in from nooks and corners of the theatre, throagh ventilators, and cobwebbed windows away up in the gallery walls, — lighting up a huge cave- like place, reeking with the odors of escaping gas, and suggestive of everything else but gayety.

Of course no one wears, at the rehearsal, the costume of the night; but all the actors come in the everyday clothes which they are accustomed to wear — and as they are not always able to dress as well as they would like— the necessities of out-door costunae always ranking second with a conscientious actor, to the requirements of the stage — ^the effect is often most incongruous.

This is especially so on a rainy day. It seems funny to see an actor stalking about the stage in a water-proof over- coat, carrying an umbrella in one hand, and remarking, in a very unconcerned tone, *'A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse ! '* Or to see a lady in a last year's bonnet and wearing a pair of overshoes, pirouette across the stage, saying as she does so, " Ah, mamma, how happy I am to-night ! How beautifully the lamps are shinijig on this gaily attired company of fair women and brave men I It seems like fairy-land t ** — while not three feet away Trom her, a couple of begrimed men in shirt-sleeves, and smelling of tar and things are kneeling on the floor hammering away at the gaa arrangements or something about the scenery.

Or to see a bevy of girls representing fairies, trip upon ihe stage with thick boots clattering, while from the other side a " demon " comes on in a stovepipe hat and goes through an excited pantomime.

Or to see a middle-aged lady, in a calico dress, sitting n whaky chair, and addressing the other actors as "My

Ithfiil Bervitoi-s," and promising, as she is queen, to see thom righted.

Or to behold a well-dressed per»on kneeling at the teet

mM

ANECDOTES.

78

of a seedy-looking man in a coat out at elbows, and say- ing, "Your majesty 1 I am your slave V^

A spectator sitting in the auditorium and looking on, would certainly think the world was upside down.

It is related of a well-known actor, distinguished in the profession for his particularity at rehearsals, that upon one occasion when rehearsing the play of Coriolanus, in the scene where those representing the citizens are ex- pected to cheer loudly on some information which they are supposed to receive, the poor supes who were hired to represent the Romans did not at all satisfy the Coriolanus of the occasion. For fully half an hour did he make them yell at the top of their voices. At length, pausing for a while, he addressed them, "I want you men to seem in earnest about this, If you can't imagine yourselves Romans, why — why, confound it, consider you're all Democrats, and you've just heard the election returns, and if that don't make you yell loud enough, I don't know what will."

On another occasion it is told of an actor whose name stands among the highest in the dramatic nnnals of Amer- ica, that observing a young actor, in an important scene apparently inattentive to the business of the situation, he stopped speaking, and addressing himself to the young man, he said: "My young friend, if yon desire to pro- gress in your profession, you should be more attentive, A rehearsal is your school, sir, and inattention to whafs going on on the stage, while you are engaged in the scene, is wrong, sir."

A journalist who witnessed a rehearsal in a California theatre, gives the following amusing account of his sensa- tions and observations :

Ton may get as perfect an idea of a play by seeing it ehearscd as yon do of Shakspeare from hearing it read Hindoostanee. The first act consists in an exhibition

74

MIXING THIHQS.

of great irritability aud impatience by the stage maoager, at the non-appearance of certain members of the troupe.

At what theatre 2 Oh, never mind what theatre. We will take liberties, and mix them thus : —

Stage Manager, (Calling to some one at the front entrance,) "Send those people in !**

The people are finally hunted up, one by one, and go roahing down the passage and on to the stage like human whirlwinds.

Leading Ladg. (Reading) "My chains a-a-a-a-a rivet me um-um-um (carpenters buret out in a tremendous fit of hammering) this man/*

Siar. '*But I implore — buz-buz-buas — net?er — um-um'* (great sawing of boards somewhere).

Kehearsal reading, mind you, consists in the occasional distinct utterance of a word, sandwiched in between large quantities of a strange, monotonous sound, Bomething between a drawl and a buz, the last two or three words of the part being brought out with an emphatic jerk.

Here Th^ n rushes from the rear :

"Ifow my revenge."

Siar* (Giving directions^) '*No, you Mr, H — s — n, stand there, and then when I approach you, Mr. B — r — ^y, step a little to the left; then the soldiers pitch into the vil- lagers, and the villagers into the soldiers, and I shoot yon and escape up into the mountain/'

Stage Manager^ (who thinks difFerently,) *^ Allow me to

suggest, Mr. B ^^s, that^^here the harameriog aud

sawing burst out all over the stage, and drown every- thing.)

This matter is finally settled. The decision of the oldest member of the troupe, the patriarch of the com- pany, having been appealed to, is adopted. Then Mr.

Mc h is missing. The manager bawls '* Me h !"

Everybody bawls "Mc^ h!'" "Gimlet! Gimlet!"

I

4

m

d

A BABSL.

76

This is the playful rehearsal appellation for Bamlet Gimlet is at length captured, and goes rushing like a ! locomotive down the passage.

Stage Manager, "Ifow, ladies and gentlemen. All on!"

They tumble up the stage steps, and gather in groups, H — 1 — n fences with everybody. Miss H — w — n executes an imperfect pas seuL

Leading Lady, *<I-a-a-a-a love-nm-um-um — and-ara-a another"

Miss H — I — y, Miss M — d — e^ or any other woman, **ThiB engage-a-a-a my eon's nm-nm-um Bauk Exchange/*

A^-d — n raises his hands and eyes to heaven, saying, "Great father ! he's drunk !**

Leading Lady, (Very energetically.) " Go not, dearest Hawes ! The Gorhamites are a-a-a-um-um devour thee,"

Mrs, S—n-^. " How ! What ! !"

Mrs. J h, " Are those peasantry up there ?" (Boy

comes up to the stage and addresses the manager through his nose), "Mr, G., I can't find him anywhere."

H yJ n, ** Forasmuch as I" (terrible ham- mering).

Nasal Boy, **Mr. G., I can't find him anywhere."

L — c — A. "Stop my paper !"

JIanager. "Mr. L., that must be brought out veiy strong ; thus, Slop my paper /"

L — c — fu (Bringing it out with an emphasis which raises the roof of the theatre,) *VBtop my paper !"

The leading lady here goes through the motion of fiunting, and falls against the Star, who is partly nnbal- lanced by her weight and momentum. The Star then rushes distractedly about, arranging the supernumera- ries to his liking, Ed- s and B y walk abstractedly

to and fro. 8 — n — r dances to a lady near the wings. These impromptu dances seem to be a favorite pastime on the undressed stage.

76 QUXSB LAUOHTIR.

Second Lady. *^ Positively a-a-a Tom Fitch am- am amusiDg a-aitch, a-aitch, araitch/*

It puzzled me for a long time to find out what was meant by this repetition of a-aitch. It is simply the read- ing of laughter. A-aitch is where "the laugh comes in." The genuine peals of laughter are reserved for the regular performance. Actresses cannot afford to cachinnate during the tediousness and drudgery of rehearsal. Usually they feel like crying.

Stage Manager. "We must rehearse this last act over again."

Everybody, at this announcement, looks broadswords and daggers. There are some very pretty pouts from the ladies, and some deep but energetic profttnity from the gentlemen.

Much more than this is said and done at rehearsal, but it is all equally tedious and monotonous. Daily do these unfortunate people go through such a performance, from ten A. M. to one or two P. M. And then they go home for a few hours, perhaps to study their parts and get up their wardrobes. I have no aspirations. Have you, Mr. Pea Green ? If so, go— go on the stage, but let it be one that carries the mail and passengers.

HIQH ABT nr HAUL

77

CHAPTER Vm.

JB Dresses, — Hair Dressers and the Liko.—Eiigencies of Attire. — The iUiof Dreasing ft Part to Spit the Character and the Period.— Kistori's Attention to such Dotalls. — Mlfitaking Dreas for the Chief Bequiromcnt of an Actor. — Abaard Anachronisma by Ignorant or Carelcaa Actora. — The Wardrobe Keeper, — Curious Instances of Effect in Costume. ^A Living Pack of Cards* — Exaggerated Idea of Value of Stago Jewels. The Mounts n Robbora. — The Stolen Crown. — My Jewel Bfig in a Western Town.

All theatres of auy importance have "dressers.** Male dressers for the actors, and women dressers for the ac- tresses. These help the players in change of dress, and fold op and put away their stage clothing after the piece IB over. The leading players, I should say ; for the poor ballet girls, who are most tired of all, are not vouch- safed the luxury of a dresser.

In French theatres a hair dresser is also furnished for the players* convenience, and a useful person he is. It is his duty to dress the heads of all the leading players in every piece each night; and to be sure that he shall dress it in the style worn at the time the play represents. Thus lie must dress it fashionably if it is a modern play, or in the Btyl© of the Cavaliers, Round Heads, Greeks, or Ro- man^ or powder it a la Pompadour, as the case may be. ThiB useful person has not been adopted in American tiieatres, and we often see very stupid anachronisms com- mitted on the stage by a character appearing in a style of head-dress not worn perhaps for a hundred years after the individual he is representing was dead and buried.

This matter of costuming has been in some cases car- ried so far as almost to reach a fine art

In some theatres, where much attention is given to the

78

ATTENTION TO DEBSS.

costuineB worn, the name of the costumer is printed on the evening playbill. This causes him to be known to the public, and his services are often sought by persons who are desirous of hiring or having made ^costumes for mas- querade balls, private theatricals or charades,

Ristori was inimitable in her careful attention to details in dress, Macauley himself could scarely have had a better knowledge than she of the different peculiarities of the epochs in which her plays were laid. Her costumes in Marie Antoinette were copied from pictures taken from life J and her court dress in Elizabeth was one which it was asserted old Queen Bess had actually worn*

Those who saw Ristori in this play will not easily forget her wearing clumsy white cotton gloves. Kid gloves were not known in Elizabeth's time.

It is a great mistake, however, for a player to suppose that attention to dress will compensate for inattention to matters of even greater importxince ; and, as has been re- marked, it must be extremely galling to a bad and imper- fect performer to have a warm reception given him entirely on that score, as it sometimes happens, and to hear the gallery-gods shout heartily, "Brayvo the dress!*' One should try to hit the happy medium in this respect, and to pay due regard to propriety of costume, without neg- lecting other essentials. The style and cut of a stage garment are of more consequence than the quality or na- ture of the material of which it is composed, and the cor- rect dress of the period certainly enhances the beauty of the play; yet in the "School for Scandal*' and other ele- gant comedies of the same date the gentlemen generally sport moustaches; and a "star" appears in "Guy Hanner- ing*' without previously shaving off his whiskers and im- perial. But carelessness in these and other such instances is not half so censurable as the downright igiioruioe that b oocasionly to be met with in the pro^BsaioiL

COCKNEY GREEKBACKS.

TO

All aorta of anachronisms do manage to creep in, even at the best theatres, at times. In a leading London theatre one of the most celebrated actors of his day once made the blunder of wearing spectacles in a piece, the time of which was one century antecedent to their inven* tion ; Kean, as Crkhion^ played on a modern piano- forte; and pistols and guns are used in all our theatres, in many pieces, the supposed dates of which are prior to the invention of fire-arms.

At the Fifth Avenue Theatre in New York, a short time ago, Mr, James Lewis played the part of John Mibbs a London diy-gooda drummer, in Robertson's comedy of "Dreams,** The scene is of course laid in England ; but at one point it was funny to see the generous-hearted Ifitfo, take out bis pocket-book, and present the suffering hero with a liberal donation of greenbacks^ instead of notes of the Bank of England. This mistake — trifling as it seems — was amply sufficient to destroy the stage illusion for the moment ; for the idea of a London cockney presenting a fellow foreigner with American greenbacks was a little too ridicnlons.

The costumer or wardrobe keeper is generally a very humble individual of either sex.

It is not an unusual occurence for the wardrobe keeper to have lodgings in the theatre. These are of course furnished gratis by the manager, who gets his reward in their adding one more watchman to those specially en- gaged for the purpose. But I may here remark that / should have to be placed pretty low on fortune's ladder before I would consent to pass my days and nights sleep- ing or waking with the lugubrious surroundings of musty stage duds, — odds and ends of a more multifarious char- acter than were ever found in any old curiosity shop, un- ceasingly about me. But tastes differ. One of the most novel and brilliant effects I ever saw

LQOAS AMD TEE W1QWWAYMM3.

on the itage was doe to Hie iDTeotion of the oostiuner. It fepteseEited — hj dre»e0 wora by a number of young men and women — s whole pack ^ cards ; with the four ^iieeiiB, the foor IdogB^ die JMka, all the different saits^ gpadetr dnhe, fiamonda, and finally the large sp^de ace, B was Terj coriotts ; the coetumes being peculiarly qoainL The eflSM^WBB heigfateaed by these people danidng in such a maimer as to repTeoeot thuffing the whole pack to^ gether, then suddenly breaking into groupe of all one euit — clnba in one, spades in another, hearta in another, and diamonds in another.

The idea which many people entertain, that the '^jewels** worn on the stage are of great Tslae, has led to many an* pleasant results for actors. It seems absurd that any one should imagine an actor's costumes and jewels to be of the fabulous Talue of the kings* and queens* who are repre* sented as wearing them; but my father used to tell the stoiy of an attack which was once made upon him, brought on by this delusion* fl

He was traveling about the country giving theatrical peHbrmances in various towns, and journeying of course by stage coach. fl

A band of highwaymen, eeeing his large cheats, Lis numberless trunks, boxes and baskets, conceived the idea that any body traveling with such an amount of baggage must be loaded down with wealth, and the trunks crmamed ftjl of silver ware.

So in one of the lonely mountain gorges of Pennsyl- vaiiia, and just as the night was &Hing, five ruffians h chibs attacked the coach.

Jkly father and mother were alone, the rest of the com- V having gone ahead.

i ^ driver seemed inclined to side with the ruffian^ ling of course to share the booty ; but my father mitkd that things ehould take this turn.

THE CROWN ROBBERS,

81

Quick as thought he drew a stage eword from its scab- i,and being an adinirabla fencer, attacked his assailants "in earnest.

The old sword was dirty and rusty; but my father's determined air, his dexterity in the handling of what seemed to them a dangerous weapon, soon scattered the vagabonds, and prevented no doubtj robbery if not murder.

It would have been an amusing scene to witness the consternation of the robbers if they had ^succeeded in cap- taring the trunks. Instead of finding silver ware or other valuables they would have been amazed at the sight of a lot of musty wardrobe, old stage traps, some faded scenery — the whole utterly valueless except to a party of travel- ing' actors.

Many years ago, while a theatrical company were play- ing at a Stiite Fair, in a certain town in New York Stxite, the leading actress in the company was awakened at dead of night by the sountl of some one breaking into her room.

She awoke and gave the alarm, and two fellows, who confessed their felonious intentions, were captured.

They said they had seen the actress wear a sparkling crown on her head during the performance at the theatre, and believing it to be set with jewels of untold value, thoy resolved to steal it, and become as rich as princes by its sale.

The crown was made of bits of burnished lead and glass beads, and was worth about half a dollar I

These fellows were as stupid as a brace of robbers whose

iploit was the town-talk while I was in London a few fetiTS ago.

An English lady of rank, returning from the Continent, her trunk placed on top of a cab, got inside, and was iriven home.

When she arrived there she found the trunk which con- tained the family jewels had been stolen* 6

In vain the London detectives searched every jewelr shop, and questioned every jewel merchant, not iu Eng- land alone but in all Europe — the missing valuables were not to be found.

At length, one day, jewels which corresponded to the description, were found at an old clo' shop in one of th^ most miserable streets in London,

They were seized, and tlie thieves detected and brought to justice — a man and a woroan. They confessed to have stolen the trunk, and said they had sold the "jewelry " for a pound — five dollars — to the old clothes dealer aforesaid.

When asked how they could have been bo foolish as to sell nearly a hundred thouBand dollars* worth of diamonds for five dollars — they opened their eyes in sorrowful wonder, ^M

"Why, yer honor/' answered the man, "we never thought for a minute as how they were real jewels; just thought the lady was some play actor woman, and that the whole lot wasn't worth but a few shillings/'

Strange to say the old clo' man never suspected his good fortune either, but bought and offered for sale some of the most celebrated jewels in Europe, under the belief that they were "play actors' trash/'

"When I was fulfilling a round of theatrical engage- ments in the Southwest, during the war, I was compelled by "military necessity" to pack up ray jewels and sendj them to Cincinnati. "

Of course there were a number of stage trinkets in the bag, as well as some little jewelry of real value, but as it happened a fabulous idea had got afloat of the value of my little trinkets, and I was offered large sums for the carpet sack "just as it stood," after I had packed it to send it to Cincinnati.

** V\l give yon ten thousand dollars for it without open- ing it," said one gentleman. *' I want those ear-rings for .Hiy wife/'

VALUABLE JEWELS.

88

"No," I answered, ** no; tliose things wero given me in France, and I shouldn't like to part with them."

"Are the ear-rings in here?*'

** Yes," I answered.

**And the bracelet ?'•

"Yes."

"Fifteen thousand — will you?"

**No, no," I answered; and the matter ended, I couldn't help laughing, for truly I might have made a sharp bargain if I had wished. Somebody would have been sold, and that somebody not myself.

I returned to Cincinnati after my trip to Nashville, and there found ray effects awaiting me, in good order. One day, in the Buniet House, I was accosted by a pleasant- lookiDg gentleman, who informed me that he had taken charge of the bag from Louisville to Cincinnati,

**Did not Mr. send it by express?" I asked.

**No. I was coming up, and he thought it best to en- trnst it to me."

** I am very much obliged to you," I said.

** Indeed, you have cause to be," he replied good- naturedly. " I give you my word, it's the last time III have on ray mind the charge of fifty thousand dollars' worth of diamonds."

I thought of the story of the three black crows. How miiny crows was this ?

u

MAKING UP THE FACE.

CHAPTER IX.

Making up tlie Faco.— Ttistori's Skill m thia Subtle Art— Painting Age and Youth on the Same Face, — Easier to Faint Old than to Paint Young. — Tracing the Lines of Sorrow, Suffering and Despair*— Daub- ing with Chalk and Rouge. — ^A Lover's Dieappointment, — How the Artiat Rothemiel Changed M© from a Toung Woman into an Old One in Five Minutes, — Instructions in the art of Making Up.^<?oloring for Indians^ Negroes^ etc. — Magic Effects of Actors by Removing Color while Playing a Part.^Making Up the Figure. — Old-fa«bioned Ideas on the Subject. — The Modern Triumphs of the Padinaker, — How Bandy Lega are Made Shapely, Thin Leg3 Plump^ and Ugly Forma Beautiful.

To ^'make up the face" is one of the subtlest arts of the actor.

Who that has witnessed the acting of Ristori in Queen Elizabeth, but will remember how from act to act she visi- bly grew older and older before our eyes I Not only by voice and manner and gait was this change effected ; but ber face, bright and joyous at the beginning of the play, became gradually wrinkledj pale and careworn ; her bair grew grayer and grayer; until, at last, as she lay on the couch representing the dying Queen, she seemed reduced to a skeleton, and livid as a corpse.

This was brought about solely by her perfect knowledge of how to make up the face,

I was bohinj the scenes of the French Theatre in New York one night when Ristori was playing Elizabeili, and when I came to look closely at her face it seemed a mean- faglona mass of white and black marks, with deep dashes of rod under the eyes; but at one step off the effect was wonderful:

It h eimier to make up the face to look old than to look youug; nevertheless a carefi:^! mingling of pink for the *oolc, white for the forehea.c3^ black for the eyebrows, and

PAINTED WOMEN.

85

carmine for tlic lips, will go a great way toward maHiig an old and homely woman look like a young and hand- some one.

I must say, though, that I always detested the paintiDg up one's face to befool people into thinkiug you pretty. When I was an actress I had a sort of artistic satisfaction in painting a face to represent age or sorrow, and in the artistic sense, of course, one was truly do worse than the other* But while the careworn lining adds expression to the features, the mere covering it with white and red I have always found to take away expression, and render the features silly and commonplace.

As the practice is very general in society now, readers of this book who do not go to the theatre can easily see the effect for themselves by walking up and down Chest- nut street or Broadway of a fine day.

**8he isn't all that my fancy painted her,*' bitterly ex- claimed a rejected lover; " and, worse than that, she isn^t what she paints herself."

One of the most admirable effects I ever saw of the magic change which a few skilfully drawn lines will make in a face, was made in a picture by one of Philadelphia's most distinguished painters — Rothermeh

It was in Paris, some years ago. Mr, Rothermcl had received an order from a wealthy family in Philadelphia to furnish them a picture of some episode in the life of Coriolanus.

He chose the moment when the wife and mother of the warrior, leading a band of matrons, came to entreat Cori- olanus to return to Rome.

Mr. Rothermel was in great want of some faces, " with bind in them,** as he expressed it, to serve as models for the Roman women, lie could not endure the thought of eopying the namby-pamby faces of French professional

86

QEOWK OLD IN AN INSTANT.

models ; and so his own wife and some of her lady friends lent him their faces *' for this occaBion only."

The wife of Coriolanus was represented hy Mrs- Green- ough, wife of the sculptor; the mother of Coriolanus by Mrs. Rothermel; and a distressed young lady in the left foreground by myself.

The likenosaes were perfect ; I would have given five hundred dollars to cut out the figure of myself, and send it to my mother in America ; but of course that was not to bo thought o£

On subsequent study Mr. Rothermel discovered the fact that there were no young women 'along' on this occasion ; they were all matrons.

'^Easily fixed/' said he — like a true American, apply- ing the word '* fixed " even to art.

With a few touches of the brush he transformed my face from a perfect likeness of what it was to a perfect picture of what it will be when I am fitly.

The picture belongs, I think, to the Van Sickle estate, and is a triumph of art.

An old work, published in London nearly fifty years ago, contains many interesting particnlars with regard to painting the face, etc., which are still further curious as showing how little difterenco there is botweca ** then and now" in this matter of '* making up."

*' There can be little doubt that all paint is injurious to the skin, and the object should be, therefore, to neutralize its pernicious qualities as much as possible. Chinese ver- milion boiled in milk, and then suffered to dry, and after- ward mixed \\ath about half the quantity of carmine, is decidedly the best color an actor can use ; it is said to be too powerful for a female face, but this I am inclined to consider an error, especially as the late introduction of gas into our theaters has rendered a more powerful color- ing than that formerly used decidedly necessary. Rouge

4 4

4

PAINTED MEN,

87

tive color and seldom lies well on the face ; tons ^ painting it is best to paea a napkin with a little pomatum on it over the part intended to receive the color, then touch the cheek with a little hair powder, which will set the color, and then lay on the vermilion and carmine. A rabbit's foot ia better than anything for distributiDg the paint equally. Performers should bear in mind that it is better to have too little color than too much ; but they would also do well to remember that, when heated, color will sink, and it may be well in the course of a long part, to retouch the countemuice. Ladies have generally sufficient knowledge of the arts of decking the human face divine, therefore the few remarks I have yet to offer on this subject will be confined to the other eex. It is a common, though slovenly habit, to make mustaches and whiskers by means of a burnt cork ; an idle, filthy mode — involving, too, the danger of transfer- ring j^our lip ornaments to the cheek of a lady, if it be necessary in the scene to salute her. A earners hair pen- cil and Indian ink will, with very little trouble, give a more correct imitation of nature; and if the brush be wet in gum water, there can be little danger of the ink run- ning, either from the efiect of heat or otherwise. What is termed lining the face, is the marking it, so as to rep- resent the wrinkles of age ; this art, for it is one, is little understood upon the English Stage — our Parisian neigh- bors are adepts. It is impossible to give instructions for it upon paper; the best instrument to perform it with, is a piece of round wire, like a black hair-pin ; this held in the smoke of a candle, communicates a finer and more distinct line than can be made by dipping it in Indian ink. * * "^ Othello used not in former days to sport a colored countenance, but wore the same sables as Mungo in " The Padlock ;'* but this, as being destructive of tlie effect of the face, and preventing the possibility of the

88 BURNT-COEK MYSTERIES.

expression being observable, has become an obsolete cus- tom. A tawny tioge is now the color used for the gal- lant Moor, for Bajazet nudZauga; Spanish brown is the best preparation for this purpose. Previous to using it, the whole face shoul J be rubbed with pomatum, or the color will not adhere* Some persons mix the color with carmine, and, wetting it, apply it to the face, but I never saw this plan answer* Sade, Bulcazin^ ^luky^ Holla, &c., should be colored with Spanish brown, though it is com- mon, especially for comic performers, to use only an ex- traordinary quantity of vermilion or carmine spread over the whole of the face. To produce the black necessary for the negro face of Sussan^ Wouski, Mimgo^ or Sambo, the performer should cover the face and neck with a thin coat of pomatum, or, what is better though more disagree- able, of lard ; then barn a cork to powder, and apply it with a hare's foot, or cloth, the hands wet with beer, which will fix the coloring matter* Wearing black gloves is unnatural, for the color is too intense to represent the skin, and negroes invariably cover themselves with light I clothing. Arms of black silk, often worn in Hassan, have

■ a very bad eftect; armings dyed with a strong infusion of Spanish annatto look much more natural ; for a negro's

■ arms, it will be observed, are generally lighter than his countenance. A strong coloring of carmine should be laid upon the face after the black, as otherwise the expres-

■ fiion of countenance and eye will bo destroyed. All per- sons have witnessed the great effect produced by suddenly

(removing the color in any scone of fright or surprise; to do this cleverly requires some expertness. In the scene in the *Iron Chest/ where T^7{/brf/ kneels to inspect the chest, it is easily done by means of a greased napkin,

■ whilst his face is averted from the audience. In Rkhard the Third, a celebrated tragedian of the present day always removes his color in the dreaming scene, and applies po-

p

L

HOW TO TURN PALE, 89

tnatum to hia countenance, and then drops water upon Hs forehead; and this he effects while tossing and tumbling in the aasamed throes of mental agony. In Carlos (^ Isa- bella *), last scene, where, at the sudden discovery of hia guilt, he might naturally be supposed to turn pale, I have Been performers try strange expedients; some, having removed the color previous to coming on, have played the scene till the point of discovery, with their backs to the audience, an offensive mode, whith has also the disadvantage of preparing the auditors foT the trick. The thing can be generally sufficiently executed by oiling the inside of your glove, and burying your face in your hands at the moment of accusation ; color adheres to oil imme- diately, and without the appearance of error the color will bo removed. It would be tedious to enumerate the many tricks of this nature that may be practised. Legi- timate acting wants little aid of this sort, and nothing but experience can point out when any ruse de theatre can be properly attempted. For such situations as those of Colonel RegoUo (* Broken Sword '), at the table, with the lights burning before him, it is usual to whiten the face> and blacken beneath the eyes, which gives them a liollow and sunken appearance. In MacbetKs return with the daggers^ the same expedient is resorted to. In * Beiv ttam* and *De Montford/ the torches of the mooks are ' sometimes impregnated with a chemical preparation, which throws a ghastly hue upon the hero's countenance when it is held before them, a hue resembling that communica- ted to the face by the mixture displayed in tlie windows of druggists.**

In the same old work is an amusing paragraph which ihowB in the strongest light the progress of this enlight- ened age in the lofty "fine art" of padding. Says the author :

"I liave known many actors who look very well on the

90

FADDma AND STUFFING.

Btage, except wbeii compelled to exhibit tlieir legs, eitber in silk stockings or pantaloons. Now, where it happens tbc leg is what is termed bandy or buck-shinned, no method can bo devised for totullj concealiug the defect, although I have heard that there are means of decreasing even this eyesore; but it requires an iugeuuity beyond any that has ever fallen under my ohservatiuu. When the leg is straight and thin, the most approved method is to U3e the feet and legs of as many pair of old silk stockings as may produce the required increase of size, carefully leaving a little less on each succeeding stocking, both at the top and bottom ; and having thus made the leg per- fectly shapely, lastly put on the stocking that is to face the audience, unmindful of the shabby scoundrels that it covera."

In these days of the triumph of human inventive genius, such shifts are no longer needed. In the grand march of progress, the mowing macliine and the sewing machine have been invented; the Atlantic ocean has been spanned with the telegraphic cable, and— padding has come to the rescue of bandy-legged and buck-shinned mortals,

One of those high-toned and polished gentlemen who edit newspapers which defend the indecencies of the leg- business, lately broke forth in this brilliant strain : '* One thing is sure," he wrote, *' when a woman has bad pins, when she is either bandy or knock-kneed, a well-shaped woman on the stage, *in ten-inch satin breeches,* as Misa Olive Logan says, excites her most virtuous horror; but, when she happens to be one of the * bending statues' who can enchant the world by furtive glimpses of a well-turned ankle, she not only takes pity on the world, but has a complete charity for her professional sisters behind the footlights/*

This would be a crushing sarcasm but for the fact that it is ridiculous to suppose there arc any women nowadays ^bo are *' bandy or kuock-kneed/'

BYMMETKICAL GOODS*

n

The woman — or the man either — ^who cannot exhibit a I shapely figure on the stage, has certainly not learned the way to the shop of the padmaker.

There are quite a number of these ** professors of sym- metry" in this country, but they are most numerous in Philadelphia. They advertise quite freely in the theatri- cal journals, and no one need be in ignorance of their whereabouts. They do not boldly advertise the unplea- rsant word "padding,** of course — the popular term for padding is ** Symmetrical Goods/*

Much need not here be said with regard to the modus lOpercmdiof the padmaker. The ecience lies in weaving leggings, or ** tights," as they are called in theatrical par- lance, in such a way that they shall increase the thickness [ of the calf, the thigh, etc., add woven eilk or cotton in the jlace where flesh is wanted, and thus conceal leanness or ^deformity.

Thus a tragedian with lower limbs like pipe-stems, can LpuU on his "'tights," and stand before an admiring audi- FCnce with the sturdy legs of an athlete.

No such means of concealing an undue development of

L&tty matter have yet been devised — and the probability

rls that none ever will be, in spite of the prayers of many

a jolly waddler that this "too, too solid flesh would

lelt"

92

SALARY BAT.

CHAPTER X.

How Salanea are Paid.— Tbe Etiquette of Actors regarding Sftlanes.-- ExJiggeratcd Idoaa of the Pay of ActorB. — The Truth in the Matter. — Salaries of Leading Performers, Walking Pe^ople, Old People, Utility People and Supertiumeraries,— Why the Pay of Actors aeenia Larger than it Beally ia.— Their EjcpettMa for Drei»,— The Cost of Running a Theatre.— The Pay of Stars.— Sahirics in Old Xime«.— An Actor who Begalatcd hia Acting by bio Sttli*ry,

" Salary-day'' is an interestiug poiat in the actor's weekly life, as may easily be imagined; and in view of the exag- gerated ideas wbich prevail, regarding the pay of actors^ it may be well to furnish some reliable information on this head.

The salaries of actors, scene-paiuters, stage-hands, and all the hundred employees of a theatre, are paid by the treasurer of the house, wlio has a large book in which every member of the compauy registers his or her name as a weekly receipt. The amount of sahiry, neatly done up in a sealed envelope, with the name inscribed outside, is then handed over to each person as he passes. Theae envelopes are all prepared before '* salary-day** arrives and in tliis manner each member of the company is ig- norant of the amount of all salaries but his own. And ii is a point of etiquette among these people always to re- main in such ignorance.

Unless the recipient of a salary chooses to say what he is paid for his services, it would be quite possible for two or more people to drees in the same room and be cast in the same plays for ten years in the same theatre, and yet none ever know the amount of each other's salary.

"What do you get a week?" would he considered

19

i

WHAT ACTORS ARE PAIB,

93

very rude question indeed, and one whichj with all my ex- perience, I never yet heard asked.

It is this fact which has caused so many wild rumors to fly about relative to the extent of this or that actor or actress's salary* For the most part these reports are grossly exaggerated ; and though, of course, there are no absolutely fixed rates for the different players in a theatre, leve is an estimate to be made by one who knows the 'routine thoroughly, which will be found pretty nearly accurate.

The salary of a leading actor or actress ranges from $40 to $60 a week. But I know one leading actress in New York who gets $100 a week, and two m ho get $76 each.

These^ however, are peculiar cases ; all three being actresses specially attractive for youth, beanty and talent.

** Walking gentleman" or lady will get from $20 to $35 a "week; "old man'* or *' old woman** from $25 to $40; while other players of a lower grade of talent than these will get all the way from $25 down to $10 a week, I should say there would be no lower salary than $10 a week in a theatre for any one who appears on the stage, even for members of the ballet or ''supes," though it is true that sometimes extra men are engaged from the streets for some special purpose, who receive no more than $3 or $4 ^week.

I know the above figures will seem large to persons of atellect, culture and talent who work hard all day for perhaps one tenth of the sura gained^ let us say, by a lead- ing actress. But even setting aside the fact that special talent brings special reward, and that the stage has always been a fine lucrative field for womairs employment (and lis fact is my chief reason for wishing to keep it as pure

possible), there are many other causes why an actress fthouid receive a large weekly salary. The principal of is that an actress's outlay for dress miLsi be very large.

94

OOBTLY ATTIRE-

I say it must be, for if it be not she cannot keep h position.

In the *^ good ohl flays" (which everybody on the sta^ and oft' seems to unite in lamenting), a black velvet drear (as often as not cotton velvet), a white satin dress (as often as not a soiled, second-hand article), and a sweet-simplicity white muslin were considered quite a sufficient basis for an actress to do what is called **lead the business** in — that is, to play Juliet and Lady llacbethy Julia^ in the "Hunchback," and any other standard parts which sb might be called upon to play.

But nous avons chajige tmit cela, A leading actress now- a-days in a large city, must lead the fashions, as well as the *' business ;" with every new play she must come oul in a number of elegant new dresses ; and I have more th; once heard the remark : *' Let's go to the theatre this evei ing to see what Mrs, wears,"

This being the case, an actress seldom manages to save much of her salary for the proverbial rainy day which comes to all.

The dress question also affects the male players. The modern comedies now so generally played require a be- wildering quantity of elegant morning suits, dress suits, overcoats, shooting-jackets, hats, gloves, canes and boots. These must all be purchased by the actor; and when they go out of fashion, must be discarded.

Stage-caipenters and Bcene-shifters are pretty well paid, from $10 to $50, according to their abiHties. Their work is hard, and their hours of labor long. They are at the theatre at about nine in the morning, and must be there till the performance is over at night — ^generally not far from midnight They arc paid by the week like the actors, and also, like them, when a play is on for a run, they have quite easy times. That is, easy so far as hard labor is concerned — they must always be around the ecenei never absent

as

" SEEING " STARS.

95

Ballet girls get from $8 to $15 a week; the prompter, $25 to $30; the call-boy, $15; the property man's salary ranges from $15 to $30, Then there are men up in the rigging loft who attend to the flies and the curtain wheel, and various assistxiDtg, at salaries of $20 and $10, There are from two to three scene painters at a salary of from $60 to |100- The back door keeper has $10j and two women to clean the theatre every day at $6 each. The orchestra consists of the leader at $100, and from twelve to sixteen musicians, whose salaries range from $30 to $18 a week. The gas man and fireman get $6 to $25 a week; coatumer or wardrohe-keeper, $20 to $40; dressers, $5 or $6; ushers, $4 to $6 ; doorkeepers, $12 ; policemen, $5 ; treasurer, $25 to $40.

The pay of ** stars'* is a very different matter. Usually these ladies and gentlemen play for a share in the receipts at the door ; and when they do this, of course their pay is regulated almost wholly by their ** drawing'* power.

Sometimes, however, the moat celebrated actors and actresses ih the land have engaged themselves for a fixed salary per week or per night In the case of very popular players this sum is sometimes almost fabulously large.

The largest salary that has ever been paid to a star in this country is that which was paid to Joseph Jcfierson, at Booth's theatre, in August and September, 1869, namely, $500 per night.

Even at this price he proved an immensely profitable star, drawing an average of $1,200 every night throughout the season.

By the "sharing" system stars often reap immense profits. Any popular star who could not make $1,000 a week for his or her own share, at a metropolitan theatre, would feel very much dissatisfied.

I have myself made that sum per week while starring in the West.

96

POCKDS. SHILLINGS AND PENCB.

A London journal says: It is curious to mark the" difference in the salaries paid to dramatic performers during the 'last hnudred years. If we look into Garricke theatre, we find the Roscius himself at the head, with a stipend of £2 15a. 6d. per night; Barry and his wife, £Z 68, 8d, ; John Palmer and hia wife, £2; King, the unri- valed Sir Peter Teazle and Lord OgUby, £\ 68. 8d. ; Parsons, £1 6s. 8d. ; Mrs, Pritchard, £% 68. 8d; Mrs, Gibber, £2 10s.; Miss Pope, 133. 4d.; and Signer Guestinelli, the principal singer, £1 ISs. 4d. Succeeding the days of Garrick came a host of distinguished performers^ including Lewis, Quicl^^ Bannister, Mundcu, Mre. Jordan, Miss Farren, cu7n midtii^ aliiSy not one of whom ever received '' star*' salaries. John Xemble, as actor and manager, was content with £55 143,^ per week; George Frederick Cooke received £25; and^ Mrs. Jordan, in her zenith, an average of £81 10a. Drury Lane, in seasons 1812-13, boasted of an excellent com- pany, including John Johnstone, who was retained at £15 per week, and Dowton, who received £16. Convent Garden, at the same period, numbered among its mem- bers Emery (whose highest salury during his career waa £14 per week), Mathews, Fawcett, Bhinchardj Liston andfl Simmons, and their united receipts from the treasury were less than has since been paid to one actor at a metropo- litan minor theatre. Edmund Kean*s first engagement at Drury Lane, in 1814, was for three years, ranging from £8 to £10 per week. This was subsequently converted into a contract at £50 per week. Eight years prior to this great change in the fortunes of Kean— in the year 1806 — ho was pla3nng at the Ilayniarket, unnoticed and un- known, his salary at that time being £2 per week. Twenty years later, when wrung in heart and fame, physically and mentally weak, he received at the same house £50 per night. As a contrast to the sums paid daring the past century, we may state that at Drury Lane, when under the manage-

CHEAP SPIRITS,

97

raent of the late Stephen Price, the nightly salary of Edmund Kean was £60, and that of Madame Vcstris and Listen £25 each; whilst Farren received £35 weekly, Jones £35, James Wallack £35, and Harley £30. In 1838, Tyrone Power was receiving £96 %veekly, from the Adelphi, and Farreu £40 from the Olympic, It was once remarked, in reference to the enormous sums lavished upon "stars/' that the President of America was not so highly paid as Ellen Tree; whilst the Premier of Great Britain had a less salary than Mr. Maoready. Madame Malibran was said by the same writer to draw five times as much money as the Colonial Secretary, and Mr* Farreu nearly twice as much as the representative of the Home Office.

A story is told of a little thin actor of the name of Hamilton, connected with the theatre in Crow street, Dublin, when under the management of Mr. Barry.

To this performer the chieftain one morning remarked — " Hamilton, you might have thrown a little more spirit into your part last night/* ** To be sure I might sir, and could," replied Hamilton; "but with my salary of forty ahillings per week, do you think I ought to act with a bit more spirit or a hit better? Your Mr. "Woodward there has a matter of a thousand a year for hia acting. Give me half a thousand, and see how 11! act; but for a salary of two pounds a week, Mr. Barry, I cannot afibrd to give yoTi my best acting, and I will not"

98 FIVB BOB.

CHAPTER XL

The Koblo Army of "Oupes." — Custom of Laughing at theso People. — Bough Treatment by Managers^ — A Frightened ** Savage." — Utility People, — Fallen Fortunes. — Ups and Downs of Actors. — Making the Moii of One's Opportunities, — Attention to Trifles. — How the Celebra- ted Comedian Bobson made his First Hit. — **YilUkms and Hit Dinah/'— The Story of a Utility Man.—Green Ibid»— The Summoiw of Death,

When, in the course of theatrical events, it becomes necessary for a manager to represent upon bis stage the British army or the cohorts of the late Confederacy ; when a large quantity of sturdy throats are wanted, to bawl "Long live the King!" or to cry "We will! we will!'* or to clamor, "Down with the tyraut!" then doth the stage-manager depute hia customary instrument to go into the streets and engage a lot of aupemumeraries.

The individual who has this duty to discharge is called the captain of the supernumeraries, and he knows where to find the individuals he wants. It is related of a Lon- don functionary of this sort, that he had an ingenious mode of proceeding in these circumstances. Having Bought out an individual in an advanced stage of starva- tion, he addressed him in some such terms as the follow- ing; *'Look here, my man, if you want employment 111 let you have it at five bob a week. If you like the job Bay so, if you don't I can find somebody else who will Of course six is what the management oiFers, but I can't be bothering myself for nothing, and as I do you a fiivor you mustn't grumble at the per ceutage/* Generally the man didn't make any " fuss ** about it.

Whether the same custom is in vogue in this country I don't know. But it is beyond doubt that the lot of a so- j^ernumerary is far from being an enviable om\

A FRIGHTENED SAVAGB.

99

It is the custom to laugh at those people, to cover them with contumely, to hail them (from the galleries) with |the cry of " Soup ! Soup !" and otherwise make their lives ' miserable.

This is quite unnecessary. The "supe** generally has

, hard eoough time of it behind the Bceues. He mustn't

lind being sworn at^ or, if need be, shaken. If attentive

knd industrious, he may gradually rise to a position of atl-

lority, hut in nineteen cases out of twenty the man who

las begun as a "super** concludes his theatrical experi-

fence in the same capacity.

An amusing anecdote, illustrative of the terrible reality of Mr. Forrest's acting, was told me the other day by a veteran actor.

Forrest was playing the character of Mdamota at the Ilolliday Street Theatre, in Baltimore, when he was in the prime of vigorous manhood. As the play developes, Sve or BIX ruffians (generally '* supers ") are in pursuit of lis wife Nahmodkec, Just as the head villain has laid bands on her, the "chief of tlie Wampanoags *' (Forrest) ashes in, rescues his squaw, and, leveling his musket along the line of the eyes of the six "savages,** shouts, ** Wdch of you has lived too long ?'*

The fearful earnestness with which this line was given nearly frightened one of the "supes" out of his wits — iving no doubt in the mind of the trembling coward nt he was to be dispatched on the spot "With an ex- [^reesion of the utmost terror, he yelled out: "Not me ! not me ! the supc with a tin tomahawk !" Mr. Forrest dropped his piece, and took occasion to em- brace his wife during the convulsions of the audience.

It is customary among the careless to confound the ^"enpes'* with the "utilities," But the utility people are \ irtep higher on the ladder. They are, in fact, actors, •ad though their parts are usually light, they are parts,

100

USELESS UTILITY.

and as soon as a *'supe ** has mounted to the dignity of ** lines *' he is a ''' supe " no longer. Though he may havd nothing more to say than *' Me lord, a letter for your lord- ship," yet is he an actor.

He shares, however, the custom of being laughed at, with the rahhle just below him in dignity. " Why is it," asks a facetious writer, " that these people must always be shahhy in costume and stuttering in speech? Why is it that they are always so inexcusably deficient in respect of calves? Why does the theatre keep no Taliacotus to plump out those neglected extremities ? Why is a depu- tation of two from an army which we have just seen vic- toriously valiant, always sent before the curtains to taol^| down or take up the green carpet? or, watering-pot in^ hand, to moisten the stage for the feet of Mudenioiselle de la Aplomb? and to let us know that she is putting the last smear of rod upon her old cheeks, and the finishing touch of white lead to her lean and scraggy neck, or prac- tising her most fascinating grin by the little dressing-room looking-glass, and will goon present herself to our enrap- tured gaze, in all the glory of gauze, and spangles, and pink fleshings, which arc called so because they do not look at all like the flesh ? How can a warrior, no matter how valiant he may be at the real game, muster courage,^ in the presence of his critical fellow-creatures, to addresjl half a score of bandy-legged varlets, shivering in second- hand shirts, behind their pasteboard shields, as an embat- tled host? He knows that Smith and Tompkins have no bravery independent of beer ; how can he howl to them understaodingly as 'Men of England ! or * Men of France!' and, if the slaughter is sufficiently great and indiscrimi- nate, what does the neutral nationality of the pit care whether victory smiles upon tlie meteor flag of Albion or the five-pointed oriflamme of France? There is a particular wamor in the French ranks^ — ^you may know

AN IMPEHIAL" «0Wjf.

101

by the ill fit of the Bkiii aboat tKj? patella — who has been our fate during the whole season/ It was he who caused the great American tragedian to &wear so fear- fully at the blundering way in which he kLord'fred the fine part of the First Murderer, leaving all oip,n*j[er of *rab8 and botches in the work*; and who, wh^" he Bfaoold have said, * My lord^ his throat is cot, that 1 Sffl for him,' actually cried, 'I cut his throat, my lord, and' did for him.* We might be pleased to see this block- head, who cannot uiiderstaud that a part is a part, whether it be of two words or twenty * lengths,' deposed from hia place of confidential murderer to the Majesty of Scotland, and degraded to the ranks; but we know very well that

t he will to-morrow night be sent on with a letter, which,

pfihoald he happen to hand it to the profjcr character, he will deliver with the awkwardness of a clown, and the air rf an emperor, according to his muddled conception of rhat an imperial air should be. We do not blame the galleries. They are quite right, those Jovian critics, in

l^arcastically shouting, ^Supe! Supe I' whenever this mia- erable person makes his appearance ; they are quite right in chilling, *Coat! Coat!' at the eight of a garment with rhich they have a sickening familarity; they are quite

'"tight in laughing at him longly and loudly, w^heu, with his fishy eyes, he glances at them defiantly. 'Tis their only consolation. They know that they must put up with him/'

It sometimes happens that an actor who aspires to very respectable business in some little strolling company — and

L'vho loves his art well enough to stay in the country, if he could get enough to eat — has sometimes been forced by his fallen fortunes to engage in a metropolitan theatre in

^the smallest of *• utility'* capacities,

A London writer tells of a poor wretch, who used to bannt Covent Garden during the opera season^ and at

102 NOTKjiC<l TO WEAR*

other periods of th^ year discharge the heavy businesa in small provin^al theatres, appeariog as the Doge of VrnkCy the merciless landlord, or the tyrannical proprie- tor of au'irnagiuary chateau, '* His boots were ever m an advantVcl- state of decay. They might have had heels ono^j-btit it is impossible to say when, and from between • tli^.soles and upper leathers their proprietor's excuse for •socks generally peeped forth with much slyness. The _ poor man*8 coat, or rather jacket, was smallj threadbare, f and curiously pinched in at the waist, his trousers six or eight inches too long; and his hat, soiled and papery, was always pressed rather than placed with an air of sham jauutiness on one side of his head, and bo as to display a jet black curl elaborately pomatumed* Whilst waiting for rehearsal be would strut to and fro on the stage, blind to the derision of the company, and perhaps in his * mind's eye ' representing Hamlet or the worthy Thane of Cawdor, He lived in a state of chronic indigence, and the last time we saw him, appeared, if possible, more dilapidated thaa ever* On being stopped, he grasped our hand in speech- less ecstacy, and when asked if he would 'take anything,' of course did not refuse* We proceeded to a neighboring bar, and engaged him in conversation, ^How was he? What was he doing?' ' Oh, still at the Garden, though lately he liad been playing the principal parts at the The- atre Koyal, Blankstairs. But he had thrown up his en- gagement on account of the dishonorable conduct of the proprietor* Not that there had been any remissness on his own side* Oh dear, no ! Engaged to play the Demon King in a pantomime, and a lover in a comedy on the

Lsame night; he had reached the town in the morning, attended rehearsal, and by evening was letter perfect, and brought the house down/ We inquired why, as he was always a *star' in the country, though unsuccessful in town, he didn't adhere to provincial business: but he

I

I

A PALPABLE HIT.

103

shook his head ominously, and endeavored to turn the conversation. He wished to inform ub that through the kindness of his friends ^ he was to be started afresh iu life ^ith the proceeds of a benefit performance to be held in a tavern at Hoxton. * There'll be no end of pros, there, my boy, and I shall be glad if you'lHake some tickets.' Wo did as requested, and supposed that payment would be made at the door. In this we were mistaken. Ready money was solicited, and we deposited coin at the rate of two pence a ticket, to be presently expended in drink- Poor wretch ! AVliat could have been his idea of a new start in life ? Grant that the performance took place, and that a couple of hundred visitors paid for admission — ^and this, by the bye, is granting almost a miracle — what a sat- isfactory sum is one pound thirteen and fourpence, where- with to commence an entirely new phase of existence !"

A small or insignificant part is a thing which all vain actors unite in dreading. It is natural that a man whose chief object in playing is to cut a figure in the eyes of the public, should endeavor to make that figure as couspicu- oas as possible. It is related of a utility man, that one eight, a certain great tragedian being engaged, the poor actor, enacting the character of a servant, had to repeat these words: "My lord, the coach ia waiting.*' This was all he had to say ; but, turning to the gallery part of the audience, he added, with stentorian voice : **And permit me further to observe, that the man who raises his hand against a woman, save in the way of kindness, is unwor- thy the name of an American !"

Shouts of applause followed. The poor fellow had clearly made a hit ; but he paid for it the next morning by being discharged from the company.

It ia a great mistake, however, to suppose that a small

cannot be made important. The fact is that ani/ part

be Hfled into a work of art in the hands of a true art-

1

4

I

JW ATTENTIOlf TO TRIFLES.

ist — labile it is equally true that the beet part ever written . ean be murdered by a man who is no artist. ■

Attention to trifles is one of the surest indications of the true artistic sense and appreciation — as in the case of the utility man who played a prim merchant who has very little to say — when he received a letter, instead of break- ing the seal, he took forth his pocket-scissors and cut the paper round it; this was characteristic of the regular and careful habits of the man he assumed to be.

A notable instance of succesa in a trifling character, is furnished in the history of the English comedian Frederick Bobson. "WTien he was still almost unknown and un- noticed in London, he was engaged for a small part at the New Olympic theatre, in that city. *'An old, and not a very clever farce, by one of the Brothers Mayhew, en* titled 'The Wandering ill nstrel,' had been revived. In this three, liobson was cast for the part of Jem Baggs^ an itinerant vocalist and flageolet-player, who, in tattered attire, roams about from town to town, makuig the air hideous with his perfonuances. The part was a paltry one, and Robaon, who had been engaged mainly at the instance of the manager^s wife, a very shrewd and appre- ciative lady, who persisted in declaring that the ex-low- comedian of the Grecian had * something in him,' eked it out by singing an absurd ditty called ' Vilikins and hia Dinah/ The words and the air of * Vilikins' were, if not literally as old as the hills, considerably older than the age of Queen Elizabeth. The story told in the ballad, of a father's crnelty, a daughter's anguish, a sweetheart's de- epair, and the uUimato suicide of both the lovers, is, albeit couched in uncouth and grotesque language, as pathetic as the tragedy of ^ Romeo and Juliet', Robson gave every stanza a nonsensical refrain of, * Right tooral !oI looral, right tooral lol lay/ At times, when his audience waa convulsed with merriment, he would come to a halt, aud

THE STAGE FOP.

V

JIM BAG as.

105

gravely observe^ 'This is not a cojnic song;' but Loudon was soon unanimous that such exquisite comicality iiad not been heard for many a long year. ' Vilikins anJ his Dinah' created a furore. Englishmen and English women all agreed to go crazy about *Vilikins/ — * Right tooral lol looraF was on every lip, Robson^s por- trait aa Jem B^tggs was in every shop-window. A news- paper began an editorial with the first line of ' Vilikins' :

* 'It't of m Uqjaor mttroluuit who in London did dweU.*

A judge of assize, absolutely fined the high sheriff of a county ono hundred pounds for the mingled contempt Bhown in neglecting to provide him with an escoit of javelin-men, and introducing the irrepressible * Right tooral lol looral* into a speech delivered at the opening of circuit. Nor was the song ail that was wonderful in Jctn Ba^gs, iHa make-up was superb. The comic genius of Robsou aaserted itself in an inimitable lagging gait, an unequaled snivel, a coat and pantaloons, every patch on and every rent in which were artistic, and a hat inconceivably bat- tered, crunched, and bulged out of normal, and into pre- ternatural shape."

An inferior actor would have **^ slurred" this part; but Robsou was a genius, and he made the part one of the most popular low-comedy pictures ever rendered on the

ge. The story contains its own lesson for utility people.

But utility people are seldom gifted with the genius of Robsou, and it sometimes happens that with the very best intentions in the world, a man may fail — as was the case with Mr. Spriggs, an English utility man, whose story is told in his own words,

**Ye8, sir, a General Utility, and nothing more all my life now, till I get too old. It's hard lines, too, I can tell

106

UTILITARIAN SORROWS.

you — not much pull got out of five-and-twenty or 80 a week, when you've got to find your own shoes, tights, swords and wig* Are the dresses a trouble to us? Ain't they rather ? I wonder how youd like it? But it's always my luckj drat it. Never comes a cutting, cold, beastly winter, but Fve got to do a Roman citizen in Roman cos- tume> fit to freeze your calves off — short sort o* thing — is it a toga? No — ^it ain't It*B a skirt not half so long, nor half as warm. With the wind blowiug about your heels as if you was a windmill — only you ain't half so good at the price. See us utility men in our dressiug-room, wait- ing to go on \ say it's winter time and weVe got a star down, Charles Kean, say, or Phelps, or some Yankee leading man for ten nights. Say it's ' Virgiaius* we're playing. Precious fine game for * responsible utility man' when he has to go on — servant's speech — announcing the company — -every cussed Roman name ending in * U5,' p'raps, and you knowing no more how to sound 'em than a cat knows about the Greek Testament Then p'raps you'll have a blazing midsummer night — ^a regular 'greaser' — when the house in front feels as hot as a brick- kiln, and you're togged up in furs and rabbit skins doing a wicked Russian nobleman or an oppressed Polish serf, and you melting all the while you're rubbing your hands and trying to look shivering at the cardboard pine treea ■ all over snow, you know. That's been my luck, too, before now! Ilave I never had it worse than that? Haven^t I cussed % bit when I had to study a little bit of rrench in such a piece as *Belpbcgor, the Mountebank,' or ' The Wandering Jew ?* I never got a good part^ — not likely a G. TJ, at a minor theatre should— unless he makes it himself=^but I"m bleat if I wouldn't rather study every ine of * Susan TTopley' than one of them crack-jaw bits that seem to me to have only been put in to lick us G. Uc*fl ' If we don't know, why don't we ask somebody? Oh! y

\

I

4

I

ONE BOB A WEEK EXTEA.

lOT

and let everybody laugh at you as an igoorant image not fit for the prolesfiiou, and all that — them that laugh not knowing a bit better themselves besides, of course. I remember the first time I got a 'bob' a night extra, for conung on aud sayiug, * My lordj Sir Henry awaits your greeting in the council chamber!* and so forth— and ofi* again. Wasn't I proud of it! Ah ! but I remember the time, too — * Julius Crosar* — years after, when we had a beast of a Brutus — an out-an-outer, too good for every- body— thought 80 much of himself that I believe, if he could, he'd have liked to have taken everybody's business in the piece away from *em, I was the servant that comes on — ^you know, Act iii, scene 1,* Julius Cffisar'*-at our shop that's very responsible utility— and says fifteen lines slick off in the middle of the stage to Brulm. I did well enough till I got to the fifth line — and then I funked and knew it was all up with me. Yet I'd studied it well. But the twisting about licked me^ — all coming together. This is it:

" Servant. — Tha5» Brutus^ did my master bid mc knoel j Thus did Mark Antony bid mo full down; Andbdng prostrate^ tbiia ho bado me say, Brutus is noble, wise, voliant and honest j CsBsar was mighty, bold, royal and loving j Say I lovtj Brutus, and I ban or hira ; Say I feared Csosar, bono red him and loved him,

**It was no go, I couldn't hear the prompter, and Brains looked at me as Rour as verjuice. I felt my head swimming — couldn't help making a fool of myself. It's my lack. This is how I mulled it:

** Brutua i« noble^ Taliant, wise and loving, 6»y— I — fenrod— Brutus — and— I— honored— him, But, but if you phtsu^ nr^ I do— honor — CjEt&ar.

"It was just awful! The 'gods' yelled; one of 'em hit me on the head with an onion; another shouted

I

106 QREEIT IBIB.

* Bravo Spriggs! try back, old man!' and then I rushed oft' in a cold sweat, leaving Brutus with his arms folded, M to eat bis boota.

*'Ever hear the story of Green Ibid? That's the nick* name a fellow utility of mine goes by, ever since he — bat t-rU tell you all about it Tou know the directions for ' dressing a piece ? So and So, green court suit, silver lace, paste buckles, court sword, white bag court wig; Some- body Else, green court ibid — that means, * the same,* you know — lace, buckles, sword, wig ibidj and so on. Well, this young chap he rushes in late^nobody in the dressing- room — all going on. Call-boy hollering away *3/r- Mont- morenci called twice/' No go. I was first courtier, and I had got to go on in green velvet cuat— and was close to the wings when I could hear poor Monimoremi saying to I somebody, 'My gracious! — -I have got no wig— only an old man's here, and direction says second courtier, green ibid — ^and I can't find a green ibid anywhere. TrVTiat is a green ibid? Ilasn't anybody got a green ibid? There isn't one in the house, I do believe."

"Tou never heard me talk so much before, did you? Well, I don't often talk. Fm so sick of everything now. Life seems to me little else than so much general utility, buttoLiirig and unbuttoning, dressing and changing — 80 much, or so little, eating and drinking, going to bed and getting up again. All 'flat, stale and unprofitable/ till the exit comes^ — and I don't care ranch how soon, blest if I do! I was not always what I am now. Time I was when the^e eyes, now dim with tears, were — no, bang it, I'm not *on' now* My father kept a large public house - in Kent, and he had a pretty barmaid. I was nineteen I and she was past twenty— and wo fell in love with each other. An auot had. left her £150, and I hadn't a shilling. We were engaged to be married. I bad a cousin in busi- ness for himself in the borough. He agreed to take

A 6AD STORY.

109

and I came to London, Mary stopping dovm with mj^ people for a bit, I fell in with some actors in one way or another — and at last, after several amateur successes at private theatricals, I got wild, threw up my berth j and, two months afterwards, one of my actor friends got me a pound a week at the old Coburg Theatre. Mary, in a year and a half or so, came up to London after me, and took a little tobacco shop over the water — and on my salary and the little shop we got married — and were happy enough till a little Spriggs was likely very soon to stop the way, I had got on pretty well, for me, by that time, Well^ I was to have a benefit one night^-not before the time, for a vagabond boy had robbed the till at home and cut hie lucky — and Mary was hourly expected to be a mother. I was to play a favorite part of mine^ — and Td sold a good many tickets, for I was pretty popular. When the curtain rose, the house looked healthy enough. At nine o'clock it was pretty chock full Td been thinking a deal about Mary all night, and somehow I couldn't get h«P poor dear old pale face out of my sight The manager slaps me on the back, and saya^ — and he wasn^t too fond of that sort of things' Hang it, Spriggs, you are a doosid clever fellow, and I con-gnit-ulate you, that's flat.'

** I felt as if I was first cousin to Baron Kothschild after Ibat — and all the hands I got clapping me. I suppose I mnni have been deuced funny then. Tve never felt so since. Well, it was about a quarter of an hour before the cnrtain would fall. I was standing handy to go on at the 0- P. side, when I thought I heard one of the carpenter's whisper *Poor fellow!* in such a right down earnest way that it staggered me — thinking, as I had been, about my little missis. But that passed ofi' When the curtain fell I was called before it, and never felt prouder in my life. A^ I came behind, the manager came up to me with a

we look, and taking me aside^ says very feelingly,

110 DISMAL TOMMY.

^Spriggs, my boy, Tm afraid I've jast had bad news for you. Yonr poor wife's just confined, and they've sent for you, as they think it will go hard with her.' "With that and the ^poor fellow' Td just heard, you might have knocked me down with a feather. How I ran home round the corner I never knew. The shop was shut, and no sooner had I put the latch key in the door, with my hand all a tremble, than one of the neighbors, a kind old soul, stepped down the stairs and pulling me by the arm into the little back parlor, where my Mary and I used to sit so happy of a night when I came home to supper after the theatre, shut the door and says, ^Mr. Spriggs, that's a dear man, you must bear it; poor Mrs. Spriggs is gone. She said she hoped she'd live to see you, but it wasn't to be. There, there, don't take on so, sir; she's better off now.' I went up stairs and saw the poor dear lying dead — she and her baby. That's all — that's all — all, all, my life! I left the Cobourg. That's years ago. Some of 'em that don't know me call me ^Dismal Tommy.' But they don't know what first spoilt ^ a rising low comedian,' and made him a G. U. Never mind. It's all gone away now."

FAISB AKTIBTS.

m

CHAPTER Xn.

' Sticks " Belund the Scenes. — Bad Acting, — Murdering Parts. — Tha I Woman who went Inaanc in a Theatrev^ — A *' Scholarly*' Fool Flajf Pan$, — A ** Gentlemanly " Style of Dying on the Stage* — The Man who Died into the Orchestra. — A Lady 'a Hand throws un Actor into a Perspiration of Bewilderment, — ** Whut wili I do with Itf"--^LskQk of Noble Incentives to the Stage Life,— Mountebanks p*. Artiatfl.

It is not too much to say, as regards the " common mn" of actors and actresses^ that not one io ten of those who adopt the stage aa a profession, have any real coo- ceptioD of the artistic requirements of an actor.

They are not actuated by thoac high aspiratione which lead the artist to seek to embody his conceptions in out- ward form — whether by painting, sculpture or dramatism.

They are not artists^ though every one of them claimfl the name; they belong to the order of "stage struck barbers,"

The "sticks'* of the stage are both maaculine aod feminine — mostly young people — who have no idea of character, but whose vanity is great enough to take the place of everything else.

J£ it were a penal offense to ** murder*' a part, what a tumbling off of heads there would be — and what a ** weeding out" the stage would undergo !

A woman in Saginaw, Michigan, was some months ago taken insane while witnessing a play, and carried out of the theatre to a lunatic asylum. A wag suggested that the reaaon she went mad was because the acting was so

Neither the possession of a fine voice, an exquisite elocution^ a captivating fancy, a commanding person, ical taste and education, a handsome face, nor all

112

DOWN IKE LADDER*

fiui

mlM ;e8^

combined, are sufficient to make an actress of the first rank. ■

There must be the power of iydividuiilization. An actress who is a true artiste sinks the private woman ia the part she plajs. She is Lady Macbeth^ walking at night beneath the shadow of a guiltjr conscience; she is Meg 3IerrilleSy the weird creation of Sir IfValter Scott, masculine, superstitious, hideous and gaunt j she is the Duchess of 3IaIJi, queenly, lovely, accepting death with mingled horror and exultation.

Tour ordinary representatives of these characters wil^ walk through the greater part of the play in their owD petty little individuality, and perhaps bui'st out upon yc in a passion torn to tatters in the more striking passage Not so a great actress. She assumes the part in its minutest detaik, and never forgets to a€t^ even in situa- tions when ordinary actors would suppose there was nothing to be done. The very fingers of her hands ex- press rage, terror, despair or delight.

And from such a ph^yer as this, one can follow a long line of gradations in quality, step by step down the ladder of excellence, and at the bottom of it find the dry, hard^^ soulless *^ stick,*' with the action of a wooden image. '™

Mrs. Mowatt tells the story of a ** scholarly** stick who was on one occasion entrusted with the part of Paris^ in "Romeo and Juliet" *'IIe delivered the language with scholarly precision, and might have passed for, an actor until he came to the fighting scene with Romeo, Some disarmed him with a facility which did great credit to good nature of Paris^ for whom life had, of course, loalj its charms with Juliet It then became the duty of Par who is mortally wounded, to die. The Paris on this occa-" sion took his death blow very kindly. His dying pre- parations were made with praiseworthy deliberation« First he looked over one shoulder, and then over the

etor

thdl loslfl xrisH

GENTLE DEATH.

113

otbCT, to find a soft place where he might fall — it was evidently his intention to yield up his existence as com- fortably as possible. Having satisfied himself in the selection of an advantageous spot, he dropped down gently, breakiog his descent in a manner not altogether describable. As he softly laid himself hack, he informed Borneo of the cakmity that had befallen him by ejacula- ting—

'* O, I Rm slain I

The audience hissed their rebellion at such an easy

death.

'* If thou art merciful,

continued Parts; the audience hissed more loudly still, as though calling upon Romeo to show no mercy to a man who died so luxuriously.

*' Open the tooib, md^ — Altered Paris — but what disposition he preferred to be made of the mortal mould upon which he had bestowed such care, no Itomeo could have heard; for the redoubled hines of the audience drowned all other sounds^ and ad- monished Paris to precipitate his departure to the other world. The next day, the young aspirant for dramatic distinction was summoned by the manager, and asked what ho meant by dying in such a manner on the night previous. * Why, I thought that I did the thing in the most gentlemanly style,' replied the discomfited Thespian, *How came you to look behind you, sir, before yon fell V angrily inquired the manager, * Surely you wouldn't have had me drop down without looking to see what I Wfti going to strike against V * Do you suppose a man, irhen he is killed in reality, looks behind him for a con- venient spot before he falls, sir?' *But I wasn't killed in reality, and I was afraid of dislocating my shoulder!' pleaded Paris. * Afraid of dislocating your shoulder t If you are afraid of breaking your leg, or your neck 8

114

A QBEi:X GOOSE.

either, when you are acting/ said the stern manage *you're not fit for this profession. Your iustioct of self'* preservation is too large for an actor's economy. You* re dismissed, sir; there's no emplojinent here for persons of your cautious temperament/"

This young man might have taken a lesson or two recklessness of coosequeuces, from a Thespian whom So Smith used to tell of. This gentleman played the hero*(j part on the stage, and led the orchestra between the act besides, playing the first violin. On one occasion he complished the brilliant feat of dying ioto the orchestra. Having fallen, in hia character of the murdered hero, dead upon the stage, he quietly rolled over into the orchestra, took up his fiddle and played " solemn musielH while the curtain slowly fell. The effect is said to have been very moving^ — to the risibles.

One night during my starring tour in the West, we were playing *' Romeo and Juliet," and the greenest goose I ever saw was cast for Paris, h

At rehearsal I had fully instructed Paris to take rajW hand at a given " cue," for the purpose of giving proper and indeed necessary coloring to Borneo's lines:

" Cousin Benvolio, dost thou mark tliat lady,

Which doth enrich the hand of yonder ffentkmanf**

*Ido,"

« Ob; sho doth teach tho torcbea to burn bright I

Her beauty hangs upon the clieek of night

Like A rich jewel in an Ethiop*s ear,^*

I said that I had fully instructed my Paris to take my hand in a tender manner at the proper moment, and he swore on Ms honor as a gentleman that he would not forget it- Imagine my dismay, then, at night when I found my " County," my ** man of wax,*^ my ** flower, a very flower/* smilingly oblivious of all instructioDS and ignoring

j

AS AWKWARD POSITION.

115

" father, mother, Tyhalt^ Borneo^ Juliet^ and all," and my hand into the bargain. Knowing that Romeo was jnst on the point of speaking his lines, I could stand it no longer, bnt whispered to Paris^

« Take my hand.*'

** What say?'* ho retorted, looking as if the occasion were one of the most commonplace.

"Take my hand/* I repeated, perhaps a little testily.

He looked at me in what I suppose ha considered a very arch manner, and then began to smile knowingly. He had evidently forgotten every earthly thing I had told him in the morning.

But Romeo began :

•♦Cousin BenvoHoi dost thou **

In an agony of despair I leaned over, and stage- whispering, but determinedly, I said : ** Take my hand."

He seized it frantically, and then, looking quite affrighted, answered :

** What mU Ida m(h it?"

Everybody on the stage heard it, and there was a sop- pres&ed langh, which was indulged in fully at the fall of the curtain. I could not help joining in the laugh myself, and have oflen wondered, but never learned, what in the world he supposed I wanted him to do with it.

Now, why do such men, who have not wit enough for literary pursuits, intelligence enough for mercantile avo- cationSf education enough for professorships, nor brains enough for anything, espouse a profession which requires all these qualifications and personal advantages into the bargain?

AlaA, I fear the question is unanswerable !

Public sentiment is such — the common creed of " re- ibility" is such — that usually, with men and women of genius, and culture, and pure love of dramatic art, it

\ a veiy rash step to *' go upon the stage.*'

I

116

BRBn TO THK STAGS,

Tlds fact affords the real occasion of such a woful lack of high merit on the stage.

Look over the list of our best actors and actresses, and you find that most of them were the children of actors and actresses — bred to the stage from birth — and who, there- fore, had no gauntlet of horrified relatives to run iaj adopting that profession.

This state of public sentiment is what renders clowns and sticks, and loafers, tolerable in a profession whoa members should take rank with painters and sculptor That they should, is proved by the fact that the names ol snch artists as Rachel, the elder Kean, Booth, Garrick, ' Biddona, Macklio, Kemble, and many others that might be namedj glow as proudly on the historic page as those of Raphael, Rubens, Titian, Vandyke, and the like.

Tom, Dick and Harry have no more right to be classed among dramatic artists, than the veriest daubs and cob- blers have in the ranks of painting and sculpture. J

There are hundreds of mouthing, grimacing dunces, " periwig-pated fellows/* who call themselves actors, who are entitled to no better name than that of mountebanks.

THE DEN OF A LUNATIC.

IIT

CHAPTER Xni.

TH« Froptrty Han and his Curious Dutiea. — His Singular Surroundings. The Abode of a Lunatic. — An Actress Drinki a Bottle of Ink hj Mis* Uke.— Amusing Inventory of " Properties." — Quaint Picture of the Property Han and his Powers.

The " property man ** of a theatre is a person who occu- pies a middle ground between the carpenter and the cob- tunier.

It is he who makes and farniahes those numberless little things used by the players in the course of a performance, such as fairy wands, rings, sceptres and crowns, purses, pocket-books, rings, walking-sticks, garlands of flowers, bank notes, handcuffs for felons, packages of letters, gilt inkstands, goblets, pasteboard hams, chickens and rounds of beef

A visit to the room where this individual holds state reveals a glimpse of what the imagination might easily convert into the den of a luuatic^o diverse are the ob- jects collected there, so closely are they cramped on shelves^ so seemingly withont order in their arrangement.

If a player has occasion to use a purse, or a roll of bills, or any other ** property," in the course of a play, it is the duty of the prompter to w^rite that fact out on a slip of paper, giTO it to the call-boy, who every evening proceeds to the property man, gets the article, and then hands it to the player.

But between prompter and call-boy this is often neg- lected, in which case the player must go in person and get it of the property man ; for, if it were Ristori herself, no property man is obliged to cany a '* property*' to her. He might do so out of courtesy, however.

In the ** Autobiography of an Actress" this amusing inci-

118

BLACK POISON,

dent is related : " One evening, the property man — eo the individual who has the charge of potionB, amulets, caskets of jewels, parses filled with any quantity of golden coin, and other theatrical ti-easnres, designated as stage proper- ties, is styled — forgot the hottle containing Julicfs sleeping potion. The omission was only discovered at the moment the vial was needed. Some bottle must be furnished to the Friar^ or he cannot utter the solemn charge with which he confides the drug to the perplexed scion of the Capulets. The property man, confused at the discovery of his own neglect, and fearful of the fine to which it would subject him, caught up the first small bottle at hand, and gave it to the Fi^iar. The vial was the prompt- er's, and contained iiiL When JuUd snatched the fatal potion from the Friar^s hand, he whispered something in an undertone* I caught the words, * take care,' but was too absorbed in my part to comprehend the warning. Juliet returns home, meets her parents, retires to her chamber, dismisses her nurse, and, finally, drinks the po- tion. At the words, —

" * Komoo I tbia do I drink to tbee P

I placed the bottle to my lips, and unsuspiciously swal- lowed the inky dmught! The dark stain upon my hands and lips might have been mistaken for the quick workings of the poison, for the audience remained ignorant of the mishap, which X only half comprehended. When the scene closed, the prompter rushed up to me, exclaiming, ' Good gracious ! you have been drinking from my bottle of ink!' I could not resist the temptation of quoting the remark of the dying wit, under similar circumstances : *Let me swallow a sVieet of blotting paper !' The fright- ened prompter, however, did not understand the joke."

An amusing inventory of theatrical properties was re- cently filrnished to the new lessee of the Drury Lane The- atre, on his taking possession. It was as follows : " Spirits

CREDULITY STAQQERED.

119

of wine, for flames and apparitions, £12 29. ; 3J bot- tles of ligbtniog, £1 ; 1 euowstorm, of finest French paper, 3s.; 2 snowstormsj of common French paper, 28.; complete sea, with 12 long waves, slightly dam- aged, £1 10s.; 18 clouds, with black edges, in good order, 12s. Gd.; rainbow, slightly faded, 2s.; an assortment of French clouds, flashes of lightning and thunderbolts, ISs.; a new moon, slightly tarnished, 16s.; imperial man- tle, made for Cyrus, and subseciuently worn by Julius CiEsar and Henry YUI^ 10s.; Othello's handkerchief, Cd.; 6 arm-chaira and 6 flower-pots, which dance country dances, £2."

Three shillings for a snowstorm ? A rainbow for two ehillings ! Fifteen shillings for a new moon I

These things are certainly enongh to stagger credulity. But such is mimic life, and such are the curious standards of valne in " property,** as it exists behind the scenes.

When the old Chatham Theatre, in New York, camo within the talons of the law, and Chancellor Kent was called upon to appoint receivers for its effects, he was astonished that there should be a "property man,'* when the Sherifl^s return of property was, "na?i inventus**!

The property man ** has charge of all the moveables, and has to exercise great ingenuity in getting them up, and keeping them up. His province is to preserve tho canvas water from getting wet, keep the sun's disc clear, and tlie moon from getting torn ; he manufactures thun- der on sheet iron, or from parchment stretched, drum-like, on a frame ; he prepares boxes of dried peas for rain and wind, and huge watchman*8 rattles for the crash of falling towers. He has under his charge demijohns, tor the fall of concealed china in cupboards ; speaking trumpets, to imitate the growl of ferocious wild beasts ; penny whis- tles^ for the * Cricket on the Hearth* ; powdered rosiu, for lightning flashes, where gas is not used; rose pink, for

120

QUEER CONTRIVAKCES.

the blood of patriots ; money, cut oat of tin ; finely cut bits of paper, for fatal enowstorma ; ten-pin bulb, for the distant mutteringa of a storm ; bags of gold^ containing broken glass and pebbles, to imitate the musical ring of coin ; balls of cotton wadding, for apple dumplings j links of saosagesj made of painted flannel ; sumptuous banquets of papier mache ; block-tin rings, with painted beads put- tied in, for royal signets j crowns, of Dutch gilding, lined with red ferret; broomstick handles, cut up for trun- cheons for command; brooms themselves, for witches to ride; branches of cedar, for Birnam Wood; dredging boxes of flour, for the fate-desponding lovers ; vermilion, to tip the noses of jolly landlords; pieces of rattan, silvered over, for fairy wands ; leaden watches, for gold repeaters ; dog-char na, for the necks of knighthood, and tin spurs for its heels ; armor made of leather, and shields of wood ; fans, for ladies to coquet behind; quizzing-glasses, for ex- quisites to ogle with; legs of mutton, hams, loaves of bread, and plum puddings, all cut from canvas, and stuffed with sawdust ; together with all the pride, pomp and cir- cumstance of a dramatic display. Such is a Property Man of a theatre. He bears his honors meekly ; he mixes molasses and water for wine, and darkens it a little shade deeper with the former for brandy, is always busy behind the scenes, but is seldom seen, unless it is to clear the stage, and then what a shower of yells and hisses does he receive from the galleries! The thoughtless gods cry, * Supe ! Bupe !' which, if intended as an abbreviation of superior or super-iiue^ may bo apposite, but in no other view of the case. What would a theatre be without a Property Man ? A world without a sun ; an army with- out a general ; a body without a head ; a Union without a President; a clock withont hands; kings would be truncheonless and crownless ; brigands without spoils ; old men without can<^s and powder; Harlequin without his hat ; Macduff without his leaty screen ; theatres would

A POWERFUL PEESOK.

121

close — ^there would be no tragedy, no comedyj no farce without him. Jove in hie chair was never more potent than he. An actor might, and often does, get along with- out the words of hia part, but not without the properties. What strange quandaries have we seen the Garricks and Siddonses of our stage get into, when the Property Man lapsed in his doty ! We have seen Momeo distracted be- neath the bottle of poison not to be found ; Virginim tear his hair because the butcher's knife was not ready on the Bhamhles; Baillk Nicol Jarvie nonplussed because there was no red-hot poker to singe the tartan pladdio with ; Macbeth frowning because the Eighth Apparition did not bear a glass to show him any more ; WiUiam TeU in agony because there was no small apple for Gcskr to pick ; the Mrst Murderer in distress because there was no blood for hifl face ready; Hecate fuming like a hell-cat because her car did not mount easily ; Eickard tlie Third grinding hia teeth because the clink of hammers closing rivets up waa forgotten; ^arnfc^ brought up all standing because there was no goblet to drink the poison from, and Otkclto stab- bing lago with a candlestick because he had not another eword of Spain, the Ebro's temper, to do the deed with. 60 the property man is no insigniiieant personage — ^he ia the mainspring which sets all the %vork in motion; and an actor hfid better have a bad epitaph when dead than bis ill will while living.*'

122

DACBEBS AND ABTISTS

CnAPTER XIV.

Tlie Scenic Artist — His Strange Workshop in the Clouds. — Up in the FUea, — Mftgic TranjsformAtioni. — Streota turn into Open Fioldi — Bivers into Dry Land. — The Stago Manag^sr and his Duties, — Curious Letters h<?tWL*«n two Old Hftnag^rs. — Borrowing Assassins. — Lending Shepherds. — A Cupid who bad to Find his own TV' ings. — ^Tha Prompter and his Duties.

Ill these days when each an extraordinary amount of money and care is lavished on the scenery of plays, scenic artists are extremely well paid.

Of course in uo department does talent make a more marked difference than in this; fine artists being paid large salaries, and daubers getting no more than if they were painting signs instead of scenes.

There are several artists in New York who get as high as $100 a week ; and there is one scenic artist who has a theatre of his own. It is one of the finest in Broadway, aud the scenery is always beautiful.

The paint-room of a theatre is always situated in the ** flics** or clouds above the stage; and it is curious to see the artists with their great brushes changing a street view into a landscape, or " the sea, the sea, the open sea !'* into mountains, rivulets or railroad tracks.

Of course, being situated in such an airy region as the " flies,'* the painter's room has not always a very snug flooring; and many an actress has got a good dress covered with drippings of paint which have dropped from above her during rehearsal, However, scene painters generally use water colors, so there's not much harm done. The spots are easily rubbed off.

The stage manager is a person altogether distinct from the manager. While the manager, assisted by his trea- surer, ticket-sellers and door-keepers, and bill-posters,

THE STAGE MANAGER.

lis

scrubbers, cleaners and xipbolstcrers, is devoting bis time and attention to what is called tbc "front of the house'* (i, e. the auditorium) J the stage manager, Burrouuded by his actors, actresses, scene-painters, stage carpenters, wanlrobe-makors, property men> gas men, scene-shiilters and the rest, is preparing the pageant which those who git before the footlights are to see.

The stage manager may or may not be an actor ; he generally is ; but he is never an outsider, as the manager BO often is.

He is a man who has been reared to the theatrical life through long years of training; he knows how every- body's part should be played, even if he be not able to play it himself — even as many a musician is thoxoughly jualified'to teach others by dint of scientific knowledge, jough his own execution may be poor.

The duties of the stage manager are several. First, the casting of parts. This involves very careful study of the different qualifications of the actors. Next, the ** mounting" of plays. This requires study of the date which the piece is written ; for instance, a play the cene of which was laid in France, in the time of Louii* ^. must not have furniture, scenery or costumes which were worn subsequent to that epoch

Thirdly, the direction of plays at rehearsal. For,

though the prompter generally holds the MS., or book of

the play, to see that the players do not stray from the

rtert, it is the duty of the stage manager to watch the

lovements of the players, and direct them if they are

guilty of any ungraceful or ill-timed movement; to

Linjitruet them when to sit and when to rise; when to

ffttand; in short to act the part of drill master to an

awkward squad,

I recently saw copies of some curious letters which ^passed between two ancient stage- managers, in the old

124

CtTElOUS LETTERS.

F

timesy when the fuuctions of the prompter were dis- charged also by the manager. These letters follow ;

Dburt LjjfE, Nov. 9. DmAB WtLD — For pttj'i Bake lend me a couplo of cooflpirators for to-night. HecoOoct yon haye borrowed one of ours for a singing Druids and anothor of our bust i& Doge of YenicOi on Packer's rd&ignatioa.

Entirely and devotedly yours^

HopKura.

COTXKT QjLRBENf NOT. 9.

I liavo ordered to look out two of our gcnteeleat flssassins, and 1*11 take care tbey eball go shaved and sober. Pray tell Farren lie mast play our Archbiibop to-morrow j will cat the part, tbat he may drees time enough afterwards for your General in the Camp.

Yours, perpetually,

Wild. P. S.— If you have a full moon to spare, I wish you'd lend it to ui for Thursday. I eend you tome lightning I can recommend.

COTENT GaBDXF, NoV, 11.

DSAK H0PSJjr^~Pray, how shall we manage without Smith to- morrow 7 I depended on your lending him us fox Harry the Fifth ; but I now see you have put him up for Charles Surface. Couldn't you let him com© to us, and play two acta of Harry j as you don't want him in Charlea till your third, and then Hull ahall read the rest, with an apology for Smith's being suddenly hoarse, sprained his ankle^ etc.

Cordially, yours,

WrLi>. P. S,— My vestal virgin gets so very stout, I wish you'd lend us 3S£r8, Bobinson for a night.

Drtjby Lake^ Not. 11. DsAB Wild— By particular desire, oar vestal is not transferable; hut we have a spare Venus, and duplicAte Junos ; so send your baoknoy coach for whichever suits you. Tho scheme for Smith won't do; but change your play to anything;- for we'll tack The Lamp to the School for Scandal, to secure you an overflow.

Thoroughly, yours,

HoPKTJfB.

CovEHT Garbsn, Nov. 12. Mt Dear Fellow^ Hcre*a tho devil to pay about our Tuesday's pantomime — the blacksmith can't repair our great serpent till Friday, and the old camel that we thoug'ht quite sound , has broken down at re- hearsal; so pray eend us your elephant by the bearer^ and a small tiger

I

I

OUPID SOT THB MEASLEa.

1S5

with th« longest tail jou cmn ptck out. I must troublo you^ too, for & dozen of your best dnncing ahepberda for tlmt night, for, though I see you'll want Ibem for highwaymea, in the Beggar's Opcru^ they'll be quite in time far ob afterwards.

ToreTor completely yours,

Wild. Deubt IdAHtMt Nov* 12, I>BAB WrLD-^I just WTito a line while the hcasts are packing up^ to beg you^ not be out of spiriti, as you may dopend on the shepherds, and Miy other animal you have occasion for, I have orders to acquaint you, too, that as we don*t use Henderson » for FalstafT, on Friday, you may bare bim for Richard, with a dozen and a half of our soldiers, for Bos* worth Field, only bogging you'll return 'em us in time for Coi-heath.

Truly J yours,

HopiOKa. P. 8. — Send me a Cupid — mine has got the measles.

COTENT GaEUKNj NoV. 12,

I>KAR HoPKiKS — Thank you for Henderson and the soldiers— so let them bring their helmets, for ours are tinning. The bearer Is our Cupid, &t A ihilUng a night, finding his own wings.

Generously, yours,

Wild,

The prompter is another attach^ of a theatre who may or may not be an actor. He is poorly paid, and pretty hardly worked.

His chief duty is to never for one moment, either at rehearsal or during a performance, lay down the MS. or printed book of the play in course of progress ; bet to keep his eyes fixed on it as constantly as is possible with his other duties, in the event that any one of the players should forget his words, when, of course, he would have to be prompted.

The prompter also rings the curtain up and down, turns the gas jets up or down, rings for the music to play, and whistles for change of scene.

Added to this, he is frequently called upon to play a part in cede any one is taken sick, and if he is able to epeak on the stage at all, he will be considered very dis- obliging if he refuses.

126 THB PBOMPTEB.

The prompter's seat— or as it is technically termed— the " prompt-place," is a little flap of a table with a chair behind it, placed at the right hand wing, i. e. the first scene directly behind the footlights, and situated at the right hand of the actors.

In all foreign theatres — and in operatic performances in this country — ^the prompter is placed in a little circular box which rises out of the stage just back of the foot- lights. By this arrangement the prompter is confined ex- clusively to the book, and some one else attends to the curtain, etc*

FEOFLE WHO OWN THEATRES,

127

CHAPTER XV.

J|B2ia^rB« — The Top of the Thoatrical Heap, — New York

!'SiiaUl|gtrs»--Speculators, MorchanU and olliers iis Tbeatre-Ownera. —

Actors And Drama ti!«ta ns Managers, — How Expen&os tiro Cut Down. —

AVhftl ilaiiagers Should Be, and Wliatj alaa I They Aro.-^wiDdUng

•'AffAnit*' Turned Managow.— The Sharks of the Profession.

It will be evident to all wlio have read the preceding pters, that Behind the Scenes there is a world — a world its aristocracy, its wits, its beauties, its rich^ its poor^ its artists and artisans, much as there is in the outer world.

At the ** top of the heap " ia the person who owns the

ftheatre. This is most frequently some capitalist, who

rents out his theatre just as he does his other property,

■and has nothing to do with it except to receive quarterly

ayments for its use. This, I say, is most generally the

case; though in New York there are two theatres owned

^by a wealthy railroad manager, who it is said also busies

liniself with the actual management of the theatres he

OW118, At any rate, he causes his name, as "proprietor,"

yUt be placed at the head of the theatre bills. This is Mr,

FaDies Fisk, Jr.

Another theatre is owned by a successful actor — Mr. Edmn Booth,

Wood's Museum is owned by Banvard, known through- ont the country by his Panonima of tlio Iloly Land.

Xiblo*s Garden and the New York Theatre are owned

i^by Mr. A. T. Stewart, the dry goods king, who busies

iimself very little with them, except to see that his rents

collected^

ATI the other theatres in New York, according to the

, of my knowledge, are owned either by stockholders

128

COABSE SPECULATORS,

or private iDdividuale, who let them out to theatre mau- agers,

A theatre manager may or may not be an actor. In former days the theatre manager was invariably an actor j but in New York at the present time there are only two permanent first-class theatres which are managed by act- ors— one is ** Wallack's/* managed by Mr. Lester Wal- lack; the other is *' Booth's," managed by Edwin Booth.

Theatres — like newspapers, for the most part — are either immensely lucrative or very disastrous aflairs; and the first part of this fact has induced numberless men^out- aiders in everj^ sense — to invest their money in theatrical stock as if it were live stock — ^hogs or cattle.

It is these people who have been chiefly inatrnmental in brioging upon the stage that hideous disgrace known as the " nude drama," which took its rise with the flimsy absurdity called the *'!glack Crook," and who have con- tinoed it by importing *' painted Jezebels," known as ** English burlesque blondes," to throw still further oblo- quy on the drama proper, by their shameless can-can ^ ^ dancing, and their perversion of simple nursery rhymes into indecent songs.

No actor-manager could have inaugurated this disgrace ; for the simple reason that he would be too much in sym- pathy with his actors to force them to lower their talents to the level of English burlesque ; but, of course, once the thing became a pronounced success, it flew all over the country, and many actor-managers found themselves obliged to admit it into their theatres, or bo ruined pecu- niarily.

It would be a happy day for the drama if these gross speculators could be driven from the management of the- atres, and men with true regard for the histrionic art — actors like Edwin Booth and Lester Wallack — could everywhere take their places.

AUTHOR'MA^AQERS.

129

In those cases where successful dramatic authors have turned managers, the rule whiclTgd^fni the actor-mana- ger generally holds good. Such managers usually have some realizing sense of the importance of dramatic art ; and, though they may not rise to the very highest concep- tions of this, yet it is rare indeed for them to seek success through indecent burlesques or leg-displaying spectacles.

One curious fact is noticeable with regard to managers as a class, and that is that whenever it becomes necessary to cut down their expenses, their first attack is made on the salary list. This is often very severe upon the mem- bers of the company, but they usually have no option but to accept the reduction, or make room for some one who wilL

John Hollingshead, a London critic, lately remarked :

**A manager is entitled to praise if he produces a good drama, and deserves strong blame if he produces a bad one. It is a lame excuse for him to urge, or have urged for him, that he engaged the reputed best author in the market at a fair market price, and * left it to him,* This is not the act of a manager, but of a fool ; of a man whose greatest successes must necessarily be * flukes.* It is true that most so-called managers are men of this stamp, who hold scarce properties at the sides of our principal London thoroughfares, and whose wholes art of management is to Wftit for * something to turn up.* The critics, most of them, know this, but they never say it"

** There was a time in the story of the drama," says an- other critic, — "its most illustrious timcj — when men like Bhcridan and Byron were at the head of theatres. In this country, too, we have had managers of cultivated taste, and can still point to names of men which carry to the office the feelings of gentlemen and scholars. But of what material are most of our modern managers com- posed ? The spawn of some concert cellar, or taking their 9

PENNILESS SWINDLERS.

degrees among the diggings, tied to the tusks of soml dramatic rhinoceros, and sent round between the acts to gather half-pence^ they possess neither cultivation nor re- finement, and would sacrifice at any moment for a dollar the dignity of their art/'

Low down on the ladder of repute which all actors seek to climb — or at least pretend they do — is a class of soul- less, conscienceless^ Bpeculating swindlers, who, from hav- ing followed the business of theatrical agents, have learned something of the inner life of theatricals, and who aspire to be managers*

These disgraceful persons will have the audacity to gather a company of players together under false pretences, promising them good salaries, and set out to give perform- ances in country towns, trusting wholly to *Muck** to <;arry them through.

If they chance to have good houses, very well ; then their baseness lies concealed ; but if the first three or four nights of their " season '* should fail to bring in money, these swindling *' managers** are forced to disband their companies, — for they have not a cent in their pocketB.

The evils growing out of this disgraceful conduct are often deplorable, and serve to cast unmerited reproach on the profession — the "poor players" being sometimes left penniless in a strange town, with hotel-bills to pay, and landlords clamorous.

Adventurers of this stamp, who assume the grave re- Bpousibilities of management, knowing well their own inability to cope for a single week with what is technically termed *'poor business," are worthy of execration by all honorable people ; and it will be a good day for the theat- rical profession when it shall have combined to resist the rascalities of penniless "agents" turned managers.

THB CHIEF SUFFBBBBS. 181

In a large city, and among tbe best class of players, it is, of course, impossible for such persons to practice their "little game." Those who suffer most from them are performers who have achieved neither reputatioh nor for- tune, and with whom an " engagement " means simply their daily bread.

132

A FRANK CONTESSIOIT.

CHAPTER XVL

My Betura to th© Stage in WomBnhood,— Tho Dictate of Necessity*— An Unwelcome Duty. — Getting Acquainted with Life Behind the Scenes ftft^jr a Long Absence. — Hy Debut at Wallack^s. — Following the Advice of Friendfl,— Tbe Eventful Night,— How it Went off.— The Morning After.— The lute renting Character of Debuts. — Remi- niscenced of the American Debuts of Olo Bull, Jenny Lind, Alboni, Bache!, etc., by an Old ThealrtvGoer. — The Story of Leopoldine, a French Debutante.— Exciting Time in tho Theatre. — The Ticklenesa of a French Audience,— Bravery of the Actress. — Her Scornful Treat- ment of her Fickle Admirers. — The Besult.

For myeelfj I am free to confess that I never liked the life of an actress. My mature judgment rebels against it, for me^ as much now as it did when I was led on, against my infantilo wishes, to personate Cora's child in tho play of^'Pizarro."

I know that this is equal to an acknowledgment to net org that I had not the sacred fire for dramatic art ; and I candidly believe I never had.

It was necessity which drove me to it in the first place, necessity which at different intervals in my life sent me back to it ; and I trust such neccBsity will never come upon me again.

This is not because I am willing to concede that tho theatre^ fer se, is an abode of sin, any more than, io itself a grocery store is, or a senate chamber ; but simply be- cause the life is distasteful to me — for reasons "too numerous to mention/*

After having been for some eight years severed from the stage, I found myself, in womanhood, compelled to return to it, and my re-appearance on the dramatic scene was a debut of such importance (to me, you know) that its

1

i

QVmSQ BKAS7.

133

4Ui

'ft

sensations and Ticissitudea are not likely ever to be forgotten.

Stern Fate, and the fluctuations of gold were the cauaef

d a bad headache and a total diesatiafection with eelf the next morning, was the effect. However I determined to make the effort — and did it. I swam the Ilellespont and was not drowned, although I confess that I was sub- merged on several occasiona. When, I knew as well or better than any critic could tell me — but let that pass.

I will not linger on the painful details of preliminary events ; dresses too small and dressea too large, boots too high-heeled and boots not heeled at all, the dreadful " to be or not to be '' of crinoline or no crinoline, the multitu- dinons varieties of coif ures^ the equally puzzling choice of colors ; and other bewildering questioos which I alone was called upon to solve, may be passed over without mention*

They were of fcarfal moment in their way, but nothing compared to the all absorbing idea — the acting of the part.

The role was a difficult one for me to portray, present- ing scenes of light and shadow into which my life picture has never been, and I trust never will be placed.

I never was a governess, nor yet a lady's lady companion* and have little or no idea of the exact conventional bear- ing of that genus ; again, I never was starved, never fell

love with a lord, never made an immense fortune, and ever played Lady Macbeth.

These you will confess were disadvantages, but why | then did I write the play ? — (taking it for granted that I " did WTite it, wmcn had been doubted by some, entirely disbelieved brothers, and plainly and publicly contra- ^ ieted by thre^ " well informed persons/*) Simply this — j

fore I had iny idea of committing such a hideous offence,! I went to two managers — told them who I was — explained! that I wishecl to make a rentree on the stage — said that I^ had loada ai special study of what is known as the legiti-

\/^-rM^

l^xpj^i^^

134

I matt Tl

KKABING THB PLAT.

mate dramaj and wished to appear in parts of that stamp.

The first manager had his time poBitively engaged with starB from dow till never.

The second was extremely sorry, hut — • In fact how

did he know that I was capable of playing parts which

Fanny Kemble and a host of others bad made famous,

unless he saw me in them ? And I, how could I prove to

I him that I was, or was not (much more likely), unlesa

somebody gave me an opportunity of letting him see me?

\ All, however, were uoaaimous on one point; the legiti-

•mate did not draw now. The sensational was the only

: wear. The public cried for it, as children do for paregoric

and sugar; both are deleterious, but both are nice.

So, the die was cast. I went home, and at once the manager pro tern of the first theater in the land gave me an opening*

Don't blame him for favoring the sensational^ — don't blame the actors ■ blame the public, sweet public — it likea starvation when not experienced by itself, revels in suicideSy goes wild with delight over arson and elopements.

Well, tlic jilay svii^ writtoii and atoepted and the fatal day fixed for my reading it to the artists. This was. a dreadful ordeal, but it had to be passed,

I will leave to your imagination the state of my feelings as I opened the MS. on a very dark day, seated as I was on a very uncomfortable chair, leaning as I was on an even more uncomfortable table, the whole placed on Wallack's stage^ — dull, ^l^^ty, unpoetical, ungaslit, silent, morning stage — with the eyes ol ten people looking at me, and the ears of ten people listening to me^ — listening to me trying to throw life and character into each different character in the piece ; looking at mo trying to play every "line of business" known, from the heroine and lover down to the dustman.

Ten people ! How did I know they were kind people,

4 I

MAONAKIMITT OF ACTORS*

135

nice people, goad sympatbiaing noble bearts, ready to accept me as one of them, witboiit spite or rancor then and there ? I imagined they looked upon me as an inter- loper, aa a person of mettle true, but that metal brass, aa an effrontfee, as a piece of walking impudence, aa a would- be authoress and can*t-be actress, as a silly novice, in point of fact

Nothing of the kind. They understood my position, applauded my resolntion, and spoke encouragiugly not alone to me but of me to others.

But I did not know tbia then, and suffered quite aa much as if the case bad been exactly the reverse.

Show me members of any other craft who will he so ; magnanimous to a new aspirant for fame and fortune, perhaps a rival, certainly a competitor, and I will show you a suqirised and gratified peraon^ — myself*

The reading was got over and the piece pqt into re- hearsal. I at once began to study my part. I learned it 60 well that I soon knew every word of it backwards, and nearly everything else in the piece forwards. Still I had a vague idea that I was not *^ perfect," (alas ! who ia J in this wicked world ?) and my whole time was passed in gentle assurance to the contrary, addressed to my un* believing self.

When nightmares visited my uneasy couch, they generally took the form of ** sticking'* heroines and ** stage waits" of interminable length. Bat sober, wakiog thought confirmed me in the knowledge that I was thop- onghly " up."

Then I began to practice the effects, the stage walks, the managing of the voice, the general bearing of the person, the tnaking of ** points/' the attaining of ** climax,'* the changing of countenance, the gesticulation, the broken tones of grief, the traditional stage laugh of mirth (in contradistinctiou to the laugh of revenge^ or the ba ! ha !

1

136 WELL-MEANT ADVICE.

of triumph) and the few other trifling details necessary to be obeerved. ■

Naturally I sought aid and comfort not from the enemy, but from frienda, I solicited hints of all kinds, for I had _ truly need of them. f

Tou will be Burprised to learn that these hints were of the most contradictory character. What was lauded by one was condemned by another. A point that by dint of hard study I had learned from A., I was advised by B. M to drop at once if I ever hoped for Bucceas.

Modulations of voice which I had practiced carefully by the suggeetion of a well known person, universally conceded to be a delightful elocutionist, were denounced afterward as defective and the result of " faulty inatruc- tion !" , ^ I

My gestnreB were deemed too startling by one, too inez^ pressive by another, and quite the thi,iig by a third.

My arms were pulled and pinched, my shoulders squeezed, my back thrown in, my chest thrown out, causing me an amount of pain which those %vho inflicted it would have shielded me from with the ferocity of tigers, had the suffering come from any other source.

But as far as testing the quality and strength of my voice was concerned, by practicing the* speeches vit?a voce^ that was utterly impracticable. How could I disturb the quiet inmates of Mrs. Biggin's highly respectable mansion (reference given and required), by imploring Clifford to leave me, or by peremptorily bidding 3Iasier Walier to " do it*' nor leave the act to me T The thing was not to be thought of, and so my home rehearsals were always given in a whisper. Low as it was, still it was overheard, ■ and the impression went forth at Biggin's that I was mad.

Soon this impre8siou was confirmed, and then all at — Biggin's looked aghast. I

I was going on the stage — oh, this was more than mad-

I

THE EVIINTFUL NIGHT,

187

ness — it was impropriety: it was touching pitch and rtmniiig great risk of being defiled, it was atrociouSj it was unheard of; and there waa weepingj and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, particularly when all were assembled at Biggin's festive board.

But time flew, and the eventful night arrived. I was dressed too soon — ready, but alas ! not eager for the fray.

It had been raining all day^ and Faust kept declaring, in his funny way of thinking French and speaking English, that he didn't believe there would be four cats (guatrc chats) in the house.

I didn't either, and ardently hoped that even those four would be engaged in the pursuit of other mice than Eveleen.

Suddenly Faust arrived, almost simultaneously with a huge basket of flowers, and announced that eats were crowding in in large numbers, quite regardless of espense^ in the shape of ruined hats and bonnets, and all unmindful of the inclement weather,

I almost wished the rain had drowned, as it most have drenched them.

I really felt very ill.

Mother said it was the odor of the flowers, but I knew it wasn't I left the dressing-room and went up stairs, for the play had begun and I knew I must soon go on.

They asked me if I was nervous, and I said no, which was true, I was not nervoas ; I was, as it were, dead to all feeling. My arms were leaden weights, my hands two dumb-bells, cut in a queer human fashion, with four fingers and a thumb,

I felt like a lamb being led to the eacrifice, and yet not like^ for a lamb has a happy ignorance of whither he goeth, and I had a vivid, painful consciousness of where I wad going.

I waa going on the stage, and that almost immediately too— oh dear, dear !

OK THB STAGE.

I had discarded the nse of rougo when dressing-, knowing that geoerally in excitement I have more need of white than red, and just now I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass*

I was pale to a degree that can only be equalled, not by the blue-veined vivacity of marble, not by the light trans- parency of hiscoit, but by the dull soggen pallor of plaster of Paris.

But bark ! My cue I The cue I know so well — a kind but peremptory movement from the prompter, a gasp, a momentary closing of the eyes, and a leap.

Not a leap in the dark, but a leap into the light — into the gaslight, the streaming, gle^juing, all-revealing gas- light It was but five steps fj-om the wing on to the stage^ but those five steps brought me into another world — changed me at once, as Fairy Goodgitlt does Clown and Harlequin with one stroke of the magic wand, from a famne du mond into an aotress.

I was nervous now — my chest heaved, my breath came thick and fast — for all of Adam's children were condensed into one man and that man was at Wallack's theatre. All humanity had but one great eye, and that eye was glaring terribly at me!

I haven't the remotest idea how it all went off, I only remember that my problematical idea of sticking was on several occasions about to become a positive reality, but happily did not; that I overacted; that I underacted; that I did everji:hing I should not, and nothing that I should.

However, it was over. I had made my debut.

The worst was yet to come — the next morning's criti- cisms.

Lord Byron hated the friends, who, at news of a dis- aster, always reminded him that they had " told him so."

WHAT THE CRITICS SAID,

139

I read with dismay tho corroboration of mj own unfavor- 3le opinions of myself. Stillj the criticisms, like the hints, were very contradictory. Eveleen was pronounced superlatively good, compara- tively indifferent, and positively bad. I was received as a bright accession to the galaxy of stars by one critic ; as not good enough for the stock by another. Figaro, witty, pongent Figaro, said my acting was too emotional, and he was right- It was all emotional.

Every emotion of my heart and body, particularly every painful one, was awakened, and no doubt im- properly betrayed. I felt like crying in the merry scenes and laughing hysterically in the pathetic ones.

Another critic said the beggar's dress was unbecoming

to a great degree, and he was right. I wanted Faust to

et me for that very scene a moire antique, at a hundred

^dollars the dress pattern, but he, dull man, would not

Cit

Figaro said that I did not exhibit the *' gross igno- rance— *'

Gross ignorance ! " Why, good gracious, thought I in Bwilderment, how does this tally with the remark made mlj a couple of years ago by Somebody, who, if ho is not jmebody himself (opinions again divided), is undoubt- Jy the Nephew of an Uncle who was Somebody (opinions not divided), to the effect that the same person irho did not exhibit "^ gross ignorance' was unquestionably and decidedly an esprit fori ? And that in Europe, too, Paris, too, where e^mi forts are not lacking ! Ah, Hgaro, Figaro, tell me who your Suzanne is, and I'll bid ber flirt outrageously both with Chernbino and the Count, just to pay you off for that, you naughty, eaucy barber!** En somme, I was pretty thoroughly bewildered by the loontroversy I have mentioned which arose among the critics, and which at length waxed so warm that the

140

NOTABLE FIRST NIQETS.

original cause of it — my offending self— was well nigh forgotten.

The interesting nature of first appearances^ generally, is well known. The most genial gossiper of our day is fond of referring to this ever-fascinating source of pleasant memories, telling ua how ** the gossips, aa they grow old, renew their youth as they tell the story of the first nights they have seen. A first appearance in Europe is an ex- periment. Even if it be Jenny Lind or Rachel, the begin- ning is necessarily without previous reputation, except the warm rumor of the rehearsal and of private admira- tion* But when Jenny Lind came to us, it waa as the recognized queen of song ; and when the spectral OarniUe glided from the side-scene in *le3 Horaces,' and that low, weird, wonderful voice smote the ear and heart of the list- ener, we knew that Rachel was, without a rival, the great- ■ est living actress. So, also, with Alboni and Ole BuU» ■ Their fame was made for them when they came. As we write the names, what scenes arise, so freshly remem- bered, so utterly passed ! The very buildings are gone, except Castle Garden, where Jenny Lind first sang, and which is wholly changed. It was in the Metropolitan Theatre that Rachel appeared. It was in Tripler Hall that Alboni sang; and in the old Park Theatre, on a memorable Saturday evening, Ole Bull strode out, with a leopard-like swing, upon the stage, his coat buttoned across his magnificent breast, his fair, irank face smooth and romantic as a boy's, aa he bent over his violin during the introduction by the orchestra, and fondly listened, to be sure that it was as sensitively responsive as he required it to be, And^ if the buildiugs are gone, where are the magicians? Rachel is dead. Jenny Lind*s voice has flown. And Alboni and Ole Bull— whore are they ? * ^'^ * * Yet these were all first appearances, that were Bug* gestive of each other. If Rachel came, there were those

LEOPOLDDTB*

141

whose pride it was to rememoer Edmund Eean and C. Cooke, If Jenoy Lind eang, your neighbor, who had evidently come down from the generation of George the Fourth, murmured, m the iutervalSj of Malibran ; and you, of a later day, retorted feebly with Mis8 Shirreffi and with more animation recalled Ciuti Damoreau and Cara- dori Allan. If Ole Bull stood towering and swaying in the epell of hia own music, there was some old-faehioned lover of concord, who thought music died with the Her- mann brothers or the Boston Brigade Band, The charm of the evening was half in its association, in the tender, regretful memories of other fames and other days. It was the musing, tearful romance of the wanderer who shall hear no more

** * The bollB of Shandon That sound so grand on The ploaflant waters of the river Lee.'"

One of the most interesting debute I ever heard of was that of a young French girl in Paris, whom poverty had driven to the stage.

On the night of her first appearance tbo theatre was crowded to excess. Two electric currents seemed on the point of meeting. The first was fed by the partisans of the young girl, at the head of whom was a curious old fellow, named Barentin, who sat in a bos with a friend named Oibean ; the second current drew its fire from a certain set of discontented, would-be critics, who are never to happy as when they have set the word *' failure'* on either a new play or a new player.

Behind the scenes, the stage manager was stalking up and down, in a dreadful state of agitation. At length the ddnUcmUf whose name was Leopoldine, entered the green- room.

The manager started at sight of her unpretending ap- pearance.

142

THE FIRST REBUFF,

** Why, my child/' said he, *'yoiir dress is very plmn — ^very plain indeed,"

Now Leopoldine was a girl of spirit. She had accepted this stage life as a disagreeable necessity, and had made up her rairid that her path would bo a thorny one, and had also determined to trip over the thorns as lightly as possible. She scarcely expected, however, that her first rebuff would come from the manager,

** Why, sir/' she answered, " I am to represent the * Or- phan of the Bridge of Notre Dame '; it would not be in character to be dressed like a duchess."

"To be sure/* answered the anxious manager, '* that's true enough, Stil lathis black de laine dress, with its high neck and tight long sleeves, this plain smooth hair, brushed tight to your head — honestly, you don't look pretty at all"

**I have dressed myself according to my conception of the character,'^ said Leopoldine, firmly. "In the third act, %vhcn I am snpposed to have fallen into a splendid fortune, they will see me in a handsome dress. Perhaps the con- trast will be all the more eflfective/'

"And, in the meantime, the first impression will be poor ; and if there is, as I have been told, a body of peo- ple in the audience who are determined to prevent you succeeding, they will have it all their own way at the be- ginning."

" Then I must try to have it all my way before ending."

" Clear the stage !" cried the prompter, "The curtain is going up,"

The first act of the Orphan of Notre Dame was rather dull. The audience bore it silently, awaiting with impa- tience the appearance of the new Star, the dramatic comet who was to draw all hearts in its luminous course*

She appeared.

Everybody was disappointed, it seemed.

A murmur of disapprobation ran thronjcrh the theatre at

MURMURS OP DISAPPROBATION.

143

Bight of this insignificant-looking girl, poorly dressed, and who seemed to have exerted herself to extinguish whatever natural advautages she might possess.

Even her friends were shocked at the poor figure she cut. Gibeau whispered to old Barentin:

"How strange that she should not make a more impos* ing appearance. She is naturallj pretty ; but she looks now as if she had lost every friend in the world, and gone into mourning for them in a shabby black dress.'*

**I did think, certainly, that she would show to better advantage," responded the other; *^but no matter^ she ia still the sweetest woman in the world. What eyes ! what a month!'*

"Yes," answered the friend; '^but she does not show her teeth, and she keeps her eyes constantly on tho ground."

** Well, would you have her personate innocence with a bold manner?'*

**I tell you what it is — on the stage, even innocence ught to have self-possession. Do you hear ? They are

iginning to laugh !"

The scene represented a noble marquis, who was trying to make love to the orphan. The conversation ran some- what thus :

** Lovely girl, why do you withdraw your hand ? whence comes this distrust of me V*

"Ah, marquis, you are noble and rich; I, poor and lowly."

** What of that ! These distinctions do not affect the heart. I love yon, dearest. Your striking beauty {mur- murs in the midieTice)^ your wondrous grace {lauQh\ the irresistible charm which you exert over all who see you.*' (cries of '* Enough ! enough !")

Here the two friends of the poor girl looked despair- ingly at each other.

I

144 THE AUDIENCE GROWS BAUCT.

"You hear ! They are begioning to express their dia-' approbation in good earnest/*

" I wish I had tbem in my back-garden, two at a time/' growled the other, furiously angry that they should so ill- treat hh favorite, *' Fd knock their heads together/*

On the stage, the girl continued to repeat the set words of her part :

*' No, marquis, do not tell me I am handsome. My mir- ror has too often told me the contrary/'

A Toice from the audience : ** I am of the opinion of the mirror/'

Another: "SoamL'*

Here the actor who played the marquis, whispered in the ear of the debutante ; " Do not let this break you down, my poor girl/*

" No," answered she, " I am determined to make a sue- cess, one way or another/'

Then she continued : "Ah, marqnis, if it were troe that, by a bitter irony, Heaven had endowed me with these ex- terior advantages — ''

A voice — "Don't disturb yourself. He has endowed yon with nothing at all/' fl

Another voice— from the gallery — " Say, you marqutSi what sort of taste have you got, making love to* an uni- breUa?"

At this, Barentin sprang to his feet, with rage, and,' leaning out of the private box where he was sitting, ht cried out: ** Beasts! hounds! will you be quiet?"

This disrespectful speech set fire to the powder. The pit rose with one accord, and in an instant two hundred fists were shaken up at the old commander Barentin. The old fellow, who, like a true French soldier, knew only one way of settling quarrels — the duello — indig- nantly scattered a whole card-case full of cards down u] the astonished crowd.

I

A TEERIBLB ROW.

145

" There !" cried he, at the top of his voice ; ** there's my card — one for each of you. HI fight you all !"

'*Hush, Barentin !" said Gibeau; *'be quiet, or they'll charge up here, and take us by assault/'

** They, the raacals, the ecouiidrels !'* shouted the old man, more and more angry, " Come on, all of you ! You dare not, cowards, hounds, idiots, fools !•'

The row now became general, and it was in vain that two or three policemen tried to restore order. Their voices were unheard in the tumult. The two men in the boxes, and the crowd in the pit, continued to launch invec- tives at each other, and already some one had torn up part of a bench, and flung it up at the energetic Barontin, whom it struck violently in the breast.

The fury of the old man knew no bounds. In his rage, he siezed hold of his neighbor, Qibeau, and tried to throw him over bodily, as a missile; but the human projectile absolutely refused to let himself be discharged.

Suddenly, silence was restored as if by enchantment. Every eye was fixed on the stage. The debutante ad- ^unced to the footlights, and motioned that she desired to apeak to the public. Every one seemed willing to hear what the orphan of the bridge of Notre Dame would have to say in her own defence.

Stnmge metamorphosis ! Her face seemed transformed. Her great black eyes flashed with lightning-like sparkle; a smile of disdain exposed her pearl-like teeth, which as if they were ready to bite ; her pink nostrils 1; and her blonde hair, through which she had run her feverish fingers, formed a splendid crown around the head of the irritated girl. She looked like a triumphant Ventts, entering a cage of howling and furious lions.

**T1iere, look how beautiful she is !'* yelled out Bareor tio, still furiously angry.

** Silence ! silence !'' cried the audience. 10

led

(

146

leopoldinb's spebch.

I

The girl stood like a statue until the last sound had died^ away. Then, in a deep, low voice, she said : ■

**Gentlemen» the singular reception that you have seen fit to give me, forces rac to retire from the stage, and letj the remainder of ray part be taken by some one else/*

"Don't you do it!'' yelled Barentin, furiously,

"I should never forgive myself,*' said she, still in the"^ same quiet voice, " if I were to interfere with the pleasure of this audience, by imposing upon it the further annoy- ance of my presence. I only desire, before I take my leave, to express my profound regret that my zeal and my ambition were not sufficient to make up for what I lack, alav%! in talent and beauty.**

The apparent humility of these words were completely nullified by the defiant expression of the transformed face of the debutante, and the public sat like so many deaf- mutes, staring at the features that a moment before it had been stupid enough to pronounce homely. The pit seemed at a loss what to do ; one moment more, and it would have risen as one man, and apologized to hen After having enjoyed her triumph a few seconds, and astonished the audience still further by the fiery glances of her star-like eyes, the girl made a slight bow, and walked towards the back part of the stage.

At sight of this movement, the audience cried out, with one voice : ^

" No, no. Stay — continue your part !" V

The young actress paid no attention to this request, but stalked, majestically, off the stage. ^

And now there arose another tumult, but one of a di|9 fercnt kind. It was like nothing but a capricious child crying for the plaything that an instant before it broke into a thousand splinters.

The stage manager was obliged to appear. He nounced that Miss Leopoldine, completely prostrated

AST0M6HUENT.

147

ec" ar

IV

mach emotion, found herself unable to continue her performance.

At this distressing news, the pit blushed for its cruelty, and the gallery-gods burst into an abashed perspiration at having shown themselves so extremely un-aDgcUc.

At last, after many goings backward and forward, be- ind the scenes and before the footlights, the stage man-

;er makes the announcement that the debutante will continue her part.

''Hnrrah!'* Transports, enthusiasm, general emotion, and hand-shaking !

The old Frenchman was in the seventh heaven of delight

*' Gibeati, Gibeau !" cried he, ** I am prouder than I was

hen we took the Malakoff."

The curtain, which had been lowered, was now again " rung up."' By a skilful bit of management {suggested by Leopoldine), they had cut out the end of the second act, which remained unplayed, and had begun with the third. The debutante had now put on her hiyidsome cos- tume, of which she had spoken to the manager before the

eco commenced.

When she stepped out upon the stage, the astonishment of the spectators knew no bounds. The orphan, now mar- ried to the marquis, has become a star in the highest society, and her dress is in keeping with her elevated po- sition. It consisted of a trailing robe of the most delicate satiii, cut to fit perfectly her fan It less form. About her white neck hung a string of what appeared to be priceless pearls. Her blonde hair now rippled down her back in a profusion of graceful ringlets, and it was a question which to admire most — the beauty of her form, or that of her face.

"Bravo! bravo!" echoed from boxes, balcony and pit. The enthusiasm of old Barentin had infected the whole

148 TOE IEREPKE8SIBLB BARKNTIK.

audience j and, at thiB moment, if any man had been rash enough to cast any reflections upon the appearance or matuiers of the debutaoto, he certainly would have met with uncomfortable treatment.

Tears of joy and pride stood in the eyes of the old com- maoder. lie pressed the hand of his friendj and said : ■

** Qibeau, did you ever see a lovelier divinity than she isi in Olympus?'*

"I go there so rarely/* answered Qibeau- ■

The conversation on the stage began. The marquis enters, and looks with astonishment on his wife,

"Ah !" he says, *' 'tis you ! What a change ?'

"Indeed, marquis!'*

" Yea ; you never before looked so lovely !"

Here> the commander shouted out :

•^Tliat^s true!"

" Silence !" groaned the pit.

Upon which the orphan replies :

" It is very late for you to make the discovery of my charms.*'

'*Ye8, indeed, I should think it was^ — very lata!'* shouted the commander.

" Silence !*' bellowed the pit, again.

"Silence, yourself!'* retorted old Barentin,

Gibeau whispered in the old man's ear —

" Do be quiet, commander V'

" Then why do they worry me?"

"Ah, my dear wife,'' continues the marquis; *'letme hope that you will forget the fault I committed — '*

"Never!*' shouts old Barentin, thinking of the public — not of the actor.

Marquis: " Who would have believed that the orphan of the bridge of Notre Dame was so lovely?" ^

<* I would !" shouts old Barentin. V

Here the pit cried out indignantly, "Will he never shut up, that old idiot?"

I

THE GAME EQUAL.

BareDtin roared in response, shaking hU fist at them again — '* Never, never!"

Another slight tumult, and hisses, during which Gibeau expostulated with Barentin,

" If you will talk, talk low/*

**It is for you Fm talking, Gibeau/' haughtily replied the ludicrous old man, ** for these ruffians do not deserve the honor of my remarks. There! They are throwing boqueta to lier like rain. Good ! She don't pick them Dp, Bravo !**

As he stated, the proud girl now showed her disdain of the homage of her converted insulters. She even pushed away with her foot a bunch of flowers which lay in her path.

Astonishmeat in the audience, and some signs of dis- pleaenre.

Whereupon the marquis resumed speaking: ** Ah, cruel one, why disdain the homage of a heart devoted to you through life and death !" Then in a whisper, he said, **>fy dear young lady, what you are doing is very dangerous. Better pick up the bauquets,**

^ Marquis," said the girl, aloud, without answering his whispered remark ; *' marquis, / treat you as you treated me. The game is now equal /'*

*^ Bravo, bravo !" shouted the old commander.

Here one of the gallery-gods — those enfant (errtbles of the theatre— Hjried out,

** Why don't she pick up the flowers? If a insulting!**

** Yes," roared the pit, " the bouquets ! the bouquets!'*

The girl stopped her acting, and again stood imjmssable dod disdainful before the anger which her conduct had net ted.

** You pick them up, marquis," cried a voice from the j^ullery, which belonged to a small boy with a dirty shirt.

** Yee^ yes I" cried the pit.

150

THE POTTER OP BEAUTY.

The actor dM as he was bid* Lifting the flowers from the stage, he offered them to the girl with his most gallant bow,

Leopoldiiie took them — but ooly for the pui-pose of throwing them one at^er another behind the scenes.

This singular stroke of policy awakened a loud nuirmur. Leopoldine folded her arms and threw upon tlie public a glance so full of anger, that the astonished spectators, completely taken aback by her unusual con- duct, hardly knew whether to hiss or to applaud.

The silence was broken by the old commander leaning out of his box once more, and vociferating —

** Well, suppose she don*t want your flowers — ^will you force them on her? You are free to hiss herj she has the right to despise your cabbage-heads.**

"Commander, commander/' whispered Gibeau, ner- vonslyj " they are cameliaa/'

"I don't care/*

Oh, magic power of beauty ! Leopoldine had sat down to wait the resumption of quiet* Iler cheek leaning on hand, her roguish smile more and more disdaiufulj she seemed to say to the public :

"Don't hurry yourself, my friends, the theatre isn*t rented."

The monster audience was vanquished by her beauty

I and her audacity. It felt that slio was stronger than it, and at length resolved to frantically applaud what in reality it should have hissed. The play was soon over, and the curtain fell amidst wild cries for the reappearance of the *' orphan." The debutante obstinately refused to again show herself. The stage manager almost went on his knees to her. How success changes some people's views ! "Please bestow one parting look on them," plead the stage manager.

•

I

I

THB LAST STBOKB. 151

"Ko; they are too rude."

"But they are tearing up the seats!"

"Why did they insult me when I was doing my best?"

" But to oblige me— "

"Very well, so be it. Baise your curtain !"

Silence fell like enchantment over the hitherto noisy audience.

The doors at back of the stage were flung open for the entrance of the debutante.

She appeared.

A tempest of applause greeted her.

Leopoldine advanced slowly down the stage, and instead of maJdng a courtesy to the assembled spectators, she wheeled directly in front of the box where Barentin and Gibeau sat, and made to them, and to them alone, three profound curtseys, after which she quickly turned her back on the audience and walked off the stage.

Everything she did was right now. The public ap- plauded her to the echo.

And after that night she became the talk of the town. Crowds rushed to see her every night, and her fortune was made.

162 THB PEKNXLBS8 ORPHAK.

CHAPTER XVn.

The Story of Carrie Lee, ftn American Debutante. — Driven to the Stage for a Livelihood. — Secures an Engagement — Horror of her Priendfl.— Cast for a Boy'i Part.— The Recreant Lover. — The Eventful Night*—** Charlie.*'—*' Will you put out Mine Eyes ? "-The Denoue- , ment.

There is a yoong lady now npoD the stage — whether in New York or some other city, I think I shall not say, for I do not wish to call uopleaaaiit attention to her — ^whom I once knew as one of the noble army of euflFering, etrag- gling womanhood.

Her name, thongh public property now, it wonld not be right in me to give in connection with the story I am about to tell of her; so I will cull her Carrie Lee.

Being suddenly left fatherless, motherless and penni- less, Carrie Lee was made painfully conscious of the fact that landladies, whatever their sympathies, do not keep boarders for nothing; and that the only irresistible music in this world is the jingle of a well-tilled purse.

Knowing then that she must do something for a live- lihood, Carrie Lee investigated the subject of womens' employment.

But what could she do ? Alas I here was the trouble. Carrie Lee had received a good boarding-school educa- tion, such as young ladies of the present day commonly receive— a smattering of Frenchj a smattering of algebra, ■ a smattering of drawing, a smattering of music and a smattering of various other genteel accomplishments — all of which were of very small use to her now. 'They would not, or so it seemed, bring her in five cents a day.

In fact, Carrie had never been taught anything useful in the world — there is not one girl in a thousand who

I

eOBS OH TEE 8TAQB.

158

ever is taught anything naeful, or anythiog which she coDld turn to practical accoout if she were obliged to earn her livelihood.

What should she do ? Colorieg photographs, dress- makiDg, plain eewing, all these things require time and iDstruction before a livelihood can be made from them ; and in the ease of Carrie Lee the material wants were im- mediate, and must be immediately supplied.

Carrie had always had a taste for the stage ; and while the did not think that by going upon the stage she should at once set the town in raptures over her, it was not ex- traordinary, perhaps, that now in her dire strait the thought of earning a livelihood thus should occur to her; 80 without a word to any one she set out in search of em- ployment as an actress*

She made application at the door of one theatre after another, until she found a manager who was willing to try what she could do.

There were not lacking people to "raise their hands in holy horror at the course taken by this youog girl, to say she had disgraced her family by going upon the stage ; but Carrie bravely went her ways, and trusted to nothing but her own consciousness of honor and right.

But the poor girl's courage was soon to be sadly tested. Once enlisted in the ranks of a theatrical company, she found that for rigorous discipline she might as well have entered the army ; the managerial fiat must be obeyed. And euch a dreadful fiat

jThe first part for which Carrie was cast, was that of Arthur^ in "King John ;" a part which never would have been given a novice, but that illness of another member of the company threw it upon her shoulders.

Arthur was a good part in sorae respects j but alaa ! it ^ns a boy's part; and Carrie shrwnk \\nth uncontrollable

r —

ii

164

CHARLIE.

For this she had not calculated when slic resolved to go upon the stage.

The odiam she incurred even by making an appearance in any guise, however modest, was eufficient to try her courage to the utmost ; but now — to appear in the garb of a boy — ^how could she do it?

What would Charlie think ?

Yes, there was a Charlie. There always is,

Charlie was a well-dressed, good looking young fellow, who was a charming beau in society, danced divinely, and had just about brains enough to carry him safely through the German.

Carrie Lee was in love with this young man (girls will do these things), and they were engaged to be married.

Charlie thought it a noble act of graciousnesa on his part that he should permit Carrie to eopport herself by going upon the stage. Of course, now that Carrie was cast for the part of Arthur, Charlie must be consulted.

That evening Charlie called, and found her with her Shakespeare before her, busily engaged in putting the words of Arthur in her memory.

Well, the pretty young gentleman*s feelings when he discovered the dreadful state of affairs, may be imagined.

In vain Carrie tried to represent to him the necessities of the case. Charlie was sulky.

" I tell you I don't like it for you to be stared at by a whole houseful of people dressed like that ! And I won't have it. There !''

''Do you suppose I like it, Charlie?'' said the poor girl, her heart almost ready to break. " It is mcessity with me, X must do it.*'

" Now, Carrie," said this nice young man, with the delicate instincts of a brote; *^you know that Fm dis- pleased with this whole matter, anyway. People know that I'm engaged to you, and it hurts my position. But

;arb

I I

I

OABRIE S PLEA.

155

now for you to go and play a man's part — ^why Vm not going to stand it now — that's all there is about it !"

Selfish creature! Is it not a wonder Came did not dismiss him then and there ? But what will not a woman overlook in the man she loves ?

The poor girl, with tears in her eyes, tried to talk over this stubborn fellow, who — however much wo may excuse Us natural repugnance to seeing hia fiancee on the stage in a boy's dress — was actuated so thoroughly by a pitiable selfishness, that he could not see how necessity goaded the young girl he professed to love.

** It hurts me, Charlie, more than you know, to play this part, or even to play any part Do you think it is pleasant for me to go upon the stage in the most novel and trying position in which a woman can be placed? Ah, do have sympathy for me! Do you, I entreat of you, even if no one else can be moved to pity me!"

For the moment the man seemed to be touched, and he went away leaving a ray of hope in the poor girFs breast that, after all, oh, wondrous boon ! she might be able to keep both her lover and her situation at the theatre.

But the pretty-faced, blonde-whiskered fellow was true to his own selfish instincts when he was once removed from the softening influence of the poor girl's tears. No, no, he was not going to allow this sort of thing to go on any longer.

lie stayed away from Carrie day after day— he who had been in the habit of calling at least once in every twenty- four hours — and Carrie's heart sank within her as time passed and still he did not come.

At length, on the very evening which was to see her debut in the part of Arthur^ she received a letter from hira, A thrill of joy shot through her breast as she re- ceived it; l)ut a film passed across her eyes, when she read:

" I have concluded it will be best to break off our en-

i^

DESERTED.

gagement. I think I have made a mistake about yon. have been consulting some of ray friends, and they think I'd better not marry — an actresa."

The letter fell to the ground. Her hands were pressed for an instant over her burning eyes, and then^ — ^it was over. The veil had dropped. She would be strong.

She had loved him — oh, how dearly she had loved him! but now he had shown her his baseness at one glance, and she would forget him, like a brave and self-reliant girl.

He who should have been the staff of her steps, the pillar of her strength, was weaker than the broken reed, and had failed her at the point of her sorest necessity. She would show him that she could live and do her duty without him.

Almost as in a dream — ^a dream b& of one who has wandered far from all delights, she dressed herself for the part of Arthur^ and walked upon the stage — into the glare of the footlights — into the presence of a thousand eyes — with the dream still on hen

Those who remember how Carrie Lee looked on that night of her debut, will bear me out in the assertion that in spite of her unaccustomed dress, she was wonderfully lovely — with her fair hair curling about her head, her pleading eyes full of sorrow, and her face of a marble whiteness.

A murmur of applause ran through the audience at sight of her; but she was unconscious alike of applause or censure,

Miibert^ the chamberlain, is commissioned by King John to put out the eyes of Arthur with red-hot irons. At the beginning of the fourth act Hubert enters, bearing the irons, which he conceals behind him. At the same moment At-tkur enters.

In a low, musical voice, Carrie spoke :

* * Good - morrow ^ Hubert . * ' ** Good-morrow, iittle prince,"

A TOUCH OP NATUBE.

157

The scene which followed was played by the fair debu- tante with a pleasing degree of pathos, and it was evident Carrie was making a good impression on her audience" Still it was not an extraordinary ability which she dis- played ; until the moment when she was speaking the lines —

" N»y, jou may think my Ioto wm cr&fty love — "

When, lifting her sad eyes mechanically, there in the stage box she saw her lover — sitting, a picture of sullen dis- pleaenre^ with some of the friends who had coaxed him to come and see the debut of the girl he had cast off.

Ah, girlhood is weakness, and love is strong! She thought she could put him away without a struggle. But now, at the sight of him, there came back upon her heart all the memoriea of her love — ^all the miseriea of her situation.

Oh ! This was crueL He might have spared her this.

I it not enough that he had cast her so rudely off —

now he must come to exult in public over her anguish

id embarrassment ! liVTiat had she done that he ehould

"^$0 her thus ? She had been to him all trust — all faith —

all kindness.

And aa these bitter thoughts filled her mind, she fixed her eyes on his, and speaking the words of Arthur as her memory mechanically retained them, spoke still to her lo\*er, flittiug there, unable to turn his eyes away.

But she spoke no longer with the tame pleasingness of m mere pretty maiden uttering her part: the words came forth fts if wrung from her soul, and her voice was filled with tears :

" If Heaven be pleased, that you mu&i ute me ill, Why, then, you must: Will JOU put out mine eyea? TbeM eyoi tbui Qisver did^ nor neyer will, so mucli u &own on you?''

i

168 THB TABLBS TUBMID.

There was a visible sensation in the aadience. Here was a fine toach of art

It was such a touch of naturt that the leereant lovo^ thrilled to his selfish hearty drew back in ixrapreirifale agitation, and a moment after left the box.

The chord had been struck, however, to which vibimled in true response the sympathies of her audience^ and Carrie Lee's portrayal of the rest of the part waa aneh that her debut was an unheard-of Buccess.

As for the lover who didn't want to many an mCnm; it is very well known in his circle that after that debut lie did want to marry an actress ; and it is equally well knomi in his circle that the actress told him ^nol she would never marry a moral coward I"

A PITUBLB OBJECT,

15»

ClIAPTER XVin,

8lag&-Struck Youths. — The Victim of an Unliappj Fever.— A PitiaMo Object* — His General Inapecuaiosity. — Hia Vamty and Presumption. FftUe Ideas of the StJigs Life. — Sticka and Stage-Drivers. — Worthy Industry. — Deraocrfttic Posaibilitics. — The Stage-Struck Heroes of tho HidBummer Nigbt^s Dream. — ^Moderri Stage-Struck Yonthi* — Queer

I Lettera to Managers. — A Girl of '^Sixteen Summers, and Some say Good-looking." — Two Smart Girla wish to ^' Act upon the Stage." — A

IfBtage-StrQck Bostonian. — A Pig with Pivo Ijegt.— A Stage-Struck

I Philadetpbian. — Ho Appears under an Assumed Name at the Chestnut BtToet Theatre, — HiB Love of the Coulisseg.— ** The Mo&t Delightful Place in the World. "^ — ^A Species of Infatuation, — A Discontented Manager. — An Actress who "Married Well." — Her Yearnings for

[ llie Old Life.— A Letter and an Epithet,

Flesh 19 heir to many ills, but tbere are medicines for most of them — though between ills aud pille I never could see much difference, as a matter of comfort.

If it were not for the extra p, any one can see that ills and pills are as like as two p's.

For almost all the ills that flesh is heir to, there are medicaments of some sort, with medical men to inflict them on ua ; but the unfortunate mortal is beyond the reach of medical skill who is attacked with that fever which 18 not recognized in tlie medical dictionaries, but which 18 known to us all by the term *' stage-struck. *'

In this case physicians are in vain ; it is impossible to heal this sick soul j and what boots it to cry shoo ! to the demon who takes possession of the stage-struck sufierer ?

It is ver}' easy to laugh at the distress of the stage- struck youth, but it really is no joke to him. His fever Interrupts the ordinary course of existence, in the most unhappy way.

Talk about toothache ! Talk about corns ! Talk about

160

IMPECUHIOUS IMBKCILITT.

P

dyepepBia, even ! The atage-stmck youth cannot sleep ; he cannot eat ; he can drink — ^but let us hope he will not, for no drink that ever was compounded will quench hia thirst.

He 18, indeed, a very pitiable object, with that histri onic fire burning in his bosom.

This fever generally attacks young men in the lowi walks of life — idle apprentices and weak-headed boya^ who have no more idea of the artistic requirements of the stage than a Bedouin Arab has of the latest Paris fashions.

The stage-struck youth is generally an impecunious person, and there is united to the fever in his blood a famine in his pocket. |

He fancies that the road to fame and fortune is a clear one, by the way of the theatre.

Usually he is a person who has been flattered by his friends into the belief that he is a wonderful mimic or a thrilling orator.

He spoke pieces at school with great success, and his vanity has been so fed by the petty triumphs of that little stage, that he is incapacitated for a studious pursuit of education.

He disdains arithmetic, and grammar is altogether be- neath him.

And when he is emancipated from leading-strings, and strikes out in the world for himself, he is thoroughly unfitted for a laborious and conscientious pursuit of any vocation.

He has contracted habits of idleness, and desires noth- ing now, but to go through life spouting for a living — like the whales — that toil not, neither do they spin.

The first mistake of a stage-struck youth is exactly here. He fancies that the theatre, being a play-house, is not a place for work^ — a mistake which is more likely to

:!

land him in the workhouse, at last, than to make him a rich and faaiouB actor.

I have known, I was almost goiog to say, a thoui^and examples of the stage*stnick youth in, my day, and I can count on my fingers, this hour, all those who, having gone apou the stage, still stay upon it; while the number of those who have perished by the way is legion.

The feet is, as I have already intimated, there is no oc- cupation more laborious than that of acting; and^ gene- rally, it is only those w'ho have been bred from cliildbood to the boards — whose parents were actors betbre them — who are fit to cope with the toilsome necessities of the stage.

Those who, from the outside world, are stage-struek, are almost invariably very poor sticks indeed, and w^ould make a better figure driving a stage than strutting on one in the borrow^ed feathers of the actor,

"Stage-driving" is not in itself a disreputable employ- ment, by any means, With the memory of Jehu and Tony Weller to inspire us, we shall not underrate the honors which belong to a race of beings now nearly ex" tinct; but a stage-driver is not generally a scholar, nor imbued with high artistic tastes ; and therefore he will do better to keep his seat on the box than to seek the appro- bation of the boxes.

A shoemaker on his bench is a useful member of so- ciety, and, in so far as he cultivates his mind, he is enti- tled to sit higher ; but, so long as he pursues his trade for a livelihood, he had bettor take the advice of the tem- perance lecturer, and ** stick to his last, cobbler/*

Shoemakers, we know, have risen to honor and great- ness, and blacksmiths have become Igarned men, and elo- qoent divines ; and I heard once of a tanner who became

I honor labor. I honor all those who work, and work 11

d

162 BTAGB-STRUCK BOTTOM.

honestly and well, according to their place, whether with head or hand.

I respect a carpenter at his bench, or a blacksmith at his anvil ; but a stage-struck carpenter or blacksmith I can laugh at as heartilj as any one in the world.

Shakespeare chose for his stage-struck heroes, in the ••Midsummer Night's Dream/' a half dozen of the ** hard- handed men of Athens;" *• rude patches/* P^tck calls them» "who'worked for bread upon Athenian stalls/'

There was Flute^ the bellows-mender; Starveling^ the tailor; ^<mee, the carpenter ; iS^oii^, the tinker; Snuff^Oxe joiner; and Nick BoUonij the weaver.

They were all desperately stage-struck, but Bully Bot- tom by far the most severely^ This unhappy man wanted to plaj all the parts in their piece of **Pyramus and Thisby/' and, when they were at rehearsal, made a deal of trouble by clamoring &r this part and the other

He was cast for Pyramus ; and, *' What is Pyramus f " asks, *'a lover or a tyrant?"

**A lover/' says Quince^ "that kills himself, most lantly, for love/'

*' That/' says Boitom^ " will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes. I will move storms — ^I will condole in some mea- sure/*

Butf though so pleased with the lover's part, Bottom cannot help wishing it had been a tyrant^ — *'a part to t a cat in^ — to make all split."

Then, when Francis Flute is cast for the part of Thisi Bottom wants to play that; he thinks he could play a woman capitally.

"Let me play Thisby, too/' he says; "1*11 speak in a monstrous little voice — Thisne, Thisne^ — Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear; thy Thisby dear; and lady dear!"

When Snu(j, the joiner, is cast for the part of the lion.

eaM

i

FINE FUN.

163

he is told that he has nothing to do but roar. Whereupon poor stage-struck BoUom^s vanity is again aronaed.

*' Let me play the lion, too," he saya ; '* I will roar that it %vill do any man's heart good to hear me ; I will roar that I will make the duke say, ^Let him roar again — let Mm roar again,* "

To this Quince objects : *'An' you should do it too terri- ribly, you would fright the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us alL Ay, that would hang us, every mother's son.'*

Bat Bottom replies, with a percistency worthy of a bet- ter purpose :

**I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies outof their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang ns* Bat I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove. I will roar yoa an* 'twere any nightingale/'

The fun these fine fellows make when they are on the stage, to perform their ridiculous play, is as rich as any- thing to be found in the language.

Among modern stage-struck youths are representativea of every class in society. A gentleman who recently ex- amined a package of some two hundred letters from etage- Btmck people, addressed to a Boston manager, relates that one was from a refined and culti\^ated yoong lady, who had fallen in love with Edwin Booth; another from an awkward, uneducated, rustic boor, who, having seen a troupe of strolling Thespians in some country town, in- stantly decided that ho was born to histrionic fame. Most of the letters, especially those from the ladies, were very long, with long "fexordiums and long perorations. The writers first beg pardon for intruding, then explain at great length their feelings and aspirations, then make their request for emploj^raent or advice, and wind up with jred apology. In many cases the fair writers adopt

1G4 QtniBE CUSTOMERS.

fictirions names, of aristocmtic eouDd, like De Forrest^ Montmorency, ami the like. Some of them strive to ex- cite the manager's pity; one is a "poor orphan," and pines for sympathy and encoumgement; another is fiiding under the blight of a stepmother's cruelty, &c. One youn^ man, whose early education has evidently been neglecte^H sends a half-page of scrawl, in which he sets forth his hi§^ trionic experience in a local dramatic club, and encloses his tin-type, so that bis physical advantage may have due weight with the manager. The picture represents a man of thirty -odd, fully six feet high, and weighing about 190 poundi5, his face composed to a meant-to-be-dignified, but actually silly expression, and his right hand extended across his ample breast, clasping a roll of manuscript All the writers beg for an immediate answer, and not a few seem to assume that the manager will jump at the chance of securing their services. One girl of sixteen sends the following ;

DfiAH Sir— you WiU Pardon tho Prosumption of an Inezperionc«d young girl in thus Addressing you But Sir "Wliat I Wwh to Say lo you is this, I liflvo Become Conipletoly Infatuated With the -desire to become and ActtresB and Sir, thinking your Experianco would give me an An* flwer I have applyed to you I Would Not Wish to Bo Connected with the Ballot troupe, But assume the Charicter at first of Pago or aome LoTer I& Connection with Some Comedy or farce, I flatter Myself I am Very well Bead and have A Yery good Memory Witch I Presume is Requi- site, for A Kew Beginner Now Sir I Shall Expect a Heply to this at the EarleyOBt opportunity and Dirwt to

Miss Maooie , etc |

P, S. — Discription — Sighth^ four feet five inches light Auburn hair Blue Eyes and Some Say good looking age Sixteen Summers — AnawQ^^ 8ooa. ^H

A young gentleman, in Springfield, Maseacbusets, evi- dently expects to be engaged at once:

Dkar StB--Thinking of adopting tho Profession of an actor i take uieathord of asaertaining if you would wish to recelye eney new

THE STAGE IRISHMAN. (Irish Dmma of ** Arrah na Poffus,**)

I

BCPERB 6i;i.F-C0NCBrt.

165

ihoald wish lo enter as a walking Gentlunmn if this meets witli your ap- proTel ploas addreaa and oblige

Habbt ',

P 6) pleas state the aalery that you give to new Hands and all the par- Uckolars if yoo can reletive to a new beginner, •

A girl who is ** Bmart," and kiiowB it, writes from Fitchburg;

I now writo to see if you do not wish for two smart girls to act upon the stage. I am A good spekcr and am not afraid to spoeke boforo ten thouaands. I can tell you we are real smart girls and are good looking and we would like to come first rate and can raise ned and keep folks A laughing befiides put on A long face that would reach from hero to Bc»3- ton and we could be as sober as noah when he went into the ark in the time of the flood just sey eome and tell us where and we will be there

and I will now say that our names are and plese write

foon and drcct it to Fitchburg — good eyenlng*

A young Bostonian expresses his sentiments at length, with various personal remarks, as follows :

Sifi — I hope you will please excuse me for thus addressing you In a manner so abrupt and intruding upon common politeness. But 3ir the ^luotioDS and Impulses that prompt me to pen these thoughts to you would coniider that any formal rules or services wcro mere secondary and not primitive in a case like this. (A few introductory remarks if you pltaae Sir before we come to the subject) It should be the aim of every bum^n being (as we are itepping upon the threshold of manhood or womanhood and soo before us the great arena of lifo diversified with hills and mountains of misfortune and adversity and also tnterspersf>d with plains and valleys of for tun o and prosperity and the many pntbs some tm^ooth and more rough that lead and tend in dilferent ways) to try and ind such A path among the many that wo could do honor to. One that Wmild be coincidence with our nature and thought or as we are prepar- ing our ship of human existence to sail over the sea of life, we should go as the inward chart of human nature would guide us if wo want to arrivo on the bright shore of success. How many of us are nuisances to oiir- felYoa and to humanity by not following out our naturnl feeling we do not know. But undoubtedly there are a goc»d many. Now Sir, I think I wii inwardly made for a stage actor Don*t think but know that I

a, I have often bad it said to me that I had ought to go on the stage, and I am bound to go. I am a young man 17 years old, and am fast Tvrging on to tho day when 13 yoara will hava roiled over my head, and

1

166

UNCONSCIOUS NUISANCES.

U U now time I should commence if eTer. I always make a^pr&eiioe cummiUing to memory a certain amount of poetry or pro&e, ond cnn com* mii it very easy. I have nn Aunt in tho city thut keeps three boarding* houses and with her I Hve. Excuse me, sir, for thoa relating to you my pedigree but tbuught that you would want to know something about me. 1 have not been from ficbool a great while, and that is the reasoa I want to commence know, when my mind is active, i take the liberty to write

thiB to you to see if you had any chance at the or should have soon

when you could afford to pay me fair wages. If Sir you would like to know any more about mo I would be happy to give il verbally or throtigli letiersi Most any time verbally from 8 to 6. Yours, truly,

p

A mail in Ilaverhill deaires to Becnre a star engagemeDt] for a performer evidently fitted by nature to Bhiue in th« Bonaational drama:

Sir— 1 have got a pig that has got 5 legs I dont think there ever t one like him before I bave had old men here to see him that say tbay never eeo aucb a sight before they advise mo to send to you and see if you would like him he waigha about one hundred and 25 pounds I s^nd this by express and if you would like it I should like to have 'you writt as Boon as you get this.

In former days I knew a young man, belonging to an excellent pious family in Philadelphia, who had reared fl their son in the most careful mauuer, only to see him un- happy, restless, discontented.

What was tho matter? It soon came out, — ^he was stage-Btrock. Prayers, comraandsj remonstrances, were alike unavailing. His mind was made up— he would ^ an actor.

He appeared, under an assumed name, at the Chestnut Street Theatre. He made a favorable impression at once. He was good-looking, well-dressed, and had gentlemanly manners, i

These qualifications were quite sufficient to make him entirely successful in the *'Dear Fredericks" and *' Dar- ling Henrys *' — lovers' parts of small calibre— in which he firfit appeared.

L he tnnt

AIT ILL-SMBLLINa QUABTIB.

167

He was booh engaged, at an advanced salary^ at the Arch Street Theatre, then under the excellent manage- meot of William Wheatley and John Drew, and pro- gressed still further in the good graces of the public* He was ID the seventh heaven of delight — he floated on clouds.

One chilly rainy night I went, with a heavy heart, to fill my little part, which I was playing in the same theatre.

As I passed the back-door, the old watchman thrusting his lantern into my face to assure himself that I had a right to enter — one which I would gladly have resigned — the musty^ fusty odor of the thousand and one articles used for diflbrent purposes behind the scenes, met my revolted nostrils, the paint pots, glue, canvas, gilding, wood, gas, blue fire, old dresses, some smelling of camphor, some of other things less pleasant — the humanity which was wear- ing them, for instance— the whole mixed up with the damp and muggy odor of a rainy night — well, those who have never smelt it, have but to guess, and those who havei have hut to remeraben

Whenever I hear that old conundrum, "What smells the worst in a drug store?'' and listen to the shouts of merriment which follow the answer, *' The clerk/' I al- ways feel like saying, behind the scenes of a theatre mells worse than both drug store and clerk together.

I groped my way across the stage, in its sombre re- cediee, knockitig against thrones, and piazzas, and Roman ebariots, huddled up any way to get them all out of the way till they were wanted, when suddenly I found myself fiikce to face with the young actor.

^ Oh," said I, with a shudder, *' isn't this dreadful ?" P** What dreadful ?*' asked he, in surprise.

**Why, behind the scenes of a theatre; isn't it a nasty plaeer

** Behind the scenes of a theatre a nasty place ! No !"

168

A STBASOE IT^ATCATIOK.

s

ehouted he, with a fire worthy of Beecher or Gongh^ "no, it is the most delightful place iu the world. I love it ! I idolize it ! I hope I may pass my whole life here I and be brought here when I am dying !'*

This same species of infatuation I have often heard ei pressed by many actresses and actors — nay, by Bcene shifters, property men, call-boys, and, indeed, attaches of^ every grade in a theatre.

I never could understand it. The theatre always seemed to me the dreariest, saddest, most uncomfortable place ii existence. I always recognize the beauty of a wellJ enacted play, a wcll-snng opera, or even an amusing pan- tomime ; but the theatre in the day-time — or at night, in any place except on the stage itself — always Beamed, dreary, and tiresome, and depressing^

On the other hand, I have heard many and many ; actor, actress and manager yearn for any other sphere of life, and blame their parents for not having fitted them for other business. flj

A short time ago, a Kew York manager, fifty years of age — ^a man who had been connected witli theatres thirty years — said to me, with a dreary sigh, '^ Oh, I do get so aick of this business, sometimes, that I wish I had been a butcher or a hod-carrier, instead of a theatrical manager/'

I do not think — far from it — ^that this utterance waa drawn from him from wTiat some people would call the moral sense; but merely because after all these years of toil, with first overwhelming success and then overwhelm- ing failure, and then, vice rersa^ back and forth through all these long years, he found himself, at fifty years of sigCy^ probably without money, and still as much obliged to un-^l dergo the ups and downs, the uncertainties of theatrical speculation, as when he first entered the business.

As a set-off to this case, I will relate that of a young woman who, some fifteen years ago, was traveling around this country as a star actress in comedy-

A HEART-BREAKER.

169

I was

She was pretty and graceful, and had a sweet voice for a song.

In the course of her wanderinga she got up to Canada, where she played an engagement at the theatre with her usual success.

Of course, to carry off the hearts (for a time, at least,) of susceptible gentlemen, was no new expericuce to her. But, during this engagement, she met and captivated a young English officer, who was stationed with his regi- ment in Canada.

She returned his love, and accepted his offer of mar- riage.

Shortly after their arrival in England the gentleman's father died, thus leaving him the family title. The actress was now " My lady."

She did not, however, forget her theatrical friends. She ^ te frequently to them, telling them of what a superb marriage she had made, in a worldly sense — money, posi- tion, title — as also, what was far better, in the sense of honor and love. Her husband was an honest, noble. Christian gentleman — she loved him dearly, ** but, oh," Bhe added, " you can't think how I long to be back on the gtiiger

Her friends here hoped that in a year or two sho would forget all about this idle longings But, year after year, letters in the same strain poured in from her, always sing- ing tlie same song*

Tho last I heard of it was this spring, ^jf^en years since ahe left Canada to sail for England. On perfumed paper, stamped with the coat-of-arms of her husband, she wrote:

*^I idolize my husband and my children. My husband's mother is an angel, if ever there was one. So good, so pore, so true a Christian as she is I never before met. I hare rank, fortune, friends, amusements of all sorts — but,

170 VAIN TBABHures;

oh, E[at6 ! I tell yon truly, I would relinqniBh wwjUd^g (except my dear ones, of course), rank, fortune, poeition^ all — ^to be back once more in America, ^ starring * around the country — the same poor tittle actress I was when yon last saw me/'

I do not know how to comment on this case*, i WB,fue by the Bible forbidden to call our brothers V. fool,''' ;btit there is no Scriptural law that Ikuow of which ifinl)idnM to call our sister a little goose. , ;..='':{.

A LUDIO&OUB HISTOBT.

171

cnAPTER xrx.

The True Story of Mr. Alfred Pennyweight.— Tho Elegant Young So- ciety BeiLU.— Mr. Pennyweight Demoralized. —He ia Stage Struck.— Ho Wants to Play HacbcUi. — Besieging tho Managers,- An Engage- ment Secured,- Cast for the Bleeding Soldier* — Pennyweight Frights ened» — Procuring the Costame. — The Wardrobe Keeper. ^-Tho Pad- maker Visited, — Pennyweight's Lege, — The Fearful First Ni^hL-- The Curtain Rings Up, and the Play Opens, — Pennyweight's Debut. Effect on the Galleriefl. — The Catastrophe. — Good Advice to the Staga-Struck.— The Cure for the Fever,— Ridicule, the Remedy.

A very ludicrous history ia that of Mr* Alfred Peiitiy- eight — whom it was my fortune first to meet at Sara-

lie was a gay young butterfly, and the way he flitted from flower to flower, was delightful to see.

It was a family trait, however, for Old Pennyweight made his money in flour.

WTiere waa there to be found a gallant young gentleman with cheek more bloomiog or eye more bright tlian those of Alfred Pennyweight ? He was a gorgeous youth in hia at- tire, and lie indulged in lavender kidt?, and diatnond pins, and flowered neckties and curling-irons, in reckleaa extrav- Dce.

He was addicted to saying "By George/' when I first

et him, it is true; but after only a little mingling with the ariatocratic foreignei*8 who condescend to associate

th us in society, he could utter '* Bah Jove, ye know," ike an Englishman to the jovial gentry born.

Ho was elegantly slim and genteelly tall, and he kept a Mn to groom him and to pick his vest pockets of his change.

ALFEED PENKTWEiaHT.

As I sat in New York one eFening in November, a card was brought in* It bore the name of Alfred Penny- weight.

With the gay young Saratoga beau in my mind, ray first thought was the dreadful one that I was in my quilted wrapper, and that I should shock this young gentleman's refined feelings by my inelegance of attire*

But I might have been robed in one of his father*8 flour-sacks, for all my visitor would have cared. He was stage-struck, and had ceased to be a beau — to become a bore.

He entered the room, Wub it possible that this neg- lected creature was Alfred Pennyweight ? I gazed on him wth amazement

His beard was a week old — ^hia hair was out of curl — his necktie was dirty, and so were his gloves.

L

MODEST ASPIRATIONS,

173

He came in with the air of a man lost to societj'- — his proud form bowed with the weight of many cares, and his clotlnng soaked v\nth the November rain.

" Why, Mr. Pennyweight, how wet yon are ! You came out without your umbrella T*

** Umbrella ! What are umbrellas when there is a storm within, against which umbrellas are no protection? It is the tire of genias yearning for utterance — it is the histri* onic fire. I bum to go upon the stage/*

It took me a long time to get Mr. Pennyweight down from the clouds; but when I did accomplieb it, I found that his errand to me was a very practical one. He wished to obtain my assistance to get him a situation at one of our leading theatres.

"But why do you desire to go upon the stage, Mr. Pen- nyweight? You cannot wish thus to earn a livelihood. If you were a woman — or even if you were a poor ma^, I might understand it The channels in which women can work are few, and obstructed by numberless toilers ; but men have the whole field q( labor before them, from Wall street speculation down — or up — to boot-blacking."

But argument was wasted on him. He insisted that he was destined to become a great actor, and that I was the very person to assist him. He was not unreasonable, he ftaid. All he wanted was that I should procure him an engagement at one of our leading theatres, to play Mac- beth.

I said that I was absolutely powerless to accomplish 8uch a thing. All I could do would be to introduce him to some of the managers, and he must plead his own case before them.

** When will you do it?*'

^Oh, almost any day."

** Why not to-day r*

^^Yery well. If 'twere done, no doubt 'twere well 'twere done quickly."

174 I'ONQ ^IM^S ^OR A LADY TO WATT.

And 80 we walked np to Broadway,

I thiiik I never was bo talked at in my life as I was by that mao on that memorable day. He poured his aspira- tions into my ears in a perfect flood. He told me how he had steadily refused to enter " trade /' but had kept his mind free from the contaminating influences of mere Ldoney-getting, to be able at length to proclaim to all the '^orld hia devotion to the goddess whom he adored.

"Do you mean Miss Annie Porter?" I asked, abstract- edly, I

** I mean Melpomone/' he replied, in an injured tone.

** Oh, excuse me. I heard a rumor, the other day, that you were engaged to be married to Miss Annie Porter."

**I am — but she can wait till I am gweat,"

What a proapeet for the poor girl, thought L

By this time we had arrived at the door of one of our leading theatres.

** Mr. Ryely in ?" I asked of the treasurer at the box- office.

'* Yes ; do you want to see him ?"

I gave my card, and that of Mr. Pennyweight, who waa now the palest man I ever saw.

The answer was that the manager would see us in a minute.

I think that minute was to poor Pennyweight a period of unspeakable agony. He twitched nervously at the ends of his moustache, twirled hia hat in his hands, let his umbrella fall upon the floor, and thus unknowingly went ■ through the stercotj-ped funny business of a low comedian in a bashful part.

The manager presently came bustling in — a gentleman ■ endowed with an ample corporosity, and a little hard of hearing— celebrated, by the way, for his success in getting rid of bores with the aid of a formidable car-trumpet

THB MAI7A0EB.

175

He waa in a great hurry, and wanted to know of us what we wanted to know of him,

I explained, as succinctly as possible, that this gentle- mati (designating Mr. Pennyweight), wanted to go upon the stage.

** Yes V* said the manager, who was a very business- like man. " What can he do V

**His principal amhition," said I, "is to play Mac- beth."

*'Mac whof" roared the manager, as if he were refer- ring to an Irish part

" Macbeth/' said Pennyweight, speaking now for the first time. " You must know Macbeth, you know,"

** My good friends,** said the manager, looking at na with a strange expression, as if he thought his good friends were two lunatics, **I really must wish you good-day. We rehearse our new ballet at 12, If the gentleman^

176

UKAPPBSOIATED GSNIUS*

now, would like to go on iu one of the marches — to carry ' a banner — or, perhaps, he'd like to dance on, and support the danseusea in their poses? No? Well, then, I really don't see what further use my time can be to you. As to the idea of a novice playing Macbeth, and, above all, play- ing it in this theatre — why, that, you know, is a little too ridiculous/'

Ridiculous ! Ridiculous is no word for it It was the^ eheerest, most incredible stupidity. I

So, with an apology for having engrossed the manager's time, we took leave.

I thought it was just possible this would cool down Pennyweight's ardor ; but what was my surprise to find that, if anything, he was more etage-struck than ever.

" I assure you,'* he said, *' that the very idea we were in a manager's ofiBce, and talking about my appearance, yoJ know» made me burn all over. Oh, I'm sura I shall suc- ceed/'

'*But you see how poor the chance is for your getting an opening/*

'' Pshaw ! a ballet theatre ! What was the use of going^ there at all ?"

** Precisely what I endeavored to show you before w^ set out, Mr. Pennyweight. There was no use in going there at all ; and there will be no use at all in going any*^ where else on such an errand. Why can*t you put this idea out of your head ?"

He replied with an elegant outburst of glittering geno- ralities, and theatrical sound and fury; the essence of which was that he was not going to give it up so, Mrs, Brown, and that, like Sbylock, be should hold me to my bond. f

So we went froTu theatre to theatre; but Macbeth was nowhere in demand — at least Macbeth by the penny- weight; and, at length, the whole gauntlet was run»

1

1

THE HEAVY BUSINESS.

177

There were no more theatres to conquer — at least in New York ; and I breathed a sigh of relief,

At this juncture, Pennyweight tremulously suggested New Jersey.

"Enough," said I, ''I refuse. To New York I am committed, but nothing beyond New York. You see, oow, you stand no chance."

"Bat there was a theatre where they wanted some people/*

** Yes — some utility people."

** What are utility people ?"

**Thc utilities are the persons who present a letter — announce that * my lord, the carriage waits * ; and some- times do the heavy business/*

"The — ah — heavy business?**

"Yes — moving chairs, tables, and the like.**

Pennyweight shrugged his shoulders with disgust. But he revived.

"There's nothing degrading in doing the heavy — the utility business, is there? I mean in a professional sense/*

" Oh, nothing degrading, of course. But would utility business satisfy you ?*'

"Why, just at first, you know,'* he replied, very reluo- taatly, ** as it appears I can get nothing else to do/*

"Very well, then;** and we returned to the theatre which wanted some utility people.

"My friend would like to engage with you to play

Iity business," said I to the manager. *** What is the salary?** asked Pennyweight

"Three dollars a week,** answered the manager.

On the way up, Pennyweight had stopped, and bought a pair of fur gloves, which cost seven dollars — more than two weeks' salary.

I thought surely this would be a damper. But, no ;

178 PBNITTWEIGHT ENaAaSD.

Pennyweight said if the manager would only let him play the parts he wanted, he'd do it without any salary at all.

"Oh, I dare say/* answered the manager; "we have plenty of that eort. If I were to listen to all the stage- fitruck people who make application to me, I ehould have nothing but green hands in the theatre.*' J

*' Stage-struck!" and "green hands!" Pennyweight winced under these expressions. He told me, afterwards, that he wondered professional people would nee them. Why didn't they say, " fired with histrionic ardor/' instead of " stage-struck," and "unaccustomed to public speak- ing," instead of ** green hands V* I

At any rate, it was settled. Pennyweight was now ft utility man, at three dollars a week.

" Well J how do you feel now ?"

He replied that he felt 0. K.

** How will yon look your friends in the face ?"

^ Proudly- * Tall oaks from little acorns gwow/ **

**'But you're not an acorn, Mr. Pennyweight"

^* Pshaw! Can't you understand a simile? The I actors have spwnng from nothing,"

** Ohj yoo mean if you ever get to be a great actor, ; will have sprung from nothing ?"

But the poor fellow was so elated at the idea that at 1 — at last! he was to appear on the stage, that he was proof against ridicule.

Mr. Pennyweight now became quite lost to the onto world, ceasing relatione with the fashionable set of which,^ up to this time, he had been such a brilliant ornament, and spending his whole time behind the scenes of the™ theatre. f

What he did there, besides gazing with wonder and amazement on all that was new and strange to him, it ift^ not so easy to say ; but certain it is that the earliest comerV to the rehearsal and the latest to leave it^ testified to the

-I

CAST FOB A PABT.

179

fact that Peonyweight was always earlier and later than they ; and the stage-carpenters, prowling about the scenes in the afternoon, eaid that behind the flats, in some dark, cobwebby corner, Mr. Pennyweight was always to be found ; and everybody pronounced him one of the worst cases of stage-struck fever they ever encountered.

One day, as I was going in at the back door of the the- atre, I felt my arm held in a vice, as of iron.

It was too dark there, in the gloom behind the scenes, to see any face, but I heard a well-known voice gasp out:

**Iam castr ' '* By your grip, I should judge you were cast-iron,'' said I, casting him ofi^

**Nq— you don't comprehend, I am cast for a part,"

•*No?'*

"Yee/*

**For what part are you cast, Mr. Pennyweight?*'

**For the soldier in Macbeth."

There are many soldiers in Macbeth, but I knew at once which one he meanti — a part which is usually denom- inated the ** Bleeding Captain " by professional people, though it is not so called by Shakespeare.

**lfow, Mr. Pennyweight," said I, *'here is a chance for yon to distinguish yourself. The part has only three speeches, it is true, but that is quite long enough for a beginner. At the same time the meaning of the words is veiled in some of the most difficult lines Shakespeare ever wrote, and it will require the full force of your intellect, aided by your best elocution, to convey the meaning clearly to your audience."

"Don't say another word about it — I'm frightened ilmost to death already,"

The piece was rehearsed the next day, and I was promptly on hand to see how my protege would get on.

180 AT REHEARSAL.

The beat description of Pennyweiglit's appearance on tliaf I mornmg may be found in the words of Ophelia ;

** Mj lord, ftt I WAS sewing in mj closet,

Lord Hamlet, with his douhlet all unbraoodi Ko hut upon his head, pale as his shirt, His knees knocking each other^ — Thus ho cornea boforo me."

But it does not require much courage to get through a rehearsaL The speeches are only mumbled over, even by the beat actors, and all the novice has to do, is to impli- citly obey instructions as to " situation " and '* stage busi- ness," two technical terms, which signify where he shall* stand and what he shall do.

Fortunately for Pennyweight, the soldier in ^* Macbeth " ia, at night, brought in on a litter, being supposed to have been recently wounded, and to be bleeding freely ; there- fore, as he does not etir, and has nothing to do but He upon the litter and speak, one of the greatest difficulties of the beginner is overcome.

Pennyweight got through rehearsal so well that he quite elated; and insisted that I must oversee the pre] ration of his costume.

*' Very well/' I said. " Shall we go into the wardrobe room?"

We went into the wardrobe room, and the wardrobe keeper, an excellent woman, with a strong Hibernian ac< cent, asked us what we wanted.

" This gentleman/' said I, ** is going to play the soldier in Macbeth."

The woman eyed the elegant Pennyweight curiously^ and then asked, "if he was wan ov the shupes ?"

A supe ! Pennyweight, of Fifth Avenue, a supe ! He turned green with horror.

"No — oh no. This gentleman is not one of the snpes. He is going to play the soldier in Macbeth, and he wants to know what you can give him to wear for it."

I ties epl^

IN THE WAKJDBOBB BOOM.

181

She aaid she could give him *'a himlet"

**Thaok you/' I replied* '*But a helmet alone will scarcely be sufficient for him to costume himself in for the part-"

She reflected a minute, and then said that '* the best ov the kilts WU8 gon\ She guv wan to Macdufl, and wan to Banky, and wan apiece to each ov the ehupes, and iVs on'y a duzin she hod ov 'em, ony way. But ehe could give him a himlet'*

"Oh, never mind," said Pennyweight, **I shouldn't care to wear the things, even if she had them to give. I say, what a regular old curiosity shop of a place a wardrobe room is, isn't it?** My attention thus called to it, I looked. It was a cari- ^^■HA place indeed, with its piles upon piles of ninety gar- ^Vbent8, from spangled robes to Irish jackets, folded aud ■ laid away upon huge shelves, which surrounded the room

1

i

1 J

GETTma

— ^with itB forest of hats, caps and helmets, of every con- ceivable pattenij hanging from the ceiling, and its busy Irishwoman, receiving articles which had been worn the night before, and folding them and laying them away, a8 carefully as if they had really been the property of kings, and lords, and knights.

"Are you going to bay your dress, then ?"

"Why, yee, I most have a Scotch drees. I shall want it for Macbeth, some day, you know."

There was no getting that craze out of his head!

Ab I had promised to see him safely through this busi- ness, I went with him to a store, where he bought a very fine article of plaid for hie kilt; he then wanted a black velvet jerkin or waist, and bought three yards of black silk velvet, at twelve dollars a yard.

*^The next question is," said he,'* where do I get my pink silk trowBere, you know.''

"Tour pink Bilk trowsers? I do not quite understand you, Mr. Pennyweight What do you mean by your pink Bilk trowsers ? Ton certainly do not expect to play the Bleeding Captain in trowsers of pink silk, like a bur- lesque actress?*'

**No I^that is — you see — well, I suppose that is not ex- actly the professional term for 'era. But, you know — those things they wear on the stage in place of trowsers, yon know."

" Do yon mean yonr tights ? I will show you/* The place was not far oft^ and while Pennyweight went into an inner room, for consultation, I stayed without; but, the door remaining open, I could bear, though I could not see.

" Mon Dieu !" said a Prenchman*B voice, *' but you can- not play ze part wiz dat leg!*

THE AETISTS £»B PAD.

183

**Wliy not? WhafB wrong with my legs?" (The voice of Pennyweight, indignant).

** Maia, monsieur, yon have ze knock-knee, ze bow-leg, and ze spindle-sbaak — all tree as one !"'

Here was aTe\^elation in regard to the symmetry of the inreMstible Pennyweight.

** It shall be neceasaire to have ze pair of pad," said the roan,

"Pads?**

** Oh, maiB oui^ monsieur, ze leg is vaire bad."

•* And can you really remedy all the defects of—"

** Oh, oui, monsieur. We remedy all of it We make you to-day one leg zat is better zan ze leg of ze nature*"

"Why, you're quite an artist, aren't you?"

** Merci, monsieur. It is vair agreeable to meet one •Amerioiin dat appreciate. Oh, ze good day have come

184

THE CEITIOAL MOMENT AT HARD.

for ze artiste de pad. Odder day zere was so very little practice; but now — aha! — le Mazeppa, and le Black Crook — we have enough to do." When Pennyweight returned he blushed guiltily. Thus padding doth make cowards of us alL The fearful first night came at last, and poor Penny- weight was in a pitiable plight. The perspiration stood on his forehead, and his lips were white with fright. "Are you sure you know the lines ?*' <*0h, Pm dead4etter perfect Hear me.** I held the book while he struck an attitude, and re- repeated the lines without a mistake.

"Now be bravo— speak out loud, remember." He said he would remember, and the curtain rang up- The play of Macbeth opens with a scene by the three witches, beginning with the well-known lines:

** When «hftll we three meet agnin^ In ihander, lightning, or in rain?**

KDTQ BUNCAH.

185

with only ten lines more, when the scene opens and dia- dosed a camp where Kiog Duncan, Lenox, Malcolm, Donalbain, and attendants, meet a wounded soldier — none other than my friend Pennyweight

The first line of this scene is spoken by King Duncan, who says,

•« What blaody man Ib that?"

And here poor Pennyweight suddenly remembered that lie had quite forgotten to smutch his face with blood, and 80 he was not a ** bloody man" at alL

Malcolm then turns to the soldier, and says —

**HaU» brii?c friend: Sav to Ibe king Thy knowledge of the hroil As thou didfit loaTo it/'

And this was Pennyweight^s cue to speak. He began, but in Buch a low and tremulous voice that immediately wild criea of "towrfir, louder^'' issued from the galleries.

t

Confased beyond measure at thiB uaexpected greeting, poor Pennyweight choked, gasped, and finally^ — stuck. Here the prompter came to his aid. The lioes were somewhat difficult, mnning thoB:

"Afl wlience the sun *gini his reflection, 8hipwrocking storms, and direful thundora br^ak ; So from thai spring wbeiico comforts seemed to come, Discomfort swolls."

The prompter, confiieed at Pennyweight's sticking, aod not at all familiar with the lines himself, began prompting wildly thns :

" As when the aon/ww his reflection,*^

which was uttered in so loud a tone that everybody in the audience heard it, and Pennyweight, taking it up with seose and consioueoesB all but gone, shouted at the top of his Toice,

** And wlieu the sun gin slings reflection — "

No ear could hear more. There broke from the aiidioece a thunder of laughter which echoed and re-echoed from parquet to gallery — from boxes, balcony, and all over the house — so loud and terrible that j>oor Pennyweight ^ back upon his litter m if he had been atuuned.

THB DKLIQHTED *' 8UPB8."

isr

He was borne off the stage by the convulsed litter* bearers, who, as sooa as they got behiDd the scenes, dropped their burthen upoa the floor and roared with im- controllable merriment

Poor Pennyweight scrambled to his feet, and holding his horrified head between hie hands, rushed into the green room, where he sank into an arm-chair, gasping for breath. I followed him and found htm there, a picture of despair.

«Oh! oh! oh r said L

Lady Macbeth approached him, fan in hand, and gazed upon him in speechless amazement.

Pennyweight turned his head away and groaned^

** What will become of you if you go on at this rate, Mr Pennyweight?*' said Lady Macbeth, sternly.

188

PKKNYWEI0I1T*S DESPAIB.

** Don't/' he moaned; **for pity's sake, don't ! Did yon Bee Aogustus Tompkioe ?" —

"Augustus TonipkinB?" * f

"Tompkins! my rival. He had a Beat in the front row. I saw him grinning like a monkey at me; and Annie Porter sitting by his side^ with her fan up before her face, and laughing all over. Oh, distraction!" m

** "Well, go home. Change your dress, and go home as soon as you can. Don't be downcast ; the worst is over now, I don't think you can do any worse than this* Perhaps you'll do better the next time/*

" No ! Tve had enough of the stage I Oh> how shall I ever look ray friends in the face again T*

And he rushed away into his dressing-room.

I have not seen Mr. Pennyweight since ; but I am informed he has goue into business, and has now become a useful member of society.

I

PEKHTIfEIGHT'B aOBLlK*

189

But to this day he is said to be haunted by a horrible spectre which takes the shape of the cruel thing that uodid him quite^ — a " gin-Bling/'

Old Doctor Franklin, on hearing the remark that what was lost on earth went to the moon, observed that there must be a good deal of good advice accumulated there.

Good advice eeems to he lost on the victims of the gtage-atruck fever ; but by the lightest weapons of ridi- cule a fool is to be laughed from his folly,

Mr. Alfred Pennyweight is a type of the fools who see only the glitter and glorj^ of the stage, and burn to share it, us a hoy with a drum burns to be a soldier.

When years and experience have shown the boy that the soldier's life is full of toil and danger, and that the bugles and the drums are not its chief concern, he is very likely to take new views of the desirability of such a life. He finds that merchandise or politics are better suited to his tastes.

But the folly of the stage-struck youth is a graver matter. Ho is no longer a child; he is old enough at once to enter upon the life which dazzles his fancy and deludes his sense^ and he enters upon it.

Thus 18 the stage cumbered with a load of human rub- biflh, the like of which is to be found in no other sphere of art

190

POWIB OF BIBICULB*

Men with eo true sense of art, actuated solely by vanity^ are as oumerons aa the leaves of Vallambrosa, in that vale which should be bright with intellect^ and grace, and culture.

With all the power I poBsess, I would hold the stage- struck youth up to ridicule* When sober reasoning will fail of its endj ridicule will touch the sore spot aa with caustic- Make a thing ridiculous, and many a young man will recoil from it as if it were a snake.

I have had proof — substantial proof— of the effective work my efforts in this respect have wrought ; and 1 know that all the anathemas ever thundered from the divine desk against this thing will not terrify the souJ of the victim of stage fever as will a titter from behind a lady's lam

A TEUISBI.

191

CHAPTER XX

Hy Tout in the "West fts a Star Actreaa.— From Parifl to Cincimiati,— My Critics, ^My First Benefit —Generals and Poets in tbo Green- room.— Down the Rivor to Louiflvillo, — An Operatic Company. — My First "Soldier Audience."— Military NeceMity. — Southern Refti- geesu— Queer Gratitude for an Actress's Services.^Tronhle in Getting to Nashville* — CuttiDg Down the Wardrohe. — Soldiera in the Cars. — The Mason.— A Guerrilla Attack*— The Rebel Negro.

If there ever was a truism in this world which is a trner traism than other truisms, it is that veracious one which aaserts that ** everything goes by comparison/*

Of course I know I ehall not be contradicted in this Btatement, but for the sake of argument I choose to believe that some disagreeable, mythical personage flatly denies the possibility of a sensible man's having two opinions on the same subject, merely because a certain space of time has elapsed, and other scenes have inter- vened between his first statement and his last.

Perhaps it may be so — with sensible men. The genus Is somewhat limited, and as a rapidly disappearing race, I suppose we must be somewhat lenient with them. But with sensible women I know it is different.

But to resume, and in the conventional style of theatrical rtoiy'tellers (I beg pardon, nothing som jeu meant by this play) continue.

It was on a July day, in the second year of the rebel- lion, that I left the sunny coast of France.

It was raining that day on the sunny coast of France*

To use a mild and singularly appropriate metaphor, it was raining cats and dogs that day on the sunny coast of France,

did not prevent me leaving, however.

192

WINE AND WOMAH,

I left However, and However saw me depart with the greatest apparent apathy. My gay and lightsome bark sat trimly on the waves, buftetiiig the-billows, and calmly smiling on the raging waters' breast.

Perhaps the mythical personage will urge here that a bark cannot smile; in which case I will but pray him to point out the exact anatomical section so widely known as the *' breast*' in a river, and I shall then be at no loss to find something to sustain my simile.

I thought of poor Mary Stuart in leaving. Her adieux to the heartless vales, her valedictory remarks to the stoical mountains, her watery and tearful tributes to the unheeding rivers, all rose before my mind with extraor- dinary accuracy,

I tried to be sentimental, but I failed. I could do nothing but gaze with mute astonishment at the wine traffic which was going on about me.

In a ivordj the wine made me positive, and sentimen- talism went where the Southern Confederacy has gone — up.

Not that I imbibed any wine. Kot that any one about me imbibed any ; but it was the evidence of wine, the people of wine, the servants of wine, the caskers of wine, the makers of wine, the growers of wine, the police of wine, the incontrovertible evidence that in France, at least, wine was King. But at length my gay and light- some bark cut short my reflections, and conveyed me gently dancing o*er the ocean's foam. »

She tripped it on the light, fantastic tow.

My bark was very majestic. I was proud of her. Her cabin was magnificent. She could seat two hundred and fifty people at dinner every day; but she never seated me!

I paid one hundred and thirty dollars for lodging for ten days.

Board? No.

But that was not the bark's fault, you may say.

I

DRIVING UP BKOADWAT.

193

I

I I

I I

Granteci But I declare it was not mine. Give me a choice in the matter, and I never, never wouUl be seasick.

At length, the bark aeeoniplished her mission, taking me from France, and landing me in Broadway^ — I should eaj, America.

I wa§ very patriotic. The war had been raging for more than a year, and at this {uirticular moment, the rebeU were especially triuinplnmt, Conaequently I was aggressively patriotic. I could brook nothing like a slight either to our flag, or oor institutions, or our cities, or oar streets, or our people. There were several English persons aboard, who were somewhat disposed to ridicule everything American, and to them I kept averring, as we sailed up the bay, that Fifth Avenue was the finest resi- dence street, Broadway the finest business street in the world.

After we landed, I wa^ driven up Broadway. Great Ileaven! was this my favorite street? What ! Decorated (Heaven save the mark) with these abominable floating canvas signs, these grotesque oriflammes, these parodies on bannei-^, these painted attractions, whose legitimate abode is near the festive tent of some ambulating circus, but whicli should be banished at once and forever from the honest thoroughfares of men ! I felt ashamed of my Broadway. I can say now truthfully, that in my opinion, if we had no otlier reason for rejoicing that the war is over, we shbuld thank Ileaven, fasting day and night, for having sent Peace to take those banners away*

I know that this subject has been touched upon by an English writer of some celebrity, who has left no figure of speech unwritten to ridicule the American war. Oo!i- traded disease of Banner on the Brain. Hie remarks,

>wever, were made in a canting and disagreeable spirit,

lile mine are not. Indeed, indeed they are not.

But it was fanny, wasn't it, to see a charger all out of 13

104

WESTWARD, 110 i

drawing, carrying a rider, whose only really distinj able artid«3 of anparel w^as a KoB^ath hat, the iwaiii accompanied by an uiisheuthed sabre, dashing frantically from the fourth story of a house in Broadway towards an oligardiic slave-bolding foe, lying perdu, it would seem, on an apparently innocent housetop on the opposite @ideH

Or again, to behold a battalion of ferocious (painted) Zouaves bayonet ting nothing with undinii wished ardor ^ during the somewhat protracted space of tour ye^irs, whili tender invocations to the patriotism of young male' America met the eye at every step. He was conjured^^ to conquer or die, and get $325 either way; he was ea^f treated to join tbe ''finest regiment goitig," and to '"Itiok ;!t thiH^' as well ; he was supplicated to ''come in out of the draft/* and at the same time become possessor of "the biggest bounty yet.** These thnigs, most forto- nately, have nil thsappearcd. But they were there then and tended greatly towards* diminisliing my idea of ty beauty of our much vaunted Broadway. They made the Btreet look cheap, and %vere altogether unpleasant.

After my ontrtjo at Wallack's (whose vicissitudes have been related in a former chapter), I was for seven long months on the w^ing, or, less poetically and in fact more truthfully, for seven months I was traveling about in those very unpleasant railway conveyances yclept ''car through the greater portion of our AVestern and Sontl western States, As soon as I returned, I was requestc by all parties to write, and I yielded to the dulcet suppli cations of that organ more powerful tlian even the Bostc one, generally known as the Vox PopuH.

But in general T hate notes of travel, don't yon?

Ah, thaiik you ! These are not notes of tmveh I aij nothing if not liigh-toned, no I think I may dub them al once, " Les Impressions tl^unt: Voi/a(jcnse,^'

Often such impressions are very silly affairs. I thii

AFRICANS AND ASUTICS,

195

to be obliged to read of tlie exact spot iu Switzerland where Maria lost her toothbrush, or to digest tlie progress of the Joueaea on the Rhine, is about tlie mildest of all amnsementd. But this is gentle airouy compared to the lively torture of wading through Mrs. Magacer*8 '' Ancient

, Greece" or Lady Bigot's Rome.

While I am on the subject I may say at once that I honestly believe I have read everybody's '^Paris'' going;

I read it aud sometimes liked it, but I will also make a clean breast of it and openly avow that one man's

I •^Central Asia" is enough for me.

One man's "Central Asia" satisfies the requirements of my inmost souL How any one can stand promiscuous varieties of Central Asia is a mystery wliicli I have yet to fatliom.

Why, look at it in a sensible light ! If all men are our brethren, so be it. I am not political ; I have not, nor never had au}^ unfriendly animus towards Aniericnu Africans, Dinah is a splendid washerwoman, and Uticlc Joe excels any gentleman of my acquaintance in the accomplishments of whitewasliing and carpet shaking. If lie is my brother, he is at least an honcj^t, inoftensive man, and an upright creature in every respect. But your Central Asiatic, it appeal's, can do nothing on earth but stick arrows into nnoftending white travel ersj pilfer all the Merieans he can lay hands upon, and make himself in many other ways intensely disagreeable. If he is my brother, why I can only say, I am not proud of the rela- tionship.

But what under the sun, be it tropical or polar, ara I

doing iu Asia, when I should be among the quiet citizens

of the splendid town of Cincin?iati, where began my

round of Western engagements?

What, indeed !

I must confess I felt rather timoi ring

196

WESTERN WELCOME.

in CiiicinnatL It had been the stronghold of my family for years, and I had a disagreeable inward conviction that my crudities, inevitable to a novice, would be doubly palpable to a public whose great theatrical deity was my sister; a public who saw no ill with her, no good without her; who scorned any Evadne but hers, and figuratively anapped their fingers at anybody else's Adelgttha, She had retired from the stage, true; but she still lived in their memories, and with jealous eye and unwilling ear they olvserved the usurpation of her roles by any new aspirant for public favor. Contrary to my expectation, however, they received me with open arras, crowded my houses, bestowed upon me fifty times the applause I merited, and when, at last, I left their town, they sent mo on my way with many a Iiearty God-speed.

But my great fun in Cincinnati (as it was in all the towns) was reading the criticisms on my acting which ap- peared in the difterent papers* Somehow, like that fable of ^'Esop's which tells of the man and his donkey, I could not please everybody.

One critic said I was as fine a tragedienne as Rachel, whereupon the afternoon paper came out and said I w^asn*t*

I agreed fully with the afternoon paper.

You will be pained to learn, as I was, that the critic who compared me to Rachel is now an inmate of the Wahiut Hills Insane Asylum — a mild hut hopeless lunatic; but I think, from hie writiugs, that his mind was slightly failing him when I was there.

It was at Cincinnati I had my first great benefit, at- tended by the distinguished oflicer and commander of the post. Major General Ilookor, by tlie talented author of *' Sheridan's Ride," and by that mnch-talked-of and seem- ingly ubiquitous body, the elite of tlie city» The theatre was prettily decorated with flags in honor of the event,

MILITARY HEROES.

197

while a pictured repreaentation of the Father of his Country hung over one proscenium box, having for com- panion (a worthy companion, too)^ General Grant a."^ a vis-a-vis, Washington looked rather hored and eleepy, I thought, hut Grant sat bolt upright, aa though he had fully determined to sit it out on that line if the perform- ance took all winter. Sherrnau and Sheridan, niouiited and equipped, hung over the centre of the dress circle; but by an awkward accident the engravings were such that these two heroes were obliged either to be placed back to back, as though they were running away from one another, or else face to face, as if about to eng»ige in deadly conflict. This looked better than the other arrangements, however, and bo for three mortal hours these two Union generals sat menacing each other with defiance and scorn.

Of conrse the evening could not pass without a speech being called for, and General Hooker made it; modestly disclaiming the honor of being the star of the evening. After the performance I had something tike a diminutive levee within the sacred precincts of the green-room, and the show of gold lace and military bottons was very pretty indeed. As they were going, Mr. Bachanan Heed remarked :

**0f course you have nothing to say to me, a poor civilian, lost amid all these military heroes?"

Hadn't I anything to say? I should like to see the time when I hadn't anything to say ! In the first place, I am a woman, and in tlie second, I have a pretty good store of quotations lying near or on that metaphorical mental repository, the tip of my tongue.

*'0h, yes, I have!'*

"Indeed; what is it?"

I replied in something of a Weggian strain^ that ** beneath the rule of men entirely great (like yourself,,

I

198 COMPLIMENTS,

for instance), the pen (especially the one with which you wrote * Sheridan's Hide/ you know) is mightier than Uie sword (Mr, Reed)."

lie sill i ted very pleasaiitly, and, being an inveterate puujster^ bade me adieu, saying that atler such a comph- ment there was nothing left him and hia friends but to make their boughs and take their loaves.

It seems to he the fashion with travellers in the West to invariably speak in the most laudatory terms of the steamboats which ply on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. The reckless profnseness in the matter of diet ottered the traveler, the richness of the furniture wliich adorns the *' Ladies* Cabin/" the wiiite-and-gold decorations of the sleeping berths, are a few of the points brought up to sustain the praises usually bestowed.

I am quite willing to acquiesce most fully in all this. The dinners are wastefully luxurious, the ladies* cabiu h never without the inevitable grand piano (generally most™ woefully out of tune), and the sleeping berths always pro- vided with those expensive and nn comfortable spring- j bottom beds, which during the night of occupancy impress™ the sleeper with the vague but cheering idea that he is being jolted about on the cushions of an antiquated stage coach. The illusion is so complete that in the morning one looks about for the horses and the driver, and ia sur- prised to find them missing.

So far as regards the table, I repeat that I humbly — concur in its being sinfully extravagant I wish tho9#^ steamboat captains, or whoso*s duty it is to cater for the steamboat tablc^ would read that useful little book entitled, "What to do with the Cold Mutton/' and then, after the mutton has been ftilly digested, I wish they would read another book, wliieh I am going to write^ myself, to ho called *' What to do ^vith the Dinner Gongs, "■

My hearing is not the acatest of all my organs. If,

GONGS AND BELLS.

199

n^

m

therefore, gouga nearly drive me distracted, what must be their efiect on persons wLoae *'tynipauuui8" are uinblem- jibed, wbose " glottines ' are above reproach, whose larynxes" are uiiimito^ii-hable, and whone '* Eustachian tubes** are m that highly satisfactory condition initially known to the world as 0 K?

I want these gnngs to be got rid of at once, and placed where mortal eye can never rest on them again.

What say yoa to the bed of the Putornac ? Or quick- lime?

Some of the steamboats have discarded gongs, and taken up little band-bells as a means of ringing the traveler in to dinner, or, if you prefer it, dinner into the traveler. But thet*e are as offensive tri my sense of dignity as the gougs are to my sense of hearing. Am I a femme

chamhrc^ that I am rung after in this manner? Is tins

ntleman a *^ Boots'' that he is tintinidjulated at t!ms ratldessly? I always use these haiid-hells when I want to summon that liveried servant of mine who invariably Knters R, 2 E., and tells me, in a veiy weak vcnce, that ** My highuess's coach is waiting,*' or that ** My lord's below, and craves admission to my ladyship/* Perhaps this is anotlier reason why I doii*t fancy them. What I do really like is the mode now pretty universally adopted in h<»tel8 all over the country, whicli permits you to stroll in whenever you fed inclined, and dine or sup at any time betwceti certain hours. I thoui^ht I wtudd try to inaagunite this system on the steamboat whieli took me from Cincinnati to Louisville. You sliall see how it workeih .

After the bell rang, I let the first rush get over, and theo I quietly strolled in to get my dinnc*r. Although not more than half an hour had elapsed since the order was given to *" fire," scarcely a vestige of food was to be seen. What did remain was so distigured by bad carving and

seo

BOATIKO LIFE.

ioartistic cutting, that I could not have eaten a morsel if I had been etarving. A more unappetizing looking mess I never beheld. I walked away in disgust. Madame Mfere had observed the w*hule pmceeding, and, as she prides herself on being a very matter-of-fect, common- sensical old lady, she saw fit to apostrophize me in tbid strain :

*' Well^ you're a sweet young female HamleU aint you! walking about and letting on that the world i8 out of joint, oh cursed spite that ever you were born to set it right! I wish you joy in fighting w^indmills, and trying to innoculate iiinoceut Western steamboats with youriiue French notions. Why didu*t you come and take your dinner when the rest did ?"

And that's all the good I got out of ihaL

The steamboat ^vhicb took us from Cincinnati to Louis- ville w^as called the '' General Lytle.*' This brave young soldier, a Cincinnatian, was killed at the battle of Cliickaniauga. His body fell info the hands of the rebels, who paid a knightly tribute to the fallen foe, by decking his remains with flowers, and sending them back with the nntaniirthed sword lying on the tuanty breast, and escorted by a guard of honor composed of ten colonels.

On board the boat we found a large body (seventy-two iti number) of really clever artists, the German opera troupe.

It would be difficult for mo to tell how delightfully that evening passed away. The cumbrous boat moving heavily down the stream, the faint lights from little villages ou the banks reflected dimly in the turbid waters beneath, the occasional stoppages to *'^wood up," at wiiich time all w^aa bustle and commotion, the low moaning chaunt hum- med in unison by the negroes at their work on the boat's machinery below, all made up a scene of picturesque nov- elty which will not soon be eftaced from my mind.

I I

I I

8INGIKG AND DANCIKQ.

201

luside, we were jolly companions, every one. The Ger- mans sang, as only Gernians can sing, a lot of choruses, enatches, refrains and what not, without instrumental ac* companiment, but with wonderful precision and harmony. machutz directed, and told me he had never heard them Ing better. A novel feature of the entertainment was the _debut of some of the musicians as solo singers. I have >rgotten the name of a young man, a trombonist or >inetbing of the sort, who dashed off the drinking eong **Marta" with such admirable i?en?e, and low, rich I tones, as made Hermanns prick up hie ears and look l!y around after his laurels. This was followed by dancing, which was kept up till a lie hour. All went in with a will. Marguerite and Robert le Diable, Mephistopbeles and la Dame Blanche, Marta id Fidelio, Stradella and Mrs. Page in one set, while the ihwomcu of Faust and the sprites in the ilagic Flute >ted it merrily beyond.

During the melee Canissa and I escaped, and made for le *' hurricane deck," where we indulged in a brisk walk lid brisker conversation. Canissa was a nice child — a rongarian. She was a lady-like, modest girl, and deserv- ag of all praise. Her mother was with her, and the two ay their daily bread with tlie notes the daughter issues. It was in Louisville I had my first taste of the " soldier- idience." I must say 1 didu't like the taste. I liked the Igtit better.

Il was certainly very picturesque. That mass of army

^vercoats, filling every nook and corner of the building, a

>lid background of light blue men, the unity of color

jely relieved by the bright glitter of their bayonets'

bU

Bayonets in every imaginable posture, but generally gracefully along the ledges of the tiers, thus : directly at tlie performer.

202

THE SOLDIER-AUDIENOS,

When I carae on the stage the first night id the ** Hunchback," it quite took away my breath, I thought perhaps they imagined I was a feraale Jeff Davis, and were going to make a ^^ charge a la ba^onette'^ iustantLM*. It wag a eheerful feeling — only I wished I was in Kew York just then.

There were no women to be seen in the whole house, except in the boxes.

A very plcaeing peculiarity of the soldier-audience ii its amiable tendency to laugh. Tragedy atibrds moi amusement than any other gtyle of play, and is tlierefoi provided more frequently than comedy for the delectatioa of the mapg. I was informed by the leatling actor at Lon-i isville, that tlie mournful tragedy of "Jack Cade,** %vhicll' he had selected for hia benefit, and played the night b^i fore I eame^ was received with shouts of mirthful dcrisiou,^ and groans of bitter mockeiy from begintiing to end, H< was a good actor, and I felt sorry.

'•^ That's very bad/' said I, synipathi:singly ; '* of course it must make you careless, and in the end will ruin your, school*' \

** School ! Thunder !'* ho exclaimed ; ** it would ruin a university!**

They did not laugh much during my engagement. They had a happy faculty of applauding in the wrong places and throwing me bouquets Just when I was myself dyingj or murJering some one else, and expecting me to stop the action and pick them up — but they didn't laugh. I think it was the presence of the excruciating elite which suI>-^h dued theni, for the elite was there, led, as it wal^n in the lial eynn days of yore, by the yet beautiful Mrs. George I). Prentice, She came to see me act, which I took as a great compliment, as slio liad never entered a theatre since the death of her son,

''I can't go in my carriage, as I used, to see your sister,

ey

BS^H

heV

MILITARY NECESSITY,

203

my dear/* she remarked, in a melancholy tone, ""What do you think they did the other day? They walked into my stables and corned off all my horses for the army I**

** They*' were the impressing agents, who were very basy at that time *^ drafting *' horaes for our troops,

"Military necessity " may be necessary, but it is not always agreeable.

At Louisville I Btiirabled unexpectedly over my distin- guiahcd cousin, Major General John A. Logan, I think I may call him distinguished without any undue amount of family pride.

General Logan was very nndecided whether to go down to Nashville ami supersede Thomas, who had just been obliged to fall back before Hood, or return to Washing- ton, or stay where he was severely. I must add that the report of his going to supersede Thomas wa^ only a report, and people were intensely curious to lind out whether it was true or not* I thought he might tell me; bat, strange to say, be thought he nnghtJi't,

Opinions differ, you know. He told me no more than if my name had been Jones and his Jenkins.

It positively rained, hailed and snowed refugees while I was in Louiisville. The poor wretclies came up the river from the South in droves; hungry, shoeless, hatless, and almost garmentless. Some benevolent people (in fact, I think it was government action), took a house for the reception of "Lee's Miscrables,'* clothed, fed, and finally found them employment. I fletcrmincd to do something towards this charity, and, with tlie aid of the manager of the theatre, gave a matinee for their benefit. The receipts were large, and were handed over to the committee.

But it appears tliere was refugee and refugee. There were loyal refugees and rebel refugees. I was astounded the day after the matinee to find ray room invaded by two insolent women of the latter class.

I

204 HAUGUTY DAMES.

"Are yoa Olive Logan ?" asked the elder of the two, impudently,

I was vexed, and jet felt ioclined to laugh at her haughty matiiier, coutra^ting so Btraiigely with her abject appearance iii other respects. I was on the point of jest- ingly replying that I wasn't anything else, but merely gave an acquiescing nod.

'^ Well, Where's that money you took in for us yester- day at the mattanee ?**

*' Money ! Wliy, in the hands of the committee direct- ing the Refugee House, to be sure," I answered j " I have not seen it/'

** The Refugee House, indeed ! Do you think we would go to such a horrid Abolition hole as that ?'*

*' I suppose you would go there, if you are refugees, and have no otlier place of shelter. I know / would, under those circumstances.'*

"But do you know they won't let us in, without we take the oath of allegiance?"

''Indeed !" said L ''Well, that is perfectly proper.*'

'*l8 it? rd see them in tarnation before I'd take the oath- rd cut myself in pieces before I'd do it I wouldn't fl take that oath^-not for a million of dollars!" ™

** Would you do it for five V I asked, having heard such bravado before, and knowing what It was w^orth, ^

*' What?** ejaculated the woman, ^

" Would you do it for five?" I repeated^ taking a green- back of that denomination from my pocket-book. m

They looked at each other a moment, and then the elder said, in a low whisper, throwing a glance around the room, " Is there an^^body here thai can swear us in ?" fl

"No," I replied. *'Go, offer your oath to the authori- ties, if you wish, though what good it would do them I cannot imagine. Such people as you are lost to honor and honesty, and w^ould set no more value on your sacred

I

i

THE OLD BOY,

205

howling

oath than I do on this hill, which has been contamitiated by our colloquy. Oblige me by taking it, and leaving my apartment."

<* That's what you get/' said Mere, "for through a five-act part on a rainy afternoon for such un- grateful people."

I had been pained at the scene, and '^howling" sent me off into an immoderate tit of laughter.

Howling was good, llowling, like the mobled queen, waa very good. I had a perfect acces defou rire, I recom- mend the word to critiea. It's bo expressive.

The "Old Boy," whoever he may be» seemed to be **in It" when I had made up my mind to leave Louisville for Nashville, Ho wouldn't let me leave. He sent guer- rillas to burn the railway bridges, to stop the trains, and to murder and rob the passengers. The ** Old Boy'' was g^nenUly unkind to me, I don't think the young boy would have acted so. I didn't deserve it, I'm sure.

To be somewhat more explicit, the rebel General Lyon, seeking whom he might devour, had closed communica- tion between Louisville and Nashville, by burning an im- portant trestlework bridge on the road, stopping and £ring the train, robbing the passengers, and driving the insufficient Federal force everywhere before him. It was the counter-stroke which followed Thomas' cruslung irictory over Hood before Nashville; it was the effort of the pigmy to harrass the giant. It didn't hurt the giant a liit — but it did me.

At the very moment I was announced as positively to appear on '* this evening/- at Nashville, I was sitting in Xouii^ville, in an agony of despair. I don't like to break iny engagements; X have a foolish respect for my word. TPhcrefore, when it was urged that I had better relinquish mil idea of filling my nights in Nashville^ I received the proposition with coldness and disdain. The manager was

206

STERN DECREE.

f telea^rapliiiig mo to come, and^ if I mut^t be candiLt^ I was

'anxious to seo some of the peculiar features of a Soutliern

city, ** overpowered but not subdued/^ and occasionally

• giving Vesuvius-like evi<lenee8 of the smouldering crater

of rebellion in its midst. A love of adventure is a part

of my nature, and tbie was too new and too attractive a

field for me to relinquish witbout a struggle. But it

Bcemed for several days as if fortune wa*? going to be

unkind to me. No trains were runnings tbe road being

[onder repair, and constant depredations from the enemy

I made it bigldy dangerous to proceed with the work of

'restoration. It is true a steamboat occasionally made the

trip to Nashville, aud one was on the point of leaving

about the time I wished to do so. I was recommeqdcd

to go on " ber."

'*How long will she be?** I inquired- *'0h, it's very uncertain* Sometimes Bhe does it in 'tliree days; sometimes she is nine or ten at it."

Nine or ten days longer, added to what I bad already b)st of tbe engagement, would have brought it fully to ita date of termination! I declined the boat.

At lengtli the road was announced as being readj^ to receive such passengers as were provided with the neces- iBary military passes, having only so much baggage as r could be carried in the hamL

Thi8 was cheering to an actress with nine trunks, tbree boxes, and a large wicker basket. Fancy carrying any one of those articles in the band !

In vain I eougbt to set aside tbe barsli decree. There was stil! a mile or two of railway track which had not been repairedj and every passenger had to transport him- self and his baggage over this hiatus in tbe road. The case seemed desperate, but the game was not yet lost. A brigadier-general, himself bound for Nashville, appeared on the scene. He kindly instituted a series of inquiries

PREPARING FOR GUERILLAS*

207

ou the baggage question, and from him I learned that I might take a trunk or two if I was prepared to fee heavily for its transportation across the "break/'

The separation of the indispensable from the snporflous articlee in a lady's toilette i« a matter requiring great dis- crimination and mucli forethought. This is doubly the case when the lady in question is called upon to personate a series of characterB, each requiring a widely ditierent codttime, with manifold accessories in the shape of hate, head-dresses, flowers, feathers, etc.

But at length the Belection was made, and several formidable trunks forwarded to Cincinnati, to await the termination of my Nashville engagement.

*' I suppose you are fnlly aware that tlic train may be attacked again by guerrillas?" said tlie brigadier. '-I wouldn't advise you to take any valuables with you/*

** Wliat ! not even my watch V* I asked.

** Above all, not your watch. Guerrillas have a weak- nesa for watches. As for tboae rings, they are an invita- tion to the most moral guerrilla to begin depredations at once. Better take them off; inileed y<»u had!"

" Wljy, they wouldn't steal a !ady*s rings oft* her fingers, m'ould they?'* I asked, intlignantly,

"Oidy temporarily, no doubt/' said the general, with sarcasm. '* Perhaps theyM bquiI them hack to you by Adam^' express."

t saw the force of the argnment, and yielded, making up A little carpet-sack of jewelry, which followed the trunks to Cincinnati. I knew if the guerrillas had a ptnvhnni for finger-rings and watches, money would be doubly attractive; so, expressing almost every dollar I had to New York, I found myself in a ludierously denuded condition, without a ring on ni}* finger, a watch in my pocket, or a penny in my purse. It was a novel situation fur me, and one which constantly provoked my nnrth.

208

A SCENE OF MISERY*

Perhujis if it had been otherwise than temporary, I ehould not have found it so amusing.

A darkj dull, drizzling raomiiig saw our departure from Louisville. It ** assisted'' at the departure — it assisted in wetting my trunks, iu drenching my clothes, and in soaking my feet; it could not assist at any damping of my ardor, A short drive brought us to the railway station, and never shall I forget the scene of activity there pre- seuCed. A painful scene — a scene of misery, of despair, of mental and physical anguish. Poor mothers, who had wounded sons lying low in Nashville ; unhappy wives, holding in their hands letters wTitten by their husbands, dead before the letters came to hand ; w^hite- faced daughters, pleading piteously to be allow^cd to go down on the train to their wounded fathers — all supplicating, and all refused. These women had no military passes, could not obtain any, and were therefore not permitted to leave Louisville, A hard dutj^ this refusing of tears and prayers ! When I saw a military railroad conductor, with clanging sword, and pistols iu his belt, it struck me that a man might be almost a hero, and do a good deal of hard service, otf the battle-iield.

Our passes being en regle^ we were permitted to enter the car, alrotuly nearly fulL Not a pleasant place to enter on a murky, damp morning, before the sun was up — a strange, close smell, bespeaking many occupants not over cleanly, and a little ventilation not too well managed. A toppling stove giving out a sickening heat, with the tank for iced water placed in such cheering contiguity to the fire, as certainly must transform it before many minutes into boiling w^ater.

But what impressed me more than all was the vast crowd of men, clad in the omnipresent array overcoats, who were to be our traveling companions. My hopes of seeing the guerrillas vanished. What guerrilla would

BOIiDIKBS AND MASONS.

209

have the temerity to attack a train so heavily guarded? It gave me a grand idea of the circumstance of war, though, to be truthful, the pomp was lacking. That man is a hero on the battle-field ; and reading of his deeds in the letters of army correspondents makes your pulaea beat and hot tears rush into your eyes. But sitting in the car next him, you see him in quite a different light. He chews tobacco, and puts his feet up. He bringa hia musket down on your toes, and swears impossible, impious aud stupid oaths. He eats tough-crusted pies, and com- ments on their similarity to sole leather; he buys the ''Knapsack of Fun," and shrieks out the stale jokes to a smote comrade at the other end of the car. He is a !l€ro, and you know it; he is your country's defender and yours, and you respect him; but as a traveling companion he does not fill your soul with glee. You feel this, and so does he, and he glories in your discomfiture.

Our immediate party consisted of Mere and myself, the brigadier, and a gentleman whom I shall call The Mason. I confess to a partiality for Masons.

The Mason was trowelled, and cross-keyed, and com- sed, and **Q'd" at every available point of his exterior

>nomy. "I am a Mason'' was written in a thousand idescribable ways about him. In fact, he labored under a seemingly painful and ever-present consciousness of his jnic character. I couldn't help remarking it.

^But why such a violently demonstrative Masonic M^-pitir' I urged, pointing to a neat article, a Maltese CToea with a few hieroglyphics in the centre, the whole mffitlr measuring, perhaps, three inches in length by two in breflulth. It was chaste, no doubt, but not elegant*

** Oh, you can't tell how it protects a fellow," he aswered. '*If the guerrillas were to attack the train at moment, I don't believe they'd take anything from -*that is, not if they were Masons/'

210

VBXBD QUESTIONS,

le- —

I

to

"Would a Mason be so horrible a thing as a guerrilla?*^

I asked.* ^j

Ignoring my question, he said : ^M

** If a rebel Mason finds a Federal Mason on the battle- field, he carea for him, aids him, succors bim, brandj-anc

waters him "

^^But why does a Mason fight a Mason originally ?*' It*9 a vexed questionj isn't it, dear reader? I can"^ solve it yet If Masons, bound by fraternal ties, were to refuse to fight any except those who were not Masons, and those who M*ere not Masons, knowing this, were to av8

themselves of the * It makes me Tweralowish.

put my hand to my head hopelessly, and say with my prototype, the great original Weak-Minded : '*! must not think of this,"

I wish I had the pen of a Bulwer, to describe the peculi- arities of that railroad journey.

It is the fashion with writers to wish for this pen when- ever they are called upon to describe anything particularly interestingj or strikingly beautiful,

I wish I had it to describe this trip, T wish I had it anyhow, and always. That much-wished-for and rarely- obtained pen would be of considerable pecuniary value to me. Altogether, the possession of that pen would afford me the highest possible inward satisfaction.

But, after all, it was more the knowledge that the guer- rillas had been on the road, and were even now, in all probability, lurking behind every tree, and crouching be- neath every bush, which gave the trip that singular charm which the zest of danger always lends* Ton may believe me when I say that they put on a great deal of steam, and ran that train through very fast ; also, that their stoppages at " stations'* were of the shortest. When these stoppages were made, the dieplayal of the **A11 Right'' white flag

had indeed a signification. Those persons who alighted,

GAYBXY SUBDUED.

211

qaestioned the others with aa eager air aod somewhat bated breath. The answers, given in the same tone, and with eyes glancing restleBsly to see if perchance the guer- rillas were not even now somewhere about, were only partially satisfactory. They had attacked, committing ifearful depredation, and might attack again at any mo- ''inent A grasp of the hand between the parties, a har- ried good-by, a spring on the platform, and we were off.

It takes a great deal to check my gayety. Like Mark

Tapley, I feel there is really a merit io being jolly some*

times, and at other times I am jolly because it is my na-

tnre, and I don't care whether it is meritorious or not

Bat an this occasion, I confess I was a little subdued.

This mysterious journey reminded me of Dante's trip into

hell. To be sure, he didn't go there on a railroad car,

L surrounded by soldiers, and after having paid the exacted

rfere in greenback currency. But the anxious state of mind,

tho frightful prcsddiffiiaieur feeling of now you see yourself

nlive, and now (perhaps) you don't, the whirling motion

of the steara-propelled, shrieking, creaking, madly-rushing

ear, the entourage of soldiem, the sobs of those women who

rore allowed to go, the clanking of swords, and now — I

sp as I write it — the sharp rattle of musketry.

Who spoke of Dante?

We are attacked by guerrillas ! Qood-by New York.

Hope enters not here.

One word repeated from car to car aa the infernal vehi- cles Btill dashed wildly on, one word uttered in alternate * tones of hope, of fear, of bravado, of resignation, of excite- rment in all its phases, one word of deep significance : "A— lert!"

Great Heaven, what t^coup de theatre! Every soldier sprang to.his feet as if by magic, levelling his musket in the direction of the shots. A glorious picture ! Where 10 that man who chewed tobacco a moment ago, who

212

THB SOLDIER HEKO.

swore stupid oaths, who offended your olfactory nerves, who spat and was altogether offensive, who wondered if the leathern apple-pies were sewn or pegged, who in- formed the assemblage that at Fort Donelson the Tanks gave the Johnnies promiscuous — ^Dante — and that himself contributed largely towards that desirable result; where is he ? Gone.

In his place stands a demi-god.

Look at the lithe form bending eagerly forward, every muscle strained to the utmost; observe the keen eye pee^ ing far into the distance; admire the cool precision with which he takes aim ; see the mingled scorn and rage de- picted on that curling lip, and then confess that you, wi' your fashionable reserve, your high-toiied touch-me*not- ativeness, are a poor, weak, paltry creature, grovelling miles beneath tbe high status which this man occupies in his capacity of hero*

On the whole, our guerrilla attack was a very trifling affair. One woman had a bullet put through her bonnet; it was one of those abominable high-fronted things, and deserved no better fate. We had a coroner's inquest, aod the verdict was that it served the bonnet right; but the poor little woman was terribly frightened, and poiir came.

At the next station some very nnderboiled potatoes and some very overboiled eggs falsely announced themselves as " refreshments/' and were partaken of as such, though un- der violent protest, by the hungry travelers. For myself the moment I heard there was the dead body of a guerrilla lying in the "back shed/' I felt no inclination for food. A guerrilla! When Du Chaillu first heard of the pre- sence of one of those of his, of different orthography, he could not have become more excited. i

This man had been a terrible creature. He had mur- dered, and pillaged, and burnt. He had invaded the homes of helpless women, and been a thousand times

i

m

THE EEBEL NfiGBO.

213

•tliftn an assassin; but the fearful retribution had come at last.

'* How dreadful !" I exclaimed, when I heard it

**Ye9, ma'am/* answered our negro ioformant^ **and that's what we've had to sufler ever since ihem low Yan- kees 'vaded our ierriiofryJ"

This was a new character to me, the rebel negro* I found plenty of them further South. Why they were rebels I could not tell, and neither could they; but they gloried in their disloyalty. Taking into consideration that the war was being waged for the freedom of the slave, I thought if the force of ingratitude could further go, it must be a pretty strong force.

"Well, did you see the guerrilla?" I asked, as The Mason came rushing wildly out of the *^back shed/*

" Yes/' he answered, gasping, *' and VX\ bo switched if— "

«*What?"

*' If the confounded scoundrel wasn't a Mason !'*

•' How do yon know ?'* I asked.

lie sighed faintly as he pointed to his scarf-pin, and said, in a hoarse whisper, *' The very fac-simile of mine."

Our next stoppage was at the ** break/* Here the rails had been torn up, and a bridge burnt down. Workmen, protected by soldiery, were busy repairing the damage, and expected to have it " all right " in a few days. Now, it waa all wrong. A rapid and deep stream separated us from the opposite bank, and, after reaching that haven, there was nearly a mile to walk through mud and slough. We forded the stream in a wagon, with water over our lakles ; the horses got stuck ia the mud on the opposite sidc^ and may be there yet for all I know; and then we commenced our dreary walk over the desolate plain of yielding mud before us, No conveyances were to he had, for love or money ; if there had been, their owners might have reaped a rich harvest of both commodities.

WORN OUT.

^y tongb in this matter of fatigue, but there is no Huuine in saying I was too tired to speak (a fearful state of things) when I reached the can The utter inutility of keeping a dog and barking yourself, has often been com- mented upon, but it seema to me 'o be fully equalled by the inadvisability of paying a r. d fiire and walking the

distance.

CAUGHT IN THE BAIN.

215

CHAPTER XXL

Kaibville Experience,— A Candid CriUe, — ^A Model Hotel (" 0?cr the I Left")— More Military Necessity. — Two St. Clouda, — Hogshead

I Cheese.^ — A Slippery Actor^^Miaa Griggs. — Visit to a Battlefield. — I A Bellicose OfficiaL— Mrs. Ackley'a Sorrows.-— The Blackamith Shop.— ^^L Somebody's Darling.— From the Pathetic to the Ridiculoiw.— " Let ^^f me Kiftg b.im for hla Mother? '^ — Farewell to Nashville.

I It WEB late in the evening when we arrived at Nash- ville. The second night I had heen announced as posi- I lively to appear, when I positively did not. Bat the f third night I was on haiid, and ready at the proper time to go through the loves and woes of Juliet

It was milling in torrents as I left the theatre that night, — a drenching deluge of rain, which saturated me in stepping only from the door of the building to the door of the carriage. As we were being driven off, we were arrested by a shout of **Stop V I opened the door to see what was the matter, A man with a slouched hat and military cloak was giving an unfortunate female a shower bath by holding a dripping umbrella over her head, whilo shOi vainly endeavoring to gather up some voluminoua skirts from off the wet pavement beneath, was affording the rain full play upon the back of a velvet cloak.

** Ladies," said the man, addressing us in a polite tone, •*I caD*t got a carriage high or low. Will you permit us to drive to oar hotel in yours ? It*8 only about a square ap this street**

It was rather a cool request, but I reflected that neces- sity knows no law, and that there were really no carriages about. Besidejn, I hope I am never churlish, and I begged them to step in at once. They did so. I soon discovered three things from their conversation : That the gentleman

216

INNOCENT CRITICS.

was a major; that they had been to the theatre, and that they did not recognize me,

" Well, what did yoti think of the Juliet f presently asked the major.

" The worst I ever saw^' she answered tightly,— I mean , tritely.

Now, that was pleasant, wasn't it ?

You take two strangers, who may be pickpockets or iJJnllers, into yonr carriage; you order the driver to go to I their hotel ; you submit uncomplainingly to the aecesBioii I of darapoesB brought by them; you permit youraolf to be [^crowded for them; you take your traveling bag off the ] front seat and place it on your knees for tbem ; you put I jourself to all sorts of inconvenience for them — and all for what?

To be told you are the worst Juliet they ever saw

I never had such difficulty to restrain my laughter in all my life, I had the greatest raind in the world to disclose myself. Bnt I didn*t. It would have been cruel, would it not, under the circumstances ? I thought so, and I refrained.

*'0h, Shakespeare's all played out anyhow,'* responded the major, "What I like to see is Madame Mazeppa in her bareback act,*'

I was shocked ; upon my word I was.

A sudden '^puU up*' announced our arrival at the ma- jor's hotel. The driver assisted the lady to alight, and while they were still standing near the door of the car- riage, opening the umbrella, the hackman addressed me with:

** Shall I drive you home now, J^s Logan ?"

You should have seen the expression of their faces ! I know they would have welcomed an untimely but tempo- rary grave with joy; a trap-door would have been dearer to their hearts than an oil well in Pennsylvania. The

A TRTina ABODE*

217

very umbrella in the major's hand partook of his humili- ation, collapsing from its distended proportioDs, and hanging listlessly by his side, I never saw two people look so thoroughly ashamed of themselves.

In the course of several yeara of peregrination I have lodged in a somewhat large number of hotels, good, bad, and iodiftereut. I have sipped cafe noir at the Grand Hotel du Louvre in Paris, and have partaken of cafe muddy at what I suppose must be called the Grand Hotel at Cairo, Illinois, I have eaten oranges in Spain, and whitebait at Greenwich ; have slept in spotless lioen sheets at the ClarendoD, in London, and slept without \ sheets, either spotless or otherwise, at some of the Alber- g08 in Italy; thus I have been in hotels which were some- thing open to censure, but, take it all in all, it is my humble opinion that the palm for utter badness in hotel- keeping must be awarded to those hardy individuals who did set up their local habitations and their names as innkeepers in Nashville during the war.

It w^as alleged that the "City Hotel'' would suit us exactly, ^ — a totally false allegation, and I am now thor- oughly convinced that that alligator knew it.

It didn't suit me, and I don't believe it suited anybody. How could it? A large, ricketty, barn-like frame house, built with that entire disregard of comfort which seems to be the special end and aim of Southern architects.

Tottering verandahs running the length of the house on every floor^ of no earthly use except to admit the cold, which was intense during the w^hole time I stayed in Tennessee. Windows with sashes determined to be hateful — which would not come down when they were up, nor go up when they were down ; doors of an equally obstinate frame of mind — which **stuck'' with great perti- nacity when closed, but generally insisted, being quite innocent of lock or key, on swinging open at all hours of the day and night

218

A SlNtlULAH BOOM.

We had telegraphed for rooms in the plural, and the ► obligiDg proprietor reserved us a room in the singular, Aaingokr room, too, by the way. You had to get on the bed to shut the door, to stand on the table to look in the glass; the united efforts of three men and a step-ladder were required to get the gas lit ; to turn it off before morniiig^s ruddy beam greeted the opening day was a thing not to be thought of for a moment ; it had to burn .all night, thus depriving you of sleep, for which the proprietor made an extra charge.

Again, the door of the apartment had to bo left open in the coldest weather, to give the fire a *' draft/*—" blow- ers," except of the human species, were unknown. I extemporized one with a newspaper. It answered the purpose capitally until it burnt up, by which time the fire was generally alight, as by that tender foresiglit which tempei'8 the wind to the shorn lamb, the coal in Nashville is of a bituminous character, and easily ignitedp

The furniture of the room, too, was rather peculiar, A carpet full of neglected rents, which tlircw the unwary traveler down many a time and oft ; a rocking-chair which seemed to have a speciality for tipping over back- wards; a table irremediably '* shaky;" a clock with an unwavering partiality for a quarter past two; a flower vaae with a brilliant painting representing a sickly peasant girl eating something which may have been an apple, but which looked uncommonly like a diseased tomato, and a pair of greenish brassy candelabra representing uothing with equal fidelity, and the same striking adhesion to truth.

This was the room; with the additional disadvantage

of having recently been occupied by an officer of rank

whose brother officers insisted on pouncing down on me

ftt particularly inopportune moments, under the impres-

'lion that the apartment was still the stronghold of their

QENSEAL REMEMBEAK0B9.

219

chief, and who required the raost minute explanation in regard to hia sudden change of base (about which I, of course, knew so very much, never having lain eyes on him), and the cause of my^own unlooked-for and no doubt unwelcome appearance.

I think that general must have evacuated the room but a few hours before I took possession of it, and I fancy he left his packing to the care of a servant, for many little remembrances of hia were lying about which, like Ophelia^ I wished to re-deliver. Cigarettes were scattered around in Sardanapalan quantities; evidences of *" prime old port*' were abundant; Mrs. Woolt — (the rest burnt off for a cigar lighter) would be happy to see him at dinner next Sunday at half-past three precisely; his old friend G. wanted to know how about it for the 17th? — and yours everD. B. would feel obliged if the general would let him have the precise state of military law on the point of Tivhich we were speaking.

A well-regulated hotel would have caused the room to be put in order before I entered ; but this foolish custom was more honored in the breach than the observance, in Nashville.

The door proving utterly false to me, I was forced to push the table and two chairs against it before I took my afternoon siesta. I am sure I was not allowed five minutes' oblivion of my grievances before I was ruthlessly awak- ened by hearing the whole construction tumble to the ground; on arousing myself, what was my surprise at beholding a smart young lieutenant gazing npon me with an expression of astonishment not unmingled with awe. "Well,** I exclaimed, ^'tbis is pretty!** " Just what I was about to remark," he replied, " What are you doing in my apartment V* I inqnlred, savagely-

220

HOTEL TTJEITEI) HOSPITiJ*.

"Golly! that's cool,'' he retorted, ** What are you doing

in the generals bed ?" I faioted. Bad as it all was, however, I should have been glad

enough to remain there^ for I soon learned that it was really the best hotel in the place. Under these circura- fltances, yon may understand my feelings on the second day after my arrival, when I was informed by an unhappy man who served my very cold dinner in my yet colder room, that this was the last meal which was to be provided for me at the City Hotel,

"The very last," he moaned,

"Amen," said I, "and wherefore, pray?"

" They are going to take the house for a military hospital/'

*t They— who?"

" Military necessity,^' he replied.

I found that this personage was all potent in Nashville, and indeed everywhere else in the conquered territory. Perhaps he used his power in rather an unjust maoner Bometiraes ; the rebels said so, at least, but we have no earnest that themselves would have shown more equity in such matters if the chances of w^ar had permitted the South to exercise the hated military necessity over the Yankees, instead of being obliged to submit to the reverse case.

In a half an hour after the first premonition of our ap- proaching ejection, we found ourselves in the street, bag and baggage^ in the midst of another drenching rain, ' totally ignorant of what steps to take to get another lodging.

As for the City Hotel, I never saw a building trans- formed into a hospital in a shorter space of time. I can only say I do not envy the patients who are forced to remain there in very cold weather.

MISERY AT FOUR DOLLAES A DAY.

221

From a cabman we learned that the St. Cloud was the next bc^t hotel.

"Vogue la gal&re alors^ pour St Cloudj et vive la joie," said I, with delectable abandou.

He remarked, Hey ?

Somewhat quenched, I inquired his faro from our present lodging on the cold ground to our objective point, the celebrated next best

He said ten dollars.

It appears it is ever thus in Nashville,

It costs five dollars to go a **8tep/' and ten to go ** round the corner/* with an additional five in case it comes on to rain, which it invariably docs, probably for the benefit of cabmen. Grumbliug I paid ; a good deal of grumbling and a very crisp bill.

Words fail me to describe the misery which was to be purchased at four dollars a day and one extra for fire, making five, at the St Cloud, in Nashville. Oh, visions of the joyous dinners partaken of at the charming village of that name on the sloping banks of the rippling Seine, within the hospitable walls of the cheerful and well- known hostlery, ''Zxi Tdc Noire^" with what bitter mockery ye presented yourselves to my regretful but ad- miring remembrance ! The tempting ** carte,'' handed to me as Majcste Begtiante^ to select whatsoever I pleased, totally irrespeciive of price, from potages down to poussc cafes ! And did I not ? Answer, ye kindred spirits who were there and know, did I oot select the dinners totally irrespective of price, but thoroughly respective of good taste, and perfect aavoir diner ?

Tell me how a man dines, and Til tell you whether he is a vulgarian or not.

But now I think of it, that rule does not always hold good; for if I had been judged by the way I dined in Nashville, I might have been set down as the lowest of all possible canaille.

22S THE LONChLOBT SHEETS,

An inhuman and unearthly substance, yclept "hogshead cheese," constituted oor breakfast at Nashville; hogshead cheese, with some very weak tea and some very stale crackers, was served at dinner, and some very stale crackers and some very weak tea, w^ithout any hogshead cheese, was sent in at supper. We stood this unflioch- ingly, but on one point we were perhaps unreasonably exacting. We insisted on clean sheets. We were assured that this was a stretch of luxurious faste which had never been indulged in, and which the proprietors of the Bt Cloud were determined not to tolerate. Sheets were put on for a week, and there they must stay if the heavens fell, or, what was more likely, if half a dozen differeut lodgers occupied the room.

I tried a douceur^ and the chambermaid said she would see what could be done*

In half an hour she returned with a couple of sheets neatly folded. They were the very same sheets she had taken off. She vowed they were not, but I knew them at once.

They were indeed my long-lost sheets !

They had a strawberry mark on their left arms. I mean a rectangular tear in their left corners, besides sun- dry other evidences of railway dost and dirt, which the wash-tub alone could obliterate from memory and view.

"Now, Mfere," said I, with desperation, "there is no use in our endeavoring to stand this. Let's try something else,"

" What else can we try ? This was the * next best.' "

"Let us put ourselves in the hands of Providence. The ravens are fed from Heaven's garners, and no doubt if clean sheets were a necessary attribute to their happiness, they would get them. Let us see if we are not of more value than sparrows, for verily I say unto you — *'

"Hush! bosh!" said M6re; ** don't be nonsensical^ — and vrickedi too/'

Tm ACTRESS AND THB CLOWK.

223

Whatever I was, I was determined to find a comfort- able lodging, and find one I did — ^a large, brightj airy room, in one of the whilom fashionable streets of the now defunct fashionable Nashville. The landlady struck me as being a very nice person, evidently quite correct in all things but her grammar; a quiet, mild old lady, some- what terrified at my impetuous manner. Necessity, I have observed before, knows no law, and hogshead cheese was beginning to have a deleterious effect on my mental organization. Therefore, impetuous.

*'What! air you the actor?" she inquired, breathlessly, when I told her my name*

I said I wair.

She looked a little uncomfortable at first, and then asked, in a tremulous manner, if I would have any objec- tion to paying the week's lodging in advance,

I replied that paying the week's lodging in advance would cause me an amount of inward satisfaction which no words could portray. Still I urged, but merely for curiosity's sake, wherefore?

" 'Cause," said she, hesitatingly, " there was a man-actor down here some weeks ago — he were a el own d in a suekns, I think — and he ran off" and never paid his bill to Misa Griggs, the washerwoman,"

So saying, she looked spooney, and I forked,

I ultimately made the acquaintance of Miss Griggs. Miss Griggs tore my laces and committed ravages on my linen which time will but deepen, but she was a poor soul, and an honest widow, with a very large and very willful baby, and a very small and very precious income. She told me who the **clownd " was, and, out of compassion for her, I paid his claim. Though it is doubtless written on high, on the scroll of fame, I never heard the clownd's name, before or since; but he is cautioned that he is known^ and this means is taken of conveying to him that

VISIT TO A BATTLE-FIELD.

h

I

ho bad better come forward at once and pay me fifty-three cents, to avoid any unpleasant eonseqaences which might ensue.

8pite of the lack of creature comforts in Nashville, I have some charming aouvenirs of the place. One of these is my visit to the scene of the deadly strife between the hosts of Thomas and Hood. The inhabitants of the town of Nashville, and, in fact, the whole State of Tennessee, who {pardfssus Vqpaxdt gauche) were at that time eotranc- ingly loyal to our government, awaited Hood's trium- phal entry into the 8tate with a satisfaction which would have been amusing had not the annihilation of their hopes been so bloody and so overwhelming. The one-armed, one-legged rebel chief was about to attack; he must con> quer. Hope was no doubt &ther, mother and sole pro- genitor to this thought; for must they not have been blind indeed — seeing, as they did, every day and every hour, the mighty machine which moved as one man under the skillful manipulation of the clear-sighted Thomas — to igoofe for one moment the final and unalterable result?

Te who have free souls, and can, without the slightest let or hindrance, take a ride out to Central Park, or con- tinue on to Albany if yon are so minded^ have fittfe idea of the many forms and c^emooles neoesaaiy to be gone throQg^ with before one wasallowed to emeige firom the ^lea of Ka^ville.. I say gailaa» because galea h emW iiently poetical. The ''dty*s gates** is a vastly pretty form of speedi; but^ in reaUjQr, veiy few cittes have gjatOb I find I am apfKoachtng the gates of a town whea tiba 1 teeabigm to look old and dilapidated; when libot duldraa aboand in oDnatkaii

hanfry qrea^ whidk ^ve ma a Aatp paia ia tbe of any heart; where noiaryt caiai lel heavily akng; where alaHenL, red^eyedi grM|ia aad ase vttoperallva haguaga tbH ]

GETTING OUT OF TOWN.

225

me shudder ; where pigs are the onlj^ street surveyors, and are mouarchs of what they survey ; where roosters are the otxly liviog things about who show aoy personal sense of diguity ; where the effluvia are oppressive and oflensive; where your horse's legs go far down into ruts, hespatter- ing your swellish riding-habit with a iiltby, teuacious mire which leaves forcvermore an ugly yellow stain<

Where these things are, there also are the gates of a city. That is, there they should be, if gates should be at all. I don*t see what use they are to any city.

But shall I ever get out of Nashville?

Never, apparently.

Three times roy loyalty had to be sworn to ; three times my name given and registered, I was informed by au official that if I was a rebel spy, and was trying to escape across the country w^ith the information which I had, no doubt, been assiduously picking up in Nashville, I would find it would cost me more than I imagined ; to which he added, did I hear that ?

I told liim I did, My hearing Was slightly defective^ but I heard tliat very distinctly.

Then he told me I had better remember it

And I have done so. The proof is, that after years have elapsed I am now telling it to you, word for word, just as it happened. I hope the official will read these lines, and see how minutely I have obeyed him in all things. He was a pompous official. Spite of his brusque* ness I Hked him^ for he displayed a zeal in the cause which was not observable in all officials whom I met.

The Mason said the official and I reminded him of Beauty and the Beast.

You will forgive my repeating that little complimenti won't you ? The truth is, my Trompette was slain while making a most briiriantly valorous escape from the enemy at Bull's EuQ, and since that time these onerous duties

S98

TADPOLE.

fall on me, and if I fail to perform them, botn myself and they are undone. When I get very rich, I shall erect a monument to my D^ompette, On one side shall be a basso- relievo of the deceased in the act of blowing, and under- neath these striking lines of Shakespeare :

" Blow^ blow, (thou winter wind). Thou art not half so unkind As man's ingratitude.''

And Nashville ?

Another official said he didn*t see what people wanted to go visiting battle-fields for, when the fighting was all over* He observed that when the parties were giving each other thunder, then*e when the fun was.

You will forgive my remarking that, to my perverted imagination, then's when the fun isu*t.

He said when they fought, he was *^ in."

Soil I when they fight, I am out.

He told UB that if any fighting was to be done, he wanted to be as near the battle-field aa possible,

Well, I do not; at that particular moment I desire to be far from the battle-field*s gaze. Like a beautiful dream, it might seek me in vain, both by meadow and stream. It would not be likely to find me.

Bet this official continued in his bellicose strain, and finally gave me my pass in a very warlike manner. I learned from the Mason that he had never been out of that room since his first entering of the army, his duty being entirely among papers, ^nd not bullets. He had been a dry goods clerk^ for some years, in a second-class establishment in Nashville, and by reason of his somewhat

dden assumption of shoulder-straps and military airs, he received from the hands of the rebel women, to whom aa especially repugnant, the slightly contemptuous net of Tadpole. ole, adieu !

MBS. ACKXET,

227

A battle-field ! What is it, after all, when the fighting is over, and the wounded earned away, and the dead buried, and the victorious gone off victorious, and the van- qiiislied fikulkiiig away vanquished and perhaps pursued ? A few rough graves, and a lot of abattis^ and some breast- works, and some trenches ; a great many canteens and knapsacks, cast off to expedite the flight; here and there a dismounted cannon, d voila tout!

Not all. It requires a little study, and you must make it. See the bark of trees all ripped off by bullets; ob- serve how some of them, and those of the finest, too, un- foronately, are rent in twain by the heavier balls, and are now dragging their yet green branches, never to bloom again, down to the dusty earth. How close they were tipon our boys, these rebels! A hard struggle this, evi- dently ; but tlie harder the struggle the more complete the final triumph.

"Oh, dear me!" I exclaimed, "who in the world lived in that house?"

" Why, Mrs. Aekley,*' responded a man with whom we had scraped up a sort of conversation on the road, through his volunteering a good deal of interesting information about the battle — which he said he had witnessed.

Strange as it may seem it is nevertheless true that I had never heard of Mrs. Ackley until that morneut. They told me all about her^ though they seemed to think it was rather odd that any one not quite an ignoramus should know absolutely nothing about so celebrated a personage. She was a lady who had owned this valuable property all her life, who had inherited a fortune of three millions of dollars, who was accomplished and talented, who had taken two trips to Europe to furnish this house, who had gone to Italy for the statuary which adorned the garden, who had bought her pictures at Rome, and her porcelaine at Sevres, and beyond pemdventure her coals

of liar itiixi£^ and now wbfit bad it all resnhfid mH In lier UngBdi puA tttnied int^ a bear garden, lier ^^vaBoB into ^ckad ^vxva, aad alack and alasl into aoidieBB' gxsvea! Pteir Ikwm, venr niA and mipi«n|t andcoMffigflnaB^^irfaat a shame to liddle jmao! Tbinnaft' liBB«Uflalirake tiie <siieval I^LiMB^aiid 'fi ^rrajK: smaAai-flifi ohanquigiialHiiaaB*

in tbe appmved Americai] sbrlo, told ub

Aokler had jmi for the daeonrtiqp

gBrSena. Ilwv^ no doolu xhai, di^^Aoi li^ two,

about oarrecL, but e^on tbou^ I can cmlr

Sa %ak aa Trril aa Xia. JLdklcnr^fpMiii^ two buudrod and A&m not piHwent bcr ** atrafdng Jf^maaT ladkanfr exactiT TSst a tcmiUe who bad iimili i1 to -^OkjfmitamiaT tht^ cxpree bmt nnsaescenriM imi'iiufe>f of JlaiyTiiF A soddfSD at&idk of civni}!. i ^M «iiianB to tnciw t} v, pliiced

Jbdttef «o Ihoiai . 1 bn^^

not jet mentioned ibe &ei of her bahiir a widow. doiieri»niad€ir«

oat

the words bfoidi];^ ** Ac haa done tbe^—

p ■■ , so i)w» 1hi» Tittle marp 1 ^vraB

qr abe jnrapBd MmA^ a» if the ward*^ had been a ^mi mxmA htr JUS on bor proi^ fomhaad, iHflt £d mot fifaaenie ni^ an^vrti^ m^ mvB mad ibr vty Tupbr^ jjroi ittlbatia?''

^oqpiewiiieD^iqf arc flwrtlniwmm ^biidi,

THE CONTAGION OF ENTHUSIASM.

229

Southerners by heart, by edacation, by fortune, by the will of God, in fact and yet, who" — and he fairly goashed his teeth as he spoke — " who, to save that paltry trash ' they call their property, go and put themselves under the protection of a flag which they hate and abhor, merely because it happens to be the victorious one. And these people, ma'am, are what we call the jutsty,**

He was a study for an artist as he spoke. His iron-gray locks, failing to give a look of age, imparted one of great solidity to his scornful face; his quivering lips, white with the excitement of the moment, curved with a purity and force which was far from being mimicked in aoy of Mrs. Ackley's statues ; and bis rustic garmeots, made of some homespun material of the commonest order, gave no look of clownishness to his athletic frame.

I had only a minute's time to make these observations, for so Boou almost as he had finished speaking, he turned Bcorofully and left us.

There is nothing so contagious as enthusiasm. I caught the contagion. For the space of three minutes I felt that the government at Washiugton was notiiing more nor less than the incorporate yoke of tyranny, and that that yoke was now about my neck seriously interfering with my organs of respiration. For three long minutea I was a blasted Secesh, totally devoid of principle; a fiendish slaveholder, without any slaves; a bloated oligarch not worth a cuss, I would have sung the Bonny Bhie Flag with joy, if not melody, if I had been acquainted with either tlie words or the tune. It flashed across my brain that the Beast oflScial was right ; that I was a rebel spy, and that the best thing I could do would be to at once escape across country and give Hood the information which I had so assiduously been picking up in Nashville. 1 suddenly remembered that I had retained very little of it I made a clean breast of it and stood confessed, a

230

ADVICE TAKEN.

violent rebel, to the Mason. He laughed at me ; and as ridicule kills everything^ even the strongest of passions, Love, it soon annihilated my treason.

"You'd look a pretty guy, wouldn't you, now, after being a good Union woman all along, to go and turn Secesh at the last moment, and just, too, at the very time when their prospects^ to say the least of it, look most all- fired quisby."

Thus the Mason ; drawing from the what-you-may-call-it of English undefiled.

It struck me I would look eomething of a guy under those circumstances, and that perhaps I was in the first stage of being a guy now. I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself, and returned to my loyalty and Mrs. Aekley.

*' How does she know when they are going to fight?"

" The government gives her warning."

Funny, isn't it? I suppose she gets a note requesting the honor of her society, anywhere except in her own house, the next day, as the two armies are going to have a sociable on her grounds at that date.

I hope I have said nothing to oftend Mrs. Aekley. I have told the tale as it was told to me, without extenu- ating anything, but I am sure without setting down aught in malice. If she was a rebel at heart, why, as there were eight millions of souls, not to mention bodies, who shared her sentiments, she was certainly not alone in her disaf- fection. If she sought the protection of our government for motives of her own, and our government saw fit to extend it to her, surely it is no business of ours. Let him who is without the sin of watiting to save his money, cast the first greenback. For myself, I am not prepared to say whether, under similar eireumstances, and to preserve a fortune of three millions, I should not have done the — excessively disagreeable myself.

"Has this mare any speed?" I inquired of the Mason, after we got on the home-stretch.

THE BLACKSMITH S WIFE,

231

**Tou*d tbiuk bo if you had seen her, the other day, coming up with our boja on the retreat froai a place about seventy milea from here. The lady who rode her never disraouoted ouce, but kept her on the keen run the whole time. She said ahe never could bear IIooils,*'

I thought I would put the mare through her paces, as we horse-erudite folks say, and the first thing the silly creature did was to lose a shoe. I insisted on having it put on at once, as the mare had been placed at ray disposal in the kindest and most generous manner, and I was not going to allow any harm to come to her if I could help it.

We stopped at a blacksmith's shop by the side of tlie road, and showed him our passes before he would consent to shoe the mare. His wife, a braB^ny-lookiug woman, with eyes red from recent weeping, asked me if I would take a seat in the parlor until the horse was ready. I did BO, and before I had fairly entered the room she burst out crying afresh. I thought at once it was poverty, or ill* treatment from her husband. If the first, I could allevi- ate it a little; and if the latter, I couhl give a few cheer- ing words of sympathy and consolatiDU, I think I have a particularly soothing manner both wuth the sick and heart- sore, and so, winding my arms about her poor sunburnt neck, I coaxed her to tell me her griefs and let me grieve with her, I touched the right chord, evidently ; for, push- ing my liat ofl* my forehead, she pressed her lips to it many times, and, in that caressing tone peculiar to South- ern women, called me her *' sweet, sweet honey" — ^her ^* honey, honey sweef Which was the adjective and which the noun I know not, nor do I care to know, I un- derstood her, and she did me.

I soon learned the cause of her grief They had found a rebel on the battle-field, who had been left for dead, but was not- They picked him up and cared for him. They gave notice to the authorities; but, in the great excite-

232 THE DEAD 60LDIEE-B0Y.

mettt of tho moment, no attention waa paid to them nor to the rebel. These people had tended him for eight days, and this morning he had died* I went in with her to see the body. I shall never forget it.

It was Boraebody's darling ! — aomebody^s dear darling — some mother's pet^ — some pretty girl 'a sweetheart — some sister's **big brother'' — a lovely soldicr-boy, not nineteen years old; a tender plant, which liad wound itself aronnd this woman's heart in the short space of eight days. She did not even know his name, except that it was Charlie ; she told me tins as plainly as she could tell mo anything through her choking tears.

Poor Charlie ! I pressed my lips to your cold fingers, and uttered a prayer for the repose of your soul.

If Charlie's mother sliould read these lines, she may be happy in the thought that no angel with drooping wings could have tended her boy in his last sickness with more devotion and love than did that brawny Southern woman, with the very unsymmetrical waist.

War is a strong colorist for the moment^ but by a gra- cious dispensation his tints fade quickly, die away, and are forgotten.

So it must be in Nashville, now no longer what it wa« when I was there — a city of soldiers. Soldiers everywhere — everywhere ! In the streets, in the houses, in the hos- pitals late churches, in the hospitals late school-houses, ia the hospital late City Hotel, on the roads, in the town, on tho river, in the theatres — soldiers, soldiers, and yet again soldiers, and after that out of all whooping!

A man in citizen's dress was a rara aris^ a lady in any kind of dress was a marvel. In every shop the repelling warning, ** No Goods sold to Civilians/' told as plainly as words could speak that Nashville owed no allegiance save to the array. And yet these very shopkeepers, who sold

i

PIKK AND WHITB.

but to soldiers, were often as bitter secessioDists as coold be found, I know this, for, striving to pick up a few rib- bons and the like, to vary my very restricted wardrobe, I soon learned tlieir sentimcnta j but, as they very justly re- murked themselves, they were so completely awed by the presence of those soldiers that their own state of feeling was a matter of not the slightest moment.

I have said that I was restricted in the way of wardrobe, having left almost everything in that line in Louisville. I can laugh now at the straits I was put to, to vary my toi- lettes, but at the time I was really very much incon- venienced, I had in reality only two dresses of the mod- ern school with me; one a pink moire antique, the other a white of the sarae character. They had both cost in Paris that figurative sum commonly known as '*a pretty penny," and were in fact silks of the first water. But I must say I agree with the logical Mrs. Malaprop in the ob- 8er\^ation that " familiarity breeds dcspisery.'* The hate I bear those two dresses knows no words. I was obliged to wear them constantly. First I would wear the pink, then the white, then the pink looped over the white, then the white looped over the pink, then the pink trimmed with white, then the white trimmed with pink; in fact, I was a woman in white, with a strong tendency to coulcur de rose. I have had my revenge on them since, by suffering tliemto repose calmly in the bottom of my trunks. After Nashville's fitful fever, they sleep well !

I learned in Nashville that it was a matter of the great- est difficulty to visit rebel prisouei^s of war, which fact greatly enhanced a desire which I had long entertained to see some of the better class of the parties in arms against us. I was gratified in this, but after many struggles ; and as the war is over now, I shall not mention in what town I made the visit. It was not in Nashville, but the recital comes in here as well as anywhere else.

234

OBANGES AKD PIE-CRUST,

Our first sympathies were enlisted by hoaring that some rebel prisoners had been taken, very recently, who were in quite a starving condition,

** Oh, my dear child !" said Mfere, " let's send the poor B0ul3 some oranges !"

** That would be substantial relief for starving men, cer- tainly. Almost as good aa the remedy Marie Antoinette offered the people when there was a famine in France/*

"Who was Marie Antoinette, and what did she otfer?" inquired the Mason.

By which it will be seen that the Mason's historical knowledge was rather limited. But never you mind that ; he was a good Mason. This was quite enough for me. Bcsidesj did he not know Boraething which I never did and never shall know — that tiresome secret of the Masons ? So, after all, he had the advantage of me.

"Marie Antoinette was Queen of France at one time, and the offer to which I allude was this: One day the hungry rabble came clamorously up to the gates of the Palace at Versailles, shrieking for bread, 'What do they want?' asked the Queeo of the Prime Minister.

*' 'Your Majesty,* he replied, * they are without bread,'

"* Without bread!' she exclaimed, 'then, why, in Heaven's name, don't you give them pie-crust — {qu'on leur do7ine de la croule de pak.' — (Historical),"

The Mason laughed, but Merc said she didn't see any- thing funny in it.

Pie-crust, she observed, would have been a very good Bubatitute, if they had only had enough of it.

'*Well, my opinion is,*' said the Mason, sagely, "that you had better not visit these rebels at all,"

"And wherefore?" I asked,

** Because, in the first place, you are a public character."

''Well, what then?"

** Well, then, being a public character, and going to

A TEERIBLE THREAT*

2S5

visit rebels, slanderous people might get hold of the story and make believe thaf'^he faltered as he spoke — "that you were a rebel yourself."

"Now, I should juat like to hear any one call me a rebel V* I exclaimed, with an attempt to look very fierce, and gazing at the Mason, with the* determination to dis- cover whether there was any such intention on his part. I forgot my disaffection on Ilood's battle-ground,

"What would you do," he inquired, "in case any one were to say such a thing?'*

" Well, you'll see, if any one dares to say it — you'll see !*' I kept telling hira he would see, in a menacing tone, and, as that is rather a striking form of speech, I think I awed the Mason. He looked at me in an uneasy manner, as if he feared I would commit some terrible act of violence.

" Wliat would you do?" he repeated^ again and again.

"When I had aroused his curiosity to the highest pitch, I satiefied him by letting him know my determination.

** I would tell thorn plainly, I was nothing of the sort.'*

lie breathed more freely, and I have often wondered since if he really thought I would do anything in the Lola Montcz style. He mistook mo mightily if he did. They might call me a Khamacatkan before I would do anj^thing of that kind. Pray nnderstand that I use the word Kliamscatkan here in quite a figurative sense. There is nothing dishonorable in being called a Khamscatkan, that I know^ of.

Especially if it happens that yon are a Khamscatkan*

I have yet to learn that a diet of seal's blubber quenches virtue in the breast of the greasy but honest Kham- ecatkan.

But pardon, and allow me to resume.

It appeared on inquiry that the rebel prisoners had all been removed except those who were too ill to be sent

236

IN THE HOSPITAL.

I

away; tberefore our visit to the rebels waa in reality a visit to the Federal hospitaL I can't say I was much pleased with the conduct of the rebels on that day. They vere eulleii and morose, many of them fierce, all rather |marcastic when referring to the Yankee nation^ and what they evidently considered but a temporary advantage of our arras, I found more congenial society in the Federal officers who were lying sick in the different wards. A funny episode occurred while we were standing talking to a lieutenant who had lost his arm at the battle of Nash- ville.

A rebel prisoner had died the day before in the hospital, and permission had been granted some Secessionists (ladies) to take a last view of the body. Two of these, pretty creatures they were, too, dressed in black, and weeping, entered, evidently by mistake, the room in which we were standing. They rushed up to a bed oppo- site to that occopied by the lieutenant, in which was lying another Federal officer, slightly wounded, who had thrown a handkerchief over his face, and was, as I thought, asleep.

'*Let rae kiss him for his mother,** tearfully exclaimed one of the rebel girls, under the impression that the officer was not oaly a rebel, but a dead body. So saying, she stooped down and kissed him through the handker- chief, somewhere on his check.

Fancy her amazement at seeing the dead body suddenly jump up and sit bolt upright in bed ; imagine her dismay on hearing the dead body utter, with an undeniable Yankee twang, these fearful words :

** Never mind the old woman, girls ; go U on your oivn hookr

I thought the girl would have fainted, Don Giovanni when he sees the ghost of the Commandante (or whoever that old marble fellow on horseback may be) when he

A SAUCY SICK MAN.

23T

hears him speak, and even siug, could not have been more terribly Irightened, Her terror sooti gave way to iudig- natiotij however, and tliis found vent in a torrent of in- vective, wliich sounded very ill coming from Buch pretty 'red lips. Say what she might, the sick man would only reply with amusing impudence —

"Well, then, TU give your kisa back; come, now, Pra willing, take it back:" actually grasping her arm, and puckering up his saucy mouth in a manner which should have earned for him a good sound box on his pallid cheeka.

The girls left the room in high dudgeon, one remarking to the other that this man was evidently a disciple of ** Beast Butler ;'' that, in fact, all Yankees were such dis- ciples— all Yankees were to be detested and despised now and forevermore.

But I ol>aerved when the Yankees happened to he good- looking, dashing fellows, as many were, the rebel girls were far more lenient in their judgment, and I fancy those young ladies who were forbidden to enter the doors of the

Rev. Mr. L d's church, in the little town of C — kville,

Tennessee, because they invited Federal officers to their houses, found ample recompense for such proscription in the society of the ostracised heroes of the shoulder-strap. It was in this town I met my old friend, the celebrated Southern beauty, Molly C. She was a rampagious rebel; told me she hated me cordially while we were shaking bands; said she despised my principles while we were drinking tea, and called me an abominable Abolitionist while she was requesting my photograph.

When we returned to the town, only a few weeks after, you may imagine my surprise on hearing that she was engaged to be married to a Federal officer ! She talked to me about him — he was a Buck, a Darling and a Dear; lolI}-pop9, sugarplums and bonbons were tasteless sweeta

288 THB FABEWELL.

beside him ; he was an Adonis, an Apollo, a Bean Brom- mell and a Count D'Orsay.

<'Bat he is a Yankee?" I said.

"Oh, on that point," she answered, blushing, " we have agreed to disagree !"

I saw them that night when they were parting; he going forward with his men, she remaining in the stupid town. If kisses, and prayers, and clasping of hands, and assurances of constancy, and tears, and smiles, and sighs, and sobs, were evidences of the agreeing disagreement^ they were all present I ran away, for I thought of the old French song.

'*yeax-ta sayoir comment leB soldats aiment? 11b aiment si passionement, lU sont de si passionees gens, Et on les entend toojours disant. Ah, Louise, que je t'aime I Mais eniln (yojons I) ye paT9 demami"

The wretched metre and the worse rhyme do not take from this little chanson its perfect coloring of the reckless soldier nature.

The next morning I bade farewell to Kashville and the Mason.

MONSIEirE M0NFEKR5.

239

CHAPTER XXn.

The ** Polon'fl Daughter,"— A ctressea' Cartes de YiBite.— The Flower Basket Nuisance. — Theatrical Critics in the West. — Dumb Waiters. — Ohio Legislttti^rs- — Western Hotel^^ — Andoraonville I -» A UIgh Private. — From the Shoe Shop to the Camp. — The Guide Book Nuisance. — Chicago. — Miltonian Tableaux, —Number 99. — On the Care. — FHrta and Babies en Routc.^The Newly Married Couple, — The Gum-Drop Merchants.— The New York HurUd. — A WaJk in a Graveyard, — A Terrible Gynmaat. — Indiana Ixxafera. — Nomenclature.

"Shall we stay here overnight, or shall we go straight on to Cincionati?" I asked of Mfere when we arrived at the Gait House in iiouisville,

*' Better go on, I think, and spend all the leisere time you have io Cincinnati/'

We did 60, and that very night the Qalt House was buroed to the ground, with an immense destruction of property, and loss of life to six people. Mfere thanked Providence for our preservation, but I could not do this. Is it not a bitter mockery to those who have met their fate, to ofler thanks that you have escaped it ? No, it was a settled decree of aa ioscrutahle Providence that we should avoid this horrible calamity, reserved, perhaps, to meet some still more dreadful one. Who knows ? There is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them aa we may.

In Cincinnati we spent a delightful week, at the house 0^ Monsieur Monfrtre, Moofrtre is as pleasing a speci- men of the fine young American gentleman aa can well be fouud. Of his oratorical talents, and, indeed, all those requisites to make a mark in the legal profession, I do not hesitate to say he stands far ahead of his compeers. His haadaome face^ his rich voice, his admirable gesticulation

DISCnSSIKO THE HEEOIlfE,

«

(as necessary to the lawyer as they are to the player), and,

above all, his clear judgmeat and acholarly acquirements

have gained for him an enviable and an enduring positionJ

y^ Monfrere is somethiog of a litterateur as well, and

I kindly said he would give me a little advice about my

I play of "I'^vcleen/' transformed to suit the growing app

I tite for theselTSational into ^^TheFelon's Daughter.**

The piece had already been much changed since I tirst

produced it in New York, and was now no more like the

original play than that jack-knife was like the origin

jack-knife which got first a new blade fixed to it, and the

a new handle fixed to that.

1 Monfrere said he thought the effect w^ould be better if I

were to enrich tJie heroine by making her authoress of a

j few sensation novels, rather than by the hackneyed and

I quite delusive plan of acquiring a fortune through acting

' parts,

*' That's all very well, Tom,*' I remarked; but, nndar exidtiDg circumstances, it seems hardly modest in ma to I make all my characters talk about the wonderful genius of this young lady as an authoress, and her enriching her- self by the mere power of her pen/*

*' Well, my dear,'* said Moufrfere, coolly blowing away his cigar smoke, *' it strikes me it's about as broad as it's long. You made your heroine a magnificent actress, which you are not; then, why object to making her a splendid authoress, which, permit me to observej but without wishing to give offence, you are not, ali?o/'

This was quite true, but I had never thought of it before. Indeed, it was painfully true — and truth, you know, is stranger than fiction. I altered the play, Eveleen^ no

t longer Lady Macbeth, is Miss Braddon, Mrs. lien ry Wood, George Eliot, George Sand, Mrs. A. B. C. D. E, F. South- worth, Olive Logan, or " what you will.'* It was from Monfr&re I had a ludicrous account of tho

CARTES DK VISITE.

241

eale of photograpnic ** cartes de visite *' in the froot of the theatre. I had been told that "starB** realized immeDse protits from this source. Nevada, Colorado and Arizona paled before the gold which ** photographs " yielded. Sev- eral castles iQ the Moorish regions had been built by ** stars" in this way, and a railway to Chinieraville was about to be opeoed to the public, on Photographic role-ing stock. Of course, to be orthodox, I must do the same, and the inevitable small boy, with ill-kept nose, came to me in every town, and took away several dozen of cartes de visite.

But pray mark the mode of procedure of the inevitable small boy with ill-kept oose !

In a fiendishly exultant manner, he rashes np to an in- offensive spectator, and, thrusting the picture under the visual organs of the aforesaid, cries out, in a shrill voice:

"Have Olive Logan, sir? Street dress and costume. Do take Olive Logan, sir. Only twmly-Jive cents!''

And if the inoffensive spectator remains obdurate to my varied charms at such a very low figure, the inevi- table small boy cries :

*' What! not Olive Logan, sir? Olive Logan, the FeU oiCs Daughter— the Robber* s Wife ! r ' Is it extraordinary that, under these circumstances, I immediately stopped tlie sale of My Photographs ?

The town of Columbus, the State capital of Ohio, stood next in my line of march, and a pretty wide-awake place it 18, too, especially in the legislative session, during which period I happened to be there. I was particularly pleased with the general appearance of Columbus. If I say it re- minded me forcibly of an English town, I mean this as a compliment. Beautiful villas, nearly or quite surrounded by wide-sp reading trees, by well-kept gardens, full of the rarest flow^ers, and possessing so many other attributes of Id

COLUMBUS.

the country as might well cause one to beliere they were Bituated miles out of town — while,in reality, they have the very great advantage of being only around the corner from the principal street — are features of which Columbus may well be proud. There is a certain elegance about the ehof^s, too; and, above all, a perfect cleanliness in the Btreete, which New York itself might emulate with ad- vantage.

It was not because my engagement was a pecuniary success that I liked the theatre-going public of Cohnnbns. It was because in no town did I meet with a more dis- criminating audience, severe as well as generous, I pro- mise you that in Columbus no such insulting farce would be permitted as that we see enacted every night in New York, at the diflerent theatres, and which, for want of a better name, I may call the bouquet and flower-basket nuisance. Any such attempt to interrupt the progress of a serious play by a few addle-brained admirers of pretty actresses, would be immediately and peremptorily discoun- tenanced. But, if we analyze this thing carefully, we will find that the pretty actresses themselves are in many in- stances very much to blame in this unpleasant matter.

This reminds me of an anecdote which ran the rounds of Parisian saloiis a few years ago. We all know the tight which was carried on for so long a time between the Pic- cinists and the Gluckists, but a similar struggle, of a more amusing character, took place in the French capital at the time of the great success of Madame Doehe in *'La Dame aux Camelias/' Mademoiselle Page, who for some rea- son is always supposed to be the rival of Doche, was play- ing '* La Dame de-Monsereau " at the Ambigu.

But behold young Lord Viri Sappi, who has just come .fire, and entered into possession of his titles and estates, his beloved MUe. Page all in tears when he pays his aoon visit

TWO PBETTT ACTRESSES.

243

*' Oh — ah/' eaj'S his lordship, using what may he called the monosvllabic ** headers," which the Ensjlish take be- fore ducking into the French language, " Qu'est-ce que too ah mar chferie ? What is the matter V*

"Ah, milord," says the pretty Page, sobbing convul- sively, " that ugly Doche — oh — oh — is going to have a splendid pair of diamond ear-rings presented to her — oh — oh — to-nighf

Milord wonders where they were bought.

Mile, names the jeweller.

Milord aaks if he has another pair like them.

Mile, thinks he has, but is rather in doubt

Milord makes it no longer a matter of doubt, and Mile, Page gets the ear-rings similar to Doche's.

Now turn we to Doche'e apartment*

The Prince Talloweateroft', the rich Russian, fancies his brilliant Dame aux Camelias is despondent.

''Oh, nothing now, prince,'* replies Camille; "a baga- telle. But they tell me that presuming little Page is going to be the recipient of a magnificent bracelet, set with pearls, this evening/*

The prince would like to know, Sapristi, about what this bracelet cost, because, Pardieu, Doche shall have one three times as valuable, Saperlotte !

Doche gets the bracelet

Which proves that she has more ruse than the Russe.

And Mile. Page gets the ear-rings.

And if you think there was collusion between these two pretty actresses, you are a very naughty man, and I shall tell you no more French stories*

In fact, I have no right even to tell you this one, for my business is now with Columbus.

The principal newspapers of the place are very good samples of the general go-ahead-itiveness which is one of the marked characteristics of the West

244

WESTERN CRITICS.

I don't know the editors, nor the critics, nor any of the attaches of these papers from Adam — iu fact, I would rec^ ogniaie Adara much ifiore easily than I would them, from peculiarities of costume which, I have no doubt, are care- fully avoided by the gentlemen in question. Therefore, if there is any value in an honest opinion, you liave it in this. And now a line about theatrical critics in the West. A great deal of twaddle has been written in S^ew York about the hopelessness of getting ao impartial criticism from a Western editor, about the openness to bribes of Western editors, antl a lot more of it* Of course I can only speak from my own experience, and that is not very extensive, as I have had but one season of '* starring/^ But in that season I am willing to give my word, as an honest woman, that I never paid a Western editor a penny —I never invited a Western editor, or an attache of a newspaper, to dine or sup with me, or to call on me, for the purpose of inveigling myself into his good graces; I never requested editors' favors through any third party, and yet I venture to assert that I was judged as kindly, criticised as impartially, and lauded as highly as I deserved* If it had been unconditional praise I should not say this, for it would appear like egotism ; but it was souud, clear- sighted, thoughtful criticism, which was eminently bene* ficial to me, since it pointed out faults, to acquaint me with which was to enable me to rectify them at once. As far as offering money goes, I should as soon have thought of calling a man a robber, and should have expected the same retort that such an epithet would Lave been likely to provoke.

I object to a practice, too common in the West, as re- gards the dramatic critic.

He is called a "reporter," and I resent the appellation ; not that there is anything dishonorable, or in the least de- gree objectionable, in the cognomen, except that it is

TOO TIDY FOB COMFORT,

246

inappropriate. The man who goes to a fire, and tells how many bouses were burnt down, is a "reporter;'* he who was ID a beer shop at the time of a dreadful row, and gives the names of the participants in the melee is also a *' reporter/' Shall we, then, bestow the same title on the person who is able to write a clear and exhaustive criti- cisra of a scholarly play, comparing the actor or actress before him with others who in years agone have essayed the same roles, thus showing that his knowledge is not of to-day or yesterday, but is the careful study of time? Ladies and gentlemen of the West, you may call these gentlemen reporters, or Hottentots if you like, but, with your kind permission, I will call them critics.

The principal hotel in Columbus has marked features like everything else in the West. In the first place, it is scrupulously clean.

During the blissful period I passed at boarding-school, it was predicted I would be an old maid, because I hap- pened to be somewhat neater in my appointments than the majority of the school girls. Why is this prognosti- cation always made in similar circumstances? Must married women of a necessity be untidy? Must old maids perforce have the burap of order largely developed? I know instances, and could name a dozeu^ where the cases are just reversed.

I admire neatness.

Tidiness is my hobby.

English houses delight my inmost soul on this account; but I have discovered that there is such a thing as carrying cleanliness too far. In its efforts to be next to godliness, it becomes like vaulting ambition — overleaps itself and falls on the other side.

Clean floors are very nice, but if they must be scrubbed previous to dinner, thus leaving the guests to sit for at least a half an hour with feet reposing on the dampest of

246

ALL fHE MOBBEN IMPR0VE5IENT9.

pedestals, I muat say I would rather the floors remained dirty.

Clean towels are somewhat essential to happiuess, hut if they must be brought io as near soaking wet aa the wasbtub and a hasty "mangling" will allow, I prefer letting my face go unwashed-^r, washing it, to wipe it on a yesterday's towel, which at least has the merit of being dry.

Silver cream jugs are pretty when very bright and shining, but if the Spanish chalk comes off on my fingers, communicating to them an nn pleasant odor of verdigris which remains and is ofiensive, until I get an opportunity to wash my hands, I confess I would rather see the jugs unpolished. Stilly for all these triflng dis- advantages^ the Keil House is a very nice hotel. Com- pared to some in which I have stopped, it is the Palace of Aladdin with all the modern improvements.

Apropos of modern improvements, let me say here that I hate them.

The intimacy established between the drawing-room and the kitchen, through the medium of those speaking- tubes or blow-trumpets, or whatever the beastly things are called, is quite appalling.

Miss Amanda, seated with a gentleman friend in the drawing-room, is startled by a Btentorian

*' Sa-a-y !** shrieked through the tube.

"What is it, Bridget?" asks Miss Amanda, gently. Tell yer mar I want her."

**I want her/' is pleasing, considering the source from wliifh it comes.

Mar** answers the call. Saay.''

" Well ?" says mamma.

"Is that young man going to stay to dinner? Because if he is, I'll have to put on some more potatoes !"

The dismay occasioned by this requires no comment.

DUMB-WAITEKS AND LEGISLATORS*

317

Then, agaiii^ that lively inuovatioii of modem archi- tectural art generally kuown as the "dumb waiter,"

Dumb, indeed ! Would it were !

Jiiiit ill the middle of the first course at dinner, a thuridering not^e is heard issuing from an apparently innocent cupboartl, causing one member of the family to start up, rush frantically towards the closet and open the door, thus exposing a very incongruous array of articles!

On the iir«t shelf^ perhaji«, the week's washing — or^ more correctly, ironing.

On the second, sometimes a pair of boots for the third floor, garnished with candles for everybody.

And on the third and last shelf the roast for dinner, with the gravy (very often) spilled over everything, making a charming relish, particularly for the dessert. These are modern improi'eraents!

I was standing iu the Fifth Avenue Hotel one day, waiting for the elevator or car to come down and ** elevate" me to a frien<l*s room. After we got started, a little boy rushed up and, gazing intently after us as we sailed upon the bosom of tlie air, be cried out: '* Oh, hookey ! Sis, come look. Here's a bolly dumb waiter!"

I thought the simile was very striking.

Columbus, as I have said, was full of legislators. And O why is it that legislators never vary from that obviously inappropriate costume of black (?) dress coat and black baggy-kneed trowsers ? Or if this hideous apparel ?jfi?^^ be worn by some inscrutable legislative decree, why, oh, why, need it always be shabby ?

Does it issue shabby from under the soothing influence of the legislative tailor's goose?

I have heard of putting new wine into old bottles, and the likelihood of the bottles bursting under such circum- stances ; but it seems to me, if I were a new legislator, and were put into old trowsers, I should just be im- petuous and indignant enough to do as the bottles did.

248

PEBMAKENT BOAKBERS.

It cannot be poverty which indueea this state of things^ because I have heard that legislators were well paid, and champagne (which to avoid argament^ we will concede is Widow Cliquot's, and which costs eight dollars a bottle whether it is or no), is not a favorite beverage with gentle- men who are restricted in income. So the mystery of shabby black clothes still remains unfathomed.

On the whole, the legislator himself is rather an un- fathomable party. Why he eat^ 50 much, drinks so much, talks so mnch, and legislates so Httle, be and he alooe can tell.

In fact what is legislation as nnderstood and practiced at State Capitals ?

I give it op, Brudder Bones, as the middle man at the minstrels always does the end man's conundrums. It is too profound an enigma for me to solve.

The legislator is condescending, aftkble, and as polite as his heavy duties will allow. lie generally know*s every- body, and sometimes permits a favored few* to touch the end of his fingers in the friendly ** handshake."

It is not very difficult matter to know everybody in a Western hoteh In fact when once you get the run of these hotels, they are as much alike in their boarders as they are in their everlasting French side dishes. Of course I am speaking now of permanent parties.

There is the newly married couple, all blushes and liitle appetite.

it the old married couple, very intent on the bill T* • ^ry experiments on their digestive organs in ivlesa manner, [!■ the sentimental clerk who belongs to the

ber© ia the rather scrubby party who don't, but

loually purchases one of those precious talismans

' ^feal Ticket," and thus gets entrance to the

I

PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL.

249

festive diuing hall with newly-washed floor and rather strong effluvium of yellow soft eoap. Besides this he has the inestimable privilege of partaking of those entrees that are announced in a lofty manner, which may be at- tractive to the general public, but which, sooth to say, are rather bewildering to the French scholar. Can you wonder that when fish is heralded j?^

** Poison ax finns erbes — "

I decline it verbally and substantially?

Or that

" Harricotte des mouton a la Bony femme" suggests cannibalism in its least appetizing form ?

Added to which the proof-reader of these bills of fare often allows to escape his observation sundry cheerful little errors like the following:

Peach Fie, Cabinet Mudding, English Hickory Ruts* French BofFee.

In Columbus I received the card of a young gentleman whom I had known io Paris, where he shone with great brilliancy as a member of the jeumsse doree. You may imagine ray surprise at finding hira dressed in the uniform of a private in our army ! Him ! who used to be so much of a swell that he was almost a gandin^ whose ^* dogcart" was the admiration of all Paris, and whose American "trotteur" sent the Bois de Boulogne into spasms of delight.

"Is this Mr* C.t" I asked, in amazement

" For the first time in my life I am praud to say it is/' he replied.

**Bot wherefore this apparel so unmistakably shoddy ?"

** Why, I belong to the army."

** What? not the rank and file ?"

** Yes ; that is, a good deal of file and no rank-"

"A private?"

"Strictly private, and very confidential/*

tto

THE CAK OAH.

"And Paris?*'

♦'Alasr

" AikI the bals ma^ques?^^

Iti a frantic manoer he Bprang to his feet and executed a ** forward two*' m true Parisian style, and with such utter abandon that a mild old lady knitting socka with a pair of blue spectacles — I mean, knitting spectacles with a pair of blue socks — well, at all events, evidently under an impression that this soldier was going mad very suddenly, she uttered a terrific sliriek and bolted. "Alas !** he said, sinking into a chair quite exhausted; **it*8 no longer the * Can-can' with me ; it's the ' Can*t-can't !* *'

" The reason T*

Only one word was the reason; but that was a word whitih makes my blood boil and my teeth chatter, and snmothiiig very like an anathema come to my lips. You know the word well,

Andersonville!

Think of a man with a fine income and delicate organ* ization, and pampered and palled tastes, and having en- joyed the most luxurious of all lives, being thrown into [that den of infamy! This young man had stayed there four months, and the tales of horror he told me have no equal in the annals of crime. I will not repeat them, for I do not wish to cause you pain. lie had stayed there till it was believed be was as good as dead; then he was sent baek^ and, awaiting an exchange whieh never camOt he was prevented from fighting for his country, the very thing for %vhich he had relinquished, with noble self-abne- gation, all the tastes and habits of his former life. I asked him what use he found for his income, now that ho was taken care of at government expense.

** Why," replied be, with naivete^ *'I doii*t want much money while I'm in the army, you knowj so Tve just made over half my annuity to the Sanitary Commission

*

TRUE PATRIOTISM,

251

Ibr BO long as the war lasts, and the other half will be accumulating for me,"

"But why didn't yon get a commission as captain, major, or something of the sort? Surely, with your position you might have — "

lie didn't let me finish the Benteoce. In a vehement tone he replied, with what I suppose the French would call by that funny word *' explosion'' — "Get a com- miasion ! Is that the way to serve your country ?"

He terrified me somewhat; so I replied that I did not know really— which was strictly true.

Then he changed the tone a little, saying with great con temp tuousness of tone —

*' Thafs not the way to serve your country !**

To which I answered in a semi-interrogative strain, "Isn't it, really r*

He explained why it wa8n*t really ; but though I fully agreed with him on all points, I didn't understand a word of it beyond that there was something particularly glorious in "shouldering a musket," while Grant himself had not enjoyed the privilege of carrying a knapsack stuffed full of unadulterated Fame. I Buppose it was all right, and I know I felt much prouder of the acquain- tanceship of private C. than I ever did of the friendship of Monsieur C, the Paris swell.

I met another person in Columbus who exemplified in the most striking manner, the American aptitude for throwing off commonplace ^tvocations and becoming heroes as quickly and as easily as if heroism were the natural attribute of all mankind. This gentleman's name was Col, McGroarty. L had known him from my girl- hood. It is that very correct writer, Mrs. A, Trollope, who gives the following definition of " girlhood'* as placed in coT^tradistinction to ** youngladyhood.** Yoa imist not hold me responsible for it :

252

THE BEMON COLONEL.

Girlhood is the period wheo the pantalettes are worn longer than the dress.

Yoangladyhood is the period when the dress is worn longer than the pantalettes,

I knew CoL McGroarty (not the least bit of a colonel about him then) during the first period.

At that time he waa doing nothing, with great perti- nacity.

I was engaged in the same nsefnl occupation*

Then I knew him during the second period.

At that time he was keeping a shoe store in the town of Toledo, Ohio.

I rather fancy he was doing nothing then, too. . N. B. — This is not a paradox.

Suddenly the war breaks out, shaking the little shoe- nhop in Toledo to its very centre; and presto, my old school friend, the whilom shoe-vender, gets his right arm shot three times, requiring three amputations, and a ball goes through his cheek, and he is known as the Demon Colonel by the rebels, and as the fire-eating Irishman by the Federals, and when he goes into the street the boys cheer him, and the men rai^e their hats to him, and the women smile and kiss their bands to him!

*♦ What will you do when the war is over ?" I asked of the hero.

" Sink back again into my boots — and shoes, I sup- pOBe,** he replied, laughingly.

This adapting oneself to circumstances is a splendid trait in the American character. If boots do not succeed

ith the colonel, no doubt he will try something else; . if that doesn't suceeedf something else again. re I pause to say that I really hope these sketches t getting to be suggestive of a guide-book; fori there is anything on earth which is both useless agreeable, it is a guide-book. A guide-book is a naisance^ not worth the paper it is printed on.

BOXING THE COMPASS.

253

In the first place, it always gives you wrong information \ ahont the starting of trains. Secondly, it insists on telling you how many miles it is from one place to another, which you don't care a fig to know so long as you are certain how 'much time it takes to get there, which important bit of information is never vonchaafeJ. Thirdly, it gives maps whieli are just as inaccurate as they can well be, and flou- rishes before one numberless time-tables which nobody can decipher, For instauce, the following will illustmto my meaning:

GOING NORTH.

ARRIVJE AT

Big Licks ,; .•,«,., 2.40

Slttp Dftsh ....- 8 05

Blowtown »... ,4.00

HuUibftloo,,.., 4.31J

GOING SOUTH.

ARttlTE AT

HuUibftloo „,„.« ,,6.20

Blowtown 7.00

Slnp Diish„. ..^8.06

Big Liuks 8.60

Pasaengtrs going in a north-easterly dirfction wiU hfre change ^ and take th§ tart which will be found waiting for them in the Mouth-weMem comer of the depot.

Now, this is veiy clear, no doubt, to anybody who knows in what direction he is going, which I never do. I tell you, candidly, if I were asked what was the moat difficult task on record, I should reply — not boxing the compaBS, but understanding it after it is boxed.

AVhy, I can't get it straight, even in New York, let ftloue out in the open country. I maintain, however, that this is not my fault — somebody else is to blame. Wliy on earth the Ilodson, washing the poetic shores of Elev- enth avenue, is called the North River, while the gushing stream in a diametrically opposite direction, which mean* ders murmuring love songs to the natives of the First avenue, is called the East River, is an enigma to me, Why is it not South River? Won't somebody tell me something about this ? Which is it ? How come you so ? Do husbands go down South when tlicy fly to the aurife- rous regions of Wall street? Are we a Httle way on the road to the North Pole when we drive out to the Park ?

S54

CHICAGO.

In spite of mj defects in this respect, I repeat that I feel I am a guide-book, Qotwithstaoding niy earoest choosing to be a Daisy. I know I shall be bought iii railway cars by bored passengers, who wiU afterwards begrudge the money, and lea^e me on the seat, I shall be bound in calf, and printed on foolscap, with cuts by all my literaiy friends.

Chicago, then — unhappy traveller reading me— is a lively town, of a good many hundred soles, some of whom live in the lake and are caught for breakfest. They are nice with lemons, who go in and are squeezed. Chicago is bounded on the north by the lake^ on the south by the prairie, on the east by the Sherman House, on the west by McViefcer's Theatre, on the son'-sou'-west by a hog-pack- ing establishment, and on the nor'-nor'-east by an affirma- tive, I suppose, as two negatives make it

An adveree political sentiment evidently reigned in Chicago as long ago as when the streets were named — since Randolph street flourishes, spite of its Virginian origin ; and Mohroe street runs parallel, but refuses to contaminate itself by traversing its antagonist. The name of Chicago is derived from two French words, indicative, no doubt, of the two classes who flourish there, as they do in other cities, t, €„ those who are ** Chic'* and those who ^ArgoU' (See Bumfoodle's American History of nre).

f aside (if you will allow me to use the word

my own eflxisions), joking aside, Chicago is

ice. On the whole, I think it is my town

n the West Cincinnati, to be sure, like

seven hills, which are very majestic and

lO climb.

. mBgnificent city.

e sure — I can't abear questions.

GOOD WORDS.

255

Cincinnati is grand, pompous and imposing, but Chi- cago is undoubtedly the gamest place iu the whole western country-

And then such a nice hotel as the Sherman is ! Oh, butter and rolls, what a nice hotel ! No French mistakes there on the bill of tare — not exactly. The warmest, cosiest hotel ; the nicest rooms, the beet table — ah, well, retrospection is painful ; I must drop the subject.

Perhaps you think I mean this as a reckime for the Sher- man House. Well, I may ; only it is unintentional on my part, I assure you. If I meant it as a puff, I should flay something about the urbane and gentlemanly proprie- tors. But I won*t; though I think they mnst be urbane and gentlemanly, or else they wouldn't provide such nice rolls and butter for their guests, wliile the French coifee, and the canndons rods aux peiits pais are, in my opinion, incontrovertible signs of their urbatiity and gentleman- tility.

The newspapers in Chicago are full of political matter, which I ahvays skipped, confining myself to the perusal of a fracas in an oyster saloon, descent on a gambling

Hoylo, and the criticism on Miss L as . The

Times newspaper was exciting a great deal of invidious comment when I was there, though I don't exactly know what for. But I condoned the offence, no matter what it was.

** If to its thnre tome political errors fall.

Look on tbo«e criticisms (of me) and yoii^ll forgive thorn all/'

That ia, you will if you are at all kind. Never mind, Mr. Chicago Times, you said everything delightful of me, and if ever you make your debut on any stage, you will find a lenient critic.

The *^ Felon's Daughter " <*nin** nearly the whole of my engagement in Chicago; when she ** stopped" we played the *' legitimate.'* Taking this term as the adverse

256

SBElNa PAEADIgl.

case to my heroioe, I felt rather pained at its nse. How- ever, befcgars — I mean authors^ must not be choosers.

But in Chicago, opposition met me in a novel form* For many days before his appearance the citizens were enjoined to " look out for Satan ;'* they were requested to ** prepare to meet the original proprietor of Rebellion," and mildly invited to ** take a trip to Hell, through Chaos into Paradise/' We soon found out what it meant

Somebody was coming with '^ a series of great Miltonian tableaux, showing Paradise as seen by the great blind poet!"

We thought if he could see it in that light, we would too, and so we went.

Oh, Mr, Rossi ter, I thought it was impossible to do any- thing more dreadful in this line than you have done, but I found my mistake* ^VTiy, only think of it ! You have been surpassed in badness !

We were a small but very rollicking party that rainy afternoon; two lari^ P^^^f myself and a bright little child.

Besides seeing Paradise as the blind Milton saw it, the purchaser of a ticket was put in po^ession of a mystic number which entitled him to a chance in a lottery, or, as it was termed, a Grand Gift Distribution, which was to lake place after Paradise had been lost.

I atn quite unable to give any description of the Milto- lableaux. I know I am making a confession which * cause unpleasant remark when I say that I felt the lutereet in, and the liveliest sympatJiy for, the *" — V -? itan. The truth is, I am much influ- lium of the eye, and Satan's was the with the slightest spark of nobility depicted on lUv inane, we eonld not tell Adam and Eve i or hair began to grow long, which it did nterriew with the serpent- While onr first pa-

TOO MUCH SUNRISE.

25T

reiita wandered about in the silliest and most lackadaisi- cal maiiticr, Hataa, gloriously treading on liothing, and dressed in a red ban dan ua handkerchief, flew through space in the grandest style, Milton's poem is sublime, undoubtedly, but it is the funniest thing in life to seo angels on canvas, dressed in regular orthodox angel cos- tume, firing off cannon and planting howitzers and Dahlgrens,

A pale-faced, weak-voiced youth explained the tableaux to the audience, interlarding bis discourse with scraps of the grand poem, and even quotations from Scripture. This would have been well enough if all had been of a piece, and uttered with solemnity and dignity; but only fancy Satan ushered in with the grand lines with which Milton presents him to his readers, while the brilliant pianist strikes np, '' Wait for the Wagon !'*

Then, again, when the solemn injunction is given, and over the bewildering darkness of chaotic life the orb of morning shows itself, for the first time:

**Aiid God sBidj Let there be light; and there wna light,**

the sun rose in a jerky manner to the admired tune — something of an anacreonism in this relation^ however — widely known as ** Johnny comes Marching Home,"

We got very tired of the sun rising in Paradise, It rose on four distinct occasions, and it was such an everlasting time about it! Then, there were six moons in the Gar- den of Eden, and, by a singular astronomical arrange- ment, only two stars. Perhaps Adam w^as a brigadier. Who knows? Certainly they had a dreadful rebellion up there. They exiled their Jefi* Davis, and I must say, to my certain knowledge, he has cut up a lot of naughty capers since that tinfte.

The last we saw of Adam and Eve they were being cast out of the Qarden of Eden. The expounder (not the 17

258

TEE GRAND DTSTRrBrTION*

pianist), again quoting, said that they were goiog down the *'Kocky Waj'," but you can't think how much the rocky way looked tike those "ruus** they always build at theatres for ladied on bare-backed steeds to take terriiic leaps over bouuding precipices.

I am sure you will forgiv*e the inaccuracy of "bounding precipices*' in a geographical sense for the sake of its novel and startling character as a flight of rhetoric. ** Tm so glad it's over," said the bright little child. ** Oh, there's the Grand Distribution yet/' To be sure; we forgot that. The Grand Distribution was placed on the smallest table I ever saw, and was composed almost exclusively of veiy small and very German silver hand-bells.

The only thing worth carrjiog away was a decent sort of photograph album, which was heralded as ** the most magnificent article of the kind to be seen in Chicago.'*

•* Xo. 99" takes, this Magnificent Article," said the weak youth.

A fimntic examination of numbers takes place among the audience, and the exclamation bursts from the bright child, to whom I bear no other relationship than that which is always engendered by love and sympathy, Why, Aunt Olive's got it !" So I had, but they couldn't induce me to go up and get ibe albani* Wliy, the conditions were something (eftrful! Yott had to promise to come again ; that I would never The:i ' ad to give your word to ©end twen^

ids. F ^ Why, I wouldn*t send twenty enemies

! if I had 90 many, which I trust I have not I threw down to end the controversy. An impudent . a lad of about fourteen, who had annoyed ns nfteinoon witb saocy remarks, picked it np. la'am," he called out as we were leaving*

^*UMBER NINETY-NIKE.

259

** Ain't you going to use this?**

'*Tlien I will"

You should have seen the agile manner in which that delightful speeinien of youthful America tumhled over beiiehes, Ivnocked down chairs, trod on gentlenien's toes, and tore ladies* dresses in his insane progress up to the Grand Difitrihutioii where the Gmud Distributor was still calling for the recalcitrant No. 99.

** Give me the album/'* said the boy, *' here it is/'

** Here what ihV asked the Distributor.

*' Why, No. 99,"

** The doose it is/' shouted the other, forgetting his Miltoniaii character, and getting red in the face: **I tell 3'ou what it is, boys have been arrested for less than this/'

" Less than what ?** asked the lad, beginning to whimper.

** Do you mean to say you don't know this is No. 66 T' said the Distributor, turning the ticket upside down.

We were close to the door by thi^ time, and had the full benefit of the scene. If ever I was glad in my life that I had not been hasty, I was so now. Fancy the Grand Distributor telling me that ladies had been arrested for less than this ! By the most singular coincidence in the world, a man bearing a strong resemblance to the door-keeper held the lucky ticket, and carried away the photograph album, looking very ninch as if this were part of his business, and as if he personally were not going to derive the least amount of benefit therefrom,

Chicago raised men for the war, raised money for the men, and raised the uneven streets for her citizens. Wlion she razes a block of unsightly frame buildings in 8outli Clark street, and ejects from its precincts a horrid Jew whose shoe store is in a chronic state of "selling off

260 AN ACTOR-MAYOR,

Ijelow cost at prices to suit everybody," but which seem unfortoiiately to suit nobody, then, and not till then, will he attained a eoosuramatioii devoutly to be wisIilhL

It would be a very dreadful thing if I were to orait mentioning the large number of railways which come in at Chicago, It is a most unparalleled sign of the great activity of the Universal Yankee Nation, which spreads its -^gis wings over our Manifest Destiny, causing the Monroe Doctrine to appear in all its Force, with the entire Collapse of States' Rights, and the utter Downfall of Secession — only, on the otlier hand, it*s pesky disagreeable when you want to go to Cincinnati to find that by mistake you have taken the train bound for Milwaukee.

It IS witli pride that I refer to the election of John A- Rice, Esq,, to the mayorship of Chicago, which office the whilom actor atid manager tilled to the entire satisfaction of that generally dissatisfied body — everybody. We others of the profession may well feel pleased at the flat- tering distinction, for Mr. Rice was elected by a larger nuijority than was ever before given to any candidate. Truly, we have taken a good many steps forward since the days when actors used to jrrowl about the country shaving people, pulling their teeth, and bleeding them.

But, now I think of it, I remember it was barbers who used to do that.

Well, whaf uncomfortable thing was it actors did do during that misty Elizabethan era ? —

As it seems that talented families are the rage now, I J may mention that Mr. Rice is closely related to tliat de- 1 lightfnl comedian, Mr. William Warren, and to that very I versatile actress and refitied lady, Mrs. Anna Marble. V Now, since these two persons are clever theatricals, you I will at once understand that Mr. J"(aa_ tbtf»ir Kmfli*»ivin. / law, must be a good mayor.

aijyyyyyi^iUiUiUiUi-

LIFB ON THB CARS,

261

At least, that is the modern stj'le of reasoning.

My consiti is a major general.

Therefore,

I am a splendid actress^

Why, it's evident.

I never knew anything evidenter.

Sur ce^ I bid Chicago adieu for the present.

A life on the ocean wave may be attractive to many persons, but a life on the cars has its pleasures and amuse- ments as welt I think the peculiar idiosyncracies of the great human family are more noticeable on care than on steamboats. On the sea everybody is sick as a general thing, and the favored few who are not, are for the most part the ubiquitous commercial traveler, the man who writes his *' voyage round the Avorld," and others of an equally uninteresting stamp. But on the cars we see all the world and his wife, and children, too, particuhiriy his marriageable daughters, who wear pork-pie hats and flirt.

Flirt— flirt— flirt ! The occupation of their lives ! Flirt with anybody or with anything, while mothers look on with utter complacency and the assurance that ** there is no harm in it.'* Perhaps so; hut, for my own part, when I wear my heart on my sleeve for daws to peck at, a V Ama^kaiiie^ I shall have marvellously changed my pre- sent mode of thinking.

I often wonder why babies travel bo much. It seems to me I have met the very same babies several times in the wide range from Maine to Georgia, I never saw any- thing like it. I think they must make a tour of the States o»i an average two or three times a year. They always travel under protest ; still they travel — till they are babies no longer.

Then they travel more desperately than ever, and, what iree, write hooks about it^ which makes us wish they ained babies*

262

CAR CEARACTERS^

Tliore 18 always a newly-married couple on board the cars, going out West to try their fortunes, I love to see tliem ! The sweet conlidence in each other which bearas in every glance of the eye, the entire absence of any such law as memn and (mnn^ the beautiful oneness of sentiment, the unselfishness which, fade as it may in after years, exists now in force, make me wish from the bottom of my lieart that I too had red hands and was going out there with him to do my own housework.

I know I should not shine in the housework line, laboring as I always do under the greatest uncertainty in regard to whether water is boiling or merely simmering; but love will do a great many things, you know, and might even transform a woman who ia a dreamer into a iirst-cluss cook.

Of the boys on the cars who have gum-drops for sale, but who never sell any, I will say but a word. How^ these poor little wretches get a livelihood is a mystery to me; certainly it is not through the activity of tbeir busi- ness in the gum-drop line. The sympathy which their impoverished condition might awaken in this breast is quenched by the disguBt which the exhibition of their wares always occasions, A roystering four-bottle man, the morning following a bout, could not have a more un- certain state of feeling, lying somewhere between nausea and not nausea, than I always do after a long night's ride in the cars. What, then, do I not suffer when, more than half sick and altogetlier despondent, an inhuman little wretch thrusts gum-drops upon me at the wee small hour of four o'clock in the morning, an<l insists on my partaking of them at only ten cents the package done up in glazed paper and emetic-ally sealed ?

Then, too, we have the New York Hurlai at us wdicre- soever we may be, at prices varying from four cents the copy to fifteen. It is always bought, whatever the price,

NOSTRUM VENDORS.

263

and seems invariabl}^ to avMikeu invidious commeiit from orio cause or auothur. But, of course, so lung as it is bought that ie uot the question,

I think iiostruui veudors should be excluded from the cars. It is enough to nieet their advertisements in eveiy newspaper, to iiud theui painted on rocks and plastered on curbstones, to have them thrust under our frontdoors, and liandcd to us as we are leaving church, without being obliged to submit to the iniiiction ou the cars, iu tlie shape of a very shabby man who stands up gravely and assures us that the small bottle for sixty cents, two for one dollar, will cure every known and unknown ill under the eun. There should be a police regulaiion in regard to thii^, for some misguiJed people might perchance buy tlic stuff, and then who knows what might happen ? Like the antidote of the Borgias which the lyric Gennaro rt^nse^ to take, instead of curing the disease this medicine might generate it; which is probably the intention of the 'gentleman" who puts op tlie decoction and gets some* bmly to give it a high-sounding Greek name.

A character quite peculiar to America is the boy or man who brings around iced water to thirsty tiav ellcriS. I always welcome him with delight, and see him depart with sorrow^; for not only docs he furnish me witli the clear fluid as a beverage, but be also vouchsafes me enough to perform as many Mussnlmanic ablutions as the end of a dampened handkerchief will permit. I think this bounty is not rightly appreciated, and much as saucy chamhermaids and impudent waiter are fee'd, I have yet to see the first douceur bestowed on the trusty water- carriers of the cars.

Let me enter my feeble protest against the shameful manner in w^hich trunks are tossed about by railway porters. These men are paid atid overpaid, and fee'd and bribed, to carry and transport trunks and boxes from one

264

INDIANAPOLIS.

train of cars to another, or from cars to omnibuses, as the case may be, aod yet, irrespective of consequences in the shape of breakage, they fling boxes and trunks containing the most fragile articles from oft' the eminences of baggage- cars into the slough of despond of awaiting depots. I venture to assert that a trunk could go to Europe and back, and even make the ^* grand tour" up and down the Rhino, and incur far less damage than it would receive in going from New York to St. Louis. A set of stringent rules^ would remedy this evil, and I trust they may be en- forced before my next journeyt

The day I arrived in Indianapolis almost the whole military force stationed there w^as being sent forward to strengthen Sherman^ who had just made themnch-abueed terms of surrender with Johnston. The depletion of the camp was a cheering prospect to me, in a financial point of view, as the theatre depended ahnost wholly on itssohlier- patronage for support, and, unpleasant and inappreciative auditors as these sometimes proved^ their entrance fee in greenbacks was as Very Hard Cash as that of the Proudest Peer of England's lele^ — if that individual, who figures so largely in ballads, had been in Indianapolis, and had come to the treatre, which, of course, if he had had the slightest taste, he would have done.

A regiment or two drawn up in solid phalanx looks very pretty, even when doing nothing more warlike than standing at ease and listening to a farewell harangue by a local orator. This scene was being enacted as I drove up to the principal hotel in Indianapolis, and, while awaiting the kind attention of the busy clerk, I had an opportunity of listening to an orthodox Yankee *' oration.'* It was not a bad speech, and far from badly delivered; but, as usual, the flights of rhetoric indulged in were of so gran- diloquent a character that my feeble comprehension only barely grasped them, which fact no doubt accounted for

A POMPOUS OBATOR,

265

the indifFerence with which the remarks were received by [the soldiers, composed in great part of German emigrants, I Irish *' roughs" and Indiana tanners* boys.

Not to 6pL*ak it profanely, by all that's Greek-y, what do "ladiaiia *uns" care about the Spartan Mothers?

Will somebody tell me» also (in this connection), if the Spartan fathers had anything to do with those sons who made it a general practice to come back from battle either bearing their shields or borne on thera ?

It was noble in them to do tliat, wasn't it? Though I don't know what else they could have dotie with their shiekle, unless they had thrown them away, which would Dot have been economical.

But reallj^^ now, who ever hears of the Spartan fathers? Did such creatures ever exist ?

Awaiting the answer, which I trust will come, like the ** solution '' of the '* rebus," ** next week/' I may say that the orator at Indianapolis was a pleasant, genial-looking, I middle-aged person, rather incongruously arrayed in a very military hat, and the most civilian of all suits — ^a nondescript pepper-and-salt affair, made, no doubt, at the most chic establishment at Indianapolis. I ventured to offer him a little compliment when he had finished his "oration," which he took in rather an inditierent manner, wondering, no doubt, what a blonde young woman in a dusty traveling dress knew about speech-making.

Indianapolis was kinder to me than I expected, spite of the absence of the soldiers, and for many causes I con- ceived a great liking for this little town, though, in point of architectural display, or even natural beauty, it stands fur behind Cleveland, Columbus, and other places I might name. There is a bewildering number of railways that ,fiebouckmihero, aud for that reason it will always be a Rprightl^^ town, though I, myself, am un-American enough to like It better in its deserted quarters than where the gay shops flaunt out their wares and crinolines are sold.

^

266

A SOLITARY WALK.

I mind me of a solitary walk I took here, one SuTidny, just m the shades of eveniug were falling over lUl things^ while the diill March air oiade me draw my cloak more cloaely arouud me, and quiekeu my laggiug step. Oo I ^weut past the railway depot, with its now deserted cars awaitiug the morrow's traffic ; a great uioostroiis weird- looking place, fit habitation for ghouls and goblins, whose grinning faces I thought I saw up in the gothic raftei*s of the roof, menacing me in the uncertain light with skinny arms and noiseless jabbering jaws. Past the ladies' room, now tenantless. Past the ticket office, wnth its begrimed window shut. Past the place whore " refreshments ' are sold to mcQ who drink it down, and change Hanmnity into De\iltry, Past the stand where the baggage is checked, and where two trnnks, never to bo claimed, the property of a dead man, lie» like their owner, covered with dirt and dust. Piist the creaking, rusty gates, w^hosc pon- derous bars make me feel like a prisoner and a culprit. Past the blood-red flag of danger, and the dirty-white one of safety, both now unemployed. Past the sunken, in- dented rails themselves, and then, thank lleaven, with a sigh of relief, into the air again !

A lonely path to the left looked inviting because of its loneliness, and I took it.

**Ah," thouglit I,*' here is peace! Who would be a dweller in the city's busy maze, when tranquillity and quiet joy may be had in such abodes as these?'*

For now^ I Iiad reached some little cottages which lay contiguous to the railway, and were occupied, no doubt, by its employes. Surrounded by trees, which only awaited the warm breath of spring to make them start forth into loveliness and verdure, fronted by a little gar- den, whose w^ell kept beds showed both care and taste, with bright green shutters and newly painted front, one little cottage in particular attracted my attention, '* Ob,

m A ORAVETALB,

267

for a little home like this !*' I sigheJ ; but even as I did B0» the sound of angry voices isauing from an inner room readied my ear* A nnm in rage; a woman iu invective. Frightened, I hurried on.

Peaee ? Mockery !

No Peace where rnsh the surging watera of the turbid passions of Man. Peace may come when these have sub- sided in the eternal quiet of the grave.

The Grave! As usual, there are some not far otf. A quiet, inviting spot. Tliitlier I beud my steps, and, push- ing aside the swinging gate, I enter the churchyard.

The mime old story on all the headstones. No wicked people buried here ! All "respected for their virtues;" ** honored for their benevolence ;'* "beloved and regretted by all/* Faugh on the lying records!

I sink on a mound and tliinkof that grave wdiose head- stone bears, beyond the name and date of birth and death, but one line ;

•* Our Fother which art in Heiivoii.**

No mention of the large raind, the brilliant intellect, the culture of study, or the poetic heart which lie there, now forever hushed. Better so. We who knew and loved him, know all this; and those who knew him not, need not be tokb

The cold niglit wind soughs mournfully through the gaunt trees and chills me; hot tears trickle tliroogh my fingers as I cover my face with my ungloved Viands, and a few convulsive sobs, which relieve a heart lull of melan- choly remembrances, fall, w^here many more such have fallen, reverberating wnth a hollow echo on the dull churchyard ain Mysterious spot! My flesh creeps as I survey the numberless tenements of the dead, which lie on every side, and old stories that I have not thought of since childhood now force themselves on my brain with

268

THE PHANTOM.

horrible distinctncsa. The risiug and the walking of the dead ! Their midnight revels; their capture of the living for interment with themselves.

Terrified, I rise to go ; but as I do 80 a Bight meets my gaze which to my dying day I shall never tbrget. A dark, uncertain mass advancing towards me rapidly ; irreBpec- tive of their Banctity, up and over the graves with a strange and uncouth mode of locomotion ; a headless, trunkless body, with two unnaturally long arms, borne, now Btraight upright, now distended wide on either side of the Nothing to which they are attached.

To fly or to remain — which ?

Flight? Impossible!

What progress can I make against this lithe thing — I, with ray trembling limbs stiffened with eold, and my whole body paralyzed with terror?

Remain? For what?

Great Heaven, how do I know? For the doom which mortals meet when they meddle with the immortal — for torture — for agony — for despair ! Tremblingly and with averted eyes I await my fate, for It is close upon me ! As it nears me it speaks — my blood freezes at the voice of Nothing !

**Sa-ay, Ma'am, can't I walk on .my hands bully?'*

A ragged, saucy brat^ oftispring, perhaps, of the angry father and the invective mother, walking on his hands across the churchyard on a dark Sunday night for a wager of one cent with a timid chum !

Disgusted, I rise. Disgusted with all things, particu- larly myself. Annoyed that the phantom was not what I had prayed it might not be, wishing it had been what I was overjoyed to find it was not, humiliated unto blusheSi fallen into the ridiculous, myself a laughing-stock to my- self, ashamed of my fright, laughing through tears, biting my lips with auuoyaDce while their corners were distended

i	^	^		k
\	f ;^»*	^^'"M^tik		E
I	\:		''^	1
■		ff	H*^ flj	1
^^^^■i	|jWl^»	^^Jl
i		""'^'-- .	■sue. •'1	%. %.....
M	» 1 E7
1 !■				-vvilB
^^1	I		1	1
1 i	&	-Jl
1	B ^; 1	J	1
^^H	F-->' .„-. .^r;,„;	1
n	L			♦	J

LOAFERS.

269

into smiles, I leave the churcbjard and walk back to the hotel.

Thus ever;

Behind the clond, the silver lining; behind Grief, Mirth; behind the sallow, forbidding mask of Tragedy, the grinning, obese cheeks of Momns.

Life and Death, Sorrow and GlaJness, Birth and Pain, Love and Hate, Eternity and Futurity, are but other names for that indefinite word — Mystery,

When I get back, the gong is sounding loudly for 8U|>- per, the gas is flaring and hurts my eyes, that pretty girl is still flirting with the same gentleman in the ladies* par- lor, and above all there is a strong odor of baked griddle cakes.

The next day I have a bad cold in my head, and at the end of tiie week two doxen handkerchiefs in the wash.

This is the end of the episode,

I feel I must say something about Indianapolis. An irregularly built town, not without charm. Two rival ho- tels, both of which might be better. One only "Square," paradoxically called **The Circle.'' But the prevailing feature of the town seemed to bo the undue amount of that unpleasant specimen ginits homo known as the "Loafer." Both for quantity and nasty quality in this article, Indiiuuipolis bore lAY the puhn. Loafers every- where. On the hotel steps, in the streets, and even in the sacred circular square itself.

Shabby wretches who stand for hours picking their teeth — which are, in all probability, quite innocent of dinner. Flashy wretches who wear ponderous watch-chains and loudly pass comment on every female who goes by. Boy wretches trying in vain to master their first cigar, whii^h finally masters them, and semis them skulking off, looking very pale. Old men, leering wretches, standing in the uncomfortable posture of one foot in the grave and the

27a

ABSURD NAMES.

other on the hotel steps iti IndiaQapolis, go to make op a group which, tor ugliness and even vice, is worthy of the pencil of a Hogarth.

English writers comment frequently on the inappropri- ateuess of Americaa nomenclature, and, in truth, with some reason. Why **Pea Ridge*' should be, and *' Sugar Creek," also, we know not Neither one nor the other has any characteristic of the descriptive adjective, and, iti point of accuracy, ** Sugar Kidge** and ** Pea Creek** wonld answer every purpose. But there are other peculiarities which puzzle me quite as much, if not more than thei>e. For instance, Indianapolis is invariably pronounced Iiidi- anoppolis, Cincinnati converted and perverted into Cin- cinnatta, while, to do the thing according to rule, you must not call Chicago as that combination of letters would lead you to do, but change it into Chiccnrgo, under pain of being considered either a ** prig*' or a " muff;" in other words, a pedant or an ignoramus.

True, in support of this singular practice, we have the well-known example of the English, who call their Pall Mall Pdl Mell ; but I do not see that this is in the slight- est degree a palliation for error on our parts. For, call the great English thoroughfare either as the letters spell it, or as custom pronounces it, and it is still the most out- rageously unmeaning name for a street that could well be found.

Tliey manage these things, as they do so many others, better in France, One reads the history of the country, from the days of Charlemagne down to those of the thir< Emperor, written up on the houses at corners of streets ;' from the Rues Agiucourt and Rivoli, Otranto and Ma- genta, we turn to the broad sweep of the Rue de la Paix and the inspiring vastness of the Place de la Concorde, Chieftains figure largely — ^les Rues de Saxe, Prince Eugene, and Bonaparte, Nor are great men other than

4

EBURY. 271

those distinguished in battle, forgotten by the street spon- sors. Witness the Rue Richelieu, Rue Mazarin, the Rue Montaigne, and the Rue Lord Byron. I always quar- reled with the Boulevard des Italiens because of its inap- propriateness, much as I liked the Italiens (?) who were born on that boulevard ; but the suggestive and majestic Boulevard de Sebastopol looms up grandly beyond, and silences carping and censure.

As a reverse picture to this comprehensible style, I may mention what I believe is pretty generally known — that there are no less than fifteen "King William" streets in London; while I myself, within a very small radius near Hyde Park, counted four entirely distinct and separate '* Ebury" streets. Who or what " Ebury" was, or what ho, she or it had done to be so distinguished, I never dis- covered. I had a friend living in London, who told me I must remember she lived on the Ebury street down which the Queen always drove when she went to Parliament. I explained this to the cabman, and the information saved a world of trouble.

272

SXBINa THE PKOCfESSION.

CHAPTER XXm.

Street Entertalninenta for tbo Million, — A Procession. — Juvenile Suffor- ings on Gala D«y». — The Prominent Citizen in ihe Procession* — The Day of Gloom. — Tin ntriralA linilcr tlie Cloud of Death,^Tho Theatrical Grnndaddy.^ — Girl Wniters. — Erriniij Women. — The Death of a Mag- dakm, — ^Dofflng tbe Sock and Buskin— Homeward Bound — Travelerfl* Miseries — I'unny Weatern Actors — The BalladiBt of the Parlor*

A heavy cold — contracted tliroogh a pleasant habit which railway firemen have of filling the car stove to re- pletion with w^Dod and then allowing the fire to die com- pletely out, leaving the passengei's in Arctic regiona (geaenilly over night)^ forced me to reliquish my engage- men ta and return to Cincinnati, seeking the house of Monfrere for the express hut ratlier gloomy purfjose of being ill therein. This plan I carried out con amor€y and by attending to it faithfully I managed to become quite a sick person at the end of a couple of weeks. At the beginning of the third, however, by good professional treatment, kind nursing, and a determination to avoid poor Mrs. Dombey's example, and to *' make an effort/* I had 80 far recovered my health as to be able to witness, from one of the windows of AVood^s Theatre, the "grand civic and military, procession" wiiich took place on tiie 14th of April, in honor of the surrender of Lee and his army. Of course, to Ifew Yorkers, who have the best of erything, this would have seemed but a trifting affair j 1 1 had been so long an exile that I was quite charmed he display of banners, flags, mottoes, etc., and amused satirical allusions to the *' upward" tendency of the ieracy, with the probability of JefF, Davis taking a r course through the medium of a sour apple-tree.

FENIANB Am) GEBMANS.

278

The military part of the procession was good, nor could it well bave been otherwise with General Hooker and staff lending ofi', preceded by the Mayor of the city and bid tjubordi nates. In appearance Hooker ib certainly the very inipersonification of a soldier and a general; the erect form, the breadth of shoulderj the cloae-cropped, slightly grizzled hair, the clear bine eye, the firmly set, handsome mouth, and, above all, that easy seat on a horse which indicates unmistakably the experienced rider, are all **sigbt3 and sounds'* w^hich are great points in his favor. What may be Iiis real talent as a strategist, or a tactician, or a "handler of troops," I know not. By a singular accident I did not *' assist" at the battle of Fredericksbnrg, and therefore cannot eay who is respon- sible for that catastrophe.

Of course the Fenians were represented in the Cincin- nati procession, and very nice they looked with their green sashes and their boughs, as they trod gaily along keeping step (sometimes) to the merry national air of ** The Sprig of Shiilelah," and the sad though martial one of "The Harp that once through Tara'a Ilalls." ^

If a few of the brethren were a little unsteady on their pins, it must be borne in mind that it was quite late in the afternoon, that tbey had trudged many miles (with divers stoppages) and that the day was intensely w^arm ; besides, was it not a brotherly duty to lift the sportive cup very frequently for the purpose of drinking '* Down with England" and ^' Ireland for the Irish ?"

Mnt-'h firmer iu their step, spite of lager, came the Gennatis, apparently quite satisfied with themselves as citizens and Cinciimati as a place of residence, and never bothering themselves about ** Germany for the Germans,** or**down with" anything — but lager.

After these there was rather a promiscuous display; "hose companies,** ** hook-and-ladder companies,** and, I

174

TWO MISERABLE ACT0B8.

Ruppose, ''bucket companies/* closely followed by **Odd Fellows'' aud "Masons," tricked out in all their funny linery.

A procession in the West would not be complete without the presence of the inevitable public school children J who seem to think that because they attend a public school they must make themselves as public as possible. Tou can't imagine what torturing things they force these children to do on gala days.

They choose a girl whose nose has a speciality for getting blue, and whose teeth chatter habitually, and they tell her she is the Goddess of Liberty. The poor child, laboring under a heavy sense of her own importance, lies awake the whole night before the ** great day'' unable to sleep through the combined influence of agitation and curl papers. The next day it rains and the curls fall out, but as goddesses nmsi have ringlets, she compromises the matter by letting her wet locks fall in a sodden mass down her dampened and eventually rheumatic back. This done, she envelopes herself in a very soiled American Flag, and showing a great deal too much of a figure whose angularities may be filled up by maturity, but which does not now recommend itself to the critical eye, she considers herself a living and beautiful embodiment of the fabled guardian spirit of our land.

Nor is this taste for the allegorical confined to the softer sex. There is always a male somebody with a large nose, who personates Washington, representing the Father of Ms Country as very dirty in the neckcloth, and very groggy in the legs. His Continental suit does not fit him, and his powdered wig is not at all powdered.

The two generally mount into a Chariot of Triumph, which belongs to the ice-man, but is now^ covered with pink muslin, and bears evergreen boughs. They grasp hands spasmodically, and the band plays "Columbia's

DRKART BISILLIFSIOKS.

275

the Gem of the Ocean," which being written for Britannia, and used by her from time immemorial, is highly appio- priate in every respect.

Towards the close of the day, the shaking of the ice- cart, together with the unpleasant peculiarities of Waeh- ington's character, which lead him to twit Liberty on her Bharp elbows, to ask her how much her hoop cost, and if she intends finally to devote it to the interest of hens, in the shape of a coop, quite wear out the temper of the tired school-girl, who takes off her Liberty cap, and, Bitting down on the dirty floor of the Triumphal Chariot, cries to be home, saying that her head aches and that eupper would not bo unacceptable, as she has eaten nothing since early morning; the light but pleasurable breakfast of excited and delighted anticipation.

Alas, poor Liberty ! as she lays her weary head on her pillow that night, she reflects with sadness on her career as a goddess, and tastes — perhaps for the first time, for she is young yet — the fruit of that bitter tree, disappoint* ment.

Washington may not have his headache till the next morning. When attempting to get up, he becomes fully impressed with the idea that his stomach is going over to Europe in stormy weather, and that his head has suddenly changed into one of the cannon balls used at Yorktown.

These personages were not lacking in the procession at Cincinnati. In fact, there were schoolchildren there pardcssus la kie. A Bunker Hill monument on wheels, appropriately surrounded by little sailors, shouting, *' We are marching along," which, I believe, is the very thing sailors do not do, unless a ship^s course can be called ** marching," was fi>llowed by a carload of little girls, representing nothing in particular, but singing in as many difterent keys as there were children, that very popular air — that then, alas ! too popular air— of ** Johnny's Come

276

THH tTNHAPPT PEOMINENT CITIZEN.

Marching Home !" Rejoicing at this, we can only regret that the schoolchildren do not at once imitate such a laudable example, and "march" to the very place where ** Johnny" did — L e., home.

The next feature in the entertainment was the following of the procession by a mounted body of " prominent citizens/* I think if there is anything excruciatingly funny, it is your '^Prominent Citizen" on horseback. There is a Pickwickian richness in it which words fail to convey* In all probability he never was on a horse before, and his attempt to be at ease, to look as if he were ao, to frown severely at the boys who laugh at him, and who predict that that " boss will go to praying next '* — a mild allusion to a weakness in the knees of the Promi- nent Citizen's animal — is ludicrous in the extreme. As he turns the corner of the street where Arabella lives, he determines he will look the perfect horseman, and, as he catches a glimpse of her bright eyes behind the window- curtain, he steadies himself in his saddle, and grasping the reins in a loose and degage manner, he tries to appear smilingly oblivious of all around, while he Hatters him- eelf inwardly that Popklns (as a rival) is now completely done for.

But just at that moment the weak-kneed animal be- comes aware of the close proximity of a donkey-cart, and as donkeys are a species to her especially repugnant, she determines to revenge herself for the appearance of this one on the unoffending Prominent Citizen. She kicks and she shies; she rears and she neighs; then she forms a circus-feat — standing on her two front ones.

In vain does the innocent P, C. clutch madly at the reins so close to the animars neck as almost to strangle her J by a skillful manceuvre she throws her head up, loos- ening his hold; then, giving one frantic rear in the air, she casts the much-abused P. C* down into the slimy

ii

THE 60EKE CHANGES.

277

mud with such a thump that the poor man gets knocked on the head, and becomee insensible.

When he recovers consciousness he finds himself in Arabella's house, and sees the hated Popkius etuffiog his handkerchief down his throat that the P. C, may not ob- een^e his choking fit of laughter, in which Arabella baa been joining. Ilnniiliatcd and crushed, the P. C* calls a carriage and goes home, and that night, however separate in body, in spirit he joins the Liberty Goddess in eating the bitter fruit of disappointment

But the hours roll on and bring us the next morning. Alas ! alas ! I find my occupation as a fun-maker gone now. How shall I describe the fearful panic, the over- whelming stroke of grief which crushed the People's heart at the new^s of President Lincoln's assassination? For several hours it was disbelieved, and then, when dis- belief was no longer possible, the swaiq which must have been enacted in every loyal city took place in Cincinnati. "Weoping, wailing women ; hollow-eyed, silent men, wandering listlessly up and down the almost deserted streets. Hushed the prattle of childhood, stopped the traffic of business, deml lay the great, common heart in the coffin of its martyred chief. Wliere, now, the merry- making crowd of yesterday? Wliere, now^, the exulting participants in the procession ? Even the groggy Wash- ington has sobered up, and by his deep-drawn sighs shows he has a soul, spite of his dirty necktie, while the Goddess of Liberty, through a flood of tears, sews a border of crape around her American flag.

The fearful spirit of revenge which was everywhere manifested against the assassiD, was greatly aggravated by the preseuce of one of the Booth brothers, then ful- filling a professional engagement at Cincinnati. According to the usual custom, the name was posted at every available spot all over the city, and turn where one might,

278

THB THEATEE THEEATEKEB.

** Booth" met the eye. The subdued eadiiesa of the early morning seemed to disappear at view of thia fearful re- minder of the author of such a heinous wrongs and men, even those most noted for their mihlness, became possessed as of a demon. The bills were torn down, divided into infinitesimal fragments, and then crushed, with maledic- tions appalling to hear, under the grinding heela. The excited mob threatened to tear down the theatre in which Mr. Booth was performing, and were only appeased by the assurance tliat he should not appear again. The gen- tleman was visited by an officer at his hotel, who de* manded the immediate surrender of all papers or letters in Mr. Booth's possession* This, I believe, was refused, and I heard a great many people denounce the proceeding as one utterly uncalled for and altogether unjustifiable. The following Sunday^ sermons were preached not more violent in their character than the outraged and insulted auditors looked for and desired. But one feeling was rife. Revenge ! To catch the assassin, to torture him, to make him suffer a thousand-fold what he had caused the pure-minded Lincoln to euffcr; to draw him, to quarter him, to hang him by the neck till he was dead — dead — dead.

Oh, thank God, those days of fierce excitement, of mad desire for blood, are past! Men quoted Scripture, *'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth," a life for a Ufe; ' Shakespeare, too :

I " AccuTMd b© the ftir on which Kq rides,

And damned ttU thoM that trust him."

There was something very touching in the mourning of the negroes for their ** Father/' as they called Mr. Lincohh I think there are very few affluent negroes in Cincinnati, and the sacrifice by poor people of a few shil- lings earned by hard labor to buy a bit of crape or a

LAMENTATIONS.

villainous "likeness" of the Preaident, had so much of beauty in it that it lifted this much-dospiaed race quite up into the regions of poetry. Our washerwoman^ who wept BO unrestrainedly that she actually dampened my clean linen, otherwise unexceptionably *'doDe up;'* and **Kigger Jim/' the wood-sawyer, were objects of general interest The hope of the negroes was gone. They did not now understand at all that they as a race were unchangeably emancipated, but believed that Freedom was Lincoln, and Lincoln Freedom, and that when one was dead the other died with it. For this reason their grief was doubly keen. Their friend, emancipator, defender, originator of the American citizen of African descent, President, i/ocf, struck down at one fell blow. No wonder the little blacks huddled together on the door-steps, with wofui faces, which, had they been white, would have shown the dirty traces of tears, and that the elder people neglected to go out for work, at the risk of creeping supperlesa to bed!

But *' inconstant as the wind," to the general public, full of oil and railroad stocks, the death of the noble Lincoln became every day more a thing of the past, and the newspapers, from containing daily eulogies on the character and life of the President, began to squabble about what cities the funeral cortege should pass through as it conveyed the remains of the great Dead to their final place of interment

The time arrived for me to resume my journeyings, so donning my shell-docked pelerine and grasping my staff, I make me ready for my pilgrimage. There are the children to be kissed, and mon frerc also, and the neigh- bors* hands to be shaken, and Tray, Blanche and Sweet- heart, our canine friends, to be patted, and Merc to be ensconced safely in the carriage, and then I look out of the window with a doleful smile, which I try hard to

280

THBATRICALB UNDER A CLOUD.

mako cheerfol, but there are tears in my voice, though II manage to keep them out of my eyes, as I gaze back fondly and utter that hateful word Goou-BY*

A dreary ride of a day took us from Cincinnati to Cleveland, which latter place we found making mournfal preparations for the reception of the Preeident's remains, which were to pass through that city on their way to Springfield. Funeral arches were being erected at vari- ous points, and mourning drapery was displayed in even greater profusion than at Cincinnati.

I think that to no *' biisincps/' " trade" or " profession** was given a greater shock by the death of the President, than to tlicatrioalg.

The pu1>lic mind was not bent on amusement^ and I can answer for it that the actor*s mind was no more bent on furniehing it; but the tearful clown cries ''houpda!^* while his baby is lying dead at homo, and the hungry actor feasts on woodt^n plieasants and drinks from golden goblets at the ** royal banquet,'* while, in point of fact, those much abused cdildes of the South, called *'hog and hominy," would be as Sardanapalan viands to his fam* ished vitals.

By which, I trust, it will not be understood that I was very hungry, when I add tluit I played two dreary nights in Cleveland to about the worst houses I ever saw. I only wondered why anj^body came. I know I shouldn't have gone to the theatre if I had had my choice. Not only was there a beggarly account of empty boxes, but the dress circle and parquet presented an absolute deficit.

Of course, like everything sad, there was a cote ridicule to this spectacle, T burst out laughing in a tragic part when I entered and took a look at my auditorium.

It was the queerest auditorium you can well imagioe. One solitary enthusiast in a private box, who cried ** Bray^vo !" and clapped his hands, when the action of the

i

AN AMUSmo ArrDIENCB,

281

piece demanded absolute silence ; two miagnidcd infants in the dre&a circle, one of whom squalled and the other had the whooping-cough; a sprinkling of severe dead- heads, determined to be sternly critical, and refusing to be pleased with us, do what we might; my chambermaid at the hotel, to whom I had given an "order/* weeping piteously at our fictitious woes, and blowing her nose with cheerful persistency; half a dozen "supes," who were to be noble Romans in the last act (and who had already got their ''tights'* on) but who consented in the interim to grace the ** pit" with their presence and carry on a con- versation (totally irrelevant to time and place) with a b'hoy who run wid dcr maahine, had a black eye, and was now lodged temporarily in the upper gallery, It'\\ill bo well understood from this that my share (at\er expenses) in the gross receipts was absolutely nil, and T have the proud consciousness of knowing that whatever I may have been in other cities, in Cleveland, at least, I was a *' pearl — ^without money and without price !"

But mark the change. The next day the citj^ began to fill with strangers, flocking in in droves to see the remains of the President, expected to arrive the day following. The consequence was that that night our house was filled to overflowing, and two or three pleasing fights for seats took place by way of a prologue to our play. This latter was received with bursts of applause, and in a little comic piece which followed, the shouts of laughter, the general hilarity, and the incontrovertible signs of the amusement of the audience served, indeed, as a strange precursor to the solemnities of the morrow.

We are very apt to blame the French for insincerity, for heartlessness, for insouciance : but tell me, if you can, anything more^ — well, more French — than stopping at a theatre on the road to a biirial !

Ileaven knows it is not my province nor desire, my

282

FUNERALS AND AMUSEMENTS.

profit nor interest, to deprecate the seeking of amuso- rnent.

I hold that diveraion of a high order is as beneficial to the mind, especially to one overtaxed by business cares or mental anxiety, as the administering of certain apt drugs is to the diseased body. But there are times and places for all things. If the fiineml of Lincoln was a " show," like the carrying of a Princely Nonentity to his ancestral grave, why, then, I have nothing to say. Vive la galerc! Out on a holiday, be jolly and amuse yourselves to the top of your bent, dear public ! But if it was to be the signal for the bursting out afresh of the deep wound which had rent every breast at Lincoln's death, why, then I take it, it woulU have beeu more consist cut w^th propriety to avoid theatres as well as every other species of amusement, at least till the ceremonies were over.

If this had been done, the writer of these lines would have had a few dollars less in her pocket, and a better feeling towards her fellow*creaturca in her heart,

I don*t mean to say that the grief for the President was other than very deep and very sincere ; but that it was more a great shock than a great sorrow is proved by the fact that the subscriptions to the Lincoln monument, very active at first, quickly dwindled down into mere nothing- ness; that if Mrs. Lincoln is not starving, it is not due to her having received any aid from the government or the public ; and that a mocking pedestal, more hollow and meaningless than our stage trickery, stood for wrecks, till it became weather-stained and time-faded, on the left side of Union Square, in New York, and then, I think, was taken down without any explanation.

In passing the coffin of the simple-minded but illustrious Lincoln, men uncovered their heads, and women shed tears; but when these people were edged on by other cu- riosity-seekers, the men put on their hats and the women

THH CATAFALQUE.

288

dried their cyea, and the first began to speculate on what **Andy'8" policy would be, and the latter to wonder what the chenille cost a yard, I know it will be urged that this is human nature j but, if it is so, I wish somebody would inform me what on earth mhuman nature is supposed to be* My opinion is that it is iuquiriog the price per yard of the white chenille which decked the interior of the Mar- tyr's coffin.

The c-atafalque at Cleveland was very beautiful, and the police arrangements {that any should be required !) were so complete that nobody's eyes w^ere knocked out, and nobody's skull knocked in. Happy consummation ! The true patriotj3 at Cleveland were those ladies of wealth and refinement who spent whole nighty in making garlands, festoons, nosegays, &c., to deck the bier on which the cof- fin was to repose but for a few short hours. Through a drenching rain they adjusted tlieir handiwork, which was doubly beautiful for being prepared by such dainty fin- gers. It may be there was a little spirit of emulation shown; a little desire that their catafalque should bo more beautiful than that of some other town ; but, if there was, it was a noble pride, and must not occasion a word of censure.

I must add that the theatre was closed the night on which the President's remains lay in the town.

I have a tender fear of becoming a nuisance in attempt- ing to describe Cleveland. I feel that I miglit as well at- tempt to describe '* around the comer/' Everybody knows Cleveland. Ever)'body has been there. You cau*t get anywhere without passing through there. This being the case, I think the proprietor of that restaurant in the depot would enhance his claims to public gratitude and heighten his character for equity if he would give us a better breakfast for One Dollar. Ham and eggs are not objectionable once in a way; but ham stretching out like

284

CliBVELAND,

the line of Klnga in Macbeth, till the crack of doom, at which period the eggs are apt to become stale, must be rebelled against e^en by a non-epicure like myself.

The Fifth Avenue, The Bclgravia, the Faubourg St Germain of Cleveland, is a very bfeautiful avenue, wide and imposing, callGd Euclid Btreet. On either side are truly majestic residences, but happiness is no more an in- mate of palaces than it is of cottages, and if they have only a small share of it and health, I can assure the young ladies of Euclid street that they have cast their (hair) nets into pleasant places.

The pretty public square of Cleveland is graced by a creditable statoe of Commodore Perry, standing in a po- sition usually unknown to public-square statues ; that is, one which a man in life and the enjoyment of his reason might really have assumed. I am not very certain what madmen do in lunatic asylums, hot I have always imag- ined they must stand as doftinct bronze horses are made to stand, and ha\^e that questionable seat on horseback which the departed marble equestrian invariably affects. 'Tie quite true that Perry is represented in this statue as ordering a vigorous broadside into nothing, and frowning ominously, as Mr, Toots' dog barked, at an imaginary foe ; but the likeness of the naval hero is, I believe, good, the adjuncts of rope coil, spars, anchors, &c., go far toward heightening the effect, and the whole aisemble is very pleasing.

The Academy of Music was a pretty theatre; the most thorough artist of the troupe Tjeing the manager as well. I will not tell you his name, bcciiuse my moral principles fbrbid my puffing any one except myself; but I will say that he is one of the few lacrymose ** fathers'' who com- mands ray respect and can make me feel any " pity" for the ** sorrows of a poor old man.*'

Perhaps I am* more hardhearted than befits one of my

MILWAUKEE.

285

sex, but when the Heavy Old Parent comes on, white as to wigj sliaky as to legs, paralytic as to all the members, with much haudkorchicf and little voice, and begins his inevitable long story about something very stupid and very unfortunate which happened

" Some tew-wenty yemn ago,'^

you can't tell how much I'd give to be home !

I was told there were some beautiful drives about Cleve- land, but no drive is beautiful to me when I am blioded by the dust and can see nothing ahead but the driver's a-back.

From Cleveland I proceeded to Milwaukee, to fill a short engagement at that beautifal and healthful place. Clean, regular, well laid out, with the purest air and the serenest of skies, I do not wiuider the residents are proud of their town. Milwaukee is everywhere famous for tlie fine quality of brick made there, and such fume is well deserved, I could not help thinking how capital an eflect might be made by a talented architect with this delicate, lemon-tinged brick, relieved by red, black or brown » according to taste, A feudal mar^sion, for instance, of alternate red and yellow brick, with a chateau roof of brown or black, would be very striking.

(Mere says she thinks that would be HarlequiD's House, but never you mind her. She is a dreadful old fogy, is mamma.)

How people made of flesh and Wood can stand such a rigorous climate as that of Milwaukee ia a mystery to me. I was there in May, and I do not think I ever experienced fiuch bitter cold in all my life. The wind bowled round the corners in such a terrible manner that it fairly froze my young blood, and made each particular hair to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine. If the thorn lamb is really of any avail, and had come along just then, ho would have been as dear to my heart as the

286

IXDIAN COSTUMES.

scenes of my cliildbood when fond recollection presents them to view.

There are lota of "big Injuns*' in Milwaukee. There is the unapproachable or Bull-dog Indian, who wean^ the aboriginal dress and h generally intensely disagreeable. These they call the *' pure Indians. Then there is another class, who are, I suppose, ''impure," as their faces are whiter and they laugh sometimes. These wear apteasing variety of old clo', and look as if tbey bad made a pro- miscuous haul iu the sanctum sanctorum of a theatrical costumer.

The men^ if dirty and tattered, have a certain ferocity about them which is not devoid of dignity ; but the women, always fond of gewgaws, now affect the hoop- skirt, which looks *'real sweet" w^orn under the scantiness of a Mackinac blanket.

The principal hotel in Milwaukee served to remind me again that Western hotel service is often very defective. Ilowever useful at private houses, and at other houses which are not private, the *' waiter girl'' in a hotel is a nuisance. Their hoops are in the way; tliemselves are iu the way, Tbey chatter and giggle and make mistakes and a noise. Tbey lean familiarly over the back of your chair, and ask you if you *' w^isb" some beefsteak, when in truth, the only thing you do " wish" is that they would be gone at once and not trouble you any more.

In an humble way, I have done something to push forward the great project of female emancipation, by labor, from the slavery of waiting to be married merely to have one*s board and lodging paid- It is the essence of my creed, regarding woman's rights, that a woman should be able to feel when she hes down at night that she is really thanking ber Maker, and not her husband, for havijig given ber this day her daily bread. Some years ago, in a beautifnl city beyond the sea, I

A MAGDALEN.

287

belonged to two societies formed aud carried oa by ladies of my acquaintance. One was for tbe Employment of Females — the other was for the Redemption of Erring Women, One hinged on the other, and both did a vast deal of good. But we obtained no situations as *^ waiter girls" for our protegees. We found that where jioverty and frailty were thrown in contact with wealth and vice, weak nature fell, and was, alas ! as tinsel against bullion in the balance scales.

One girl died on our hands. She was only eighteen, but oh Heaven ! what a career of vice hers had been ! Her repentance was complete, and no one can ever per- suade me that Divine forgiveness did not hover around her lowly bedside* Her death was calm as an infant's, and as her spirit took its flight she murmured a little French prayer, in substance much the same as that ex- pressed in Byron*a beautiful lines:

*' Father of light I tu Thoo I caU ; My sou] h durk witMn \ Thou, who cAnst murk the sparrow's fall, Avert tho death of 81 n. Thou^ who canst guide tho wandering star, "Who calm 'at the olemcntal war, 'Wbo&o xiantle is jon boundlesa %\lj^ My lhought», my words, my crime* forgive j And, since I soon must oeaso to live, Xn^truct mo how to die/'

My list of engagements being conipletedj I was now free to doff the sock and buskin, aud set my foot once more upon my native heath. With a joyfal heart I ** assisted*^ at the packing of my trunks — if that means looking on aud not doing anything — while visions of joyful faces, mine perhaps tbe cheeriest of all, filled my waking and my slumbering dreams. I bought a happy railway ticket and gleefully made haste to be gone.

It must not bo inferred from this desire on my part to

288

VICISSITUDES OF TRAVEL.

leave the beautiful country which eees the last gleams of the setting SHU that I had other thao the greatest fondBesB for the West aud for the Western people*

At the risk of uttering truierus and being altogether a platitudinal truist, I maj; mention that it requires a pretty strong organic construction to stand the ravages of an eight months' tour in the land of fast eaters. The way food is bolted at those Western hotels is enough to make the mildest-tempered and the best-in tentioned liver stand on end : if that is the way in which livers express dissatiafaction, I utterly abandoned catching meals at railway ** stations," and made up my mind to daily starving on board the cars. Sometimes I was rewarded with a delicious dinner in the town for which I was 'bound, and sometimes, I may obserVe, I was not

There is generally a pleasing diversity of opinion on the cars in regard to whether the windows shall be shut or open. The strongest party of course wins, but when the yeas and nays are equally divided, it is often a very pretty straggle. The conductor is sometimes called in to cut this Gordian knot, and, so long as he remains, peace is generally maintained; but whe^ he goes, as he must sooner or later, the strife begins again, and continues ad vifinilmn. It is amusing to hear the dilFerent reasons assigned for espousing either ^ide< This man is of a plethoric habit and requires airj the next one consump- tive, and can't sit in a temperature lower than 75°, This woman has fainting-fits, the other the rheumatism; baby has a stiif neck, and Billy rush of blood to the head. It is the old story of the clerk of the weather inquiring whether he should send rain or no; opinion was so antag- onistic, the reasons pro and con so conclusive, that the poor caterer for public happiness, quite at a loss to please everybody — or, indeed, anybody — now pleases himself, and there's an end on't

THE STAGE FAST-MAli. {Drama of '' Tk^ LoUcrrj of Lif§J')

n/

WESTBEN ACTORS,

289

Who ia the architect of cars? And if so, why docs he always put the ice-water tank almost on top of the red- hot stove ? Why, also, is wood invariably used as fuel on railway cars? Because it makes a tearing, roaring, ferocious, unbearable fire? Because it goes out quickly and completely, leaving a poor lot of freezing, sneezing, wheezing unfortunates lost in the mazes of cold in the head?

These are only a few of the miseries the traveler must endure. I thought they were unparalleled until an elderly gentleman once kindly related to me some of the dis- comforts experienced in the olden time when stage coaches formed the only means of transit across the vast prairies of the West. I execrate the railway, but I now understand that to take up stage-coaching would only he going from Scylla to Chary bdis.

With regard to the Western actors wnth whom I camo in contact on the stage, I can speak, as a rule, in terms of the highest respect Still the Western actor is sometimes very funny ; I suppose I am so too when I don^t want to be, and the reverse when I do. But I know* you will forgive my smiling at the pomposity of ** my lord" who comes to a ball dressed in brown trowsers, a ** frock" coat (than which no more hideous garment was ever devised or imagined), and a pair of darkly, deeply, beau- tifully ffreen gloves, which with Some hands inside, he lays, now on his **breakiug*' heart, now on my '^perjured" arm, whose ^^ alabaster whiteness" he tells me, *' rivals the lily;" and no wonder, since it is covered with Lily-white. He swears by the **ble-ue*' heaven above him that he is contaminated by me touch, and easting me down in a fainting state he only waits for the curtain to fall on the tableau to gallantly falsify his words and rush to assist me to arise ; which I forthwith do, stumbling over my tnuD and wiping away the black traces of his painted 19

1

290 UNNB0B88ART TAUTOLOaT.

whisker off my peijured cheek. I don't know why " my lord'* always talks so much about his "le-ady mother;" except it is because real lords are never known to use that form of phrase. In &ct it is both tautolo^cal and unne- cessary ; for himself being a peer of the realm, if the lady is his mother, his mother must be a lady, as you will at once admit. But regardless of this &ct, he goes harping on his le-ady mother worae than Polonius did on his le-ady daughter, until I get to such a pitch of nervous- ness that, as Mrs. Gamp aptly describes it, '^fiddlestrixigs is weakness to ezpredge my feelinz."

PfiEPIira OUT Of A 6TAa£-B0X.

291

CHAPTER XXIV.

About Audiences, — A Sketch of a New York Audience, — SpedmctiB from tbe Audienco.^ — The Bights of Audicnc&s*— The Right to Him, — Carrying Disaout very Far. — An Ungrateful Pit* — A Furioufl CftnadiAn Audience. — Row in French Theatre, — Restoring Gk»od Humor. — An Actor who was Hissed to Death. — ^The Right of Free Applause,— The Claqueur Nuisance. — Putting Down an Honest Hi?s. — The Bouquet Nuisance, — Curious Swiudlera. — The Encore Nuisance. — Coming Before the Cartain. — Bad Habitd of Audiences. — Curious Anec- dotes.— The Audience that Had to be Told to Go, — ^A California Speci- men.— **Wont you Light that Gas-burner?'* — An TJnbiaased Wit- ness.— Jenny Lind and the Hooaier. — Mrs. Partington at the Play.

To the general play-goer, it is preBomed that the most lotereBting part of a theatre ia Behind the Scenes.

To actors and actresses, naturally enough, the chief in- terest lies with the audience — Before the Footlights.

At least, it has always been and is so with me.

I am never tired of studying that many-headed animal — the Audience. I love to take it up in its different ele- ments, and pouder it — looking out from a cozy corner in a Btage-box, myself unobserved-

The doors are thrown open, and now comes in the pro- miscuous crowd — ^that sea of human nothings which makes up a " good house*' at the theatre. Kitty and her beau, who don't care a pin for the play, but have only come for a long conversation, in which they indulge daring the en- tire evening, much to the annoyance of their immediate neighbors, who, strange to say, prefer listening to the com- edy to overhearing Kitty's love confessions, and some- times even intimate as much to young Larkins, who rudely heeds them not

There ia the school-girl of fifteen, who worships the

QUIZZrNd THl WOMEN.

walking gentleman, and refuBes to believe that his mous- tache 18 painted.

There is the adolescent, who robs himself of sugar- plums to buy flowers, which he throws at the feet of the daiiseuee.

There is the habitual theatre-goer, who remembers see- ing this piece, or something very like itj at least thirty years ago, and according to whose statements theatricals, theatres and stage appointments of the present day are in a complete state of degeneracy.

There is the ex-artiste, of fifty well-told winters, who wonders why managers will let that chit of a girl play Julkij when herself could play it a thousand times better.

There is the man who laughs at everything.

There is the universal fault-finder.

Ah, that is you, isit, Mrs. K ? You are coming in on a free ticket Your sack is not of this year's make, dear; it looks old-fashioned. Never mind; you are hon- est. Your ideas of astronomy consist in the belief that the sun rises in the east of your husband's well-worn coat, and sets in his western boot*! eg. You are naive to insipi- dity, but you are as good as you are soft ; so niafoiy I harm you not Bless you — ^blesa you !

Not so with you, Mrs. R. Your hushand is a clerk in a commercial house, on a salary of fifteen hundred a year. How do you manage to pay $60 for your new but ugly little Empire bonnet? How do such trifles as cashmere shawls, diamond rings, and threadlace flounces find them- selves in the wardrobe which your husband looks at ad- miringly, but ignorautly, too ? He sometimes thinks that your various '* aunts,'* who send you so many presents are very generous creatures, and oflen wonders why they never call at the house except when he is from home.

Wliy, Miss S., I hardly expected to see you here ! Are your preparations for flight all made ? Going to Europe,

QUIZZDiQ THE MEN,

293

eh, with that dear fellow who may be seen and is seen every day picking his white teeth in front of the St. Nich- olas ? Well, he is handsome, I admit. Owns an estate in the Souths does he ? Well, perhaps so. I never was very bright about boxing the compass, and a faro-bank in — street may be down South or up North for all I know. Only, why dou*t he ask you to marry hira first?

Among the late comers is Mr. J, He doesn't enjoy the piece much J but twists uneasily in his chair, and starts suddenly and looks at the door. Compose yourself, J. Tour employers don't know it, yet

Four times the curtain comes down, and four times there is gossip, and flirting, and scandal, and hypocrisy of all sorts.

Mrs. X comments on her neighbor, and calls her a "horrid creature/' They kiss, nevertheless, each time they meet, and have a joint pew at Dn Nobby's church.

Mr. , who, having neglected to call on Miss I, now

crosses over to her, and says a few pleasant words; then bowing low, as he leaves her side, he congratulates him* self that that bore is over. Miss I. smiles at him, and looks very archly through her long lashes, but she in- wardly luites the ground he walks upon, as if the ground were personally to blame for receiving his weight. This she tells her mother, who, knowing that he is rich^ is anx- ious for her daughter to entrap him.

But at last the curtain comes down for good, or bad perhaps, and Kitty gets her dress trod upon, and young Larkins loses his umbrella, and Pa leaves his overcoat on the seat, and a sweet-scented billet-doux passes from a small neatly gloved hand into one which is larger and not gloved, and P. lights a cigar, and Mrs. P. says the smoke makes her sick, and the swells take carriages, and the me- diocrity take the omnibuses, and the plebeians walk, and the gas 16 turned off| and there is a damp smell in the the-

294

BILIOUS AND STUPID AUDITORS,

atre, aod in an hour or two, critics, and criticised, swells, mediocrities, plebeian a and artistes are in that happj sleep J land where criticism cornea not, and newspapers are unknown,

A witty writer points ont some of the peculiarities of theatre-attenders in this style : ** There is the h^^pereritical man, a fool who amuses himself painfully. No convict condemned to shoemakiiig in a State prison suffers the pangs of disagreeable labor half as severely as a hyper- critical individnal when he attempts to enjoy himself in a theatre. Around him are people who have left dull care outside the en trance- wicket, who have hid melancholy a temporary farewell, and who have invoked all the gayety and jo3^ousnes9 of their natures for an hour of aalubrioua- nesa. Relaxed features, unfurrowed brows, smiling faces, are about him, and there he eits beside, but not of, the gen- eral hilarity — morose, bilious, critical, watching, like an evil accusing spirit, for the occurrence of errors, of omis- sion or commission. lie retires from the theatre to look up the authorized version of the play, then sits down and writes an article on the decadence of the art of acting, which he sends to a theatrical paper, whose critic laughs at the strictures as absurdly severe, and dooms the essay to the oblivion of the waste-basket There is the stupid theatre-attender, who is generally ^n individual who has Vnowhero to go* and no desire to go anjrwhcre, who haa little social feeling and less intellectuality, and who goes to the theatre merely to pass the time between supper and bed. To him, the theatre is not a temple of the drama, but merely a sort of waiting-room for bedtime, a room well lit up, bustling, noisy, spectacular, where one can do, in a quiet way, as one pleases— listen, look, or nod, and, above all, go out at regular intervals to * liquor up/ "When there happens to be a large number of these people in the house they act like a wet blanket on the spirits of

THE UNSOPHIBTICATEl) AUBITOR.

295

the actors, for tbere is neither sign of approbation nor dis- approbation, and the dullness that fills the house before the footlights seems magnetically to oppress the spirits of the people on the stage, and makes them look on a good hearty electrifying hiss as a change for the better. But the style of theatre-goer most delightful to the player is the unaopliisticated young woman who believes it all. She knows not, and if she were told would not believe, that the youthful Jtdi^i who makes her love, laugh, weep and hate, by turns, is the mother of grown-up children, and that the stern Ckpulet is a far more tender and a much younger man than the romantic RomeOy who has played the part for a quarter of a century. She is innocent^ too, of all knowledge of machinery, and make-up, and all the very disagreeable resorts and devices of the stage. What would the knowing ones, who yawn and fume, and worry through a performance, not give if they could exchange their foolish wisdom for her blissful ignorance? — ^to think that the heroine has not studied every classic pose, win- ning expression, and thrilling accent: that the funny man is not sweating and toiling vni\i heart-aching eagerneea for the sake of a family nest built in a distant garret ; that the hero is not suffering excruciating pangs of envy, and from unmerited neglect ; that all the people beyond the footlights are enjoying themselves, and are merely acting, instead of working !**

In these days of battle for '* equal rights," it seems to me that somethiog ought to be said in behalf of the righta of audiences.

Among these, unquestionably, is the right to hiss. It is difficult to say just where the limits of tliis right are to be drawn ; but that an audience has a right to express disapprobation is a thing which must be freely conceded,

I would urge all audiences to be generous in the exer- cise of this right, however, I would have them lenient

296

HIS8E9 Aim BOTTEN KGQS,

toward the poor player who does hie best, and does it hon- estly, however poor that best may be. Bat I would have every audience hisa, and vigorously hisa, exhibitions of vulgarity, indecency and drunkennees in actors — ^for these are insults to an audience, and it ought to resent them promptly*

Among the humorous anecdotes of audiences which have expressed disapprobation in a rather marked man- ner, is that of an individual who undertook to give a con- cert all alone by himself, in a New England town, and thus rehi-ted his experience:

**Aflter the performance a large number of the audience crowded on the platform to congratulate me, while another party started around the town in search of something ap- propriate to present to me. It being late, all the jewel- lers' etores and book establishments were closed, Tho only house that they could find open was a family grocery. Determined not to be balked in their efforts to show their appreciation of ray vocal powers they bought up a basket of eggs to present to me on the stage* When they arrived at tlie hall the crowd was so great around me that the deputation could not reach me. They accordingly threw the eggs one by one over the heads of the audience, and, strange to say, by the time the eggs reached me they were rotten;*

M. Baron, once celebrated throughout France, and be- yond doubt one of the greatest actors of his time, found that when he grew old the cruel French audiences of the period, forgetting his paSt greatness, began to insult him, and, as he was one night playing Nero, they even hissed him ! The aged monarch of the stage folded his arms, walked sternly down to the footlights, and exclaimed, '* Ungrateful pit! 'twas I who taught you !'' It was a slip of the tongue, he used to say ; but he was nettled that they who had been made by him judges of good acting should have turned their knowledge against their instructor.

A PITRIOtTS AUDIENCE,

29T

An exciting scene occurred in a Montreal (Canada) the- tre two or three years ago. It appears that a French com- pany had advertised with the pretensiona of a troupe from a ii rat-class theatre in New York, and the honae was cram- med from the family-circle to the pit — the latter being particularly crowded — to witness the pertormance of a beautiful French drama as the opening piece. ** The cur- tain rose, and the performance went on. A very ugly actress acted in a still mora ugly manner, and a very young man attempted to act the part of an old man, w^ith an immense quantity of flour on his head and smeared over his face. To crown all, another actress made her appear- ance, rattled off a few words in bad French, and seemed to have the one desire to get off the stage as quickly as possible. The drop-scene fell amid a chilling silence, and the second act began by the audience gradually realizing that they had been completely 'sold.' A 'hiss* was quickly followed by others, and yells and biases were then given with might and main. The performers looked ter- rified, but still went on ; but the crowning act was accom- plished. An actress fell on her knees, and, in execrable French, cried out to the young man with the flour on his head. The audience were furious. Yells and hoots filled the air. Bouquets made from the shockingly printed pro- grammes were thrown by dozens at the players. This waa quickly followed by a lobster thrown in the same direc- tion, and cabbages, pieces of sticks and cloth were vigor- ously hurled upon the stage. The performers, in a terri- fied maimer, flew from the stage,, and, amid a storm of yells, imprecations and hisses, the drop fell. A man at- tempted to apologize for the acting, but was forced to retire. The whole pit then indulged in a free fight, while from the family-circle some two or three seats were torn up and came crashing on the stage. The house was in an uproar, and the ladies were quickly leaving, in terror for

298

A DETBEMmED HISSEB.

their safety. The pit then sung a song, and indulged in another free fight At length the green curtain fell, and such a storm arose as would be hard to describe. It was well the performers did not make their appearance again, for the rage of the audience was thirsting for a victim, and the first that came would surely have been first served. At last the house was cleared, and the stage was left orna- mented with the lobster and cabbages^ sticks aod broken ©eats thrown on it" The scene was a thoroughly disgrace- ful one, and as extraordinary as disgraceful.

French audiences are, however, notoriously given to strong expressions of disapprobation when excited, and are also notoriously excitable. On the evening of Janu- ary 1, 1868, a disturbance took place at the theatre of the Porte St. Martin, Paris, on the occasion of the first repre- sentation of the review, entitled '' 1867, ou si tu n'es pas content, demandes autre chose/* Mile. Silly was on the stage, imitating the intonations and gestures of Mile. Schneider in the *' Grand Duchesse." As the imitation wafi well hit off, the audience were evidently amused, and loud applause arose from every side. Several persons were crying out loudly for an mcore, when suddenly a hiss, or rather iDhislky was heard from the first row of the gal- lery. The applause was then redoubled, but the same whistling sound from the pipe of a key was repeated. The claque then shouted out against the perpetrator of the ob- noxious noise, and the next moment the whole house had risen and were regarding the man in the gallery, A police agent was then seen to approach the spectator in question (who was respectably dressed in black), and apparently to ask him to qnit the place, the other shaking his head in refusal. Cries of ^'Sortira! Sortira pas r [*' He shall go ! He shall not go !''] were heard in all directions, when at last the police agent withdrew. All this had lasted seven or eight minutes, and the performance was just recom-

THB AUDIENCE TRIUMPHS,

299

mencing, when two gendarmes and two Bergeants de villo appeared and proceeded to drag the offending whistler from his place. Ho resisted manfnlly^ held firmly to the wood- work in front, and^ although hia cravat was torn off, still kept his place. At last, amid indignant cries of pro- test from the whole house, the agents carried the man bodily off, but still making the most violent opposition. The exclamations and noise then became quite furious, and shouts of ^'Rend^z-lc! Qu*U rmameP' [**Givo him up I He must come back !''] continued to be heard for several minutes. The stage manager came forward, but the audience refused to hear him. The curtain was let fall, but the spectators continued their cries for the libera- tion of the man, declaring that he had a right to hiss or whistle as he pleased, since he had paid his money to ap- plaud or the contrary, as he thought fit The ladies in the boxes had by this time been seized with the general emotion, and stood up, waving their handkerchiefs. At last, when the audience were in the greatest exasperation, and apparently on the point of tearing up the benches, an exclamation was heard of ^^Le Voila ! /^ Voila r and the next moment the man appeared in his former place, and was received with the loudest applause, a triple salvo of bravos greeting his entrance. The performance was then resumed, and went on quietly to the end. The hero of the evening was named Langlois, his position in life being that of clerk in a commercial house,

A manager in a Western theatre adopted a much more sensible plan of quelling expressions of displeasure. Dur- ing the performance of ** Ilamlet," the acior who should have played the *' Ghost'' was prevented by illness from making his appearance. An ambitious supernumerary volunteered his services, which were gladly accepted. His execrable performance aroused the ire of the audience, who hissed him from the stage. The disapproval being

300 HISSED TO DBATH.

marked by fartber acts of violence, the manager came for- ward and said: ** Ladies and gentlemenj Mr* Smith has given up the * Ghost/ '' This sally diverted the popular indignation, and the play continued.

As an example of the power an audience has, for good or evil, in exercising its right to hiss, I give the history of the FuUerton case. Fullerton was an actor in a Philadel- phia theatre, many years ago. A cabal was formed, it seemed, for the purpose of driving him from the stage. It began early in the season, and the disturbance increased nightly, until at length, some eight or ten different dis- turbers, distributed through the house, contrived to con- fuse and distract the performer who happened to appear in the same scenes with Fullerton, "Every effort possible was made to ascertain the cause of this continued persecu- tion, but in vain. A nervous man at all times, poor Ful- lerton became nearly incapable of all effort. His terror and agony on entering the stage were truly pitiable. At length his little courage gave way, and repeated shocks brought him to the very edge of insanity. He became melancholy and morose, frequently hinting that the death either of hia enemies or himself should end his sufferings. Alter an attempt at suicide, which Francis' sudden appear- ance prevented, he affected a calmness which could ill conceal his misery. On the evening of the 29th of Janu- ary, after acting the Abbe del Epee^ with less exhibition than usual of outrage from his persecutors, he left the the* atre, in apparently good spirits, for his lodgings, as he stated. Not having arrived there, search was made, after some hours, but no tidings could be heard. On the fol- lowing morning his body was found floating near one of the wharves on the Delaware.** His persecutors had hissed him to death.

Another of the inalienable rights of an audience is the right of free applause. This right has usually been vouch-

HIKED APPLAUDERS.

301

safed to American audiences without reserve ; but of late that abominable inatitution the ckgue has been iutroduced into this coiintry-

The ckiqueurs aa they exist in French theatres are terrible fellowa. No needy gazetteer or Scotch freebooter ever levied heavier black-mail than these chartered ap- plauders. No one connected with the opera is exempt from their begging-box* The most brilliant *' star" of the lyrical and terpsichorean horizon never rises without assuring them of the tenacity of her memory by some valuable consideration. No trembling candidate for choreographic or musical honors ventures on the maiden "pas'* or quaver without propitiating their kind favor by a roll of bank*noteSj thickening according to a well- established sliding'Scale with the new-comer*8 ambition. No actor whose talents linger painfully near the verge of mediocrity, ever sees the end of his engagement at hand, without appealing to their good taste by arguments as irresistible and as weighty as he can rake and scrape together from old stockings, savings-banks and usurers, to give him those zealous, hearty, repeated rounds of applause which managers mistake for&me. The aotbors of new works,— the Scribes, Rossinis and Meyerbeers — themselves paid tribute to these gods of success. And the great opera bends before their oaken staves and resonant hands, and respectfully places pit-tickets in their begging-box as peace-ofterings, and these tickets they sell, for they have no need of tickets for their own use.

These clajiicurs are admitted by the stage door before the theatre opens. Fanny Elssler, we are told, always gave fifty francs a night for their services. A well known American performer tells a story of his having once appeared in gay Paris, and though he really did not stand in need of hired applause, when about to leave the city, a demand was made upon him by the claqueurs for six

808

CLAQUEUR ORGANIZATIONS.

hundred francs, tnucb to his astonishment j but, being assured that it was *' regular/' he paid the little bill

The most celebrated of these vicarious trumpeters of fame, was a fellow nanied Auguste, who, after having **procurud the success'* of Guillaume Tell, Robert le Diablo, Les Huguenots, and several other celebrated and forgotten pieces, has retired full of years, honor and wealth to a Kuburban villa, where, after marrying his daiightur« well and setting up his sons, he fights over old batileM and tell» of the feats of prowess "he," Meyerbeer and kuM^^iui ucconiplished. How contemptuously he speakK of thii ** eluqueurs" of the other theatres, who hftT«, h% imy§^ nothing in the world to do, as plays are eaiily '^Mirlwd/' for they require nothing but hearty laughom, mtA the public la never angry with a laugher, while ii| ' ' ure frequently menaced with *'the door/* i niiitrrs nf the public applause weigh

rathor haavily upon 'iiger, it being the custom to

give thoni a huiHhHd inutickets the night of first per- formancoi, forty or fU'ty when the opera has obtained Blight ittcceiiH, and twenty wVien tlie most popular opera is perfiirmed— no wmall imury, top the price of pit-tickets is never less thun a di^llar. They are well organized into ten divisions, each eommiuulod by a lieutenant, who sees that tlie signals given l»y the chief are fuithfuUy obeyed. The chief, of course V-. »l. r.„, , ^^^ ^^ ^^^ ^^g^^ which generally tnu .,\f -

a year. Indeed, he \ti Ti and the Bubalt pleaaure.

In this ct' esctensive, nurj^m anv

I

I I

AMERICAN CLAQUEURS,

303

around the outer aisles is easily distiDguishable by the cultivated ear.

In writing, not long since, of indecency in theatres, I remarked that when the ^iBlack Crook'' first presented its nude women to the gaze of a crowded auditory, a death- like silence fell upon the house, and men actually grew pale at the boldness of the thing.

This statement was denied by an unsophisticated editor in these words; "Our recollection of that notable night is that when the performers in the foremost skirtless ballet — afterward celebrated as the ' Demon dance at 9:30* — had executed their initiatory pas, and assumed their introductory pose^ there burst forth such a spontar neous, unanimous and overwhelming storm of applause as was like to bring the dome about our ears.**

The innocence of this is amusing. The <* demon dance" was witnessed in silence. At its close the claque began to applaud; and the amiable audience, aroused from its astonishment by these mercenary palms, good- naturedly followed suit — for they wanted to see it over again.

The critic of the New York World, of August 6, 1869, gives an example of the way in which the claque of this theatre outrages the public will. After commenting on other actors in the play of *^ Arrah Ka Pogue," the critic Bays : " Both these two actors, and tlie principals them- eelves, were badgered beyond endurance on Tuesday evening by the actor who played Colonel Bagmal 0* Grady. The (yGradi/^ to put it plainly, was very much the worse for liquor, and insisted on staggering about and muttering his part in an incomprehensible manner, to the annoyance of ttll on the stage. The inclination of the audience was to hiss him from the boards at once, but a tolerant claque insisted on his support, and quenched the corrective and honest outbreak with cries of * Order/ and much banging

I

304 FEU. INTO BAB COMPANT.

of boot heels. There eeems to be a growing opinion among the warm personal friends of actors that only those noises will hereafter be permitted in theatres which are indicative of unqualified approval**'

It wonld be a blessed thing for the drama if every actor who insults his audience by appearing before it intoxi* cated, should be hissed at once from the stage.

In another theatr©— which I do not name because it has since mended its ways — ^the claque was placed in the front row of orchestra chairs,

A gentleman of my acquaintance found himself one night last winter, placed by some mistake in this noisy row, with two vociferous claqueurs on each side of him. Not knowing their character, my friend was astonished and annoyed by the persistent stupidity they exhibited in applauding certain players — who had paid for the privi- lege. At length, unable to keep silence any longer, my friend turned to the man at his right and said,

*'Why do you applaud such bad acting so loudly? Surely you don't admire it."

To which the man responded gruffly :

*^Tou mind your business and Til mind mine."

The tone of the response opened my friend's eyes.

*' Oh/' he said, " you are paid to applaud, perhaps."

*'Well, whatif lam?"

" Ob, certainly — if you earn your money that way — "

Here* a very noisy round of applause drowned my friend's voice, and at the same moment his neighbor stooped over and drew from under his chair a huge bouquet, which he hurled on the stage.

It presently appeared that every chair in that row was provided with a bouquet — and one by one they were drawn out by the daqimirs and thrown upon the stage.

These same bouquets did duty at that theatre every night till no longer presentable.

\

THREE NOODLES.

805

The bouquet nuisance has been touched npon in a previous chapter. It is not always claqueurs who do the bouquet-tossing, however, Addle-pated young men, who would have to beg for a living if they had no more money than brains, are much given to buying bouquets and throwing them to actresses.

A trio of curious swindlers were up in the Tombs Police Court during the "Black Crook" fever, charged by a Broadway florist with having purchased from him $192 worth of bouquets which they had not paid for. These young sports represented themselves as having rich ^'parients" who could liquidate the amount. The florist charged them with fraudulent intentionSj and that their representations regard! ug wealth and business counections were all false. These bouquets were thrown upon the stage at Niblo's to the*' Black Crookites." The young noodles, not having the money to pay for their bouquets, had to go to jaiL

Another nuisance, to which also I have before reverted, is that of excessive and repeated erworc^. A critic remarks : *' We have frequently seen artists called out to repeat a dance when they have been so exhausted that they could scarcely stand. It is only a iew weeks since that Miss Adelaide Nixon, while performing with Chiarini's Circus, in Cuba, was encored three times. She finally so overtaxed her energies that she was obliged to sit down in a chair for rest. She was immediately stricken with paralysis, and it is thought she will never fully re- cover. We have frequently seen dancers, both solo and coryphees, after having been compelled to repeat a dance on a warm evening, come off the stage eo tired that they have fainted and fallen to the floor, while others have resorted to drinking freely of ice water, which has thrown them into fits. This is no fancy sketch, but truthful. Some will say that it ia their own fault* But would such 20

306

COMIXQ BEFOEE THB CUKTAIN.

things occur if the public, instead of compelling them to repeat, would be satisfied with their answering the call with a bow ? Brigooli made it a rule a year ago never to answer a call by repeating a song, because he found that it was taxing him too much. What was the conse- quence for doing so in Boston ? Why they actually hissed him off the stage the next time he did appear."

For many years past it has been the custom when an actor or actress was *' called out/* as the phrase is, that they should come out before the curtain ; the great wooden roller having to be dragged out of their way, while they crushed out through the narrow pathway thus afforded them.^

Charlotte Cnshman was the first person in this country to change this foolish custom. She ordered the curtain to be raised, in response to prolonged applause, and ap- peared upon the stage surrounded by all the players Tvho had assisted her. The habit got to be general immedi- ately. But some actors are not willing to share the honors with those about them. These then made a further inno- vation by having the curtain raised and stalking on the stage all alone, bowing their acknowledgments and retiring.

The practice of calling performers before the curtain began with the appearance in this country of the elder Kean; and a Philadelphia manager under whom Kcan played an engagement thus refers to the practice : *' The absurdity of dragging out before the curtain a deceased Hamlciy 3Iacbdh or Bicha7*d in an exhausted state, merely to make a bow, or to attempt an asthmatic address in defiance of all good taste, and solely for the gratification of a few unthinking partisans, or a few lovers of noise and tumult^ is one which we date with us from this time. It has always been a matter of wonder with me that the better part of the audience should tolerate these fooleries.

STAGE QUACKEEY,

307

Can anything be more ridicalous, than that an actor, after laboring through an arduous character — a protracted combat, and the whole series of simulated, expiring agonies, should instantly revive, and appear panting before the curtain to look and feel like a fool, and to destroy the little illusion he has been endeavoring to create ? ' The time has been that when the brains were out, the man would die, and there an end ; but now they rise again with forty mortal murders on their heads,' This custom, rcpreheo Bible as it has ever appeared, even in rare eases of superior talent, becomes absolutely insufferable when seeking to gratify the vain aspirations of commonplace powers. To such an extent has it of late years obtained, that on some occasions nearly the whole characters of a play have been paraded to receive the applause of their partisans ; as they certainly must have done the djsrision of the more numerous and sensible portion of the houses. We are all aware that this custom was borrowed from the French stage, and was doubtless a part of the system employed by the claquetirs, or acknowledged hired ap- plauders. Not the least offensive feature is the establishing of a personal communication bet^veeo the audience and the performers; a practice equally indelicate and unwise. The invidious feelings among performers from supposed injurious preferences may be easily imagined. A minor branch of this stage quackery is exhibited constantly in the liberal bestowal of wreaths, bouquets (with or without rings enclosed) upon insignificant as well as upon dis- tingniahed stage artists. These in most cases are openly prepared and paid for by the 'grateful, recipients* of their own purchases. Even in the case of Fanny Ellsler (who certainly stood in no need of such aid) the baskets ot bouquets, etc., formed an unconcealed part ot the dressing apparatus for the evening. It is well known to me that in the career of other performers, these marks of a grateful

308

BAD HABITS*

and admiriDg public were made use of on several different uigbts, wheu the ambition of the performer outran his means, and not only so, but that the identical vases, goblets and cups, have traveled with the performer from theatre to theatre, and been presented and accepted at every place with new 'emotions of the deepest sensibility.' It is time that such foolery and imposture should cease."

Among the bad habits of audiences maybe enumerated the habit of chewing tobacco and expectoration ; the habit of profane and vulgar talk; the fashionably vulgar habit of going late to the theatre or concert, after things are in progress, and thus disturbing that part of the audi- ence which is in season ; the habit of creating an uproar by rushing for the door at the effective closing parts of the performance j the habit of stamping for applause and raising a shocking and choking duet, while the hands should be sufficient for the polite expression of appro- bation*

Some of these habits are far too common, and I hope all good people who read this will resolve to discounte- nance them.

Many curious anecdotes of audiences might ho told. On one occasion the play of j^iXliKiJrTwist'* was given in Lowell, Mass. When the curtain fblFj the audience re- tained their seats for several minutes, but at length the stage manager appeared before the curtain and said: ** Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to inform you that the play has terminated. As all the principal characters are dead, it cannot, of course, go on/* The hall was soon \ cleared,

A California rustic, who was not accustomed to villain- ous saltpetre and cold iron, as used on the stage, went one night to see "The Robbers/' When the shooting commenced, he threw himself, at two movements, under a beneby and kept his place till the smoke cleared away.

AKKCDOTES.

309

Quiet restored, he crept softly up to his place, and sat till the stabbing scene in the last act. As Charles de Moor stabbed poor AmeUay our rustic patron of the drama was wrought up to an agony which worked his countenance into horrible shape. He uttered one unearthly shriek, and made a break for the door — over the heads of every- body in his way^ — knocking down a doorkeeper, and van- ished, howling, into the night.

At a Washington theatre, not long since, considerable amusement was caused during the performance of the ** Heir at Law'' by a nervous individual in the dress circle, who happened to notice that a gas jet near bim was not lighted, rising in his scat and asking, in a loud tone of voice, if the usher ** woukhil light that ga^-burner f^ It so happened that the actress who was playing Cicely Home^ spun had occasion to repeat the words, " Oh, no, I can- not,** making it sound very much as though she was re- plying to the interrogator in the dress circle. The efiect may easily be imagined.

The play of the "Long Strike^* was being enacted at a theatre in Harrisburg, Pa., and^during the court scene, while the audience were deeply interested, and the Judge asked the question, Guilty or not guilty ? a well-dressed, intelligent-looking man left his seat in the audience and pushed through the crowd to the front of the stage, and very calmly called out, "Stop!" The manager of the theatre, who was personating the part of Moncypmny^ thinking the man intoxicated, came to the footlights, and the foHowing dialogue ensued : *^ Will you oblige me by taking your seat, sir?*' said the manager. The man re- plied, "I want to give my evidence in this case. It was not that man" (pointing to the actor who represented the character of Jem Starkie) **who killed him. I saw who did it, I saw the man shoot him from behind the hedge/' At this point a roar of laughter from the audience brought

310

JENNY LIND AND THE EOOSIER.

this unbiassed witnesa suddenly to his senses, and he took his seat in confusion.

A lady in whom I have the fullest confidence relates, as an actual fact, the story of Jenoy Lind and the Iloosier. She tells me that during her march of triumph through this country, and after her visit to Cincinimti^ where she captivated all hearts, Jenny Lind found horaelf one even- ing in the (then) small town of Madison, Indiana, Mr, Barnum had made an arrangement with the captain of the mail steamer w^hich plies between Cincinnati and Louisville, to have the boat lie by on the Indiana shore long enough for the divine Jenny to give a concert at Madison.

The largest building in town having been prepared for her reception, an auction of the tickets took place in the hall on the morning of her arrival. The capacity of the building was fully tested by the anxious Madisonitcs,

"Corain' thro* the Rye'* was given first. This w^as fol- lowed by **IIome, Sweet Home;'* and wiio can describe the marvellous eflect of that song, as rendered by Jenny Lind? The famous "Bird Song*' was then the popular air of the countryj and it was given as a concluding piece on the'evening in question. The last line of the song runs thus, *'I know not, I know not why I am singing," and Jenny gave it with her full power. At this moment, a genuine Iloosier, indigenous to the soil, rose up in the auditorium, and thus delivered himself;

*' You don't know why you are singin', eh? Gosh ! I know if you don't! You^re singin* to the tune of five dollars a head, and I reckon dad's hogs will have to suffer for my ticket!'*

In an old number of the Boston Post I find an account of Mrs. Partington's visit to the play, to see my sister, Eliza Logan, in the character of Julicij and never Tvas there a queerer specimen of an auditor than that old hidy was (she must be about 130 years old now, by the way,)

MRS. PARTINQTON AT TOE PLAY.

311

if the Pastes account can be relied on, " It was our for- tune/' says the editor, *' to sit behind Mrs. Partington during tho entire performance, and we were much inter- ested at the eftect of the play upon her unsophisticated mind. It was to her an ail-absorbing reality. The char- acters were real characters, and Ilercutio and Tybalt were as sensibly killed as though she had felt for their pulse and found it not. She criticised JulieCs haste to get mar- ried, and said they didn't do bo when she waa young, and didn't believe so beautiful a yomig lady would have gone unmarried, \i Romeo wouldn't have had her, and gracious knows he fiecmod to love her terribly, though hot love she knew was soon cold. But it was at tho scene where Rojneo bought the ' pizen' that she became most excited. *It'8 agin the law to sell it to him,' said she, half aloud, and turnetj to see if Patterson was anywhere within hail- ing distance. But even that functionary looked calmly on, nor raised a finger to stay the fatal di*aught. She saw through the whole plot, and knew that Juliet had taken nothing but a sleeping potion, and wasn't dead. * Won't somebody go down and tell the poor young man she isn't dead?' said she, wringing her hands, and dropping a tear on the bill in her lap — -^ the dear young man will do some- thing harmonious to himself if somebody doesn't stop him/ The scene shifted, and the tomb of all the Capu- lets was revealed, with the grief of the noble Count Paris and the violence of Romeo in killing him, and when the latter drank the poison she uttered the faint ejaculation, *I told you BO,' and bowed her head forward to shut out the scene which she knew must follow, by so doing chaf- ing the neck of a young man in the front seat with her bonnet, while Ike sat wondering what they did with all the dead folks that they killed at the theatres* When Mrs. Partington raised her eyes the green curtain was down, and the bodies of Romeo and Juliet wero bowing their thanks to the audience for a complimentary call/'

312

DEAL£KS IN WILD BBASTS.

CHAPTER XXV.

About Menageries and their Tenants. — How the Animiila are Ohtained. — Denlers in Wild Bensts. — Prices of Hippopotami, Looparda, Tigers, Hyenas, etc. — Curious Freaks of Caged Animals. — The Trado in Snakcfl.— Cost of Boa Constrictors and Kattlesnake^. — The Trade in Earo Birds, — Pheasants, Parrots and Cockatooa for Sale. — How Monkeys are Caught.— Fright at a Wild Beast Show. — "The Animals are Loose ! " — Fire breaks out in the Winter Quarters of a Menagerie. — Terror of the Aniraals, — They escape into the Streetd.^ — How they Behaved. — Wild Bcasta Frightened by a Storm. — Chloroforming a Tiger — Elephant Stories, — Cracking a Cocoa Nut, — Protecting a Friend-^Afraid to Cross a Bridge,— Debarking an Elephant at the Kew York Wharf^A Leopard attacks an Elephant and gets the worst of it.— An Elephant Attacks a Locomotive and get* the worst of it.^ — A Lion Loose in a Village in MiBsissippL=.ne Eats a Hone and Escapes into the Open Country. — His Ultimate Fate.

For menageries I have groat respect, as a rule. As an interesting and iiistroctivo branch of the *'8how business/ free from objectionable features, these exhibitions of th^ animal kingdom are worthy of support.

It is true, the animals arc not usually, in their cages very ferociously wild; but they serve to show the* children — who are always the most delighted visitors to the menagerie — how wonderful are the creatures of other lands, even in the subdued condition of captives.

Animals arc obtained for menageries through a few regular dealers in wild beasts. These dealers are geQerally Germans — both in this country and in Europe, Two brothers of this nationality, whose place of business is in Chatham street, New York, are the principal American dealers in such interesting goods fis lions, tigers, elephants, and the like; though there are numberless small dealers^ scattered all over the country, in the largo towns, who deal in birds, and various creatures of the smaller sort, which go to make up menageries*

THE l^ILD-BEAST TRADE.

313

A New York paper furnishes the information that *'a man, to succeed as a wild-beast dealer, must have a thorough knowledge of natural history (theoretical), and be acquainted with its specimens practically. He must be able to judge at once of the strong points and the weak ones of any beast presented to him j he must be able to tell at once its heal th and physical condition ; he must know what species are most in demand; he must know the proper mode of feeding and of the medical treatment of each animal, with a hundred other matters. He must also have a good deal of personal courage, and a peculiar love for his peculiar profession J together with any amount of patience and perseverance. The wild-beast business fluctuates, just like the dry goods, and has its spring and fall trade. The winter season is comparatively busy, and the summer comparatively dull. The wild-beast traders employ agents in Asia and Alrica, and sometimes elsewhere, to hunt up rare and valuable animals. Thus a New York house baa kept a man in Africa for two years seeking for a peculiarly rare and immensely valuable species of hippopotamus; but, as a general rule, the agents of the traders are persons who reside permanently in some wild-beast-frequented portion of this habitable globe, and who are commissioned to buy any valuable specimens they may come across. Having procured their animal, the agents generally depend upon some captain of some vessel whom they know, and who may chance to leave for a European port, to bring it across the sea, the said captain charging the house to which the animal is consigned a heavy tariff for freight, more than twice the amount charged for ordinary material of the same weight and bulk, besides tho ejqienses of the 'keep' of the beast, which latter are large. Having arrived at its destination, a truck adapted for the purpose is sent to convey tho beast to its temporary home, where it is re-caged, and fed and cleaned, etc., until it is

814

COST OF BEASTS.

finally disposed of. Thus it will readily be Been that the expenses in the wild-beast trade are considerable, as well as the rislcs. The beast has first to be bought from its original captors; then the agent who buys it must be allowed his commission ; then there are the freight ex- penses by sea, the transportation expenses by laud, the cost of the feed, the wages and expenses of the man who takes the charge of the animal en route^ etc*, besides the risk of the animal being lost at sea or dying from disease at any time ; all of which items^ however^ are duly remem- bered in the little billj and come out of the pocket of the final purchaser. The scale of prices of wild beasts is reg- ulated by their rarity, size, quality of species, and the ex- pense attendant upon their capture and their keep. Among the rarest animals are the hippopotamoa and the gnu, or horned horse. A first-class hippopotamus is worth five or six thousand dollars, a lion brings from one to two thousand dollars, an elephant from three to six thousand dollars, a girafie is worth about three thousand dollars, a Bengal tiger or tigress will bring two thousand dollars, leopards vary from six to nine hundred dollars, a hyena is worth, at current rates, five hnndred dollars, while an ostrich rates at three hundred dollars. The price-list shows tluit, although expenses may be heavy, receipts are proportionately large, and that it does not require many largo beasts to make a good business for one trader. A New York bouse in the last three years has sold twenty lions, twelve elephants, six giraffes, four Bengal tigers, eight leopards, eight hyenas, twelve ostriches, and two liilipopotann ; being a total business of about $112,000 in lliroo yc:ir>** or over $37,000 per annum, in the line of lMi\ir«n' boa^sts alone, exclusive of the smaller show-beasts, wu« li m monkeys, and exclusive also of birds, which latter lli^tnM more than double the above amount. Gnus, or liiii ihh| luirsoH, have become lately in demand, both fix>m

ELEPHANTS AND OSTIIOHES AS EATERS.

315

their oddity and raritj, and are valued at seventeen hun- dred or eighteen hundred dollars apiece; one firm has

t now two of these curious creatures on consignnient — one

rof them recently took it into his horned head to die, with- out giving anj previous sign, and accordingly one day eighteen hundred dollars was found lying dead in its pen. An elephant is always in demand, and sells whether it be male or female, large or small, * trick* or otherwise. Some months ago, the smallest elephant on record was sold by a New York house to a traveling circus for aa enormous price. lie was only eighteen months old, and not over twenty-four inches in height. This animal when bought cost hugely, and ate up his own bulk of hay, at the rate of

la bale per diem, in a very short time. Ostriches, how- ver^ though heavy eaters, are not very expensive, as they

^bave cast-iroa stomachs, and digest stones, glass, iron, or almost anything else that one chooses to give them, though

Itbey are judges of good meat when they get hold of it. There are two species of ostriches known to the trade, the black and grey; both are very strong, fleet, and praclicaUy untamable. Lions, tigers and leopards form constituent attractions of almost all menageries, and are too familiar to need description. It may be here remarked, however,

f that, as a rule, people who deal with these creatures find that there is comparatively little danger to themselves to be dreaded from either lions or lionesses. These animals never attack any human being save when excessively hungry; and when enraged from any cause, always show Buch visible signs as put their keepers on their guard; whereas the opposite of these statements is true in regard to tigers and leopards — the latter especially, which are considered by those in the trade as the most dangerous, cruel and treacherous of all the beasts with which they are brought in contact. American lions or jaguars, and American or Brazilian tigers^ have of late come into fash-

316

MONKEYS AND BABOONS,

ion. These animals are very fierce, untamable and strong, though inferior in size to the lion or tiger proper. The Brazilian tiger is spotted like a leopard, has fearfully lu- ridj bright, wild eyes, and is worth, in currency, anywhere from six hundred to one thotisand dollars. The hunting leopard is a peculiar species lately introduced to the show- trade. Tliese animals are long and narrow-bodied, and especially long-backed, combining great speed with elas- ticity and compactness, as well as strength. They are comparatively gentle in their instincts, have much less dangerous clajvs and general qualities than the rest of their kind, and can be readily trained for hunting pur- poses, for which ends they are highly in demand in the East. They can outstrip the ostrich, and are worth a thousand dollars apiece. Of monkeys and baboons little need be said, as everybody knows almost everything that can be said abont them. There are some one hundred and fifty species of these creatures, the most intelligent of which is the ring-tailed monkey, and the most stupid that variety which is known as the lion-monkey, from its being gifted, instead of brains, with a long mane. The varieties of deer and antelope are numerous, and always find ready purchaBcra. The gen uine antelope is comparatively scarce, and brings in the market about three hundred dollars ; so that it is *a deer (dear) gazelle,' indeed. A show of wild animals is one thing, and a very good thing sometimes; but the same number of wild beasts when not on show, but merely on hand waiting a sale, presents a very differ- ent, and, sometimes, a curious spectacle. Thus, in a cer- tain back-yard in the city of New York, and a small yard at that, near the commencement of the Bowery, as singu- lar a sight is presented to the lover of animal life as is afforded probably in the range of the whole world. You enter by a low doorway, and at first glance you see only a number of boxes, with iron bars in front — amateur cages

A SmaULAE COLLBCTION,

81T

in fact — and arranged alongside of each other, or on top of each otherj just as the case may be, without the slight- est order or general arrangement. If you look a second time at these boxes, you will be made aware of the fact that they are inhabited by certain animal movables, or moving animals ; for pairs of bright eyes will gleam out upon you from the boxes in all directions, and occasional switchings of some beastly tails against the sides of the cages will become audible, as will every now and then a deep-mouthed roar. Inspecting the box-cages, or cage- boxes, more closely, you will see further that one of them contains a three-year-old lion, just getting his young nms- tache, or what answers the same purpose to a lion — his mane. Next box to this you will find a lioness, about the same age as ber mate, a fine specimen of an African female, who seems very much attached to a dog, who shares her cage with her in perfect harmony ; at least so far as the lioness is concerned, for she does all she can to live at peace with the dog, yielding to his wishes in all particulars, giving up her meat whenever he takes a fancy to it, and getting out of his way whenever he wishes to walk about ; although doggy docs not seem to be a very amiable partner, and every now and then gives the lioness a bit of his mind by biting her in the ear* A little Ijeyond this strange couple lie two more boxes — the upper ono containing a pair of young hunting leopards, as playful as young kittens, which spend their time in calling to the cats of the neighborhood, the lower one being the scene of the imprisonment of a full-grown, very handsome, very cross leopardess, who is always snarling and seeking whom she may devour. This latter beast has a special antipathy to a young lad who has charge of her, and tries half-a-dozen times a day to make mincemeat of him, though she has never yet succeeded in this laudable de- eigo. On the opposite side of this thirty by twenty-five

818

A3 UOLT AB AN AFB.

foot tack-yard are a number of boxes, containing mon- keys of varioua species, and baboons. One of these mon- keys is a jovial female, christened Victoria, who is one of the most expert pickpockets in New York, and that is saying a great deal. Vic can relieve a visitor of his watch or chain or pocket-book in a manner most refreshing to a monkey-moralist to witness ; and, although as ugly as sin, is as quick as lightning, Kext door to this kleptomaniac ape is a happy family of monkeys — father, mother and baby— who live together lively as clams at the turn of tide- On the ground, at a little distance, lies another box, which contains a monster baboon, larger than the one which was recently exhibited as a gorilla, but which, like that, is only a big ape. This fellow is called Jonas, and is, without exception, the ugliest individual in existence to which the Almighty has ever given a shape — such as it is. It is utterly impossible for anybody to state in suffi- ciently strong language how ugly the fellow is, and yet he is as strong as a giant, and as gentle as a lamb, and smart, too, and can be taught tricks like a dog ; he is grateful, also, has a memory for favors much better than most politicians ; is fond of tobacco, and is worth eight hundred dollars in his own right — that is, he will fetch that money any day. In the rear portion of the yard is a sort of in closure, stretching some ten feet further back, in which three or four horned horses or ponies, called gnus, are digesting their rations; next to these is a case in which is confined a fretful porcupine, who shows his bristles on the least provocation, and sometimes when there is no insult meant at all; he is over-sensitive, poor fellow; but doubtless confinement for life has told upon his spirits. The catar logne of cages or boxes is completed by that in which is held in duress a Brazilian tiger of the fiercest possible de- scription, who does nothing but glare upon you, and want to eat you, A little boy was brought into this menagerie

FEEDme THE ANIMALS*

319

in a back yard, and immediately all the animal instinctB of the beast were developed in the most pleasing degree. Every wild animal, however tame before, as soon aa he or she scented the young and tender meat, sniffed the air hungrily, and growled so expressively as to lead the boy'e mother to withdraw him and start away from such dan- gerous proximity. Order was, however, finally restored, amid the introduction of a few lighted lucifer matches, seeing the flame of which the animala at once slunk away in their boxes in terror. As a rule, the majority of wild beasts, even those which are not and cannot be tamed, be- come readily attached, for the time beings to the party who takes care of and feeds them ; and, within certain limits, will allow him familiarities on the outside of their cages which they woold not permit to any one else, or

' even to him on the inside. Especially does a wild beast become attached to those who attend to its wants io the

[ time of sickness* Luckily for the traders, however, the diseases of beasts are comparatively few and simple, and all that is done for them is to put sugar in their water, or pepper or sootlung-powdcr upon their meat. Great care has, however, to be constantly exercised in regard to the diet of the beasts* Nature takes care of them well enough in their original state of freedom; but in the artificial

-0tate of confinement, rule and system come into play,

[The meat-eaters are fed only once a day — at noon, — and Dst about a dollar per day to feed ; the grass-eaters, liko the elephant, eat all the time as fancy prompts; while the vegetarians, like the monkeys, take their three square leals a day. As a rule, all animals enjoy a better average

'of health than man, because they have no acquired tastes or dissipated habits. The elephant lives for centuries, the parrot is a centenarian, while the lion lives but twenty rears or so. On the whole, the average life of man is reater than that of the majority of so-called beasts,

320

6KAEBS,

though their average of health exceeds his. Two singn- lar varieties of wild animals have lately been introduced to the notice of the trade. One is the wild ass, a beast much spoken of in the Scriptures. He is a 'Idckist,' and a decidedly unpleasant companion for any respectable and civilized quadruped, and is worth eleven hundred dollars in gold. Another rare beast is the white tiger, which has no spots or stripes, though in other respects it resembles the Bengal variety, exceeding it in ferocity and strength* This animal is very difficult to catch, and is worth some three thousand dollars in currency when caught. Dwarf horses are also becoming valuable articles. There is a demand for snakes ; and the supply does not equal, strange to say, the demand. Common snakes, it is true, are readily procured in quantities; but then common snakes are not the kind of snakes which people wont Boa-constrictors are much prized, and boa'constrictora are not to be found beneath every bush. The fact of the matter seems to be, that snakes that are harmless to man are not valued by man in the least. A snake which can poison you at a touch, like the rattlesnake, is of consid- erable worth, — say seventy-five dollars. A boa-con- strictor, which can crush you at a hug, is valued at two hundred and fifty dollars ; wbile a few snakes which can crush you and poison you both are worth any money that can be asked for them. There are about fifty different species of snakes known in the trade, besides various kinds of blacksnakcs, some of which are worth forty dol- lars and upward. A full-size African boa-constrictor, with a small head, has been sold for three hundred and fifty dollars. One great advantage to the trade in keeping snakes is the fact that they do not cost much to keep* The larger ones are fed only weekly or monthly, and swallow their birds or rats without any cooking. The catching and selling of birds is a branch of the animal

BIRDS,

321

business which has more followers than any other, but ia in itself of comparatively little interest It is pursued to a great extent, and is a branch which has amateurs and connoisseurs innumerable* Many rare birds have been recently imported, and find ready purchasers. What is called the love-bird, from its affectionate disposition, and the fact that it can only live when praised, is of a bluish brown, the male having a variegated head, Africao birds of the smallest possible sizes, with hi lis as red as sealing- wax, and brown bodies, known as wax-bills ; Afiican canaries; American nonpareils, little birds with all the colors of the rainbow ; yellow bishops ; red-bodied, black- headed Kapolcons; large Mexican parrots, in green and gold; noisy African paroquets, brown, ugly, and smart; pure white cockatoos, of large size ; Cuban parrots, bgreenish, striped with yellow, some of which- are very smart, and one of which has recently been taught to siog a Spanish song in pretty good style ; hump or heap paro- quets, who live together all in a heap, clinging to each lother and to the sides of their cages ; young parrots, fiusceptible of training ; golden and silver pheasants — tliese are the birds most prized by traders and the public* Of these, the most valuable are the golden plieasant, which ia estimated at fifty dollars gold; the talking African parrots, which are sold at fifty dollars ; the cock- latoos, which range from twenty-five to seventj^-five dol- ' lars ; and the Mexican parrots, which range at about thirty dollars/*

Monkeys are such cunning creatures, that one would suppose them much more difficult to catch than other wild animals. Pitfalls will take a lion, and the famished monarch of the forest will, after a few days* starvation, dart into a ciige containing food, and thus be secured. But ho%v are monkeys caught? The ape family resemble Fman. Their vices are human. They love liquor, and fall 21

TIPSY MONKEYS.

■V In DarfoEr and Seonaar the natives make fennented beer, ■ of which the monkeys are passionately fond. Aware of

^^H thi^ the natives go to the parts of the forests frequented ^^" by the monkeys, and set on the ground calabashes fnll of V the enticing liquor* As soon as a monkey sees and tastes

it, he utters loud cries of joy, that soon attract his com rades. Then an orgie begins, and in a short time the beasts show all degrees of intoxication. Then the negroes appear. The drinkers are too far gone to distrust them, but apparently take them for larger species of their own genus. The negroes take some up, and these immediately begin to weep and cover them with maudlin kisses. When a negro takes one by the hand to lead him off, the nearest monkey will cling to the one who thus finds a support, and endeavor to go off also. Another will grasp at him, and 60 on, till the negro leads a staggering line of ten or a dozen tipsy monkeys. When finally brought to the vil- lage, they are securely caged, and gradually sober down ; but, for two or three days, a gradually diminishing supply of liquor is given them, so as to reconcile^them by degrees to their state of captivity.

Many incidents are given of the wild beasts in menage- ries getting loose; and sometimes panics have taken place in menageries, causing considerable injury to the people, under false alarms of the animals being loose.

One afternoon while a menagerie was exhibiting in Dayton, Ohio, there came very suddenly a furious gale of wind, followed by a heavy shower of rain, which, for a short time, seemed as though it would scatter everything before it The performance was about half over, when, all at once, the guy-poles inside were lifted from the ground, and considerable squeaking was heard through the entire canvas, which spread great consternation among the vast number of people gathered under the pavilion. It was evident that the pavilion would instantly fell un-

1

PAHIO m A MENAGERIE.

S28

Hess great force was applied outside to hold on to tlie ropes.

Some fiftj men took hold of the ropes on the south side,

I and attempted to hold it from blowing over, bnt it was

LBtterlj impossible. In another instant the ropea snapped,

(the centre pole came uofastenedj and, with a terrible

sh, the large pavilion was dashed to the ground, np-

ting, at the same time, two of the wagons containing

wild animals. At this point several voices cried ont,—

. " The animals are loose !" This terrific alarm, added to

[the intense excitement caused by the falling of the canvas

[and breaking of the seats and screaming of women and

[children, made confusion worse con fonnded, and the scene

one of the wildest disorder. The people were terrified,

and fled everywhere in the wildest confusion. Amid the

screams of at least a thousand people, who were trying to

extricate themselves from bencatt the broken benches,

and crawling oat from under the canvas, mothers and

i&thers seized their children and frantically rushed their

ay out as best they could. Many of the children were

pressed down in the excitement, and trampled in the dirt;

some were very much bruised. Many men and women

-fled to adjacent houses, and closed the doors behind, to

escape from being overtaken by the wild animals, which

they imagined were in pursuit of them. But two persons

were seriously injured, a man, who was flung across a

bench while attempting to support a guy, and a little girl,

iho had her arm broken and received a severe wound on

the head.

A fire broke out one November night, not long ago, in a building in Philadelphia, used as the winter quarters of a rnenagerie. In the yard were quartered the cages con- taining lions, leopards, tigers, bears, and monkeys. These were saved, the cages being run out before the fire reached lem* The scene during the hauling out of the cages was ^terrific, as the animals, frightened at the flames, were

su

WHB AKIMAL8 LOOSB.

darting backward aud forward in their cages, nttering tearful cries* In the excitement some of the dens were overturned^ and in two instances the bars were so dis- placed that two leopards aud a lion made their appear- ance on the street* One of the leopards took shelter in a neighboring stable, where he was soon secured^ and the other ran along Jefferson Street to Twenty-third Street, mild then passed in at an open doorway of a dwelling, throuyfh the entry, into the yard, where he was captured. On liis way through the hall he passed several members of the fiiniily, and their condition can be better imagined tlian dcaeribed. The lion, in his frantic efforts to release himaelf, succeeded in removing a bar, but as he jumped (i\>in the cagei a daring fellow threw a packing box over htm« and ho was housed until after the fire was extin- Kuiahodi when ho was placed in safe quarters. Thoo^ saiuU of people were on the grounds, and rumors were numerous. One minute you heard that a lion had escaped. In wnother two lions^ in another a tiger was added, and in iuu>ihor the entire stock of animals had escaped and were prowling around. The consternation was very great, but noboily wn* hurt* Had the animals been very wild, there WUUld ha\^> been several casualties to announce, most piobtbly,

A mem^rit exliibitiiig at Muscatine, Iowa, not long iftllOii itruek Its tents at eleven o'clock at night, and mirltd for Dareuport Before a dozen miles had been If!lt«nei9» a fierce storm let loose its lightning, thunder, ind 1irater% The lightning was blinding in its brilliancy, tike ttiaader was terrific, and the rain, violently driven by iKtfk wiud^ caHMl down in sheets. A panic seized the whole eatakad^^— inett,liotaas»a&d animals seemed terror^strick- m^ l%)il of tlie diivan deserted their teams, and it was not \oan^ Mbra wi^gOM and horses were in inextricable MiAllkMHHi jammed up mass of floimdering animals and

ELEPHA2ST STORIES,

326

overturned vehicleB. The darkness, save when lightniDg illuminated the scene, was impenetrable. The caged lions, tigers, leopards, wolves, and other beasts became frightened, and bounded from side to side of their prisons, and roared and growled and shrieked in very terror. The elephants laid down in the road and refused to move* Three of the horses were struck by lightning, and killed. It was a wonder that no human lives were lost. The show reached Davenport at a late hour in the day, men and teams well-nigh exhausted by the terrible night's work and the har<} journey which followed it

It seems curious to think of applying chloroform to a wild animal, but I heard of a tiger which was placed under the influence of chloroform at Tiffin, Ohio, one Sunday, when *Hhe menagerie** was there, and a leg, which had been badly mangled in a little unpleasautnesa with a panther, was successfully amputated.

No animal furnishes more curious and interesting stories than the elephant It is well known that this ponderous creature is given to return injuries or insults in kind. In Madagascar an elephant^s cornac, happening to have a cocoa-nut in his hand, thought fit, out of bra' vado, to break it on the animal's head. The elephant made no protest at the time; but next day, passing a fruit stall, he took a cocoa-nut in his trunk, and returned the cornac's compliment so vigorously on his head, that he killed him on the spot

But if vindictive, the elephant is also grateful. At Pondicherry, a soldier, who treated an elephant to a dram of arrack every time he received his pay, found himself the worse for liquor. When the guard were about to carry him off to prison he took refuge under the elephant, and fell asleep. His protector would allow no one to ap- proach, and watched him carefully all night. In the morning, after caressing with his trunk, he dismissed

826

A BIT OF APnCK

him to settle with the aathorities as best he could* Both rev^eoge and gratitude imply intelligence ; still more do€s the application of an nnforseen expedient A train of artillery going to Sen ngapa tarn, had to cross the shingly bed of a river. A man who was sitting on a gan-carriage fell ; in another second the wheel would have passed over bis body. An elephant walking by the side of the car- riage saw the danger, and instantly, without any order from his keeper, lifted the wheel from the ground, leaving the fallen man uninjured.

These anecdotes, however, it most i>e borne in mind, fire exceptional in their character ; and I would advise anybody who thinks of throwing himself down in the elephant's track to be picked up, when the menagerie proceesion is passing through the streets, to think a long time before doing it

Elephants generally seem to have an extreme develop- ment of caution with regard to bridges. An elephant belonging to a menagerie which was exhibiting in Ver- mont, while traveling from Waterbury, in that State,, to Northfield, in crossing a bridge over a creek, crushed the floor with hia enormous weight, and fell partly throngh, his fore quarters only remaining on the bridge. By this accident he was lamed for several days, but not sufficiently to prevent him from traveling* When he was brought to the Long Bridge over the Richelieu river, at St. John's, he evidently retained a vivid recollection of this mishap, and neither coaxing, threats, persuasion, nor force, could induce him to budge an inch on the, to him, perilous structare. Nor does it appear that his apprehensions were unfounded, for the proprietors of the bridge notifled the menagerie managers that they were dubious of the capacity of the bridge to bear the weight of the elephant, and that if they crossed him they must do so at their own risk. The morning was rather chilly, and as they did not

I

I I

A HUGB ELEPHANT.

327

wish to risk his health by swimmitig, they concluded to make the venture. The band chariot and den of lions were started on ahead of hira, in order to give him confi- dence, and when he saw that they went safely over, he was induced to follow, which he did very slowly, testing each plank and timber with his fore feet and trunk as he progressed. "WTienever he discovered any of the timbers to be defective, he would cross over the division to the opposite roadway, and would so progress until he came to another doubtful place, when ho would cross back again. He worked along in this way until ho had come more than half way over, when he became suspicious that neither road was safe, and started rapidly back, driving back the long den of cages that were following, and clearing the bridge for a space of ten or more rods. At this juncture a flock of sheep came ruuniug past him, and he vented his spleen by picking them up, one by one, with his trunk, and throwing them into the river, until he had disposed of seven in this way- He was finally induced to go on, and after having been more than two hours in crossing, arrived safely over.

The elephant Empress, the property of the City of New York, and the diatinguiahed guest of the Central Park, is said to be the largest tame elephant in the world. She was formerly the property of the Emperor Alexander, of iiussia. She is about twenty years old, and standi twelve feet and a half high. On the morning of her arrival from Europe, the Hamburg steamer dock at Hoboken was crowded with an eager throng, who waited patiently for 'the enormous animal to come forth* At last came the Empress, slowly and deliberately ; turning sharp at the gang-plank, she suddenly gave a snort and a roar that sounded like distant thunder, and seonied disposed to make trouble. The keeper sprang ahead, and, in the most endearing manner, persuaded her highness to de-

328

AN ASTOKISHED L60PAED.

scend. The ship almost careened as she advanced a little more to the side, and one huge foot, like the pillar of the Custom-housey rested on the gang-plank. There wba. Bomething abflolotely touching in the way the gigantic beast wonid reach forth her trunk and put it around her keeper, who would pat it and again invite the Empress to come on and not be afraid. The huge animal slowly de- ficendcd, the crowd parting silently as she advanced. When Bhc reached the dock the people cheered loudly, and the keeper put his arms around her trunk, and kissed it with delight. As for Ilcr Highness, she trumpeted out her pleasure in a series of whistles and screams. Then advancing stately up the wharf, and reaching terra fimia once again, she exiiresscd her satisfaction by taking dirt in her trunk, and tossing it upon her back. On reaching the stable provided for her, the Empress appeared de- lighted with her quarters, and pranced and whistled, and seemed well pleased with everybody.

A leopard escaped from liis cage in a menagerie which was exhibiting in Cincinnati. The first intimation the keepers had of his escape was his leaping upon a dog and killing him. His appetite for blood being roused but not sated by this, he attacked and disposed of another dog, and then leaped upon the back of an elephant. The keepers had fled in terror. The elephant, however, seized the leopard w4th his trunk, and hurled him about a dozen yards against the lions^ cage. There was a great hubbub for a fow^ moments among the animals. The lions roared, and the noise he had created, adtled to the effects of his unexpected reception by the elephant, so cowed the leopard, that he retreated, thoroughly subdued, into a corner, when, the assistants taking courage and returning, he was easily captured and returned to his cage.

829

A thrilling series of cveiita occurred in the town of Forest, Mississippi, last Bummer^ all growing out of a foolish man's trick in giving tobacco to an angry elephant Inside the menagerie tent the huge elephant Hercules was chained to a stake ; and by way of caution to those enter- ing the canvas, John Alston, his keeper, stated that he bad for several days manifested a disposition of insubordi- nation, and begged that no one would approach sufficiently near to receive a blow from his trunk. A man named Mark Kite, coming in after the keeper's admonition, thooghtlessly handed the elepliant a piece of tobacco, which so enraged him that he struck at him with such violence aa to diilocate hia shoulder, although it was a

330

DEAD ELEPHANT AND UTB LION.

glancing blow* He then plunged with such force that he broke his chain, and although his keeper used every effort to Bubdue hinij he was entirely uncontrollable, and would Btrike and kick at evcrj^ object near him. By this time the Bcene was beyond description. The vast crowd flew for life. Ho then turned on his keeper, and pursued him under the canvas. The eleven o'clock freight train being behind time, and not having any freight for Forest, and the engineer not intending to stop, came rushing along at the rate of twenty miles an hour. When it had ap- proached within two hundred yards, the elephant looked up the road, and seemed doubly enraged. He immedi- ately ran toward it with great speed, and met it with such a shock that he broke one of his tusks and was immedi- ately killed.

The engine was detached from the train by the shock, and thrown from the track, and the engineer ha\Tiig failed to shut off the steam, it unfortunately ran into the canvas and smashed the lion's cage, killing the lioness and releasing the lion.

The lion, finding himself uninjured and at liberty, and being frightened by the steam and whistle of the engine, started at full speed down the Homewood road, roaring terrifically. He had gone but a short distance when he met a man named Sheppard, and gave chase. Mr. Shcp- pard, finding that the beast was gaining on him rapidly, and that he would certainly be overtaken, attempted to climb a sapling. The lion struck at him with his paw as he ascended, but fortunately did no other damage than to tear off his coat tail and carry away a part of his trousers. Mr. John Smith, a resident of Ealeigb, who was riding to Forest with his little eon behind bira, on horseback, met the lion on the road. As soon as the horse saw him he neighed, when the lion rushed at him, seized him by the throaty and threw him to the ground. Mr. Smith, with

■

EXCITINa TIMES.

831

his little son, escaped to the woods, and made tteir way to Forest on foot. While the bcaat was devouring Mr. Smith's horse, Mr. James J. Rich, who was on his way to Forest with a load of chickens, drove up. As soon as the Uoa saw him he reared on his hind feet, lashed the ground with his tail, and sprang at him. Mr. Rich eluded him by jumping from the wagon, when he mounted and begaa tearing open the boxes containing the chickens, and turned them out. He then seemed to lose sight of every- thing in his efforts to catch them. When the excitement in town abated, about twenty mounted men, well armed, started in pursuit, with all the dogs belonging in town, as well as many that had followed their owners. Mr. Rey- Dolda, the owner of the lion, begged them not to kill him, and sent several men with the crowd, with instructions to capture him if possible ; but a long chaae failed to dis- cover the escaped animal, and the citizens returned to the town.

About two weeks later, in Monroe county, Mississippi, the lion turned up again, — many miles from the place where he broke loose.

A young man named Coleman was informed by a ser- vant girl that she had just seen a '*bcar as big as a cow in the edge of the woods,*' a short distance from Mr, Cole- man's place. Her excited manner at once roused his curiosity, and arming himself with his Spencer rifle, loaded with twelve balls, (a piece that he had used in the late war,) he started out in search of the monster. He was accompanied by a servant and a large and very fierce bulldog. Arrived at the spot, a brief survey soon dis- covered to him the object of his search, in the shape of a genuine lion. The beast, at the sight of the men, sprang into the branches of a dead tree, and there waited further developments, Mr. Coleman, who is described as very cool and daring, did not allow him to wait long, for, ele-

I

nfle, be at omcm ^aAmg^ w&wmwl loiib

B. Mr. Colemaa eamtkmmA firmg till lie lad mD hb chaii^ea, Ike npriorf Aot, m he mfienrard f—tpg clean dum^ ite bod^ of die bessli him. And mim emmm tke ta^ of war. , tt&riated with Ua woamd^ aad with glazing ^ ground near Itr. fV Ji ■aaii al the fint a second sprii^ a lOBiqii afierwazd. the eoorage of his dog waemA Mr. Coleman datawctixm. The ooUe aaxmal threw him- the king of beasts ere he readied hk Tictim, and lum hj the nose, though knodced aboni as a r^finight him so tenaciooslj that the lion abandoned , and, by a single bound, seated himself on the I of a tree, about twelve feet from the groimd. At tiUa iMMnent Mr. Coleman's serrant handed him a eled goD, which he had brought along; he almost immediately under the beast, took an was to seal his own fate for life or death, fired bttrds, and brought the lion dying to the ground. te neasnremeot, the lioa was found to be nearly nine IM in lengthy and to weigh one hundred and eigh^

Ye FmsTE Billiaiip Touhnamente*

Ballet*

I TLUTY,

A HTBBIB INTEETADTMBFT.

833

CHAPTER XXVI.

About Jugglers and Gymnasts — Hmalitt and the Italian Juggler.^The

Mountebanks of Paris, — Lively Scenes on tho Cbampa Elysees

Queer Juggling Tricks, — Pompous Street Spouters, — Tbo Seven Indian Brothers. — Chinese Street Jugglers. — Arab Miracles. — Conju- rors' Perils. — Japanese Jugglers and Acrobats.— A Wi^stcrn Acrobat** Peat.— A Gymnast's Account of bia Seniationa in Falling from the Trapeze.

Hazlitt relates that when he was a boy he went once to a theatre. The tragedy of Hamlet was performed — a play . fall of the noblest thoughts, the sabtlest morality that ex- ists upon the stage. The audience Hstenod with atten- tion, with admiration, with applause. But now an Indian juggler appeared upon the stage — a man of extraordinary personal strength and sleight of hand. Ho performed a Tariety of juggling tricks, and distorted his body into a thousand surprising and unnatural postures. The audi- ence were transported beyond themselves; if they had felt delight in Hamlet, they glowed with rapture at the juggler. They had listened with attention to the lofty thought, but they were snatched from themselves by the marvel of the strange posture. *'Euoughj" said Hazlitt; "where is the glory of ruling men's mind and command- ing their admiration, when a greater enthusiasm is excited by mere bodily display than was kindled by the wonder- ful emanations of a genius a little less than divine?*'

This incident is curious as illustrating a sort of thing which no longer degrades the stage, to wit, the supple- menting of a classic play with the tricks of a juggler. In former days it was quite common for theatres to present these hybrid entertainmentSj but the fashion, I am glad to has now gone out

334

AS OUT-DOOE SHOW.

Nowadays, our confessed mountebankB confine their trickery to their proper sphere, and when naoiintebatikB are seen in tlieatres, they are not theatres where legiti- mate plays are enacted.

I have never seen anything in this country to compare with the street mountebank exhibitions of foreign coun- tries. Particularly in Paris is the scene they sometimes present a most picturesque and exciting one. A writer "Le Grand Carre dea Fetes, an open space iu the

Champs Ely8<6e8, is, three times a year, the resort of all the mountebanks in France. The enumeration of these nomadic shows is, I take it, unnecessary; every one knows it by heart. Their 7710dm operandi^ however, is unique, and deserves more than a passing word- They invariably commence by attracting a crowd before their tents or stalls. This is done in a great many ways, and very often the performance outside is much more amusing than that which is enacted inside. In front of each tent or wagon is erected a sort of piazza or scaffolding. Upon this the whole company — father, mother, and all the chil- dren— get together, and lay themselves out to rivet the attention of the passers-by. They are all dressed in gay colors and gaudy ribbons. They execute a polka, perhaps to the mnsic of a keyless bugle, or some one of the troupe dresses up as a very little man with an enormouBly large head, and dances till he becomes red in the face, only this the spectators eaunotseo; or else a fellow on stilts pre- tends to be drunk, and tumbles about as if he were going to fall from his dizzy eminence into the midst of the crowd below. Or perhaps a juggler, robed in a long black gown covered with hieroglyphics, like an eastern magus, plays off a trick or two upon some one dressed as a clown, who pretends to be very silly and to believe that the juggler really pulled a potato from his nose. These means gene- rally succeed in getting a pretty good concourse of people

TWO SOUS.

335

together. The manager then comes forward, and an- nounces, at considerable length, the programme of enter- tainment which will be spread before the delighted audi- ence. He goes through with it two or three times, and assures you that the exhibition has been patronized by the first society in all the cities he has visited. He generally uses very stately language, and you are sometimes lost in doubt as to whether it is possible that this flowery speech really can refer to a two-penny show. The conclusion of Ms address sets yon right in a moment. * Now, ladies and gentlemen, let me endeavor to induce yon, in the interest of the Fine Arts, to lend your countenance to this enter- taining and refining exhibition, Walk in and sit down, while onr performers go through with their exercises be- fore you, and if you are not satisfied, your money shall be refunded. The price of admission has been diminighed, for this occasion ooly; it has usually been six sous, and everj^body has been astonished that so varied an entertain- raent could be afforded at so moderate a sum. To-day, however, being a day intimately connected w^ith the glory of our beloved country, and it having been suggested by several influential persons that a reduction of price would be attended with beneficial results, the slight compensa- tion of two sous only will be asked from those who favor us with a call. Two sous! Two sous, only! So that every one may be able to amuse and instruct himself al- most for nothing. Two sous ! Who hasn't got two sons !' Now follows a scene impossible to describe, The mana- ger seizes a trumpet and shouts, 'Two sous! two sous!* till he ought to be hoarse. Then the children and the clown cry, * Two sous ! only two sous !' till they are ready to faint from fatigue. Then the manager holds up two fiugere in the air^ keeping down the others with his thumb. The children and clown do the same, ' Two sous ! two BOOS !* Then they begin to dance again, the stilt man re-

tppeajB, more drunk afresb, and a frighdiil din ensues, in the midst of which jon hear a Toice rising above the tiumoil, shouting, * Two 80OB I two sons !* Then the manager opens the gate, and a rush commences np the slqia. Two sons I Up thej go ! nmaes with children in their arms, men with little hoySy soldiers, and &mili^ of six ! Two sous ! The manager standfl near the gate, helping the old women np the staiiB and piling them in at the door, all the time yelling, ' Two aons !' and holding np his two fingers. Soch is the noise and confusion^ that people lose their senses, and do very strange things. Sober citizens, who only came out to breathe the air, are seized with a sodden panic, and go rushing np the steps in a most incongnioas manner. An orange seller is separated from his basket, and, being I eanght by the tide^ is whirled into the tent and disappears. We go in with the rest, and get a seat npon a bare board which, in the florid speech of the director — ^two sous !— was covered with damask ; but what can one expect for two sous ? When the rush ceases, we look around us and find about fifty persons in the tent, which is little more than half fall. A silence ensues, and the manager looks in at the door, and then goes away again. This is dis- heartening, and everybody turns wistful glances at the curtain. Suddenly the bugle commences again on the outside, and the scafiblding begins to shake as if some- body were dancing upon it The sun, which shines full upon the cotton front of the tent, daguerreotypes npon it the shadow of a very large head, which seems to be eai^ rying on in a very singular way. A fellow on stilts is evi- dently counterfeiting intoxication for the amusement of the bystanders. In short, the sickening conviction comea over everybody that they are doing it all over again. The explanation, the trumpet, the fingers, the two sous, the all follow in the same order as before, and with

AN UNHAPPY ARMADILLO.

337

pretty nearly the same nmnerical results, for the second tills the benches. This method of catchiug aodieDces is practised by all these exhibitions, and the description of one will suffice for the whole. The performancea com- mence speedily, for it is now the object of the manager to get rid of this audience as soon as possible, and to set about inveigling another. The exhibition sometimea is very poor and uninteresting, and sometimes more extra- ordinary and inexplicable than anything to be seen in the more pretentious tifly-ccnt museums. I remember that once having got into a place where a very fat woman was to appear in conjunction with an African nondescript, it was announced that the iady was sick, but that the non- descript would be exhibited. This was nothing more than a sickly armadillo, about a foot long, who was obliged to do duty for himself and his colleague. Tbe exbibitress played all sorts of pranks with him, poking him with her tinger in tender places to make him squirm, and tossing him up in the air and catching him again like a pancake. Ko doubt he wished that the big lady would soon get well again. As we went down the steps, the manager was again holding forth upon the numerous attractions of his exhibition, giving a slight biographical sketch of the fat woman, and an anecdotical history of the armadillo. The next show was a very different afiair. The tricks of necro- mancy were like all other tricks of the sort, but what fol- lowed was worth walking a mile to see. A girl, perhaps the juggler's sister, seated herself in a chair in front of tbe spectators, though at some distance from them. She waa then blindfolded- The juggler came among the audience and asked the people to lend him any small articles they might have, and the girl would tell what they were. He soon had his huiids full of purses, rings, pencils^ snuff- boxes, handkerchiefs, etc. Then, taking one from the rest, and holding it in such a way as that it would bo im- 22

338

BECOND SIGHT.

possible for the girl to see, even if she were not blind- folded, he went on Bomewhat in this way. *Wbat do I hold in my hand ?' She answered, without a moment's hesi- tation, *A pocket-book/ *What*8 it made of?* 'Mo- rocco, with a steel clasp,' 'What is there in it?' 'Money/ 'How many pieces?* ' Three/ * What are they?' 'A five franc piece, a one franc piece and a sou/ 'What's the date on the son?' *1828/ *0n the one franc piece?' *1847/ *What do I hold in my hand, now?' 'A ring/ *What is it made of?' *Qold, with six turqnoises in it* *Is there any lettering on it?' *Yes/ 'Read it/ 'Charles to Marie/ A very pretty yoong lady is seen to blnsh violently in the corner, and when the ring is handed back to her, everj'body tries to get a sight of her face throngh her closely-drawn veil. 'I wouldn't mind being Charles, myself,' remarks a laughing gentleman at the letL 'I hope Charles is well,' says the juggler, and then proceeds, I handed him my watch, which had a cover over its face. Without opening it, he asked the girl what time it was by the watch he held in his hand. 'Ten minutes to nine/ she replied. As it was about two in the afternoon, this seemed guessing pretty wide of the markj and the people began to titter. But the necromancer quietly displayed the dial of the watch, and there it was, sure enough, ten minutes to nine ! 'You put it back on purpose to catch us, didn't you?' said the magus, with a triumphant air* 'Yes/ said I; feeling very much as if I had been caught robbing a hen* roost. 'Well, IVe a great mind to keep your watch, as a lesson to you ; but you may go this time/ So saying, he magnanimously handed it back. In this way he went on fbr nearly half an hour, never making a mistake, and puz- zling all the wise-heads who nndcrtook to discover his se- cret For one, I could make nothing of it, and was con- tent to consider it very miraculous^ without attempting a solution. On the piazza of the next tent in order, was a

THE JOLLY FIDDLER.

man playing on the violin in a very droll way. First he played as everj^body doeSj then he took a bow in his left band, and scraped away just as easily as before. Then he put the fiddle over his head, and behind his back, without incommoding himself in the least. The tune kept on as merrily as ever. Then he put the violin under his left leg, and over his right leg, playing away all the while. One w^ould have thought that there would have been a break in the sound at the moment when the bow and fiddle sepa- rated, but if there was an interval, it was quite impercep- tible. All this be did with perfect ease, interlarding his music with humorous observations. When he had thus collected a good-sized crowd, he left the stage to another man, and retired to a distance to eat some bread and cheese. The other man then began a speech, the sum and substance of which was as follows :— Within the tent, he s^id, was perhaps one of the greatest noveltiea to be seen in or out of France. This was no less than one of the former wives of Abd-el-Kader> the great Algerian trooper. The 'way this distinguished foreigner came to be exhibiting herself at two sous a head, was briefly this: — A French officer, being on service in Africa, was one day in danger of being surprised by a troop of Arab horsemen, who were lying in ambush for some third party unknown. From this awkward position he was in some way or other released by the fair Algerian, The officer, finding no bet- ter way of repaying the debt of gratitude he owed her, bought her of Abd-el-Kader, and seut her to France, where she of course became free, and her own missis, *She speaks Arabic, French, and English,* continued the showman, *and all will be permitted to address her in any of these languages. Her education,* he went on, growing warm and eloquent, 'has been in all respects such as befita the bride of a chieftain of the desert.' A crowd of us went in, and after a breathless suspense of some moments, the

S40

AX ARABIAN PRIKC16S FROM OLD VIROUmY.

lady made her appearance. Sho waa quite dark, with wooly hair and a flat noae; very wide nostrils, a large mouth and thick lips. Her teeth shone aa the teeth of people of her complexion always do. She had on a white mnalin gown, very low in the neck, and reaching but little below the knees. Iler arms, which were bare, were fat and chubby, and the palms of her hands were almost white, as if they bad been used to washing dishes and scrubbing floors. Around her neck was a string of imi- tated pearls, and in her hair was a festoon of artificial flowera She came forth and stood still till every one had gazed his full The audience, who were mostly French, almost quailed before the eagle-glances of the free roamer of the desert, and their thoughts wandered to her far-oflT home among the oasis of Sahara. As for myself, a dim recollection of things I had left behind, was beginning to come over me like a southern sea-breeze. The showman now begged the audience to address to her some question in French or English, A military man, with a moustache, bowed politely to the lady, and made some trivial inquiry in French, w^hich she answered after various breakings down. It wa^ now my turn, being the only representative of the English language present. The choice of an appro- priate question was rather difficult, and I thought of seve- ral without deciding on anything satisfactory. At last, for want of something better, I said, *How is your mother?' * I hab not heerd ob her health since de last time dat I hab dat honor.' Visions of banjos and melodies on the banks of the Roanoke, coupled with memoii's of home, rose be- fare me. I said, nothing, but waited for further develop- ments. ' Now,' said the showman, ' she'll eing you a song in her native Arabic. Pay attention to this, I beg you, as it may be the last time you1l ever hear that beautiful lan- guage. The words depict the scouring of a troop of horse* men across the desert.' The fair Algerian took an attitude

LUCY LONG.

341

harmonizing with the Bpirit of her song, and commenced

in vigorous style —

« OIw de kitchen J old folka, young folks; Clar de kitclien, old folks, young folka ; CUr do kitchen^ old folks, youug folks; Old Virginny nebep tire V

If this be expressive of the way the Arabs *go it' in the desert; I have been wandering in a maze all my life, la- boring nnder a benighted idea that I was speaking and writing English, In plain Arabic, then, Abd-cl-Kadir's wife was no other than some Lucy Long, or Coal-black Rose from Virginia, who had left her eunoy home in her youth, and by some strange mutation of fortune had fal- len in with a company of strollers, and turned her dark complexion to account in the manner described. Some of the out-of-door exhibitions are as amusing as those that take place under cover* Just outside the American's tent, was a man with a table before him, w4io was explaining the properties of various glass tubes and vessels. In tliese tubes were liquids of several colors. Some red, like water tinted with ehcckerberry candy, and some green, like as- paragus juice. These were for different scientific pur- poses. One was to blow in, to see to what height the liquid could be raised by the force of the breath. An* other, and the most extraordinary, was an instrument for telling the character. This was an upright tube, three- fourths filled with a fluid of no particular color, or rather of all sorts of colors, as if a child's paint-box had been dis- solved in it At the bottom it came to a point, forming a sort of handle. This handle had a thin bore running through it, containing a small portion of the liquid. Ac- cording to the explanation of the exhibitor, this liquid, being highly impressionable, would be difterently acted upon by the hands of difiereut individuals. Persons of

842

TOE GLASS Of TEMPERAMENT,

great nervous energy, strong miuds, etc., would affect it much more powerfully than othera of weak character. To illustrate this by experimeot, any one might have his dis- position told for two sous. It was rather a dangeroua risk to run^ — ^thus exhibiting your inmost self to a holiday crowd ; but there was no lack of adveoturera. First eamo a baker's boy, with lazy gait and listless air, and a cotton turban ou his head, lie took the glass in hand. The top of the liquid seemed to be slightly ruffled, and something appeared to be trying to break forth. A bubble rose slowly upon its surface, and after a moment's hesitation^ burst. The agitated waters subsided, and all was still. * There,^ said the showman, * there is probably the most insigniiicant character that has ever, during a long career in the most populous cities in France, been presented to my observation. That young man will never set the Seine on fire, though he might his bedclothes. Look at him, gentlemen, and then tell me if my glass has not been singularly accurate in its indications? Don't get run over, my friend, in going home/ Then came another applicant He seized the glass and held it tightly. The liquid immediately began to boil and bubble as if it meant to break its bonds and give the spectators a sprinkling. A continuous stream rose from the body of the fluid, and dashed itself in spray against the top of the tube. Realh% the contents of the glass were as much agitated as the fountain in the park. * There's a contrast for you,' exult- iugly exclaimed the exhibitor, ' Let go the glass, young man, A minute more and you'd have it in splinters. There's a fellow I shooldn*t like to have a tussle with, I only hope he won't come to harm, with such a temper as he's got. Look at hira, ladies and gentlemen, and judge for yourselves!' The man*8 glass was right again, this time; the young fellow would have been a severe customer in a fight. He was pale and ragged, but had a determined.

STBOLLma MOUNTEBANKS.

843

bearing, and a bold, uriquiveriDg eye. Such ia the Grand Carrel in fete time. A treraendoos, though coufased din of muBic, drums, shouts, vociferations, applause aud laugh- ter, bursts upon the ear. On three sides of the square ia arranged, in long array, the army of menageries. They all face the square^ presenting their fair side to the audi- ence* Behiud are the broken-down horses that drasr the tents and wagons from place to place, taking their morn- ing's meal in silence and sadness. At every ten steps is a rude sort of kitchen, hurriedly built of stones, ia the open air; an odor of fried potatoes, and the hissing of a row of griddles, tell that even jugglers must eat, and that necromancers, like other mortals, are susceptible of crea^ ture comforts. Occasionally a gaily-dressed harlequin, whose term of service has expired for the morning, and who has an hour to himself, leaving his jests and bis an- tics behind him, throws himself upon the ground, where the 80ti is warm and the earth dry, and, huddling up his body into a ball, goes quietly to sleep. The strolling Biountebank, whether juggler, clown, or tumbler, has but one dress, which serves him for all the purposes to which dress can be applied. His gay holiday attire, his red and yellow velvet; his silk and feathers, are his everyday cos- I tume. He travels in it, sleeps in it, jumps in it. His closely-fitting tights are his only trousers, his spangled jacket ia his only coat, and very often he can claim no other head-dress than his cap and bells. Anywhere on the road that they may stop to take an hour's rest, he is always ready with his jingling brass and bright colors, to give a taste of his quality to the peasants and villagers. Ilis meals are never so hearty as to prevent him from turn- ing somersets the next minute. Ilis sleep is so light that he will wake at a moment^s call, dance a Highland fling, put the lighted end of a segar in his month, stand on his head, w^alk on his hands, while anybody else wonld be

844

PUPPETS AND MAHIONETTES.

robbing his eyes, and eoraposiDg himself to slumbor again. I notice a very palpable progress in the art of exbibiting poppets or marionneiics in Paris. There are five of these exhibitions in the open air, upon the Champs Elys^es, be- sides two stationary theatres devoted to that specialty, on the Boulevard du Tcraple. I do not see that the latter are at all superior to the former. There are two kinds of pup- pets, those managed from underneath — the exhibitor s arm being run up into the garments composing their body, and his fingers forming their arms — and those managed from overhead, by means of very visible ivires, which sustain their weight, and strings which communicate the ueces- sary movements to their legs and the appropriate gestures to their arms. The former — puppets proper — have no legs, of course; they must be supposed to touch ground three or four inches below the spectators' line of vision. They have great strength in their arms: and their prin- cipal duty is to carry hca\^ objects from place to place, and their principal pleasure, to whack each other with clubs. The latter — markmuUes proper — have but littlo lorce in their upper limbs^ hut can give a very phimp and well-directed kick, if desired. The conversation is of course carried on by the exhibitor in two or more voices. If the number of dramatis personm require it, his wife lends him the assiBtanee of her vocal organs, sustaining, natu- rally, that part of the dialogue which falls to the more shrill-voiced of the characters. On Sundays these out-of- door exhibitors perform to audiences varying from thirty to fifty persons, seated on straw-bottomed chairs within the ropes. Fifty persons, at two sous a piece, make a dollar, and fifteen performances may be given easily from three o'clock to nine. On other dayB, however fair the weather may be, the receipt is barely one-third as large* The lady who takes the money, and who seats the audi- ence, often gives the choice of the play to the visitors —

THE SEVEN IXDIAN BROTHERS.

MB

naming over a dozen or so of the best pieces of her hus* band's repertory. I remember that once it fell to me to select the entertainment, and I chose, without any particu- lar reason for so doing, a farce in one act, entitled *The Change of Lodgings/ I have never ceased to regret, to this day, this most nnlucky selection. Wq had an audi- ence equal in point of elegance and toilet to any I have seen of late at the Italian Opera, but the farce was barely decent in its character, summoning blushes untold to many a mortified cheek* It was calculated to ofleud the festidious in a supreme degijee. In no other country than France, probably, would an clegantly'dressed lady sit with her children at a puppet-show in the open air, not twenty feet from the most fashionable promenade in the city, where, perhaps, her carriage and servants attend her/'

Borne time ago a French juggler, who had for a whole week entertained the inhabitants of a Braall German towui and bad astonished the natives with his amazing and num- berless sleights, was at once, as it seeincd, completely dis- countenanced and beat down by an announcement which was circulated through the town, to the effect that seven Indian brothers would exhibit the following feats : — The youngest, with a lighted candle in each hand, would jump down the throat of bis senior brother, who, also armed with two candles, would jump down the throat of the next, and so on till there was only one left; and this was to make an end of all by jumping into his own throat! The performance was to take place at the usual hour, at the same hotel, and in the same hall in which the French juggler had, with so much success, exhibited his own feats; and he himself came in as a common spectator, openly confessing that the announced tour de force was entirely beyond his power of conception, and he was cu- rious to witness it, to see whether he could make out the artifice of it. The price of the places had been raised to

846

CHINESE JUGGLERS.

double tbo usual figure, but the hall was early crowded* The spectators had been waiting a long time, and were growing impatient, when it was announced that the seven 'Indians had disappeared. Whether they had swallowed one another, no one could say; but they were no where to be found, and the money received had disappeared with them. The disappointment was great and general, as may easily be imagined, but soon gave place to a different feel- ing. The disappointed crowd, who had swallowed the hoax, seemed determined to vent their spleen on the benches and furniture, when the French conjuror, who was among them, kindly offered to entertain them gratis for that evening, to thank them for their former favors. The offer was gratefully accepted. The evening was spent agreeably, and the disappointment almost forgotten. The French conjuror went away the next morning, and it was only when he was gone that the good people were in- formed, through him, that he had reserved them his very best trick for the last. It was he himself who had devised the hoax of the Seven Indian Brothers, and he who reaped the profit

Street jugglers abound in China, Says a correspond- ent: ^^Sword swallowing and stonci-eating appear to he the commonest feats, and operators of this description can be seen in almost every street. One fellow, however, per- foiTued a number of feats in front of our hotel, which de- mand from me more than a passing notice. lie stationed himself in the centre of the street, and having blown a blast upon a bugle to give warning that he was about to begin his entertainment, he took a small lemon or orange tree, which was covered with fruit, and balanced it upon his head, lie then blew a sort of chirruping whistle, when immediately a number of rice birds came from every di- rection, and settled upon the boughs of the bush he bal-

CLEVEE TRICKS.

anced or fluttered about his head. He then took a cup in his haad, and begao to rattle some seeds in it, when the birds disappeared. Taking a small bamboo tube, he next took tlie seeds, and putting one in it, blew it at one of the fruit, when it opened, and out flew one of the birds, which fluttered about the circle Burrounding the performer. He continued to shoot his seeds at the oranges until nearly a dozen birds were released. Ho then removed the tree from his forehead, and setting it down, took up a dish, which he held above his head, when all the birds flew into it, then covered it over with a cover, and giving it a whirl or two about his head, opened it and displayed a quantity of eggs, the shells of which ho broke with a little stick, releasing a bird from each ehelL The trick was neatly performed, and defied detection from ray eyes. The next trick was equally clever and difficult of detection. Bor- rowing a haudkerchicf from one of bis spectators, he took an orange, cut a small hole in it, then squeezed all the juice out, and crammed the handkerchief into it. Giving the handkerchief to a bystander to hold, he caught up a tea-pot and began to pour a cup of tea from it, when the spout became clogged. Looking into the pot, apparently for the purpose of detecting what was the matter, he pulled out the handkerchief and returned it to the owner. Ho next took the orange from the bystander, and cut it open, when it was found to be foil of rice."

A number of interesting explanations of Arab miracles are given by Kobert Houdin, the celebrated French con- juror. The Arabs eat pounded glass, Houdin powdered some for himself and ate it, and he avers that bis appetite for dinner was improved by the dose. They walk on red- hot iron with bare feet, and pass their tongues over a white-hot plate of iron. Prof. Sementriei discovered that by rubbing into the skin a solution of alum evaporated to a spongy state, it was rendered insensible to the action of

of

MS

THB SECRET OUT.

red-hot iron. He rubbed himgelf with soap, and found that then, even, the hair did not burn. He rubbed the alom into his tongue, and lapped the glowing metallic surface without pain, Houdin himself tried passing his hand, slightly dampened, through a stream of melted iron, and found, as others have done, that it left no scar on him. An English coDJuror used to thrust a sword through his body, shove a knife up either nostril to the handle, and, thus spitted, sing a song. Houdin bought the secret of the invulnerable, and now divulges it The performer was very thin. With a waist-belt he strapped his tender paunch tight down upon the vertebral column, substituted a card-board stomach for the suppressed part, covered all with flesh-colored tights, between the true and false abdo- men fastened a scabbard, covered the apertures on the sides with rosettes, placed a sponge filled with red liquid in the scabbard, and there thrust his sword, which came out covered with bogus blood, of course. The pug-nosed mountebank enjoyed a physical conformation which per- mitted the delicate and delightful performance.

Houdin used to say that if the public knew what passes through the mind of a conjuror when he sees the barrel of a pistol turned towards him in the course of a ** fire-arm trick,'* they would perhaps give him credit for as much nerve and courage as the bravest soldier shows in battle. An omission in some trifling point, the breaking ofl" of a small part of the false ramrod or of the real bullet as it ia being withdrawn, may make the discharge fatal. Often, too, the trick is a new one, and some miscalculation may make the plan a failure, where failure may mean death. An event which took place in the Cirque Napoleon strik- ingly illuatrates Houdin's words. Dr. Epstein, the con- juror, bad offered a gun to a spectator, with directions to take good aim at the doctor, who was to receive the dis- charge on the point of a sword. The man refused, but

11

THAPEZE PERFORMANCE.

Ill

THE JAPS.

MS

another fired off the gun as directed. The moment after, the doctor staggered aod fell to the ground, exclaiming; **I am Sk dead man!'* Several persons hastened to his asfiistance, and, a surgeon being sent for, the unfortunate performer was removed at once to his own residence. Naturally, a great sensation was excited among the spec- tators, although few were aware of the full extent of the injury done. It appears that the slight piece of wood used in ramming down the charge, had broken in the barrel, and that a piece of it had traversed Dn Epstein's body, inflicting a painful, though not very dangerous wound.

Everybody remembers the furore which was created in this country by the first troupe of Japanese acrobats and jugglers which came here. The history of this troupe, of which little "All Right" waa the bright particular star, was a rather doleful one. In October, 1866, two Ameri- cans, then residing in Yokohama, Japan, entered into an agreement with several Japanese acrobats and jugglers to give performances in the United States and Great Britain. By the laws and customs of Japan no native is allowed to leave the country without the permission of the Tycoon, The two Americans obtained authority to take the com- pany and receive their servicea for one year from October 20, 1866. The penalty imposed upon the jugglers by the Tycoon for noncompliance with the terms of this agree- ment was death — provided he could catch them. Twelve performers were selected. The principal ones were Foo- kee-matz, who acted as leader ; String-kee-chee, Ling-kee- chee, and Eing-kee-chee, his son of nine years ; with Zoo- shee-kee, Ohee-shau-kee, La-as-kce, Chee-zah-cliau, Ai- noo-schee, Foo*choo*chec, and tas-kee as assistants. They were of one family, and servants of the house of Yoo-ku- chu, a Japanese prince, No sooner had they arrived in this country than they got entangled in all sorts of law- saita and other troubles, which kept them in constant dis*

350

FALLING FROM A TRAPEZl,

tress, and their great deBire was to go back to Japan. But between the prospect of death, at the order of the Tycoon, and their overwhelming home-sickness, they found it difficult to decide what course to take; and, though remaining in the country, they became the prey to gloomy feelings, until finally one of them committed hari-kari — running himself through with a sword. The acrobatic feats of these people were very extraordinary.

A western acrobat performed the astonishing feat, two or three years ago, of riding a circus horse from the bot- tom to the top of the circular staira leading to the dome on the Court House at Chicago. The dome is one hun- dred feet from the landing. The stairs are winding, and not more than four feet wide, and the banisters not more than three feet high. The daring performance attracted a large crowd.

A gymnast who fell from a trapeze, in New Orleans, gave the following account of his sensations : "Amid the sea of faces before me I looked for a familiar one, but in vain, and, turning, I stepped back to the rope by which we ascended to the trapeze, and going up, hand over hand, was soon seated in my swinging perch. As I looked down I caught sight of a face in one of the boxes that at once attracted my attention. It was that of a beautiful girl, with sweet blue eyes, and golden hair falling unconfined over her shoulders in heavy waving masses. Her beauti- ful eyes, turned toward me, expressed only terror at the seeming danger of the performer, and for the moment I longed to assure her of my perfect safetj^ but my brother was by my side, and we began our performance. In the pauses for breath, I could see that sweet face, now pale as death, and the blue eyes staring wide open with fear, and I dreaded the effect of our finish, which — being the drop act — gives the uninitiated the impression that both per- formers are about to be dashed headlong to the stage.

A TO10HTFUL MOMENT.

861

Having completed the double performancej I ascended to the upper bar, aodj casting off the connect, we began our conibination feats. While banging by my feet in the up- per trapeze, my brother being suspended from my hands (the lower bar being drawn back by a super.), I felt a Blight shock, and the rope began slowly to slip past my foot. My heart gave a great jump, and then seemed to stop, as I realized our awful situation. The seizing which held the rope had parted, the rope was gliding round the bar, and in another moment we should be lying senseless on the stage* I shouted * under to the terrified 'super,,' who instantly swung the bar back to its place, and I dropped my brother on it as the last strand snapped, and I plunged downward, I saw the lower bar darting toward me, as it seemed, and I made a desperate grasp at it, for it was my last ebauce. I missed it! Down through the air I fell, striking heavily on the stage. The blow rendered me senseless, and ray collar-bone was broken, I was hurried behind the scenes, and soon came to my senses. My first thought was that I must go back and go through ray per- formance at once, and I actually made a dash for the stage — but I was restrained, and it was many weeks before I was able to perform again V

852

DAI^aSBOUS SPOBI.

CHAPTER XXVn.

Accidents to So-called '* Lion Tamers," — An Amateur Tamer torn to Pieces. — A Lion attacks ita Keeper in "Wiaconsin.^Narrow Escikpe of ftnEngliali Keeper.— Almost a Tragodyat Barnum's.^— A Licm Tamer'i Story. — The Killing of Lucas, the Paris Lion Tamer, — Wtat it Co4ita to get up a Menagerie. — The Headless Rooster, — The Gorilla which had a Tail — How the Happy Family is kept Happy. — A Dog thftt wouldn't Irtj Put on Exhibition.

Tbe valorous "lion-tamers** (as they are called), who enter the cages of wild beasts and cuff them about in a style startling to the unsophiaticated mind, do not always come oif entirely unharmed from their little amnse^ ments.

An amateur lion-tamer was killed a short time since, at Balleio, in Belgium. The regular lion-tamer of the show was illj and the director proposed to exhibit in place of him, lie entered the cage, and succeeded for a time in making the lions go through their perfomiance; but when it came to the close, which consists of giving the animals raw meat, the director lost courage, and instead of keep- ing a firm eye on the animals, he trembled and made for the door of the cage. This sealed his doom, A large lioness pounced upon him, and in a few minutes the rash, unfortunate man was torn to pieces.

An animal performer in Madison, Wisconsin, had on one occasion nearly completed his usual performance in the lion's cage, and was in the act of firing off his pistol as the fotale^ wlien one of the lionesses sprang furiously at him, and tore tlic flesh in shreds from his arms and legs. The unfortunate man's bones snapped under the terrible violence, and all the spectators were stricken with fear.

I

expecting to see him killed outright. The employees of the meDagerie, however, quickly realized the peril of the situation, and made a tUrious attack ou the lioness with epeai-8 and lances. They succeeded, with some difficulty, in beating her off, and in rescuing their comrade, who was immediately placed under treatment, and his wounds dressed. The crowd of spectators w^ere thrown into great confusion during the affair, and many, fearing for their lives, fled from the scene, but fortunately none wore in- jured*

At Bradford, England, last Summer, a fair was being held, among whose attractions was a menagerie of wild beasts, which included a Barbary lioness and a good-sized male puma. At intervals these animals were put through a performance by one of the keepers, named Joseph Pearce. While the latter was in the cage wnth the ani- mals on Friday evening, the lioness suddenly seized hira J by the arm, threw him down on the floor of the cage, and ♦> held him by the throat in its grip. The spectators became greatly alarmed, and while some, in the hope of rendering assistance, began to tear out the boards near the cages^ ,; others began to retreat by the passages. In a moment of the greatest apprehension, the puma fortunately struck the lioness a blow with its paw, and thus diverted from its \ keeper, the brute turned savagely upon the puma, and the i pair engaged in a fierce tight The keeper, apparently j little injured, immediately regained his control over the ^ beasts, and persisted in finishing the performance. j

A similar scene took place at Barnum's old museum, in '[

New York, during a performance of a drama callled *^The / ^^h"'^^*'n MartvTs.' In the fourth act, Sebastuin (rcpre- ^ ^

tentod bythe keeper of the animals at Barnum^s) is cast into a cave full of "wild animals." The keeper had been in the den but a fe%v moments, when he noticed an unu- iual glare in the eyes of the leopard. He had forgotten 28

864

HBRB LENGEL'S EXPERIENCES.

to take his whip in with him, and told an attendant to

pass it to hira. This done, he administered a smart stroke on the leopard's nose, and then laid the whip aside, when almost iustantaneouslyj the treacherous beast sprang upon' himjand a fearfiil ioterval ensued. The keeper, however, adroitly contrived to extricate himself, but not before he had received several severe injuries, namely: a deep wound of two or three inches on one of his hips, a longi | deep wound on both thighs, and another commencing below j the knee-cap down to the ankle, laying the bone open. The sufferer speedily recovered.

Ilerr Lengel, a Philadclphian by birth, and a Hon-tamer by profession, tells the following story of his own expe- riences. After stating that lion-taming was a gift of' nature with him, he continues: "I have no fear of them. People tell me every time I get a wound, that it ought to be a warning to me, and should make me fear to go into the cage again. But it does not. When I am away from the lions I get homesick, and when I can go where they are and my wounds prevent me from going into the cage, I get more homesick stiU. I never met any lions I could not tame. Three years ago I tamed five, in New York, which, while in Europe, had killed one man and badly mangled another, who attempted to tame them* In three weeks after they were put in my charge, they were aa l tame as I wished, though they were before considered untamable. I very seldom use force in taming them, but sometimes it becomes neceesarj', — ^ kindness is my usual plan ; I am always careful to keep my eye upon , them. Every one who has seen Hhc lion-tamer' leaving^ the cage after his feat of lying down among the lions, < putting his feet on their heads, feeding them, and firing off pistols, has doubtless noticed how careful stepping out backwards very deliberately, m closely the beasts, which always advanced ni

LIOKS AND LIONESSES.

355

I did not keep my eye upon them they would jump at me. They have sense enough to know that I am retreat- ing from them, and they gain courage ; there is more danger to me at this time than at any other. If the lions were at liberty, I would fear to go near them. Borne people think that a lion bora in America is more docile, partaking less of tlio savage nature of the brute than one bom in Africa or Asia. Not so. I would rather have to tame a litter born in either of the last two mentioned places than a litter bom in this country^ — the latter are more dangerous and less easily tamed, I have been bitten a number of times by lions, lionesses I should have said, for the males have never done so ; the lionesses are more treacherous and deceitful than the lions. I have been slightly scratched an almost innumerable number of times, but never had to lay up but t^vicc from wounds. The first wound was a bite in the left leg, in Western Pennsyl- vania, while with Barnum's. The second was received while with S. B, Howe & Co., in Augusta, Georgia, being severely bitten in the left hand. The womid caused me to lose the use of my middle finger. The third was inflicted at Little Eock, Arkansas, by a lioness in llowe & Castello's collection- This time two fingers of the right hand were mangled, I have fall use of them now. The fourth was received in Madison, Indiana, last Summer. The lioness seized me by the right leg, driving her teeth into the calf of my leg until they nearly met. The fifth was received last AprU in New Orleans. The animal seized me by the left leg, inserted one tooth of the lower jaw an inch and a half into the calf, and a tooth of the upper jaw the same depth into the upper side of the knee joint. I was confined to my bed awhile, but when the show moved I came along, and gave two exhibitions, one in Augusta, and one in Savannah. I do not think I was bitten but once intentionany. The lionesses, when to-

THB DIATE OF LU0A6.

gether, never meet, but they snap and sDarl at each other — two of them never live peaceably in the same cage — ^it is my opiaion that, with the exception mentioned, when I aggravated one beyond endurance, I was in the way, and was bitten for one of the lionesses. I have the teeth and claws of the lioness which I think bit me purposely. The teeth are an inch and a half long, with a root about two and a half inches in length. If the teeth were driven in flesh up to the gums, a large-sized peach stone could be planted in the hole. The claws, which the animal^ like the cat, keeps unexposed till wanted, are formidable looking objects. I do not now doubt, as I once did, the assertions of travelers, that one blow from a lion's paw would kill a man, or tear out great masses of flesh. I fear their claws more than their teeth — they generally gtrike before they bite.*'

Lucas, the celebrated lion-tamer of the Paris Hippo- drome, was killed a short time ago by his animals. He was paid at the rate of five hundred franca per month, or about three dollars for each time that he risked his life in a cage containing four or five wild beasts. He went into the cage, at the Hippodrome, where there were two lions and two lionesses, with only a whip in his hand, instead of the heavy cudgel which he generally carried. A lioness, presuming upon his being unarmed, sprung ut him and seized him by the nape of the neck. A cry of horror arose from the spectators. Many women fainted, <and others rushed out of the theatre. The other lions, attracted by blood, rushed upon Lucas and bit and scratched him severely. In a few moments he would have been killed had not one of his assistants, who was not in the habit of entering the cage, come forward and knocked the lion about the head with an iron bar. Lucas said to him *^Go away, leave me to die alone." The man dragged him away from the lions. The doctors discov-

I

QETTINQ UP A MENAGEEIB,

357

er^d no less than thirty-one wounds. M. Aroand, the manager of the Ilippodromej had the presence of mind to cloae the door of the cage after the faithful servant got Mr, Lucas out of it, otherwise the lions might have made a raid upon the audience. Lucas died soon after.

If any of my readerst have a spare $100,000 in greeu- backs, about them, they can get up a very respectable menagerie on that capital. Here is an estimate of prices (in gold) for a very tolerable show, to make a beginning with: —

One elephant ..$16,000

Lion and lioness, with cage... 9|<M)0

8ea COW) a rare unimat „.,..,., ., S^OOO

Pair of very largo leopards, and two smaller ditto 5}00(l

Australian knng:aroo » ,• 2,000

Australtan wambut... 2,000

Ostrich 1,000

Eoyal tiger.« i.OOO

Sacred camel , 2,000

Rare btrdg, monkeja, and lesser animals, including those of American nativity.......... 20^000

Total.... $60,000

With gold at a premium of say forty per eent., this re- lievos you of all but $3400 of your greenbacks.

You may get some idea of your other expenses by re- ferring to the chapter treating of circuses.

And, to cheer you on, I would casually remark, that about one menagerie in ten makes money. The othor nine — don't

Ail a general rule, in this branch of the show busineM, a little humbug goes a great way, and saves a pretty penny of expense.

Not long since a man created a great sensation by ex- hibiting what he termed a headless rooster.

CrowdB thronged to see this exti'aordinary freak of na-

b

THE HAPPY LIFE,

ture. To all appearance it wad a rooster without a head, which walked about quite comfortably.

Some ODC detected the <*scir' one day. The rooaler was found to have a head, which tlie unfeelmg wretch of a showman had concealed by cramming it out of sight, and sewing a dead rooster's decapitated neck and breast- feathers over the living head of the unfortimate fowL

The fellow was arrested and punished.

The humbugs of Barnum are celebrated, but I think this Bhowman was never guilty of such cruelty as this. It is even stated that he reftised to cut off a monkey's tail ooce — though he was exhibitiDg the monkey as a gorilla, and gorillas have no tails.

Many people who have looked on in amazement at the "happy family'' of dogs, cats, birds, monkeys, mice, etc, sometimes exhibited in the same cage in museums, won- der how these creatures, of such antagonistic natures, are kept "happy/'

Their "happy'* state is similar to that of a man who has stupefied himself with liquor. They are stnpefied with morphine, with some exceptions. The monkeys are gene- rally left in possession of their faculties, and sometimes a dog may be fonnd of a sufficiently benign disposition to be trusted.

Apropos of dogs, an amusing story is told of a sagacious canine in England. The dog's owner resolved that it should be sent to the Birmingham Show, The coach- man, who had known the dog for years, was thereupon instructed to get the animal into condition. Thomas be- gan his work with tender care, dressing the dog's coat, and looking after him with unusual attention. Nelson (the dog's name) grew dull and moody under the treat- ment, and at last, when he was put into a new <villar. And saw himself dragging a spotless chain, he re^ his master or any one else. The dog evJ

A BETEEMIFED DOG.

359

he was the object of some wretched design. By and by the time for his removal arrived. Thomas patted and coaxed him^ but Nelson resisted all friendlj^ appeals, though he permitted Thomas and a couple of other ser- vants to lifl him into an open light cart. The coachman chained his companion to the seat, and away they started for the ghow* When just on the borders of the family estate, Nelson suddenly leaped upon the coachmauj pulled him down upon his backj and Beized the reins in his mouth- The horse, a quiet, steady beast, continued the even tenor of his way, and Thomas, in a wholesome fnght, dared not interfere with the dog, which continued to ex- hibit ugly signs of desperation. Failing to stop the horse by means of the reins, Nelson, plunging to the full length of his chain, seized the horse's tail, and by this time Thomas, coming to the front, turned the horse and drove home, unmolested by Nelson, who, however, regarded him with a watchful and threatening eye. " I knew he'd never go, sir,'' said Thomas, "he never meant to go," and he did not go.

S60

CIBCUS-PEKFOEMHra OHnj>KEir.

CHAPTER XXVIU.

About Circuses and Pantomimed. — Children as Acrobats. — Barbarotis Treatment of a Little Girl by her Trainer. — Cruelty of a Father to his Two Performing Children. — Excitement in a PbiTadclphi^ Variety Hail. — How Children are Driven to their Tasks in Circuses.^ — Death in the Ring,^-Tbi> Clown's Dying Wife. — Leaping through a Hoop into Matrimony. — The Cost of a Circus, — Behind the BoeD«i in the Circus.— How Engagements are Made, — Cirena Clowns and Stage Clowns. — Pantomime, — An Evening of Englbh Pantomime.

I am no admirer of the circus; but especially do I ab- hor fleeing children in the ring,

I bavo said that the eight of a child-actor on the stage excites my deepest Bympathies — hecauso it does not seem to me as if any child could naturally like the life.

This feeling is intensified in the case of child-acrobats and circus-performers; for, if it is unnatural to see a child go through a part on the BiQ.gQ^ how much more unnatural it is to see a child performing the perilous feats of the acrobat !

I know that boys who go to circuses are apt to be fired with the desire to convert the limbs of trees into horizon- tal bars, and to make a trapeze out of an old rope in the barn ; but the frolics of an active child, imitating that which tickles its little fancvj are a very different thing from tlie making such performances a daily labor.

No Schoolboy, driven unwillingly to school, ever hated his books as the child-acrobat hates his toilsome and dan- gerous feats; and, to their shame be it said^ those who train chiKlren for the circus and the variety hall are ol\en guilty of the most brutal and cruel treatment of their Uttle protegees.

I remember a case of this sort which took place in Cia-

CUMLUIAX.

AcnODAT*

iitFFQON,

DjLXe£US£.

MlStfflHKL.

SHAMEFUL EXHIBTION.

361

cinnati,. and waa made the theme of indignant coranaent by Bome of the newepapere. A circus owned and managed by a celebrated elown was exliibitiog there. The clown- proprietor introduced a little girl to the audience, saying that she would exhibit her skill in riding. Ue stated that the horse was somewhat unused to the ring, and if it should happen that the rider should fall, no one need en- tertain any apprehension of serious accident, for the arena waa soft, and injury would be impossible* It was surely an unhappy introduction for the child, and calculated to fill her with fear and doubt The child whirled rapidly round the ring two or three times, using neither rein nor binding strap. She stood on one foot, then changed to the other. After this, she was called upon to jump stretchers. Had her horse been well trained, the feat would have been no very difficult one. But she became entangled in the cloth, and fell to the ground under the horse's feet. She was placed again on the back of the horse, and compelled once more to try the feat. Her fall had not given her new confidence, and she fell a second time. Evidently much against her inclination, and in spite of her trembling and her tears, nature's protest against barbarity, she was tossed again to her place. But her nerve had gone. She was utterly demoralized. Judg- ment of distance, and faith in herself were lost Again she attempted to execute the leap. Again she fell to the ground, this time striking heavily upon her head. She rolled directly under the horse's feet and only hy a sheer chance escaped a terrible death. The audience — more merciful than those within the ring— by this time had be- come thoroughly aroused and indignant. Cries and ehonts were heard from all quarters: *' Shame! shame 1" " Thatll do !'' ** Take her out ! take her out !'* came up from every side. It would not answer to disregard such commands, and with a smile the ringmaster went to the

862

AIT INHUMAir PATHEB*

child, raised her from the dust where she lay, and led her, crying and sobbing, to the dressing tent.

This disgraccfal scene was bad enough ; but when the trainer of a child chances to be its father, and exhibits such brutality^ there are no words to express one's indig- nation. The New York Clipper^ which is a kind of organ for "show" people, and is of course disposed to be very lenient with the ghortcomings of the class on which it de- pends for patronage, recently furnished this testimony: " It is pretty well known to the profession that many of those connected with the circus business who take ap- prentices to teach them to ride and do circus business generally, resort to considerable lashing of said appren- tices in order to make them proficient. We have been eye witnesses where the tutor has given some poor ap- prentices a good cutting with a knotted rope, raising huge lumps upon their bodies, and otherwise maltreating them. No matter how hard the apprentices sti'ive to do what they are bid, if they make the slightest balk, away goes the laah of a whip or a rope's end at their fragile limbs. About two years ago we were obliged, owing to his brutal treatment, to give a certain popular performer a sharp talking to for abusing his children. He is a powerfully built man, with two children — his own^ — whom he pos- tures. He opened an engagement at the New Theatre Comique with his boys, who are very smart and exceed- ingly hard working children, about fourteen and sixteen years respectively. During their posturing, one of the boys happened to make a slight mistake, and, notwith- standing the performance was enthusiastically applauded and the children called out, the father actually kicked one of the boys as he was leaving the ring, which was noticed by many of the audience. Not satisfied with this, he beat him 80 outrageously in the dressing room that blood oozed from his nose and mouth, saturating his clothes, and the

BETJTAL CRUELTY.

363

screams of tbe child brought to his rescue several of the company, who threatened the brute of a father with bodily injury if he dared to punish them again in such a manner in their hearing. We ventilated the affair at the time, and it had the effect of staying his ill treatment for the time being only ; for we learn from members of the circus com-

I company with whom he has traveled this season, that on

[several occasions he has abused them in a shameful man- ner. He has reappeared in this city, and has again re- sumed his inhuman punishment, such as putting their heads in a bucket of water, and holding them tliere until they can scarcely breathe, and then kicking them with his big feet, and actually picking them op and throwing them

[Bgmnst the side of the room, and otherwise ill treating them. It seems almost incredible to believe that any so- called man, and he a father, could descend so low as to so abase Vis children ; but what we have stated is true, and not in the least colored/'

On another occasion the same paper spoke as follows, referring to a performance in a New York variety hall : ** After having executed some very clever feats, without a

: mishap, for which they were heartily and deservedly ap-

^plauded, a stand about twelve feet higli was brought for- ward, and the father ascended with his two boys, and after forming a pj'ramid descended, accompanied by his

! youngest son, leaving his oldest son, about twelve years old, to throw a number of flip-flaps from the top of this stand, and alighting on the same, AVhcn we inform our Traders that the top of this stand is scarcely as large as the

[top of a flour barrel, they can readily see what a feat it is to accorapliBh. While turning these flip-flaps, the father kept hurr)'ing him up, and all at once he missed his foot- ing, and down he came to the stage, striking very heavily upon his head and shoulders. Knowing, probably, what he would catch if he dared to show to the public any signs

864

AN INDIGNANT AUDIENCE.

of pain, he jumped up, turned a couple of flip-flaps, and, while leaving the stage, and before he was out of sight of the audience, his father gave him such a blow on the back that sent a chill through the audience, and was the cause of many leaving the house in dieguet, bestowing upon him anytliing but table talk language. It was a disgraceful as well as inhuman act. The profession is talked about enough already as to the abuse inflicted by members of the equestrian profession upon their apprentices and those they are bringing up to the business, without any one making a public exhibition of it.**

Considerable excitement was caused in a Philadelphia variety hall, one night last summer, through the eflbrts which were made to drive a child to the performance of perilous feats, for which she was unfitted by nervousness and fright. The little girl had been performing on the trapeze with an older person, and, as she was dedcending from the dizzy height, the man whose duty it was to catch her failed to do so, and the poor child fell to the platform placed over the orchestra, a distance of several feet, and struck her head and otherwise injured herself. The child was picked up, when she immediately placed her hands to her head, and it was apparent that she was seriously hurt Notwithstanding this she was brutally ordered to remount the platform in the gallery and repeat the feat. The child obeyed, but shch conduct on the part of those having charge of the exhibition was too much for the audience to stand, and there was a unanimous cry of "No, no!" " Shame, shame !'* ** Take her back, take her back !" etc. In the meantime the child mounted the platform, and then stood ready to repeat the feat, but the audience rose, en masse^ to their great credit, and prevented the ropes from being handed to her. Unable to combat such a display of public indignation and disapproval, the child was 01^ dered to retire, which she did amid the moat tumultuc^ua

UNFORTUNATE LITTLE CHILDEEN.

365

applanse. After aba had retired, the stage manager ad- vanced and stated that she desired to perform another feat, and that she was not injured, and the consent of the audience was asked. There was a general cry of ''No, no,'* and considerable hissing; but, taking advantage of a few cries of ^* Go on/' from the boya in the gallery, the child again appeared* and, mounting the platform, took hold of the rings and swung herself off for the purpose of catching the hanging trnpeze inih her feet, and then making a eommersanlt while descending into an out- etretched net As the audience felt would be the case, the child essayed the feat, but failed to catch the trapeze, owing to her nervous state, which was natural, under the circumstances, but she was saved from injury by her com- mendable presence of mind in not letting go of the ropes. The consequence was that she swung backwards and for- wards amid a scene of much excitement, and was relieved from her perilous position by persons in the audience, who caught her and carried her to the stage.

The editor of the Galveston (Texas) Bulkibi^ who tpeaks from personal knowledge of the way children are driveii to their tasks in circuses, says: "It is aUogether useless to tell us that these athletic children take to these feats naturally as does a duck to the water. They are unwillingly forced to them. It is not in the nature of things for them to look down from their giddy altitudo without fear. Those children that ride rapid horses are driven thereto by the laah, and beneath their spangled

, petticoats are to be found the blue welts of the rawhide.

i It ifl useless to tell those who know better that these chil- dren leire the sports of the arena."

The accidents which are continually happening to the people who follow the perilous profession of circus per-

I fbrmers do not seem to have the effect of driving away the candidates for gymnastic glory. In Illinois, not long

J6

ANECDOTES OF THB MNG,

since, a circus performer broke his back while performiBg, EEd the strange scene ensued of a clergyman performing the last offices of religion by the side of a dying man in tights and spangles, stretched on the sawdust of the ring.

The incongriiitiea of the hilarious painted clown in the ring and the plain man with a family out of it, are some- times painfully illustrated. On one occasion, in Chicago, the clown at Yankee Robinson's Circus, was notified while in the ring of the sudden change for the worse of his wife's health, and was transferred from the show a moment after ho had set the audience in a roar of laughter at some taking joke of bis, to the bedside of bis dying wife. Truly, in the " midst of life wo are in death/'

As a contrast, there is a story of a circus performer — a woman — ^who leaped through a hoop into matrimony. An old marquis near Paris went to the Rue Montmartre to see Mile Paquita dance a cachuca on four flying steeds and jump through a hoop. Just as she was doing the act, she missed her foothold and fell plump in bis bosom. Both were carried out insensible^ and the result was that henceforth the dancer occupied the best portion of the old fellow's chateau, and bore his title.

In former days the circus and the menagerie were separate institutions — the circus being *^ a foe to its zoo- logical rival, but like it struggling onward in the race for popularity and importance. The advertiser who now travels with a carriage and pair, followed by a couple of dashing two-horse wagons, with a paste brigade and the pictorial bills, was then represented by a 'solitary horse* man' and a bag which hold both the bills and the ward- robe of the rider, or, as often as otherwise, the* latter made his * stands' on the spot Step by step, both these branches have advanced to their present combined pro- portions ; for at this time a traveling expedition is not

COST OP A CIRCUS, 867

considered perfect^ especially in the rural districts, without the amalgamation of circus and menagerie. An estimate of the cost in organizing and perfecting a first-class "show,** with the requiBite proportion of horses, ponies, carriages, wardrobe, trappings, jjaraphernalia, tent, show- bills, etc., waa made by a Western reporter, showing the following figures:

Tho poljhymniat a mammotli and elaborate musical iiutrument $9^000

Golden dragon buggy, mado in Cbicago, 2,800

Tho '*Undino throne'* car ,••„• 4,000

Twenty-four wagonjs and Yohiclod, at $800 each „., 19,200

Sixteen animal cagea, cost $200 each , 19,200

Harnees 10,000

ThiTtj-foui- performing and ring horses at $600 each.. 17,000

One hundred and soventy-oight baggage horses at $1G0 each 28,700

Trappings, wardrobe and properties.............. 18,000

Engravings for pictorial bills (the drawing of one cost $1,000)... 20,000

Stock of illuminated bilk to start with... 12,000

Tent, poles, ropes and seats.. 6,000

Zoological panorama, dividing the circus from tho menagerie 2,000

ToUl ..$162,900

The organ of the circus people, already referred to» gives many curious details of circus-life Behind the Scenes, and "on the road." In tho circus dressing-room **they are preparing for tho 'grand mtree.' Helmets are lying around loose, and wardrobes appear to be in a state of great confusion. Cheap velvet gaily bespangled is quite plentiful. It looks best at a distance. Quantities of white chalk are brought into use, each man's face being highly powdered, his ej^ebrows blackened, etc. The dressing-room is small, and there is apparently great con- fusion while the performers are donning their respective costumes. But each knows what his duty is, and does it accordingly, without really interfering with any one else. Close beside is the * ladies' room;' into this we are not permitted to cast our profane peepers, but we know from

868

SECRETS OP THE DBESSllfG ROOM.

exterior knowledge that paint and powder, short dresses and flesh tights, are rapidly converting ordinary women into eq^i€^iri7me angels. Outside of the dressing-rooms are the horses, ranged in regular order* At a given signal the riders appear, mount and enter the ring. As they aie dashing about in apparent recklessness, let us look more closely at them. They all look young and fresh, but there are old men in the party who for twenty-five or thirty years have figured in tiie sawdust ring. Chalk bides their wrinklesj dye-stuff their gray hairs, and skull caps their baldness. Yonder lady, who site her steed gracefully, and who looks as blooming as a rose on a June morning, is not only a mother, but a grandmother. And there is George, who was engaged last wnter * to do nothing/ you know. He finds his duties embrace riding, leaping, tumbling, object-holding, and occasionally in * short* times driving a team on the road. There is one rider who was formerly a manager himself. He had a big fortune once, but a few bad seasons swamped it, and he is now glad to take his place as a performer on a moderate salary. Eetuming to the dressing-room after the entree we find the clown engaged in putting the finishing touches to his costume. We must look closely to recognize him. He does not reall}^ seem to be the same fellow that we met at the breakfast- table, in stylish clothes and a shirt-front ornamented with a California diamond. He has given himself an impossible moustache, with charcoal, and has painted bright red spots on his powdered cheeks. You think him a mere boy as he springs into the ring, but he has been a 'mere boy' for many a long year, and his bones are getting stiff and his joints ache in spite of his assumed agility. The 'gags' that he repeats and the songs which make you laugh are not funny to him, for he has repeated them in precisely the same tone and with exactly the same inflection for im

OIRCUS-PBOFLB S HARD WORK.

369

indefinite number of nights. He comes out to play for the *priucipal act' of horsemanship. Meantime, in the dressing-room, the acrobats, if the air is chilly, are wrapping themselves in blankets or moving about to keep warm. When the 'bare-back rider' returns from the ring, he iisnally disrobes, takes a bath, and dons his ordi- nary attire; but the less important performers must keep themselves in readiocss to perform any assistance which they may be ealled upon to render. There is but little repose for the weary circus people during a season. Frequently they stay but one day in a place, and the next town is fifteen or twenty miles distant. AH the properties must be packed up, the helmets and cheap velvet, the tights and the tunics must be stowed away, and the journey made by night. It is morning when they reach their destination and ere long they have to go through with the 'grand procession;* then comes dinner; then the afternoon performance; the brief interval ; supper; the evening exhibition, and then another night's travel. It isn't safe to bet on more than five hours sleep out of the twenty-four, and the 'talent* musn't be over nice as to where and when be takes bis uncertain snoozes. In view of the hard work and the frequent exposures to the elements it is a noticeable fact that the average health of ^ the circus people is very good. The season over, the company disperses, most of the members lavishly spending their hard-earned salaries, and * touching bottom* before the winter fairly sets in. By January you will find many of them back at their favorite hotel, anxiously awaiting a^ I fresh engagement for the next season. ^B "In the month of January the * talent' for the forth- ^^ coming summer season is usually engaged by the circus ^_ managers, written contracts are duly entered into, and ^f «r© properly signed, sealed and delivered — provided, of i €OQiM| that the * talent' can write. Mitre notts — I have

370

THl circus-people's HAUNTS.

noticed that students, clergymen and men of sedentary habits generally, were particularly fond of displaying tLeir physical ability. And so the circus folk, on the other haud^ pride tlieraselves on mental culture. If one of their number can write a passable song— no carping criticisms arc made on troublesome iambics and trockaics — he is greatly admired, and is held up as a paragon of intellectual excellence. The man who can turn all imagi- nable 'flip flaps' and who rides with exceeding grace, would much prefer that you should praise his penmanship than his horsemanship. The circus people usually con- gregate during the winter at some well-kcpt, moderate- prieed hoteh K the landlord be a thoughtful, good- hearted man, his reputation slowly but surely spreads through the country, and his tavern eventually becomes a sort of headquarters for the profession. To such a place come with me on a winter morning, and we shall see what we shall see. We enter a room fifty feet long by twenty wide, which answers for the oflice and bar of the circus hoteL This room is well filled; in fact, crowded. And of this assemblage six are managers and seventy-five are 'talent' The talent awaits ongagemcnt, and the managers have come to fill up their lists for the tenting season. Wq appro^ich a round-faced jolly-looking man who evi- dently has stamps in his pocket. He is talking to a big fellow, a manager like himself^ whom he calls * Doctor.* He seems to be in a confidential humor, for he says; ' Well, Doc, I had the poorest show on the road last season, but I made stacks of money, and all by advertising, I had one little sick elephant, about as big as a horse ; and the bills used to say that there was a herd of elephants, including several trained animals and a few wild ones. I Iso had the names of all the best talent in the country my bills, though in point of fact ray company con- Eisted of only five persons, and they were no great shakes*

p

CLOWNS, ACEOBATS AMD GYMNASTS. 871

My * celebrated five-pole tent* had left four of its poles somewhere and leaked pretty bad in rainy weather, ^Butj' adds the complacent manager, *rm going to have a bully show this year/ The doctor chuckles, and ann- in-arm they walk deeper into the room where riders, acrobats, gymnasts and clowns are waitiug for something to turn up. Contracts are made something in this style : * Holloa, George/ says the manager, * have you got an engagement for the next season V *i^o, not yet/ * What's your price?* * A hundred dollars a week/ 'One hundred dollars for doing what?* *Thc double somersault, the two horse act and leaping/ *0h, we don't want that. WeVe got too many riders and leapers already ; all that we care for is your name; that's worth something, of coui'se; but no sucii figure as you mention. You'll have nothing to do except the double somersault/ And so after plenty of haggling, the price is fixed upon atid the engagement made. The clown, who has quite ceased to be a funny fellow, holds out with great pertinacity for an extra ten dollars, while the 'Brothers,' who are very seldom brothers, refuse to come down in price or to take any new brothers into the family excepting on liberal terms. As soon as a performer is engaged he subsides into the nearest scat and leaves the coast clear for those whose future is not yet settled. The work occupies the greater part of the day, but usually before night the i available talent of that hotel is booked for the tenting* eeason, which, as is generally known, covers a space of twenty-six weeks. As I have said al! this occurs in January, Between that time and April, when the show starts out, the chxjus actors are frequently short of funds and are sometimes broke. Then it is that the landlord's good nature and kindness are tested. First, he must sift the ' beats* from their more worthy brethren. With tlie former class he deals sternly, showing them no mercy.

8T2

PANTOMIME.

Bat thoBe whom he has trusted before and who have come honorably to him when they received their salaries, and liquidated their hillsj he treats with great consideration, not only trusting them, but occasionally supplying them with small suras of money. lie seldom loses by thus casting his bread upon the waters, but receives gi*atitude and greenbacks as his just reward. In comparative idle- ness the winter passes with the circus people, but in April comes an excitement, a bustling, a general packing up. The 'properties* are brougbt forth, the horses are trotted out, the freshly painted band chariot is exposed to view^ and things generally are arranged for the tramp."

The circus clown and the stage clown of pantomime ar two veiy diflereot creatures. The one talks — and usually his wit is coarse, his humor vulgar, his jokes old and stupid. I never could understand what people found to laugh at in the stale stupidities of the poor old circus clown.

The pantomime clown seldom talks; and when he does he is usually as stupid as the circus clown; but he has a wealth of laughter-provoking power in his whitened face. Pantomime, as a means of expressing ideas, may be one of the most beautiful of arts, in the hands of a man or woman of genuine artistic ability*

The origin of pantomime was no doubt synonymons with the linguistic troubles which developed themselves at the tower of Babel.

There is as good warrant for pantomime on the stage as for any other representation in the way of ''holding the min*orup to nature." Richardson relates that there is a dialect of hands, arms and features in common vogae between white men and Indians. " A trapper meets iB dozen savages all of different tribes, and though no two have ten articulate words in common, they converse for hours in dumb show, comprehending each other perfectly,

CONVERSATION WITHOOT WORDS,

378

II

and often relating incidents which cause uproarious laughter, or excite the sterner passions. To a novice these signs are no more iotelligible than go many vagarie of St Vitus* dance; but like all mysteries, they are simpl and significant — after one comprehends them. All Indian languages are so imperfect that even when two members of the same tribe converse, half the intercourse is carried on by signs. Mountain men become so accustomed to this, that when talking in their mother tongue upon the moat abstract subjects, their arms and bodies will partici- pate in the conversation. Like the Kanakas of the Sandi^ wich Islands, they are unable to talk with their hands tied. Thus the Greeks carrj' on long dialogues in silence; and the Italians, when in fear of being overheard, often stop in the middle of a sentence to finish it in pantomime. It is even related that a great conspiracy on the Mediter- ranean was organized not only without vocal utterance, but by facial signs, without employing the hands at all. How much more expressive than spoken words is a shrug of the shoulders, a scowl, or the turning up of the nose ! The supple tongue may deceive, but few can discipline the expression of the face into a persistent falsehood; and no man can tell a lie — an absolute, unmitigated lie — with biii eyes. If closely and steadily watched, they will reveal the truth, be it love, or hate, or indifference.'*

An evening of English pantomime is a scene of great ju- venile hilarity. There is nothing the bold Briton so dotes upon — in his youth, at any rate. The great pantomime occasion of the year is Boxing Night — which is the night of the twenty-sixth of December, "The turkeys have been carved, the plum-puddings have been eaten, and the mine^-pies disposed of. Bills are pouring in upon pater- familiaa ; crossitig-svveepers, with sprigs of holly in their brooms, are doubl^^ assiduous in wishing pedestrians the compliments of the season; crowds of holiday-makers

THE SITTYMAN FAMILY,

876

Becoud time, and the curtain rolls slowly op and discovGrs the abode of the Demon Discord. There is Mr. Sittyman, smU ling good naturedly, and holding bis youngest in his arms, quieting her fears of the Demon Discord with acidulated drops, and pointing out the beanties of the Bower of Ever- lasting Peas with a fat, stubby finger. Mr. Sittyman ia a hard-working merchant, who goes home by the eix o'clock omnibus to Peckham with the regularity of clockn^ork, and whose only dissipation in the year is this one visit to the theatre with his children on Boxing Night. What a day this twenty-sixth of December has been to Mrs. Sitty- man at Peckham, preparing for the annual festivity! What ironing of muslin frocks, sewing on of buttons to tiny garments, and finally, what bustle and confusion, packing the entire family into a cab to set oft' to meet papa in St Alphage Lane ! It was a Beverc trial, doubt- leas, for Mr, Adolphus Sittyman, aged seventeen, to enter the theatre with a laughing sister of eight clinging to him, and asking absurd questions in a terribly loud voice, w^hile a juvenile brother clutched his coat-tails — the tails of that sacred thing, a first dress-coat — and shrieked with laugh- tor at some joke of papa's, A severe trial for Mr. Adol- phaSf who last pantomime season had only been Master Dolly in a jacket and lay-down collars, home from school for the Christmas holidays, but who is now a man of busi- ness, glib in City quotations, cogiusaut of Mincing Lane matters, and interested in the rise and fall of stock. Xext to Mr, Adolphus in order of seniority is Miss Adelgitha, a blooming damsel of ten, who has, with Sittyman preco- city, already attained the * first sweetheart' stage of life, has intorchanged sugarstieks with the object of her afiec- tion», and has danced with him an entire evening at Mrs. Mhicing's ball. Alas, for the fickleness of the female heart ! Miss Adelgitha, this twenty-sixth of December, is euslavod anew by the prince in the pantomime, and that

I

THE TRANSFORMATION SCENE.

her Arthur Ilenrj, m tunic and knickerbockers, is already forgotten for the velvet-caped, silk-stocldnged scion of a regal house, who puns, sings, and dances with mock hila- rity before a sham castle on the boards of the Theatre Royal. Miss Rosalind Sittyman is there, too, with large dark wide-open eyes, drinking in eagerly the wonderfol sight before her, and Master Ilorace lounges in front of her, dividing: his attention between a cake and the antics of the Demon Discord. See, my good friend, the grand transformation scene is about to commence. The dismal dungeon of the demon parts iu the centre, and the realms of dazzling light are disclosed, glittering and sparkling with the greatest attainable theatrical brilliancy. EverjrJ

Iwith the greatest attamable theatrical brilhaney. Everjr^^H moment fresh beauties are disclosed to the open-eyed chili^^H dren, who clap their tiny hands together and vie with ■ each other in exclamatory *oh my's/ till the culminatinjj^^l point is reached and Clown, welcomed with a shout of d^^' light, comes bounding on the stage followed by Pantaloon, w^hile Harlequin and Columbine pose themselves in grace* ful attitudes in the full glare of the colored fire. * * * But throughthe chinks ofthis in terestingscene, before which ^ Harlequin and Columbine are dancing with so much ani- mation, I can see the gleams of light for the finale, which tell me the grand Christmas pantomime of 'Harlequin King Canute' is drawing to an end. The final chord ifl played in the orchestra, the green baize has fallen on the last scene, the box-keepers are tying Holland pinafores over the ormohi, and the vast audience is pusViing and rushing and fighting its way out into the cold, slushy streets, setting ns an example which we, my patient com- panion, had better follow, unless you choose to remain kere through the night, to picture to yourself the different occupants those boxes into which w^e have been gaidttj may have had since the first opening of the theatre/

PIB8X VISIT TO A LONDON THEATEE.

377

I

I

CHAPTER Tnmr

D0niaiii and Foreign Theatres ContraBted. — Sconio Qaperiority in this Country. — Full Dress in London Theatres.— Curiositiea uf Acccnt.^ — The Pit and the Tqh Nut.— Tho Drees of English and AniericAn Aettt^QS, — Behind tho Scenes. — Stage Banquets. — The Vanishing Green-room. — Tho New York Stage as seen by English Eyes. — Doooroiu Audiences. — Persistent Play-goers, — The Star System. — Poor Encouragement to Dramatists. — The English and French Stage Compared. — '*Tho Cross of my Mother.*' — Dcelino of the British Stage. — The Dramatist's Power. — London Theatres. — Tho Most Cole- Wftted Playhouses of Europe, — Theatres in Germany.

Until late years, the stage decorations of American theatres Lave beeu of so poor a description that my flrat entrance into a prominent London theatre, about ten years ago, stnick me with speechless astonishment at the beauty of the ynise at scenCy which was far above anything I had ever seen in America — of whose theatres I had teen a habitiie^ both "in front" and ** behind the scenes/' since my earliest childhood.

The play, I remember, waa one in which Miss Amy Sedgwick appeared, and tho whole performance was so good that it was to me like a revelation in histrionic art.

Piissing my time about equally between Paris and London for the six years following this event, I was able to form a pretty correct idea of theatrical matters in these two centres of civilization, and to compare their theatres with those of America when I returned to my native ountry in '62.

en I found that American managers had discovered great tact that comfortable seats in tho auditorium, lenty of chandeliers, and the tabooing of babies in arms, not all that was required to make a play attractiv6|

378

BTAQB-DECEIKO.

*

^

and had consequently begun to adopt the European plan of "mounting'* every piece which they thought destined for a "run."

This needed reform soon bore it« fruits ; and now it is not too much to say that New York can safely compete m almost every respect with any London theatre, whatever its grade.

I dare not extend the boastful comparison to the theatres of Paris, for the trail of the Gymnase is over me still, and the halo of the Comedie Franeaise is as bright a nimbas in memory's heaven as though half a dozen years, headed by a rebellion J punctured with a war, closed with a pea had not passed since I sat in that classic temple and listened to "Britanoicus."

Many pieces which have been brought out in London and consiLlcred well mounted there, have been transferred to New York and placed upon the stage in such a way as quite to thro%v their original decking into the shade. As an instance, I may cite the comedy of "Ours,** which an English officer who had seen the piece in London and had^ taken a great interest in it on account of having served in the Crimean war, told me was placed on the stage at Wallack's Theatre so much better than in London as almost to be unrecognizable. This was not due, howeverjl to the superiority of the scenic artists — ^for in this direc- tion the Americans were not to be compared to the English — but to the extreme care bestowed upon other details by the management : the reckless extravagance in furniture, pianos, paintings, etc., of whose richness I can give no better idea than by saying they looked as though trans- planted from a Fifth avenue drawing-room.

It seemed to me during my diflerent visits to London, and in course of conversation about theatres with English people, that an idea pravailed that, in American theatres, were invariably presented entertainments of a low order,

SHABEY FULL DRESS.

879

and that American audiences were composed in great part of Pike's Peak miners sitting in the best boxes ia their shirt-sleeves, and with their legs up.

To visit ono of those American theatres, and to observe the elegance of the ladies* toilets, the *'etuuning^' get- up of the jeuncMe greenbacked of New York, the wild extravagance of outlay in both sexes, is to correct this idea at once*

Aj3 for the entertainment itself, it is usually as near the European model as three times the money expended on it there can make it.

In Eugland, I fouod prevailing a rather stupid rule, that a lady must be in *^ full dress" to go to the best seats in any theatre ; and I weil remember with what annoy- ance I removed my bonnet^ iu obedience to a peremptory command to that effect from the ticket-seller at Astloy*9, To eater that sacred abode of horsey art, I was told, I must be in fiill dress. To go in full dress to a circus aeomed a very stupid thing to do.

Besides, did the mere removal of the obnoxious bonnet coaBtitute "full dress'* in England? My own American idea of full dress meant a diamond necklace and as little else as possible. Then, again, the gentlemen of our party bud thick shoes on, and, if I am not mistaken, these were rather muddy from walking about London streets all day engaged in sight-seeing. Their dress, however, was not objected to ; and, my bonnet removed, the whole party was immediately in that " full dress" which the high-toned ijrtainmeat presented at Astley's rendered indis- [isablo !

Tills same full dress so generally prevailing in England it frciiucntly so shabby that the appearance of an Eng- HsIj theatre compares most unfavombly with that of the tame species of entertainment in America. I do not now ipwk of the toilets of those English ladies who can aflbrd

EiDictTLOirs sonomL

any Parisian loxnrieB their taste maj dictate, bat rather of that middle clasa of gentlewamen who, compelled to be in full dress, compFomise the matter by appearing in old- fiahioned and unbecoming opera cloaks^ with faded ardfi* cial roses in their hair, and not infrequently soiled gIoT«8. Perhaps these game ladies have bonnets or n>und hats and neatly fitting velvet or silk jackets at home, in whid — if they were allowed to wear them at theatres — ihej would look as well dressed as the American ladies.

That the American custom is an agreeable and convem* ent one is very evident from the fact that English ladies visiting Paris theatres, where it is aleoin vogue, quicUy and gladly adopt it. Kor can it be urged that tiiere h anything inelegant about it; for bonnets and street^ jackets, as all continental travelers know, are not pw> nounced mauvais ton even at the Italiens in Paris,

In regard to the comparative exceUence of the acting at American and foreign theatres, I may quote Mr. Bouci- cault, who says it is better here than in England ; and in the better class of our theatres I think it is. The only branch in which we are distanced is in the field of bur- lesque, which American actors and actresses as a class are incapable of portraying.

Where American histrionic talent shines most brightly is in fine sentiment or tragedy, and were it not that the American accent is so distasteful to English ears, I think such an actress as Mrs* Chan&au, and one or two other beautiful and gym pathetic youug women now charming American audiences, would scarcely have the meed of praise withheld from them by that London public which evorj player holda in such high esteem.

It m rather curious that the American accent should be so unpleasant to English audiences, while the English ac^ cent is received without comment by the American pub- lic. ** It is as far from your house to my house, as it is

FOREIGN RIFF-RAfF.

381

firom my liouse to your honee." If the Yankee twang is objected to by London audiences, I see no reason why dropped and inserted **h'8" and the like should not be re- belled against by Americans.

For it must be remembered that while a few bright par- ticular stars of England consent to shine in the American horizon, that same horizon is densely clouded with the very refuse of the British stage ; the tramps of circuit act- ors; such *^ barn-door" mouthers as lived and traveled even in Hamlets time. These are the people who, in re- ceipt of salaries such as the leading professionals in Eng- land do not obtain, are constantly grumbling at and abus- ing this country, and threatening to return to H^England —ft menace they always fail to carry out.

The French accent appears to be rather an advantage than otherwise io London, when we remember the success of Mr. Fechter and Mile* Stella Colas. In Jfew York, however, we carry the cosmopolitan spirit still further, as was shown one winter by our supporting a French theatre, i two German theatres, two Italian troupes, one lyric and [one dramatic, and a French opera — to say nothing of wandering Japanese, Chinese and Arabs ! Their poh^glot performances were not, as one might suppose, sustained solely by the foreign-born citizens who speak the foreign tongue in which they were given ; but, with an absurdity which words fail to express, they were listened to by vast crowds of Americans, who would sit for from three to six mortal hours listening to a play whose language they did not understand.

I am very certain in no other country in the world would Madame Ristori have been able to make in one 4hort season the great sum of one hundred and fifty thou-

xd dollars for her own "share."

' pit,'* which is so common in London, has for years m«rican theatres no existence, except in the sole

■# A

882

THE PIT AKD THE PBANtTT,

oatec

1

instance of the Old Bowery Theatre, where, until vei cently, the odoriferoas peanut was munched and the cal newsboy took his nightly sup of histrionic horror

The peanut is a production of Southern soil, and lieve is unknown in England — ^thrice happy in the ; ranee J and as in German music halls *^ c-a-k-e-s—H> z-e-l-s" are hawked with sleepy perseverance, sqfl Old Bowery Theatre an odious little ragamuffin cs ahout a rieketty basket containing apples, oranges ** candy/* while, above and before all, borme-boitehcinU for dirty bouches^ "p-e-a-n-u-t-s*' made vocal all th< The ** Bowery boy" might be jacketless, hatless and footed, but he purchased largely of the crisp-coatec and thereupon rose on the atmosphere a strans odor, which no one who has once smelled it forget.

In all the numberless theatres which America can of or blush for, there is now no in stance to record \ the ginger beer, so disagreeably frequent in English p allowed to be popped ; there are no apples, orangei other edibles ; in fact, there is no pit at alb

The dress of American actresses is more luxuriooa any one who has not seen it would believe ; as far i that of English actresses as a pound is above a dolla extravagant, indeed, that, in spite of the large sa given, American actresses are almost invariably req to do so much in the way of toilet, that it is no tm thing for them to be largely in debt at the box*office yearly benefit only sets them ** square'* again witl world, leaving them iu the unpleasant predicamei having worked the whole season for nothing but a 1 hood. Nor can they ever be said to reach tha where what is technically known as a **wardr been purchased, and will now serve them the rest \ daj's. The American actress must vary her drc

RICH DKESSE8.

883

every varying fashion. Modern comedies require modern toilets, and that these are expensive, every married man can testify.

It is related of Miss Madeline Ilenriques, leading lady of "Wallaek's, that she ooce said her salary was not much more than sufficient to keep her in boots and gloves. Her father being a successful merchant, and her benefit re- ceipts being always enormous, enabled her to hold the position with edaL

This extravagant system of stage toilet w^as ''inaugu- rated*' by a leading actress known to every visitor of New York theatres during the last dozen years — Mrs. John Hoey, a fortunate lady who made one of those splendid matrimonial partis whicli actresses are reputed to be in the habit of making so frequently*

This lady, whose husband unselfishly permitted her to remain on the stage merely because she was fond of it bad a merchant-princely income at her disposal and spent it ia a regally artistic manner of habiting herself

Jjodjf Teazle — who would *' rather be out of the world than out of the fashion'* — was less elegantly attired than her American impersonator.

Julia in the "Hunchback," was going to have "not

brooches, rings and ear-rings only, but whole necklaces

stomachers of gems/' Mrs, Hoey, who played the

, had all these, Julia says, *' then will I show^ you lace

a foot deep, can I purchase it.'* Mrs. Hoey had pur-

lebased it long ago.

Kor has this extravagant system gone out with the retirement of Mrs. Hoey. It is true other actresses can- not boast of such diamonds and laces as hers; but for eilka, velvets, satins, moires, and the countless paraphernal iia of a fiu*liionable woman*8 toilet, those w^ho succeed her ^ not be for behind. i item copied from Paris papers informs us that Ada-

i

384

BEHIND THE SCENES.

Una Patti recently wore a dress that cost two thousand francs* I do not know why American newspapers should copy this as au extraordinary bit of information, for itwaa a frequent thing to see Mrs. Iloey on the stage with a drem I which cost twice that amount; and even now it is quite a common matter for actresses to wear dresses which cost two and even three hundred dollars,

English actresses coming to America and bringing the thin satins and well-worn velvets which have served them for years, are frer|uently surprised to see subordinates of the company walk on the stage so finely dressed as quite to overshadow themselves.

Strolling behind the scenes, we find pretty umeh the same set of rules in vogue in American theatres as in those of England. We have no national anthem to he sung, which necessitates the assistance of every member of the company; the dirge in *' Romeo and Juliet** is now **cut out,*' and the masquerade scene of the same piece is generally filled up by supernnmerary aid, or not filled up at all; but the choruses of *' Macbeth" and '*Pizarro** still call for the grumbling lyrical efforts of every indivi- dual, from the leading lady down to the call-boy, in Ameri- can as in English theatres.

The halcyon days of comfort for players^ both in Eng- land and Araericaj are over, it appears. No longer are succulent viands prepared for stage eating ; no longer are bottles of porter provided for stage drinking; indeed, nothing is provided for stage drinking nowadays, and act- ors sigh as they drink it out of golden pasteboard goblets and solid wooden jugs*

Perhaps this is the reason why the festive bowl is so often drained by professionals in private.

Except in a few theatres which cling to the old customs, the luxury of a call-boy has been dispensed with, and players are now obliged to hang wearily around the winga

AN ILLIBERAL SYSTEM.

385

I

I

till the cue ia given and they itiay *'go on." Formerly, they were permitted to remain in the green-room until within about five rninntes of their appearance, and thus much fatigue was saved. Now, in many cases, the green- room itaelf has been dispensed with, and the eall-boy^s occupation is, like Olhdlo*s^ gone*

The disappearance of the greeii-roora was caused by the new fashion of building *' stores/* warehouses and the like, on the ground story of theatres, which reduced the temples of histrionism to the smallest possible space, scarcely pro- viding for dressing-rooms, much less for the luxury of the green-room.

This system prevails principally in the West, foF in New York, Boston and Philadelphia theatres are con- ducted with more liberality than anywhere else in the United States.

Mr* John Ilollingshead, the dramatic critic of the

London Timcs^ was in this country some two years

ago, '*takiu* notes," and when he returned to London

he did **prent 'cm." As a singular illustration of the

mixture of stuff and sense which so many foreigners

write after a week or two of observation in this country,

this gentleman's article is here quoted from at length.

*' With the exception of the Bowery,*' he says, "the New

"Y^ork theatres, considered as edifices, furinsh models

^^ivliich the London architect would do well to imitate, as

"they are light, commodious, and so arranged as to allow

:mearly the wdjole of the audience a good view of the

«tage. The theatres in London that most reseml)le them

^l.re AfltleyX in its present condition, and the small house

9it Highbury Barn, But a far better imitation — one,

3ndeed, that exceeds the originals — is the Alexandria

•Theatre, Liverpool, in whi'r^h the lightness of the Americ*au

3iouse is €|ualified by anointments' scarcely to

1e matched anywl k audiences are,

2&

386

AN ENGLISHMAN S VIEWS.

for the most part, extremely sedate and decorous, and, save at the Bowery, seem devoid of the decidedly plebeian element* This deficiency, which, perhaps, more than any other peculiarity^ renders an Americuiii andience remark- able to an English visitor, may be attributed partly to the architectural arrangement by which the galJery, with ita low-priced seats, is kept out of eight, partly to a di€posi< tion among the operative classes to make as good a figure as their fellow-citizeas. It is is quite probable that a workingraan may be among the aristocrats of the house, a contingency which is scarcely possible at a fasbiouable London theatre. The eedateness of the New York public maiy, however, be suddenly broken up when a change seems least to be expected, and an assembly that has ap- parently been composed of stern judges will at once be tickled with a straw. Of this we had one instance in the enthusiastic delight created by Lotta, in the *Pet of the Petticoats.* Nor does the Puritanical element of the all control the moral tone of the theatre as it does in England. It keeps several people away altogether, and confines them to * museums' and concerts; but those who have once passed the Rubicon that separates the playhouse from the rest of the world will endure grazes on propriety tliat would scarcely be tolerated in London. The people of New York are, as a rule, resolute playgoers, like the people of Paris. The formal and decorous are quite as steady in the patronage of the drama as those who make noisy demonstmtions of delight, and the theatre is a necessary social institution in America, to a degree which can scarcely be conceived by the ordi- nary Londoner, The merchant of the British capital, who retreats from the neighboi^hood of the Exehange to his handsome suburban villa, and there

** ' otium et oppidi,

Laudat rtira Bui,'

I

4

I

AMERICAN STARS*

387

quitted the theatrical world altogether, and, if he speakti of the stage at all, refers to his early patronage of it as.to one of the venial sins of his youth. Tlie com- mercial grandee of Wall street, on the other baud, who performs an analogoos operation by moving from New York to the adjacent city of Brooklyn when the hours of business are over, finds two theatres in his vicinity. Fancy two big play-hooscs at Clapham, or Tottenham, or IIollo- way, sufficiently patronized to permit the engagement of the first actors of the country ! With all their ardent love for theatrical amusement, I have no hesitation in Baying that the Americans care much more for the actors than for tlic merits of the play itself. This predilection U consistently accompanied by a regard less to a pertect semble than to the excellency of the 'star* of the evening; and granted the almost impossible case of a theatrical critic devoting the whole of his notices to the exclusive exaltation of one particular artist at the expense of -every other member of the profession, New York would offer a ne field for his exertions, with, however, this drawback — at he would be answered by literary opponents in a plain, show up' kind of style, totally unlike anything in the •Id country. Youth and personal appearance have much do with the success of a female artist, and, I fear, are allowed to overbalance the proper estimation of talent. At the present day, no performer who is regarded as passe in London, should look for success in America, unless ba<.'ked by a reputation sufficiently large to awaken universal curiosity. As a consequence of this fact, I would, however, mention another, which is of high im- portance to the English public, and that is that the *8tar iqrstem* prevails in America to an extent elsewhere liuknowu. Wallack's regular company stands, indeed^ apart firom the rest, but an actor at any otlier theatre, who ba» only appeared as one of the * stock/ never as a * star/

^m

OLD RUBBISE AND OLD 8CEKERY.

has obtained no testimonial whatever of the estimatifm in which he m held by the American public, * * * * Those who imagine that New York is a convenient {»lace for cartinj^ off any old nibbisli that is useless in Europe, are egregiously mistaken. The Americans can api»rcciate histrionic excellence, and they have appetite for novelty^ but for anything that is neither new nor good, they have no relish whatever. And let me emphatically repeat an assertion which I made on a former occasion, that there is nothing ^vulgarizing in their influence* Like all other people, they may be tickled by an oddity, hut they are perfectly capable of appreciating the utmost re- finement in actiog. To prove this assertion, I need only refer to the crowds who have thronged to witness Mr Jefferson *e representations of 'Rip Van Winkle/ To the dramatist, save under certain exceptional circumstances, Kew York offers, in my opinion, but slight encourage- ment. In the first place there h the international law, or, rather lack of law, which permits the manager of the American theatre to use the whole of the London reper- tory gratis; in the second, a piece that has alreaily received applause in the old country, will be preferred to one that has already passed no ordeal whatever. But a great scene painter would, I think, find it worth hia while to cross the Atlantic. He would find a people endued with an almost morl>id appetite forHcenic decoration, and no artist at hand at all to supply the demand. The grand scenes are now purchased in England, to be taken to America after they have answered pantomimic purposes at home ; but there is plenty of money to pay for them if they were shown at New York, in the first instance, and they do not come like a celebrated piece on the strength of their English reputation. The lack of scenic art cannot he better exjiressed than by the assertion that, whereas in London even the humblest theatres can boast

JOHN-BULLISH ADVICE*

389

of a well-executed drop-curtaiuj eucb a luxury is rare at New York. If, however, some undaunted genius should aspire to write origiual plays for New York, in spite of all judicious warnings to tiie contrary, I would advise him to try bis Iiand at a class of composition which, witliout the assistance of a manager filled with the spirit of Mr. Charles Kean, would not gain for him a single six- pence in London, Let him write big dramas— the larger the better, on subjects borrowed from the earlier history of England, aiid as historical as possible in their eharacten Queen Elizabeth and Mary Stuart, fur instance, are rather bores tlian other^^isc to the irreverent play-goers of Eng- land, but the Americans look to them as their noted ancestor's, innch as the aristocrats of Athens looked to the mythic founders of tlteir families. Xor must the plays be written in an anti-English spirit; for, amid all the bickerings between the two nations, tlie Americans harbor a deep love for their Old World, and if a date is j taken prior to that of the family quarrel, tliis feeling can express itself without restraint — don't let King Philip conquer Queen Elizabeth, especially while Cuba belongs to the Spaniards. And so much for the stage in New York."

A comparison of the English and French stage would show an immeasurable superiority on the part of the latter.

In no country, I think, is dramatic art so much esteemed, as in France ; and it is a mistake to suppose that the Inscivious dances recently imported to this country from France are an index of French taste in theatricals.

Very fur from it. The can-can is a dance-house insti- tution— transplanted to the stage of what were ouce rciispectjdde American theatres from tlie dubious precincta of a public wine-garden*

The truth is, that ** for two centuries the French drama

THE DRAMA IN FRANCE,

has in reality rested its wtole fsbrie upon the developmeut of character^ — upon causes which have determiued certain men to do certain deeds. This school begios with Ra- ciue'a * Berenice/ which ia from first to last, an inquisi- tion into the depths of the humati heart No rojmn d'lmalyse of Madame Sand herself ever proved greater skill in the art of moral anatomy. And this is now the lasting principle of all the modern dramatists of France/*

And the theatre in France is a key to the popular heart For example — in spite of the general false opinion of Americans to the contrary — so strong is filial affection in France that those unerring painters of French life and morals, the French dramatists, have founds for years and years, that any pathetic allnsion to " my mother*' was sure of touching the right chord in the sjniipathetic breast ot the French audience.

A woman is depicted as about to go astray. Some oi pronounces the name of her mother. She shrieks, clas] her hands, — and is saved,

A criminal is committing a midnight murder. About the neck of his victim is hung a cross, which on e^iamina- tion, in some mysterious way proves to have been at one time the property of the mother of the would-be assassin*

*'The cross of my mother!** cries he; and wakes tho sleeper and bids him go unharmed.

When those Americans and English^ who so love the word **home," and what it implies, became familiar with the potent effect of such scenes as these on the sympa- thetic French theatre-audience, they saw therein a great cause for merriment, it seemed, and joyously bemocked the sentiment.

The Freneli are sensitive to ridicule. By the joint eiForts of those good English atid Americans, who so love home, the "cross of my mother*' has now fallen into dis- repute amoug the critics^ and awakens their merriment

I

4

I»BCLtKB "bV

where formerly it mov€f but with the tiiHr-. here) the ** cross of s&y mah

I

The decline of the British stag^ i tentd byadidtiuguished English t^ b^est among countries who&^ ui the highest. We have entirely lui-: W^e stand, in the matter of drama! lower level than any other country i serve us as a justificution to say thai wi.. drama itself hua declined; for when tm- loftiest (in modern times), the drama ' respected in all other nations. And h i inent in every other European countrj' fta\* is in England only that the glory of the <1 . down, and it ia a fact much to be deplored, i with an undeniable degeneracy of taste, anu tlie noblest form of expression afiected by lii tongoe."

Of the power of the dramatist, the same revU^v. . speaks: " It is not true to eay that a great |>i.- much influence as a great dramatist; he has n ' element of publicity is wanting; the electric soul upon soul, the immediate action of man It 13 for this that the drama in itself is the grai of expressed thought^ — it contains all others. U • ^ prcHue dramatic poet (we will take Shakespeare, Ca, Goethe, as the highest examples- — Schiller comi after) a man must be everything else, lie must ht , tician, a historian, a poet, a philosopher and tin > He must combine two radically opposite natures, ,. at once a man of action and of thought ; he munt ( '. and criticise, but^ above all, he must directly and )j impress a crowd of other men. He must, with Ky

S92

LONDON THEATRES.

teach tyrants of all times haw they foolishly forfeit do- minion ; and with Hamlet reflect the impress of other nieti^s ileedsj and li^e perpetually irresolute, * sicklied o*er' himself ^ witb the pale east of thought/ *'

It is stated by a well-informed person that there are in London twenty-one first-class and eleven second-class, in all thirty-two theatres, %vith an audience capacity of over 60,000. The largest will hold 3,923, and the smallest 360. The following are the names and numerical accommoda- tions of the first-class houses, such as our Academies of Music, Wallaek's and Booth's: Italian Opera House, Covetit Garden, 2,750; Drury Lane Theatre, 3,800; Ast- ley's Ampliithcatre, 3,780; New Uolborn Theatre, 2,000; New Queen*H, 2,000; Ilolborn Amphitheatre, 2,000; Hay- market, 1,822; Adelphi, 1,500; Lyceum, 1,400; Sadlers* Welli?, 2,300; Princesses*, 1,579; St. James', 1,220; Oiympie, 1,140; Strand, 1,081; Surrey, 1,802; Prince of Wales, 814 ; St. George's New Opem House, 800 ; New Royal Theatre, 722; Gallery of Illustration, 262; Cabi- net, 370; Alexandra, 1,330, AH the other theatres are called second-class, although some of them rank lower, London lovers of the drama wiio aftect the startling and sanguinary school of art, ilhiatratcil tor us in Bowerj- re- treats, are thus distributed: Brittaiiia, 3,923; Bower, 1,000; City of London, 2,500; Effingham, 2,150; Gre- cian, 2,120; Marylebone, 1,500; Pavilion, 3,500; Gar- rick, 800; Standard, 3,400; Victoria, 8,008; Oriental, 1,500.

Among the most celebrated playhouses of Europe is the Sa'i Carlo at Naples. This theatre was built in the time when tlie Kingdom of Najdes was a Spanish viceroyalty* It is, w^ith one exception, the largest theatre in Europe, and consequently in the world, having eight rows of boxes, one above another, until, to look from the uppermost, makes one giddy. Its acoustic properties are nevertheless

THE SAN CARLO AT NAPLES.

393

splendid, the elightest note being distinctly heard at the greatest distauce. *^In its interior decorations it is niagiii- ficeiit, a wondcrfal amount of gilding being lavislied on all parU of the house. As iu all the opera houses of Italy, boxes take up almost the entire theatre. Besides a par- quet l>elo\v, auJ an amphitheatre running back bebiml the chandelier — ^a place reserved for the populace — tliere is nothing but boxes in endless profusion. The 8an Carlo contains 4,000 persons sitting, this i»larj of boxes necessa- rily diminishing the number of seats, while it wonderfully increases the comfort, of the occupants. In such a theatre 08 this, if built on our plan of construction, 10,000 specta- tors could be easily accoramodatod. In tliis hotuse Bel- lini tirst produced those works which Lave had such a world-wide popuhirily, *Norma/ ^I Puritani,' etc., and Donizetti brought out bis 'Figua del TJegimento," ^Lu- cretia Btirgia.' This was also the theatte of predilection with Mercadante, w^ho is now ninety years of age, and blind. It was here, also, tliat took {ihic-e a tragedy which alarmed Europe at the time. Xourrit, the great French tenor, had gone to Naples, and all expectantly waited his first night, w^iich he confidently anticipated won hi be the greatest triumph of his life. * William TelT was the op- era chosen for the occasion, Nonrrit not fearing to make his delmt in the most difficult tenor role known to the stage. The evening came. King and court were at the opera, and the best population of Naples filled the boxes and dazzled the eyes with their brilliancy of dress, Nonr- rit at bis entree was received coldly, and so it went on until tlie third act, wiien ho w^as hissed in his n( de poiirhu\ It waa the first time such a tiling had ever hapjiened to him. He rnshed out of the theatre, not caring to finish the piece, went to his hotel, and, unable tn survive such a dis- grace, threw himself from his window find was instantly killed* It woa afterwards discovered that those wlm hud

S94

LA BCALA AT MILAN.

hissed him were in tlie puy of a Vival tenor. The San Carlo is situated right on the bay of Naples, and for special occasions a means has been devised to open the entire background of the stage, and the beautiful bay itself takes the place orthe painted canvas^ The eftect is magi- caL Tlie Milan theatre kiaown as La Scalu is very cele- brated. The building itself is homely from the outside, but inside its decorations of pure white-and-gold form a simple but beautiful effect. It contains seven rows of boxes. The two first rows have attached saloons, into which the owners in^tire between the acts, and in which cosy little suppers and card jiarties take place. It can easily be imagined that persons who go every night to the opera hardly care to give the works such constant atten- tion as we do here, for instance, who go now and again, and for the purpose of listening. In Milan, each family of any consequence is owner of a box by tlie year, and each box is the exclusive property of the family that rents it» These boxes are even hereditary* The Duke of Lilia, for instance, owns two boxes, for which he has been of- fered one tnillion francs, but he refused to sell them. The stage of the Scala is the largest in the world, being the exact size of the ttieatre itself. Attached to the Scala is a Conservatory of Music, which has produced some of the most renowned singers the world has known ; it also has a Conservatory of Dancing, which protjuces all the great dancers. Every premkre (ianseuse we have liad here dur- ing the p£ist few ^^^ars received her spui*s at the Scala. Morlacchi, Bonfanti, Sohlke, De Rosa, Sangali, all came from there. The largest theatre in the world is the Pali- ano, at Florence. It has seven rows of boxes, but they are immense, stretching in the form of a horse-shoe over a vast extent of grotind. It is not a handsome theatre^ and except as regarding its size is in no wise remarkat The theatre contains 6,000 persons, seated, but, if ■

CELEBRATED OPERA HOUSES.

395

like our theatres, could accommodate certainly 15,000, The Argentia, at Rome, is one of the most notable thea- tres ill Italy, and peculiar from the fact that it exists in the very capital of the Catholic Church. Restrictive rules are applied which render the enjoyment of opera some- what tedious at times. The Pupe governs the theatre deepotically, and decides whether certain artiBts shall or shall not be admitted to sing. One peculiar law is that no female artist shall wear anything but green tights, either in the opera or the ballet, which latter is very much liked in the Eternal City. Flesh-colored tights are considered idecent. The Grand Opera House at Vienna has been )ut recently constructed, having boon inaugurated last summer. It surpasses anything in the way of theatres in -the world, with the exception of tlie new opera house in *aris, which is now building. Its decorations are the col- ors now much in vogue — white, gold and red, and the general elFect of the house is said to bo verj* fine. The painting of the ceiling cost large sums of money^ and has been done by the best artists. The exterior building is in a composite style, but is tasteful as well as elegant, and of great beauty of detail in it^ exterior sculptures. The inau- gruratjon of this tine theatre was a magnificent fete. The Emperor and Court were present, and delegates attended from all the musical societies of the Austrian Empire. The old opera house in the Rue Pelletier, Paris, is a homely building inside as well as out. It was put up in forty days, in 1811, and was merely meant to supply the want of the hour, while a more imposing buildiiig should be put up- But Napoleon's reverses came immediately after, and the great Emperor was forced to abandon his peace projects to wage war on the numerous enemies who Ludaailed him. The ope *> was therefore abandoned,

and fott* 'ody, at the instance of

th illions of francs for the

396

THE NEW PARISIAN OPERA-HOUSE,

conatructiou of a new opera house. It was in the old ^ house ill the Rue Pelletier that Rossidi brought out bial immortal chef dVjeuvre * William Tell/ and that all Mey- erbeer's works first 8aw light. It was here, also, that the attempt of Orsiui to take Napoleou's life happeued^ iu 1857. The Emperor was just getting out of his carriage, when a bomb struck it, breaking the carriage door, killtDg the coachman ami liorses, and causing a slight wound to the Emperor. In spite of the fearful emotion he must have felt, Kapoleon sat out the entire opera, and he had the Empress carried up to her box, and obliged her like- wise to sit next him, in full view of the enthusiastic Pari- sians. This event gained Napoleon more popularity than anytbing else he has done during bis entire administni- tion. The new opera bouse is situated between the Rue Auber and the Rue Scribe, failing the Grand notel. It occupies an entire block, and, wlien finished, will be the moat magnificent edifice of the kind iu the world. It is built of white marble, with mosaics of diflferent coloni. In every department, the best artists in France have been engaged to work on it When finished, it will be an eighth wonder of the world. The entire inside of the auditorium is to be painted, and the decollations are to be in red, white and gold. The building is in no particular style of architecture, being compose in design. The door- ways are on each side of the building— one for entrance and the other for exit, carriages being enabled to go through the building. ^ The Emperor is thus enabled to drive right up to his box, and alight there. In many re- spects the architects have discarded old plane, and have introduced novel expedients for comfort and beauty. The old Covent Garden Theatre, in London, was burnt down in 1852, and the present one, much more beautiful, waa built The building is of white rnarble, and is of the Gre- cian style of architecture. The eftect is very grand inside,

II

E

GERMAN THEATRES.

39T

rows of boxes extending, one abovo another, to a great heiglit. It is a very popular theatre^ bnt lias a strong rival in Her Majesty's Tlieatre> in tlie Ilayiiiarket. When, a short tirati ago, this theatre was destroyed by fire, the Drory Lane was made tlie temporary resting place of the company which had been burnt out. This for a moment revived the prestige of Old Drury, the ancient house of the legitimate, where the elder Booth won his first tri- umphs. But no actor now lives who can till Drury Lane by the sole loadstone of his talent/'

With regard to the theatres of Germ any > a gentleman visiting that country writes: '*K a person would see a drama in its best dress, and learn to what state of pert'ee- tion the theatre can be brought by wise management and ft correct appreciation by the people whom it should in- etruct and amuse, he must come to Germany, He will find great actors very rare, but the stock couipanies most excellent. Throughout the year the drama and opera alternate, both companies occupying the same stage, each playing three or four times a week* A most admirable system prevails in Germany of pensioning aged actors and opera singers, provided they keep to their contracts, and remain as supports of single theatres. For example Nie- mann, when no longer tit for singing, will receive a pen- sion varying with Ins length of service, bnt amply sufficient to support him and enable him to end his lite in comfort. Nearly every theatre throughout Germany has this provi- sion, and it obviates in a great measure the necessity of paying enormous salaries, as an actor, if faithful, will never be left a beggar when the public is satiated with him. The condition of their remaining by one theatre is, of course, Tiecessary, Init the tediousnessof such an arrange- ment is relieved by the months {three or more each year) when the actor or singer travels about as ' Gastspeiler/ A great part of German phxy-houses are taken by sub-

MHi

GERMAN CKITICS.

scribepB, and the plays, therefore, must be constantly clmnged. These Bubscriptions are in the higbest degree convenient, as one can pay for one, two or four repre- sentatiotis a week as he pleasee, and obtain his ticket bI the same rate as if he subscribed for each night of the year. For cxainple, I bought a ticket last fall which entitles me to a seat every ikird representation, whatever it may be, I have gone very regularly for five months^ for the sake of learning the language quickly, as well as for amusement, and during five months have witnessed only two operas and iliree theatrical representations a' second time, I admit that in remaining another year I should notice a great deal of repetition, but if the pieces are good, which is the case here, this is to be desired- As I said before, there are few actors who can compare with Sothcni, Mathews or Kean; but too often one of these actors is supported at home with a com puny so miserable that it requires all their genius to prevent the play from falling lifeless upon the stage. Here, when 'Hamlet* is acted, the hero is not first-class, but his supporters, even *Roseucrantz' and the second gravedigger, are perfect, and there is consequently a consistency and solitlity about the play which more than niakes up for the deficiency of Samlet hmi^cK The Germaas require this — the journal- ist thinks it his duty to correct, in his daily critique, the humble members no less than the chief performers* The plays themselves are remarkably good, most of them native; but once a week one hears a translation from the English or French. I have only seen four broad farces during my stay in this city or in Dresden, and the only thing approaching a spectacle was a magic fountain upon the stage, upon which parti-colored light was thrown from an electric lamp. The prices are very low, and the accom- modations excellent. The audiences, as a rule, are dressed as with us, neither more or less, and seated as in our

GEEMAN SENSE AND TASTE,

898

theatres, with but few private boxes, A stranger would doubtless think them very stiogy of their applause, and indeed that euthusiusm which takes our theatres by storm is hardly ever seen here. No singer, when encored, repeats the aria, as with us, but bows merely, and often when an actor receives an encore after fainting or killing himself, the curtain on rising discovers him in the same position in which he was last scon, and the audience is relieved from seeing a dead hero jump up and bow. This obser- vance of eornnion-seuse rules, the excellence of the playa and actors in Germany, is owing to the interest taken in sach matters by the people. The theatre is either the property of the city or partly endowed by the duke or king in whose dominion it is. As the actors are paid from the state or city, it behooves the people to see that they are good, and that the theatres themselves are aa perfect as possible. As they siip}>ort them, they deserve to find therein good entertainment, and gentlemen of talent and experience are always appointed to the manage- ment; those having direction of the Dresden and Leipsic | theatres are noblonieu. Tljongh of course there are ex- ceptions to this, yet, as a rale, Germans go to the opera and theatre as to a musical concert orgallery of paintings, to gratify a relined and educated taste.*'

THE IKSECT A^D THE EIKO.

b

CHAPTER XXX.

Litcnipy Aflpoctflof the DrAnia.— The King of DramatistJ. — Shsttcefpefth*** Purity of Tone. — His Pictures of the P*?riod — His Contribution l*' General Literature. — Amusing French Blunders in Tmnslating from Shflkespcare. — ^' Who wrote Shikspur?'' — An Amusing Trnvesty.— Shiikespenrc Reckon ^tnicted — ^ Whore Dramatists get their Plots. — High Art iiiiA Common Sense*— Pft trick and the Bull. — Modern Comedy.— IVhut it Needs, — Wunmn in Comc*dy. — Decency and MerrimeJit.— Woinf-n Driimtitiftt^ Wiintcd. — The Pay of Dramatists. — An Old-time Letter.— American Managers and American Playwrights. — How » PhJI«dt?lphiii Manager fooled the Public.— The Gentleman who im- prnv»»d on my ^' Surf* scene. — The Actor who Improved on hi« Im* provoment. — A Ghoulish Btwton Notion. — Sensational Plays. — The •*Lwdy of Lyons" Laughed at.— The Traditional Stage Sailor,

III it.'? literary aspects, the stiige illustrates at once the hig]if8t and the h:)west iutelleetual eftbrt-

All the way from Shakespeare, the king of dramatists, down to Boggs, the hurlei^qiie writer (who may be termed the insect of dnimatidts), the various gradations of human genius, talent^ cleverness, so-soishnesa, stupidity and im- becility liave from time to time found illustration on the theatrical stage.

That is of course a more agreeable and inspiring view to take of the dramatic literary world, which shuts out the insect and dwells upon the king.

The immortality of the drama, says an admirer of the theatre, '*i3 inseparable from the immortality of poetry, music and painting. The caprice of fashion may give for a time allnrement to other and %^ery difierent enjoyments. The blunders which may be niade from the incapacity or ignorance of directory may so injure it that it cannot but droop and pine. Managers may be ruined by dozens,

iar

4

SHAKESPEARE S CLEANLINESS.

401

and great actors may for a time disappear; but the drama itself is not dead, but sleepetb. Each new generation must be made acquainted with Shakespeare. Editions of his works succeed each other with astonishing rapidity, and in no country has the great dramatist called forth to his illustration of late years, higher genius, profbuiider knowledge, or better taste than in our own. No polite education can be obtained without some acquaintance with this author ; and the youthful reader will soon sigh for a living representation of the woiulers of that creative pen. The student of Milton, Addison, PopCj Steel, Dryden, Young, Goldsmith, and all the chiefs of English literature, is hourly brought into feelings of interest for the drama and its actors. How absurd, then, to talk of the drama being nearly obsolete ! Let a new Kean or a new O^JTeal start forth into the mimic worhl, and tlie immense and deserved popularity of Rachel will soon cease to be the laiesi wonder. The importance of the fitago is generally undervalued by many who do not, or will not perceive its immediate connection with morals and manners.**

Id spite of the sometimes objectionable language Shakespeare puts in the mouths of his characters, his teachings arc singularly pare and noble. '* Of all dramatists he is not only the greatest, but the most decorous and cleanly. His is a wit which never poisons our relations to humanity; his is a humor which never sinks into the slough of merely filthy imaginations; \jiB a broad and sunny fun, which maids and matrons, rho w^ero driven from the theatre when Aristophanes pkyed, can heartily enjoy without contamination* nth man*s highest faith and holiest hope his sympathy is constant, lie approaches no sacred theme without a due seuse of its holiness; the heaven of bis inspiration is the heaven of our most precious revelation ; he draws no 26

402

THE DAYS OF WITCHCBAFT,

ribald priests, and he casts no scorn upon religious belief, however liumble or however erroneous; he has no sneer for marriage, no gibe for marital fidelity, no apology fur the seducer ; but, upon the contrary, a wonderful admira- tion for female purity, which no freuk of unbridled fancy ever leads him to discard. He has left us thirty-seven of the best plays in the world, and not one of them has ev^r exercised an immoral influence upon young or old. Let that be at once his praise and the eternal vindication of the drama!"

Shakespeare's pictures of the period in which liis plays are laid, are curiously accurate. A writer instances as one of the most remarkable of these his picture of the feeling of the days when witchcraft ruled. "When JParc/ lays his cudgel across the shoulders of FaUiaffj supposing him to be the 'wise woman of Brentford,* he only does what all around approve. Ford is a gentleman and (excepting his groundless jealousy) a man of sense. In the presence of a justice of the peace, a clergyman and a physician, of his neighbor Pagc^ and the several members of their families, he inflicts brutal chastisement upon an old w^oman, and not a word of remonstrance is uttered* There can be no doubt that Shakespeare has here given us a true picture of the feelings ot his day. He has embodied the grander and more temblc idea of witchcraft in the tragedy of 'Macbeth.* There is scarcely an ingredient of the witches' cauldron for which an authority could not be found in some of the trials of that day. The details of the enchantment, the sailing iu a sieve, the ' pilot's thumb,* the 'finger of birth-strangled babe/ the 'rat without a tail,' were all objects of terror in an age when it was believed tliat the life of the king had been en- dangered on his return from Denmark, by a storm raised by these very means, wdien the king himself had presided in person at the trials of the witches, * taking great delight

HOUSEHOLD WOEDS,

to be present at their exammations/ and had employed his rojal pen to prove alike their existence and their criminality. The tailless rata were very peculiarly objects of terror* Imps, *io shape somewhat like a rat, but with- out tail or ears — ' 'things about the bignesse of mouses — ' •things like moles, having lour feet a-pieeOj but without tftvls/ meet us on every page of the witch trials,"

Few people realize, I think, how much Shakespeare has contributed to general literature. Many of the expresBionB of the great poet are "household words** to those who have never seen a copy of his plays, — A very few illustrations will sufficiently prove this — for one might easily fill a chapter with examples. '* Misery makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows ;*' "The Devil can cite Scripture;** <* All that ghttcrs is not gold;" **My cake is dooe^h ;" **Screw your courafi^eto the sticking place;" "Scotdied the snake, not killed it;" **Give the Devil his duo;" "Tell the truth and shame the Devil;" ^'Vcry like a whale;" "The cat will mew, the dog will have his day ;" "They laugh that win ;" and so OD, Besides these homely examples, many more poetic and grand illustrations of the universality of Shakespeare's genius might be given, but they are already the common property of mankind, and my readers need only wait until the next speech they hear, or not improbably — and with all due respect — until the next sermon.

The French — ^who have justly a most exalted opinion of their national dramatic literature — Ijave translated ay if not all of ShakeBpearo*s plays; and some very siueing blunders in translation have passed into history. The exclamation

"Hail J borrow ! haUl'*

I once translated into the French of

*^ How d'yo do, horrora ? how d'yo do ?"

^ ^

404

RIDICULOUS BLUNDERS*

This is not more ridiculous than eome of the blandei^ of a French comraeutator on "llaeilet/' Speaking ofi Hamlet killing Polonius, the writer gives the English and* the French translation of the words which accompany the coup-de-grace : — *^^How how! a ratP' **Qu*est-ce que cela? Un rien/' (What is that ? A nothing.) Again we havej given by the same critic the following Shakesperean bit with the French translation of the meaning and of the dignity of the language : —

** Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell i

take, tby fortune J Thou ftnd^Bt to be too busy is some danger."

^^Adku^pauvrtfoumditcrtt€i(emerQiTt^ adieu! .... Sul>it tan 9crtl Tu as oppris giiHl y a du danger a se trop imlrr des affaires d^autruV* (C byo, poor xnndman, indiscreet and rash, good-bye. Submit to tliy fktol Thou hast learned that there is danger in mixing up too much in t]i«

businofis of other people.)

This does not equal the Gallic writer, who took MacbttJx in hand, and praised Shakespeare for his great attention to particulars^ instancing in proof his allusion to the climate of Scotland in the words, '*nail, hail, all hail!*' Grelc^ grek, toute grele! (Hail, hail, everything is hailing,)

In the farce '*High Life Below Stairs/' the literary lady's maid was asked ^' Who wrote Shikspur?*' and an- swered, "Wh3% Ben Jouaon, to be sure/*

In later days, there have been van one efforts made to prove that somebody else beside Shakespeare wrot Shakespeare's works. A New England woman, Delia Bacon, accredited Shakespeare's works to Lor Bacon, sorae years ago, in *^ Putnam's Magazine." The article failed to provoke a reply, and was not followed up by its intended succcessors. Miss Bacon went to Eng- land, and there elaborated her whole theory, publishing it in a ponderous octavo volume, which, in the words of her best if not her only apologist, Mr. Hawthorne, "fell w a dead thump at the feet of the public, and has never b picked up/*

8HAKESPEREAN PATeHWORK.

405

lEnUr FiJ-8TAP».]

Apropos of tbis attempt, a wag has compiled the follow- ing patchwork — which reads like a travesty, but isn't one — and asks ^^Did Shakespeare write ihisV*

Hamlst {Sol)— To be or not to be ? tbttt ifl tho question t

TVhctber His nobler in tbo humaiL mind to suffer

The sliD^ and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or, — li thj» a dagger tliat I sec before me,

Th« haudlo towards luy hand—

Perdition catch my eoul,

But I do — know a hawk from a handsaw t

Soft \ I did but dream. ^

Bj the pricking of mj thumbs,

8omeUung wicked this way comes. —

I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban, —

The devil dye tbee black, thou crcam-fftc'd loon,

Where got*st thou that^fair round belly with good capon lin'd?

Fal. — 'Us my vocation, Hal^

X«et me have men about me that are fat.

{To aW^nflfan/,]— Give me some drink, Titinms^ [To Hamlkt]— Thy

father's spirit? HaM.-^No, my prophetic soul, my tinclo-s. Fal. — As familiar in their mouth as household words — How the king — ay, every inch a king — {dnnk9 to Hamlet — Flouruh.^ Thau in risible spirit of winet — there's lime in this sack 1 Ham.— Thou canst not say I did it — I am a man

More sinned against than sinning.

Fal. [A*ide.]~ljord, how this world is given to lying I Ha*i,— Oh, Romoo, Romeo, wherefore art thou— a fishmonger? Hoil potent, grave, and therefore most valiant, Jack Falstajtf, Lend mo your ears.- Who steals my parse BteaLi trash, *TiA K»m shilling, — nothing. Pal. [Aii'de] — An inHnite deal of nothing. Hah.— I only speak right on, and tell you —

things in h#>Hven and earth

are dreamt of in — the very witching hour of night Be thou familiar, but by no means — very like a whale : Tkke any shape htit that I Ta1» l^AiiJe,'] — A hit, a very palpable hit 1 And damned be he who first erica *^QoId, enough !*' [Exfunt.\

This 13 Shukespcaro recoostracted, I Buppposc — and I very funny it reads.

p

*

»

I

AW AUDACIOUS FELLOW.

But manager Wood, of Philadelpliia, gives an account, m liis '^Kccollections of the Stage/* of a man who recoii- Btructed Sbukespearo in stupid earnest. ''While iin friend Wignell and nijaelf were at our morning breiikfkst (the usual hour of unwelcome visitors), a well-dressed person of middle age was ushered in, as calling upon Mm- portant huBiness,* A ponderous roll of paper under his arm, led to a well-foutided suspicion that he might prove to be an author. Such, indeed, was the fact, under some qualification, as will be seen. After briefly stating his object^ he unfolded the mighty mass of paper destined for trial of poor Wiguell's patience, and announced bis work under this sounding title, 'The tragedy of Macbeth.' The manager delicately suggesting a doubt whether a subject treated by Shakespeare with more than even his usual genius, might not prove a dangerous experiment in other hands, was dryly answered by an assurance that thi* present effort was iuteaded as a compliment and ad- vantage to the great bard. A warm eulogy on Shakes- peare's general merits followed, with, however, an essen- tial reserve. All due praise was awarded to the general structure of his plays, his delineations of character and customs, *but these merits were unhappily obscured by an antiquated and obsolete phraseology, wholly nnsuited to modern taste. Many of his scenes and passages were barbarous and unintelligible to the masses, fi-om the rough and ungraceful language in which they were given.' To remedy this serious defect, our friend hud actually translated Shakespeare's poetry into very com* mon-place prose, and on this novel production he de- manded a trial of public judgment,"

It has become so very common, in these days, to charge our modern dramatists with having stolen their plots —

'^StoAl? fob I a flco for tbo phrAse — *Convof,' the wise it call/*—

LITEKARY PIRATES DEFENDED.

that Bome curious references made recently by a New York lawyer, become specially interesting. *^

Jiou^-icault'i^ play of *^ After Dark'* was in Court for Bome olFeusc, — i realfy don't remember what it had been doing, — the principal thing I remember is that the trial was a good advertisement for the theatre where the play was running; and an effort was made to show that "Ailter Dark" was plagiarized from the ** Bohemians in Paris.**

This was quite trnCj but how little it mattered was shrewdly shown by the lawyer on the Boucicault side — whose unlawyerliko and very theatrical name, by the way, was Booth, — in a speech as full of wisdom as an egg is of meat.

If his learned friend had ever read Milton's "Paradise Lost,*' said the lawyer with the tragic name, (whereupon the learned friend bridled indignantly at the iiiginuatiou that Milton was not his daily companion)^ he would no doubt be glad to know that it is founded on Biblical records. The description of the four rivers, the tempta- tion of the woman, and the dialogue between the Creator and oar first parents, are in Milton the same. Then take the play of *'Macbeth" — no one would chargo Shakespoaro with being a literary pirate ; but we find in Ilollmgshcaifs Chronicle^ at pages 243 and 244, the character of Lady Macbeth sketched out We find there also the greeting of the witches, which is almost word for word, Wc also find that the scene in the fourth act between Malcolm and Macduff was taken almost word for word from this book, which was published long before Shakespeare wrote. Let him try another. Let him take Shakespeare's *'Corio- lanus/' In Worth's edition of Plutarch's Lives we find tfao germ of that play. The speech of Volurania, in that pin ring with '*If we hold our peace, my son,

aim not to speak," etc, down for nearly a page,

it (h)m this, nearly word for word. Kow, Mr. Bouci-

CBLEBRATED PLAGIARISMS,

ealt liaa not taken his drama word for word, as these have done, from others. But, then, let them go on and examine "Hamlet" This is taken from BdforcVs Chronicle. The whole story of "Romeo and Juliet** is from Gerolarao'i History of Venice, Then take the '* Scarlet Letter/* b; Hawthorne, a most powerful story, and yet the wholi germ will be found in Winihrofs ChrovicU\ called nolia." The genius of Hawthorne stands at the head of letters, and no one will say that he was a mere plagiarisl One of Coleman*3 best comedies is taken from *'tho Spe tator." Then there is a book called **Eohin8on Crusoe,' which is believed to be gospel truth by every boy, untH he attains twelve years of age, yet they could find the original of this by looking at a book publigbed by Mr- Wood, in 1712. The story itself was written in 1719. Dampere, in his travels, relates some of the principal inci- dents of that book also; the prototype of the *'man Friday" is to be found therein. It was never eonsid ered improper for an author to avail himself of antecedem incidents either historical or literary*

All of which is delightful information for nsmg authors, and most encouraging to the flourishers of borrowed plumage.

(Nevertheless I shall resist the temptation to omit quotation marks from the remaintler of this work.)

I confess that sometimes when I have been obliged to sit through five weary acts of a new play by a new-fledged author, I have wished that he had stolen it, ao tliat it might have been less tiresome.

If there is anything more dreary than a stilted imitation of Shakespeare (after the manner in which the frog imi- tated the ox) I pray to be spared experimental knowl of it.

It is all very nice to talk about high-toned plays, bo a wiser than I has said, the dignity of a high aim <?

I

0 .

laii-

■1

410

INNOCENCE OF MERRIMENT.

suasion — womeu of that gentle wit which gives pleasure to its objects by the very pain which it inflicts — women of the world who are yet unworldly, and who move through the brilliant scenes of society without being nn- sexed by its corrnptions — women whose native graces .have been ealtiired but not conquered by convention- alities, and whOj while weak in all chaste and honorable concession, are like the lioness despoiled of her young when tempted by sensual advances — women whom the virtuous need not fear to personate j upon whose persona* tions the modest need not fear to look* What sin may not be as decorously rebuked upon the stage as in the pulpit? Have preachers always sconied the aid of wit, and of humor, and of facetious characterization, from Dr. Luther down to Sydney Smith ? lie who thinks that wit must be wicked makes as great a mistake as he who thinks that devotion must be dull. It is the blunder of an exceedingly coarse nature to suppose that all merri* ment must need be eulpablCj and that nothing can enter- tain US which is not contrary to good morals. This is a subacidulous theory which some may propound for the sake of a sour distinction, but according to which few live or afl'ect to live. At every well-regulated breakfast table, under the ordinary circumstances of social life, there is, or should be, a new and glad comedy to iuaugu* rate the day — ^an extemporized play of conversational ploa^ santries, of good-iiaturod personalities, of attack without malice and retorts without anger. Whenever and whcre- ever refined and edocatcd men and women are gathered together, there is an improvised play enacted with a jovial and confiding sincerity, in which without exceeding the i limits of good breeding, the frailties and the foibles of the company are thrown into a joint stock for the public amusement. Who finds this dull because there is a straint upon his facetious fancies, and etiquette retjl j

A oentleman's thoughts.

«1

liim to be decent? The raan of the world, who in the drawiug-rooni is delighted by the soft and swift repartee of a modest, and clever, and accomplished ^voman, would be none the less gratified could he see her, or something like her, reproduced at the theatre; for the prcscntatiou would be not only an immediate pleasure, but a pleasure of the memory. Should he wish for exaggerations or dimirmtions of nature's most excellent standard, he knowa where the dwarfs and the giants, the very lean and the very fat are to be found* It is, or it should he, a slander upon any society to say that in dramatic representation it can relish only what is prurient It is not too much to believe that if women wrote more frequently for the theatre they would impart to its exhibitions something of their own grace, purity and elegance; and it is certain that at the present time, under hardly any temptation to cater to the coarse and unthinking, would they venture upon the employment of those licentious baits of applause which men are not ashamed to use. She would rather seek to vindicate the dignity of her sex by presenting it in its most creditable estate, and by proving that brilliancy of mind and of manners need not argue depravity of heart. There would be a glory in the work ; but there would be a consciousness of a noble service nobly pcr- fornied, and of an exalting influence conscientiously exerted, which would, to an ingenuous mind, be worth all the fame and emolument which might incidentally follow. Nor can we tbrget that woman might in this way do some- thing to consign to eternal oblivion those dramatic crea- tions which reflect only discredit and dishonor upon her 8ex — which represent it as sensual and fickle, as thoughtless and reckless, as bent only upon pleasure, and prone only to intrigue, as fonder of winning admiration than of deserving it. In this way, moreover, she might repay the debt which she owes to those dramatic writers who have

412

THE PAT OF PLAYWRIGHTS.

vindicated her capacity for a higher life, her fidelity for nobler intuitions, her truth, her honor and her long suffering. Out of the depths of her own womanly soni such a writer might repeat, with a new truth and uncom- mon vigor, the ideal heroine of poets who have celebrated not merely aiortal loveliucsa but immortal love. Kor this alone. By dignifying the drama she w^ould dignify that vocation which so many of her sistera follow, and would rescue from the indignation of the censor and the sneer of the scandalous those w-ho are sometimed cause- lessly blamed, aud sometimes not without a sufficient reason/*

The pay of dramatists is so large when a real success has been achieved by a piece, that no other field of litera- ture can offer any comparison with it.

But then — success is so very rare! ^

Out of ten thousand times ten thousand plays which I (j are written, and hawked about among managers by im- 1 ^ pecuuious authors, ten succeed. The others fail.

In old times, the pay of dramatic authors— though not 80 large as in our day — w*as still much lai^er than the pay of book-writers,

Milton's *' Paradise Lost^* sold for twenty-five dollars down, and a promise of as much more on the sale of thirtcr ^ rVr^ T * ;. The work sold so amazingly wcllt. I ally received seventy-five dollars

more beforo lio died; and after his death his w-idow sold ji ' ' rt in the copyright for fort)- dollai^

, dollars for an immortal poem! re Milton's time, Marston, the ,1 as macli as abmulred dollar^ t as thoroughly forgotten aBif V^

n.^n«lnwe r«;si\atfiSi ^"^^^^ ^**' ^

i

September 28, 1599, that he had lent to William Borne, "to lend unto John Mastone/* ''the new poete/* *'the sum of forty shillings/* in earnest of some work not named. There is an undated letter of Marstoii to liens- lowe, written probably in reference to this matter, which is characteristic in ita disdainfully confident tone. Thus it runs :

Mk. Hsnslowe, at tho Bose on the B&nkside.

If you like my playo of Columbus, it is verio well, mid you ah all give m© noe more than Iwentio poundcs for it, but If nott, lett me have it by the Boftrer ngaino, as I know the kinges men will freelie give mo aa much for it, and the profitts of the third daye moreover.

Soe I rest yours,

JoHK Mabstok.

In modem days plajs do not go for such sums m this, at least when played with success.

Mr. Boucicanlt^ who labored in this country as actor v and manager for many years^ at the end of which he was us poor as when he began, ia now, thanks to the profits of dramatic anthorship, immensely wealthy.

In this country we have very few dramatic authors who have achieved really great success, though a great num- ber who have done well enough with plays to be raised above want,

American managers have been celebrated, ever since theatres had an existence in this country, for their reluc- tance la43Ja?duce plays by homeauthors.

Taking their cue from the dear public, which is so in- tensely patriotic, it insists on filling the pockets of foreign dramatists rather than encourage its own» managers gene- rally prefer not to risk their money on home-made plays.

A manager who "ran** a theatre in Philadelphia as long ago as 1818, relates that on one occasion he played a very sharp trick on his friend the public.

There was a gentleman named Barker, who^ as the

1

414

THE CELEBRATED BUEF SCENE.

manager statoa, " had written several pieces which Lad no fault but being American productions. This, however, was enough to destroy their success. At my request he now dramatized ' Marmion/ The merit of the piece was positive, but the^old diiflculty remained. I knew the then prejudice against any native play, and concocted with Cooper a very innocent fraud upon the public. We insin- uated that the piece was a London one, had it sent to our theatre from New York, where it was made to arrive in the midst of rehearsal, in the presence of the actors, packed up exactly like pieces %oe were in the habit of receiving from London. It wa3 opeiied with great gravity^ and annoa/iced witkoid any author being alhuied to, None of the company were in the secret, as I well knew 'these actors cannot keep counsel,' not even the prompter. It was played with great success for six or seven nights, when, believing it safe, I announced the author, and from that moment it ceased to attract,**

Managers are frequently the recipients of advice from outsiders who have " brilliant ideas" which they want to see put on the stage in the shape of a play.

White my play of " Surf" was running at the Arch Street Theatre, in niiladeipnia^ some months since, I received a letter from a person whose name I have forgot- ten (though I should not, of course, print it if I remem- bered it), in which he commented oti the scene where a child is rescued from drowning by a strong swimmer*

My adviser expressed the opinion that this scene could easily be made more effective by introducing a shark into the action, which shark should be made to go through divers blood-curdling antics with its tail and jaws, and finally be slain in mortal combat with the juvenile man, and be dragged out of the water dripping with blood !

A clever actor at the Arch, who wrote a burlesque on *' Surf/' for a minstrel show, improved on this Tclea by

SoBsrm FWkit ros Plat or *'Chfs Pmitt Oe

SENSATIONAL PLAYS.

415

having the shark swallow the little girl, after which it was caught with a boat hook, ripped open in full view of the audieDce, and the child extracted from its inside^ alive and well

It is related that a Boston gentleman struck a happy, though rather ghoulish idea^ just after the assassination of President Lincoln. Even the modern stage has hardly reached his conception of the "sensational/' Here is his letter to the manager:

BsAR Sir — As tbe country is now excited over the iiSBa^ination of our lute President^ and everything connected with it, or that will givo any information of the affair id caught up with great internet i I would sug- gest to you the propriety of bringing '* Our Amorican Cousin^' on tho Etage, and as nearly as possible ot the same place in the play, have a shot fired from a representation of the box occupied by the Fre&idcnt, from which a person should leap personating Booth. To heighten and add effect to the scene^ scenery representing mournful drapery^ or his funeral, or the pfOcosBJon, or all combined, or whatever might bo deemed most appropriate, could bo introduced, the charnctors on the stage assuming an ftpprobriate tableau, and the orchestra play a dirge. At its conclu- sion cperyihimj could pa^^ along as ihouffh nothing had happened, RespoctfulTy yourS|

, It is customary to denounce the" sensational'' in plays, just as if there were no "sensations" in real life for the | stage to bold the min*or np to.

Shakespeare's plays are "sensational" to the core!

And whenever critics sharpen their wits at the expense of sorae modern dramatist, I always feel like saying, Noth- ing so easy, gentlemen, if yon only have the mind* But it is the fate of the most telling dramas ever written to incurX the contempt of the critics, very much in the proportion \ that they delight the great public. ^^^

Here is the way a critic deals with Bolwer's play of the

**Lady of Lyons'* : *'^An ignorant gardener's son sees the

^^*^rmtiful daughter of his father's employer, lie falls in

with her — very natural, he had a right to do so, and

416

THE LADY OF LYONS BIBICUEED.

ho doubtless displayed good taste. He becomes detcr- miDed to will her — to rise out of bis mean estate. He goes to work, studies hard, learns to paint and to w^rite verses, because (as he tells you in bis own romantic language), *art became the shadow of the starlight of those haunting eyes' — (the dear boy !j He sends verses to her, which she rejects, (although there was nothing, to be sure, in the lines, as he says, that * a serf might not send to an em- press/) The young lady's father's servant beats the pea- sant messenger who brought the verses, for his imperti- nence, Pauline^ a pretty, rich belle, a little vain and proud, was guilty of the horrid oflcnce not only of relent- ing HU aruatory epistle from this darling boy, but she chose to reject a score of suitors and foolishly to prefer a man with a handle to bis name — as which of our Ameri- can belles does uotl — she wanted a lord, just as Mm Brown does anybody before a mechanic. For this crime, two young gentlemen, who Iiad been rejected by her, be- come co-cons^pirators; they determine to destroy her, and to this end furnish money to the noble Claude to dress and act as a prince, to win her, to marry her, to carry her to his own hovel home on his wedding night, that her mean estate may huuiiliute her the sooner; all of which the noble, loving, educated, chivalrous Claude agrees, on his oatb, to do, because he swears he will be revenged on — the ffiii, (about sixteen years of age, she was, or there- abouts !) for the dreadful oflFence of sending back his verses and slapping tlie ftice, by proxy, of the chap in a blouse who brought them. And Claude does it He wins her by fraud — takes her to his mean home — and there raves over his remorse and love, sends her to bed to sleep by herself, agrees to a divorce, and rushes off to the wars* But poor Pauline* s 'a goner* — she's in love! She *can*t give it up so, Mr. Brown/ Claude changes his name, rises by magic in the army, becomes a general^ returns, hears

THE STAQE-SAILOR.

41T

that she is aboot to marry, swings, with mi epaulette on each shoulder, into her father's house just as Pauline ia about to be victiraized, to sell herself to save a bankrupt father, who has disposed of her for cash to an old rejected suitor, and then and there Claude^ (having first ascertained the amooQt offered by his rival for the hand of his love), planks up ' thrice the sum/ clasps her in his arms, aad the curtain falls — the audience draw a long breath — the sweet ones * dry up' their eyes, and go home to dream^ — on what? *Ay, there's the rub!* To dream, I fear, in the very drunkenness of morbid sentiment Well is it, if on each representation of this piece, no young mind is tainted V

Now I won't say that this is not the very acme of schol- arly and delightful criticism, hut I tmtl Ray that when the 8ame style of thing is written about — well, say about i/our new piece, friend B,, or friend D., or friend F., or friend H., you can reply that if Bolwer can stand it you can.

There are certain stage creations inexpressibly dear to the popular heart, the like of which no man ever saw nor ever will, and among these ia that " queer fish/' the tradi- tional stage sailor, whom a witty critic thus describes: **IIe tells everybody he meets to * belay there,' which we find, by a dictionary of sea terms, is making a rope fast by turns round a pin or coil without hitching or seiziog it. He calls his legs his timbers, though timbers in nautical language mean ribs, and he is eternally requesting that ' they may be shivered. Ho is always either on terms of easy familiarity with his captain or particularly mutioous, and is often in love with the same young lady as his supe- rior officer, when, in consequence of their affections clash* ing, he generally cuts down to a mere hull, as ho techni- cally expresses it He calls every elderly person a gmm- pus, and stigmatizes as a land-lubber, every person whose irsuits do not happen to be nautical. When at se% 27

418

A QUEER FISH.

thougli only a common sailor, the stage tar is the most important personage on board, and the captaio frequently retires to the side of the vessel — sitting probably on a tar barrel — in order to leave the quarter-deck to the service of the tar, while he indulges in a naval hornpipe. The dramatic seaman usually wears patent-leather pumps and silk stockings when in active service, and, if we arc to believe what he says, he is in the habit of sitting most unneceBsarily on the main top-gallant studding sail boom, in a storm at midnight, for the sole purpose of thinking of Polly. When he fights, he seldom condescends to en- gage more than three at a time ; and, if the action has been general before, all retire at once the moment he evinces a desire for a combat If he is a married man, he invariably leaves Polly without the means of paying her rent, and when he returns he always finds her rejecting the dishonorable proposals of a man in possession, who ib making advances, either on hia own account or as the agent of a libertine landlord. In these cases the theatri- cal seaman pays out the execution with a very large purse, heavily laden at both ends, which he indignantly flings at the ' shark,' as he figuratively describes the broker's man, who goes away without counting the money or giving any receipt for it. The stage tar sometimes carries papers in his bosom, which, as he cannot read, he does not know the purport of, and, though he has treasured them up, he has never thought it worth while for any one to look at them, but he generally pulls them out in the very nick ofy time, in the presence of some old nobleman, who glance at them and exclaims, * My long-lost son !^ at the same time expanding his arms for the tar to rush into* Some times he carries a miniature which, though the scene of the drama is some fifty years ago, is a daguerreotype, and finds in some titled dame a mother to match it, or pulk up the sleeve of Ms jacket and shows a stain of port v

f»ATRIOTIO TABLEAU. 419

upon his arm, which estahlishes his right to some very extensive estates, and convicts a conscience-stricken stew- ard of a long train of villainies. At the close of his ex- ploits, it is customary to bring in the Union- Jack or Stars and Stripes, (nobody knows why they are introduced, or where they came from), and to wave it over his head to the tune of the ^ Star-spangled Banner.' "

HOW PBAMATIO CBITICS aBOW.

h

CHAPTER XXXI.

Dramatic Critics, How They Grow* — An English Critic on Criticisai.^ Snarlers nnd Getitl ecneo, — TrUtam Shaadj 'aViews. — Western Critkh^ Macready's Boy Critic.

The preceding chapter touches on critics in passing, but so important a class of people certainly are entitled to a chapter all to themselves,

Hinc ilia tachryniae !

(The critics know what it means, 0 reader to whom Latin is all Dutch. Bless you, they know everything.)

If I am inclined to be a little facetious at the expense of dramatic critics as a class, I trust they will overlook it when 1 raentlou the reason.

The reason is, that two-thirds of them are no more fit to he dramatic critics than they are to take pupils in the art of polite ness-

Not that they wouldn't take 'em as soon as not, you -understand; their self-sufficiency is equal to anything.

Two-thirds of the men who, in our large cities, presume to sit in judgment on theatrical art and artists, are unedu- cated, vulgar, dishonorable and dissipated*

The other third is composed of gentlemen of education, ability^ and integrity; and of all the wide brotherhood of literary workers none have my admiration and sym- pathy more heartily.

I am in some degree a dramatic critic myself, and I am as proud of some of ray brethren in the field as I am ashamed of others.

Perhaps if we should divide the members of other pro- fessions aud callings in a similar manner, the unworthy

LONDON cEirrcs.

m

would outrank the worthy in about the same proportiouB.

That I am not alone in my opinion regarding dramatic critics — and that these persons are much the same in England that they are in America — is shown by the opinion which Mr. John ITollingshead printed a short time ago in a London magazine*

Mr. HoUiiJgshead is a London dramatic critic^ and he says: ** Dramatic criticism is one of those arts that have no recognized position and no recognized principles, but plenty of too easily recognized professors. They swarm into every theatre, and are as welt known as the actors or the box-keepera. They pretend that the power of pre- serving the anonymous would materially add to their independence of judgment, but neither they nor their employers take the slightest trouble to secure this privacy. A few beggarly pounds or shillings are allowed to stand between the critic and that which he says would aid him in doing his duty to the public. The ' free-list,' suspended at times, as far as regards bonnet-bnildcra^ dock officials, linendrapers* assistants, publicans, and that very large parish of individuals who come under the general description of * professionals/ is never suspended, as far as the public press is concerned. Anything that bears the shape and impress of a newspaper order, any ragged reporter or printing-office laborer who represents, or is supposed to represent, a newspaper, however obscure, is admitted to all theatres and places of public amusement at all times and all seasons. A dead newspaper is treated with more respect and fear than a live public. There is no written contract in dealings of this sort, but there is an implied understanding. The manager, by these cour- tdeies, hopes to conciliate the paper, and in some cases do«a conciliate it, while the critic feels the influence of transactions entirely beyond his control. He is kind and gentk to the manager, whatever he may feel it his duty

422

OmriCS, FROM the ACTRESS-STAinyPOIITT.

to be to the actors and authors. The manager ia always spirited and enterprising when he accepts a tboraughly bad piece and decorates it with eplen did scenery, and he can only be spirited and enterprising when he has the judgment to select a good piece on which to lavish his capital. The worst of always pitching the key-note of praise too high, ia that it makes it difficult to increase the tone when required/'

Wlien I was on the stage I once \\Tote an opinion of certain critics, as seen from the actress's standpoint, and what I wrote then I reprint here — with a single quotation marie at the beginning and the end, to distinguish it from what I write now*

** The evening wears on. I am on the stage at a moment when I have nothing to do but sit still ; and I take the opportunity to look around for the professional critics — those who write for the press — bat I don't see them.

The most of them went away in the middle of the first act, and their notices of the whole of the new play are already in type.

They get tired of this sort of thing, yon know ; but while cutting us up they might oftener remember that they arc not so startlingly perfect themselves.

That well-known journal for the fireside, the New York Snarler intimates that I am pretty old, but its impartial critic who is entirely above suspicion, like Brevet-Briga- dier General J. Caesars wife, generously adds that he has seen *'much older actresses."

Let me hero set this matter of age at rest by stating that I was born in 1811, and am consequently fifty-eight years old.

I am fifteen years older than the oldest inhabitant, bat my front teeth are good.

Old age should be respected.

CBITICAL DISINTEEESTEBNESS.

423

The editor of the Snarler is young, but I am glad to know he must be happy*

The truly virtuous are ever thus.

It would have bcea a proud moment for the Duke of ork if he could have foreseen that this sweet young an -would some time edit a paper in that city which is ea closely connected with the immortal name of the duke L aforesaid,

t The duke died shortly before the Snarkfs time, but it! is glorious to feel that he would have received the en- thusiastic support of its spotless editor, if he had got hia l^iob printing done at the Siiarler office* ^H Even my eyes don't Bcem to Batisfy the Snarler^ although ^Bbey have been favorably received in other cities. ^" At Evansvillej Indiana, they got two rounds of applause I (one each) and there were indications that they might be

called in front of the curtain. \^m A gifted editor in that place stated that they were as ^Waoft and melting as a summer's sun while ever and anoo ^pHy flashed with the fury of the eagle disturbed in its F eyrie heigh ta."

^^ It is true he called on me the next day and wanted to ^mU me a house-lot^ but I feel confident that his admira* ^^feon of my eyes was sincere.

I Besides, he told me this lot would double in value in two years*

1 don't know whether it is quite the thing to quote Scripture in this conoectionj but if it were, I should like to request the editor of the Snurler to pluck out the mote from his own eye before he notices the beaming in mine.

But the object of this screed is not to pick flaws with the critics.

Many of them have treated mo very kindly. I ~ ~~ ' '%ose who liave found fault with

because he was paid to do so*

484

UNREASONABLK EXPECTATIONS.

It is pleasant to reflect that he would have praised me on the same terms,

I don't know how it is, but we are somehow expected to unite all the virtues of the angels, the beauty of the gods, and-five times the learning of the erudite Edipos ' himself.

Our faults are magnified — our advantages arc under- estimated—our personal character discussed — the genuine- taess of our teeth and hair doubted — our dressmaker found fault with — the probabilities of her bill being paid or otherwise strongly insisted upon — ^ vague hints thrown out in regard to the extreme likelihood of our remote maternal grandfather having been a pirate and a cut- throat robber (which supposition if true would fully account for the unsatisfactory " rendition** of our role in the last new comedy), and few other trifling personalities of the same sort help to make up "criticism'* in the Metro- polis of this undoubtedly extensive country.

This species of criticism, unluckily, is far more galling than the product howsoever bitter of genuine talent, and that feu sacre must be a perfect bonfire of tar-barrels and other rubbish which can keep blazing while the hoso of the b'hoy critic is ejecting the puny stream of his milk- and-watery disapprova!.*'

As the gentle Tristam Shandy said: "Grant me ' patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in this canting world, though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst — the cant of criticism is the most tormenting. I would go fifty miles on foot, for I have not a horse wortli riding on» to kiss the hand of that man whose generous heart will give up the reins of imagination into hia author a hands — be pleased he knows not why, and cares not wherefore/'

Badinage aside, let me say a word I tried once beforo to say, concerning Western critics^ and did not say half

A CRTTTCAL HEBGEHOa.

as well as I wished. Practice makes perfect, and I intend to keep at this subject till I have expressed nijself pro- perly.

The general idea of Western criticismj as entertained by Eastern critics, is that it is one prolonged shriek of adulation ; adjectives quite inadequate to relieve the pent- up feelings of the critic, and all the high-flown images known to rhetoric pressed into the service to describe some mediocre actor, orator, or poet,

What stEft" and nonsense this all is, I well know from experience.

It is true there are some towns in the West where local dramatic companies and third-rate '* Professors," lecturing on bumpology, are extolled to the skies, praise being care- fully regulated by the amount of job-prioting ordered. But these are always small towns, whose newspapers are as insignificant in calibre as they would be in towns of the same size East.

The only place in the West where I was attacked at colnran length, with a discourtesy and stupidity worthy of an enraged hedgehog, was a little city where I was en- gaged by a local speculator, who owed the printer and I suppose still owes hira.

The rage of this little editor when he found that, in spite of my large house, there was no money left for him, was something awfuL lie called me nicknames, said I was a ballet-girl when at home in New York, and a good deal more of the same sort. Unable to see any excellence in me, it was a great relief to my imagination when I ob- served in another column a loud puff of a local actor, of the most ordinary calibre, who was boldly compared to Edwin Booth.

But to gauge Western critics, as a class, by such petty examples aa thoroughly unjust. So far as

my obscrv it is a pretty careful

j^p^pppppppppppppppijapiq

426

WESTERN CRmCISK.

one — I shonld say there was really very little difference between Western and Eastern critics. The little differ* ence consists in the Western critic being more industrious than his confrere of the East.

I know it is the opinion of Bome of the best judges in the East that there is scarcely a writer in the West who would be fit to write editorials for first-class Eastern jou^ nals without some months of preparation ; but then the best writers on the Western press are of the opinion that Eastern writers could learn " a thing or two*' about the newspaper business by coming West- How ever that may be, there is only one point to which I hold, and that is that ridicule, as directed to Western critics for their "shrieks of adulation," is a great ab- surdity.

Western criticism often has a rollicking independence of tone about it which would horrify staid Eastern read- ers ; like that of tlic Western critic who paid his respects to the great Ristori in this oft-hand manner :

"Ab it is we have a recompense in the first of Ameri- cans if not the last of Italians, and need not starve for dramatic luxury. So, au revoirj Ristori! Old girl^ good evening! We wish you well."

But critics do not always write for prints Somctime« they are private individuals ; and apropos of this, a little story.

In the same hotel where Macready resided during hia first engagement in a Southern city, lived a gentleman who enjoyed the tragedian's friendship and intimacy. Mr, S. had with him a son about four years of age, a bright, intelligent boy, who became an especial favorite of Mr. Macready, '*The great actor, frequently, after delighting a large audit^rj^ with his sublime conceptioiid of Shakespeare or Byron, would, with a simple ple^isore til at did him honor, take the little Thaddy on his k»

MACREADT AND THE BOY.

427

and in friendly prattle pass a half an honr away. Tliaddy, in one of these confidential moments, expressed a longing desire to go to the theatre, and see his elderly friend act * Very well/ said the tragedian, * I'll ask your father to let you go to-morrow night.' Accordingly the request was duly made and granted , and on the night appointed the father and son made a portion of one of the most brilliant assemblages that ever gathered within the walls of the St Charles. The play was 'King Lear.' Macrcady never acted more beantifally. The fi^enzy and pathos of the choleric king were faithfully deliueated ; and in the groat storm Bcene^ where Lear is exposed to the furj' of the tempest, with the lightning flashing around his aged head, the frenzied gesture and sublime pathos of the great actor , drew down the thunders from the front of the house, i which drowned the noise of the mimic tempest on the stage most eflectually. Macready left the theatre with the applause still ringing in his ears. We all have our little weaknesses, and the great actor could not feel en- tirely satisfied with the ovation bestowed on hira by refined ladies and grey-head critics. lie wanted a tit bit of admiration, a bonne bouche^ from little Thaddy. So, on the following day, he took the first opportunity in his conversation with his young friend to elicit his childish opinion of his acting. * Oh ! it was beautiftilj Mr. 'Cready/ said the boy. * Ton were pleased with the play, then, Thaddy?' said the gratified tragedian. * Yes, in- deed, Mr. *Cready/ answered Thaddy, 'Now, what do you think I was doing when I was in the rain, and when it waa thundering and lightning so much ?* ^ Oh, I felt so sorry for you,' said Thaddy, * You did that very well, though, Mr. ' Cready.* *Ah ! when I was throwing my arms about, you know what I did that for?' * Oh, yes, indeed, and I wanted to help you so much,' replied Thaddy, warming up at the remembrance of the thriHiog performance, * you were catching lightning bugs V "

428

0A8TE, IK THE OBEEK-EOOM*

CHAPTER XXXIL

Tho Personal and Private Li vosof Players.-Socml BifitiDctlonsof tbeGrfes Koom. — Smoking and Drinking Behind tbe Scene*. — Curioiity of ih« Public about Actors* Private Live*. — Tho Wonderful Jones and Brown. — Clannishncsi of Acton* — ^A Lively Green Eoom Scene. — Admitting Visitors Behind the Scenes. — A Solitary Levee. — Actora' Friinto Habitfl tbeir Own Concern. — ^Persecution of Actors in Former 2>iiyt.— Tbe Lesson of Charity .^ — Excusable Curiosity, — Actors' Ages. — Hmbitc of French Actors.— Love Letters of Actreasea. — A Funny Spedo — A Ludicrous French Lover, — Marriage of Actresses into High JMb, 1 — General Good Health of Players,— An Actress who went Mad,— , Players who Have Reached Great Age.— ** Old Holland.'* — Dejuzet

There are as many social diBtiQctions in the green-room afi in the parlor. The **Star" is the lion of the hour, and is treated by all with tbe deference usually shown to lions in society.

The Star will fraternize with the manager, the et&ge^ manager, and the leading actors and actresses; bat a ** utility'* person — male or female — or a "walking lady*' or *' gentleman'* who would address the Star, except on a matter of husiness, would be considered presumptuous.

The carpenters, property-men, scene-shifters, and ma- chinists never enter the green-room, and very rarely hold any conversation whatever with the players. These latter consider themselves artists ; the others are artisans. It is the pride of position.

The musicians have a green-room of their own, where they wile away the long moments during the acts, when they are not called upon to play, by tuning their iostru- meuts, smoking a pipe or cigar, or sipping a mug of beer. The first of these offences is considered graver than tho hitter ; and is liable to fine, or even discharge of tho offender.

PigUAHT PEESOSAWTIES.

429

I I

"No smoking allowed/* ia a card conspicuously dis- played behiud the sccDes and in the green-room of every well regulated theatre. Considering the amount of com- bustible matter always stowed away in theatres, the pre- caution is a wise one.

The curiosity of the public about the private lite of player-folk ia not a thing of modern growth.

The prosperous days of the profession have always been marked by this curiosity.

If you have the happiness to possess a garrulous and clear-headed old friend of eighty years of age, you will see what a hold the stage and its professors had on the gene- ration at the commencement of this century.

"John Kemble, sir, always wore knee-breeches of grey cloth when he was in the country. Mrs. Siddons, sir, once tumbled over a stile near Coventry, and boro the mark of the accident on the instep of her right foot to her dying day. She died on a Friday, sir, and I have heard that she^ waa married on a Thui^sday/'

The British newspapers of 1809 are filled with more columns of discussion on the late quarrel between Y. Z., of this theatre, and X. Y. of that, than of information about the armies in Spain. "It seemed as if the moment an unlucky person, whether an Uamlct, or an aapiring Ophelia, set foot upon the boards, they were forced in all fntoro time to dance a torch-dance down the great hall of life, like a set of princes and potentates at a Prussian wedding, and found repose and shadow nevermore. To ^oAst forever within the glare of lamps and the smell of disnge-peel was a hea^^ price to pay for the chance of making a palpable hit as Laertes, or captivating a mar- quis in the white robes of Miranda. But this suffering actors were willing to endui-e and the public to inflict. Once encircled with the tinfoil crown — once robed in imitation ermine — once grasping the wooden sceptre —

:

fwdl mwiimty of &mfy m lUArk. lib wnjB

«MBflk iMt pointed Uik ^M«» ^fpf^iinR for ft ^xm KimmH 0m4m ; he k i«IJl(Nll M fMl in the ^*TAtN«i^ fli,€f Drmy ; he is - ^i«y fttong.

yrMt K» heavy for

hn^ 4ilmmt always e i\'>ifti with four houim* * ^ Mgii would b© oearir ae

^^'<(Wi addod togetbtr, wi&oqt ^ mi^^— ,

4^^^ ^^^ V 1%^ w4w»|v* ** But the pasaon for Jij|,g5ig ^

s^ xvv ,^.x. n,x..i,^.^, N>i:h the theatre before iLe pLifii

.- s . . - ".^r ... vVi:-ji earlier day, to the mere -wfifirffj

V V . -. )>.Nk.r.. ** Woe befall the asp^irsj;:! iar

. , . .v.v,«iM ',u > :vr.y ^hape or form 1 If pC'Tsny,

\v -^.1 X r.r:ii a cousin promoted t*' '\^

, \vvv V \-,^.::.:.iVil Shakespeare to url^ &

■ >v^ • .^ , ,:.i.ri)v:eT until the earth \r&s ^k^t-

V . '•, .o^'n!. exi>ense, in the pairor? . - ^ > ' - - . "> -V - ,,^c the audience, or hi ^a*

-- --> ^^ ^ . . 'Sv >^r behind the scenes smmg

v.>. ..V ,^ :,> i,: .5 whether the poor €&tt •■^-^^-^ ^ '^v- -:,.;:.,- :."' u:r.phant shouts broii^i - •' '-^v -^ --. :-v:.: of his private bax^ «r - - "• "> ^^^V'-^ .^\ -. j ::i - -c^^,':t'i from the

^ •' -^ .■ - %v }•. . ^:r-^ <^-_- *j^ a yearlyA* ■ ^^ :^%-'-v. :]-.;. -^^-r- ir c^orporated ^'- • ' - - \>,v,.^^'> -x^o^y jiriicrsk:::; and

CLANNIBHNESS OF ACTORS.

431

ished forever in a dictionary, with all his previoaa life, and vaticinations of his future destiny, inscribed at fiiU length; and, to bar all chance of immunity from the world's research, this history of him was to be found in the index, either under the initials of his name or of the title of his work. A man might %vrite an Epic, and be

' laughed at for a fortnight — or a Uistory, and be forgotten in a shorter time ; but if he tried a melodrama, or a trag- edy, or a pantomime, or soared into opera or comedy, it was all the same — he was pilloried in the biography of dramatic authors ; and the hiss of that furious pit, the

L groans of that frantic gallery, never left his ears ; anybody

Ithat heard his name could turn to the book; and the mis-

I fortune was, that if hla cognomen happened to be a com- mon one, or if tlie biographer was deceived by the identity of patronymic, the wretched subject of commemoration was credited with the doings of his double, and had follies and Iniquities of every kind to blush for, as well as the failure of his literary effort."

Actors are clannish to an extraordinary degree. Usu- ally reticent before strangers, they are very outspoken

.between themselves. Their stylo of dialogue is sometimes

rery amusing, being as it is a mixture of all that is most

eautiful in poetic literature, culled from their different

E>artfi, jumbled up indiscriminately with technicalities,

eurrent slang, and ordinary English.

Any one who has the privilege of going behind the

anea — a privilege rarely accorded any but ** profession-

fftls," in this country^has had opportunity to observe this peculiarity as it is manifested at odd times — particularly &f a festive character. Something like this, for example — the scene is the

"itage of a New York theatre, on Christmas day, at the close of the afkernoon performance of a pantomime : **What time is it?** asks somebody.

UTILT SALLnm,

^ A qMiter to nz,*" rep&m aooiebodj else.

^Mj grwrfiif ■ I We nerer sliall have time to go homt idgitfittMrr

^Bittaer!" ^Aoci FtatikMiiv who is cast for the heavy • m gmiFfri duiig^ and hm m grent contempt for tSmmdt uk die Ghflktmis fAatomiiiiev where he does little I but g«t knocked down, and be helped up, and bawl and y imi I over hb pct^ woea. "^IKnner ! You think of iiia«r— I of the revnge I Ha» faa-a-ara !'* and he strides behind the wings.

^rd like to revenge mjself on a good &t tnrkejp"' eajtl Colombine. "What is Christmai without a turkey ?"

^Ezactlj! Alflo, what U home without a mother ?'*

Kobody eeems inclined to answer these pertinent qneriesy and the Christinas players go thronging toward the dieadng-rooma.

**Oh,sayr

Clown speaks.

*' Suppose we send and get something to eat, and have it in the green-room ?"

** Agreed," says a voice,

''-Agreed,** says another voice, in a higher key,

"A-a-agreed!" is given in the well-known stnun of Hecate, and instantly joining hands the playera form a ring, dancing wildly, and einging in unison for their own private diversion that which they have often sung for the diversion of the public ;

*' Aromidf around t Around, around I About, about 1 Aboutt about I All ill keep ninning, Banning in ! All good keep out I"

**8top!'' roars Pantaloon. **By the pricking thumbs, something wicked this way comes !*'

CLOWNS AND TRAGEDIANS.

488

It proves to be tUc leading man, the poetical Hamlet, about whom all the Fifth Avenue girls are raving, who opens the back-door and stalks in with an umbrella under his arm, overshoes on his feet, a jellow-covered play-book in hia hand, and a cold in his head,

** You're earning your eal easy," says Clown to him with ' fiome reproach.

"I earn it hard enongh the rest of the year," says Ham- |let; "it would be a pity if I couldn't rest when the Christmas pantomine is on***

But the Clown does not hear what Hamlet says, for the tivorda are drowned in another mid chorus of the circling

ring:

« Send down Sal 1 Send down Sal 1 Send down Sala-ref/"

"Something too much of this," says the tragedian with a frown. ** What says the king ?*'

**The king says he*s hungry. "Where's the call-boy? !*et's send hira out. What shall it be ? Oysters V ** Ay, good, my lord/'

'*Fried oysters, Bmirkina" — to the call-boy — **and let fem be hot/'

All adjourn to the green-room, except the call-boy, who lisappears into the street,

*Boo ! boo ! how cold it is !" cries Columbine, w^ho been in her dressing-room and got a shawl, "I do Fi*onder what people want to come out to the theatre in such bitter weather as this — and on Chrismas day

" To be sure/' answers Ilarlequin, who is of English jirth, and who, according to his own account, has passed |ho %vhole of his life prior to liis unfortunate step of com- ag to America, in dancing before the Queen and the rest the royal family* '*In Hcngland no one thinks of Mng to the theatre hon a Christmas/' (28)

"« Whftt't boziiig filter*

'^Tbe iti^ht harfU^, to 1 joQy crvird Oiea ': '

So ooe io^iiit difpoted i lltit moiMiit r0-Mt6r lowed bjr s wiltcr hesvilj

**AllliaiI, StQirkiutr

IS a

Col-

"You're m good boy,

''The tabor we deltgbt is call-boy, who ii ambitious to be a trionac tnoa^hi are yet ifctiiciBl I esrtaiA betareeti tbe acta, tot the eafpeta, removing fragmenta of vfaiefa ooeaaiotia he ia wildly addreiaedM^Soiip! Soapr greartiytoftia]

1!!be waiter hsmng gone, it ia bmod tkai pitcher of beer and do glaaaea to driaik it \

^Whj, that's Dotfaiiig to diiok out of r ttmbtoe, plaintively.

'"^There's tbe gobleta we nee in MmSbelhJ*

Tbia by tbe property-maD, who staada leataing t the door-iKmt with a paper cap on hh head and a patdiof gildtog on biii uose.

The offer ia altogether facetious^ for the gobleta are made of pasteboard, and will hold nothing bat empdnesa.

^Macbeth'a gobleta ?^^ roars Hamlet, who is also Mac- beth as freqaently aa the pnhlic will poeaibly etaad it ^Macbeth*0 gobleta to drink beer out of? Oh, to what base Qses we may retnm, Horatio !'*

"Certainly/^ answers Clown* ** Great Alexander stop- ped a beer barrel"

**So would yon/* returns Pant^oon^ "if yon could get a ebance — with your mouth at the bung-hole/'

*' Caitiff!" roars the Clown with his mouth foil o£ oysters fried.

:

ON AND OFF THE STAGE.

435

"How was your houso this afternoon?" inquiree the tragedian in a contemptuons tone.

"Splendid," is the reply.

** Splendid, ch ?" responds the leading man. "Ah well I Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ! The public taste is sadly deteriorating. Why won*t the people rush to see my Loar for two years at a stretch T*

**A]], that would be rather stretching good nature," flays Clown.

^*The public would have to be as crazy as Lear was, to do such a thing/' says Pantaloon,

"Shut up! — ^perturbed spirit/' growls the tragedian; **and give us a sup of your beer."

Spite of quibble and retort, it is easy to perceive that there is no ill-feeling here, and that a spirit of jollity such as is seldom to be met with clecwhere is prevalent.

I think the actor chtz hd^ if an aetor may be said to have a ehez lui, is a very different creature to that which he appears ehez the superficial and unprofessional observer.

The superficial and unprofessional observer may judge the actor to be a stupid and uninteresting creature oti* the stage. He may wonder where that genius is hidden ' which shines out so brightly before the footlights. He may even doubt the existence of that genius, and be in- clined to reconstruct his former opinions concerning it.

The truth is, that a good actor on the stage is generally a poorer actor off' it than any man in society. He is reticent in speech, often awkward in bearing. Perkins, who is in the dry-goods line, quite eclipses him in all the small graces. Medoc, the wine merchant, who never read u play of Shakespeare's quite through in his life, spouts bad poetry among his friends till they all think he would have made a better actor than the professional now de- lighting the town, who sits by in silence while Medoc airs his abilities. Possibly even the professional himself thinks so.

486

VISITORS BEHIND THE SCBlfBS,

But pat the same actor amoDg his fellows — and his

fellowesses — and believe me, he will instantly become quite a sparkling aod romantic creature, from whose tongue drop constant gems.

Among those who can quote back at him, the actor does not hesitate to quote freely. Give him Milton and he responds with Shakespeare. Give him Pope and he returns you Byron. And with hia quotings he will mingle an everyday jargon which shall be full of humor and often even of wit.

Mi^. Siddons stabbed the potatoes. My tragic friend Uno, who plays Macbeth so well, always murders a Duncan when he carves hie Christmas turkey.

But as I have said, it is not customary in this country to admit visitors behind the scenes.

In some foreign countries this pmctice is more common.

It is related that the manager of the Vienna theatre, at which Ada Menken once performed, stated on the play- bills that all gentlemen reserving orchestra chairs would be entitled to an introduction to Ada in her dressing- room. Nobody went in. It was a solitary levee.

To a certain extent, of course, curiosity with regard to the private tastes, habits and peculiarities of all public ^people is quite excusable.

But that curiosity which goes behind an actors public life to pick faults in his private character is contemptible.

An actor's private habits, I have always strenuously contended, are his own concern, just as they are any indi- viduars, and it is only when he obtrudes his private vices on the public in his public capacity, that there is any more excuse for saying—'' There is a drunken actor ^^^ than there is for saying, '* There is a drunken grocer," or **a drunken dealer in government securities."

Wlien ho is drunk on the stage, he is a drunken SiCtor Not otherwise.

PEBSECUTIOil OP ACTORS.

487

As a writer remarks : " Men and women who are com- pelled by their vocation to move before the world in a perpetual glare of gaslight, and to submit to a surveill- auce which is ceaseless, aud to a judgment which is seldom charitable, are sure to be suspected however innocent, and equally sure to be detected however cautious. The pay- ment of three shiiHiigs at the box-office eotitles a man to a seat, a bill of the play, aud the privilege (never alas ! exercised) of hissing if he be not pleased; but it does not constitute him the censor of the private manners and customs of the perforniors. With the actor inebriate upon the boards, shuffling and hiccoughing through his part, an enlightened audience should make short and stern work. He has broken his contract express with the manager, and his contract implied with the spectatora; he has disappointed those who were entitled to an evenings amusement, and lie has brought his profession, and consequently its patrons, into gratuitous disrepute. But wliat business had the frequenters of the London theatre to hiss Mr, Kean, iu what Lord Macauly calls a * periodical fit of morality* because Mr, £ean had been suspected of a delicate affair with the wife of an alder- man ?"

The persecution of actors, as it existed in former days,

Vhm been modified in a degree to which few people give

^thought

The actor of to-day is often, it is true, an object of unjust judgment, from ultra-reHgious people, hut in the early days players were **a proscribed race, held in con- tempt, as pernicious to the welfare of mankind. From tlie very first the Fathers of the Church eyed them with

LBUSpicion, exercising every possible means to make them

rodtous and their profession disreputable; they pursued actors with an ingenuity of persecution only rivalled by that iutllcted on the Jews. Edicts were promulgated,

m

THE CHRISTIAN SPlRrf,

maldngii impossible for an actor to embrace the Christian faWi until be had formally renounced bis calling, and received absolution; tbe same edicts denied bini right of baptism or burial in consecrated ground, A canon of tbe African Church, in the third century, forbade 'such infamous persons as comedians* from making accusations in court. The Christian emperors Theodosius and Valentinian, ia a prohibitory instrument, call Thespians 'that infamoui race of players,' and speak of their vocation m a 'shame-"' fnl trade/ Through these emperora the pious fathers procured excommunication of all renegades from tbe true faith wbo should abet or tolerate ' the children of Sathanas,' ''

How horribly this contrasts with the very spirit of the Christian religion, no candid person, no true Cbristia can fail to see.

The lesson of charity is the first lesson a Christian has to learn : charity toward all men — and women,

Christ preached it up and down the Holy Land for thirtj' years. His whole life taught it ; his lips taught it ex- plicitly and often ; his last act was one of charity to the thieves between whom he hung upon the cross.

Even bis stern apostle, Paul, taught charity as the chief of virtues.

''Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor * * ♦' and have not charity, it profitcth me nothing, Chai-ity suffereth long, and is kind; charity thinketh no evil,"

" And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three— ' but the greatest of these is charity.**

However, I am not now preaching a sermon, nor eveu delivering a lecture.

Such information as it seems to me right to furnish to tbe public, I am always glad to furnish ; and among tbo channels in which public curiosity runs, I think one of the most excusable is that which wonders how old an actor or actress is.

JOHN BROUGHAH.

players' aqbb.

439

The stage arts of raako-up are so confasing to our per- ceptions that many fi young man passes for a tottering veteran, and vice versa.

The following ages of well-known playerB will be found pretty correct:

Buclutonc ,. 67

Mrs. John Drew,-.,., 46

A, W, Fcnno « 65

John Gilbert..,, 60

Jo Jefferson , ,, 40

Hra, Fanny Kcmble..**,. .....* 68

John Lester Walkck.. ...,,.. 49

Edwin ForreBt 6S

MAcready , 76

Murdoch 67

Mrs, Landor 43

Mrs, Eliza Logan Wood 39

Mr,', Prior 42

J. B, Roberta,. 60

Mrs, SkQiTctt,.,,, 62

William Warren 62

Barney Williams * 45

W. J, Florence .„,.. 85

E, L» Davenport.... „..,., 48

Mrg, Mowatl 41

J, H. Hackett, « 69

Mrs. Farren..., , 40

John Brougham «... 68

Laura Keene 46

Miss Elchings i. 40

H^len Fjiucit 62

MeKean Bachanan» 61

Fanny Ellsler..., 76

George Vandenhoff.. 64

Dion BoudcfluU , 66

Mrs, Dion BoucicauU (Agnes

Robertson) ,,,..„, 37

Miss Lotta „......, 21

Maggie Mitohell.,,.,,., ., 35

Kate Bateman 29

F, S. Chanfrau „.,.. 40

French actors are, as a rule, very difterent creatures from American actors, in their private lives.

"With US, an actor seldom has any marked tastes aside from those connected with his profession ; but French actors almost always have some pet hobby to ride, which has nothing at all to do with their profession. Thus M. Grivot, of the Vaudeville, is fond of etching, and is curi- ous in bronzes, St Germain collects rare books. Dea- rieux delights in pottery, and people go to see his speci- mens of old faience ware. The more famous Doche has an exquisite little museum of rare Dresden and dainty curiosities. Kopp, one of the droll coterie in the ** Grande i Duchessc,*' has a collection of pictures worth 30,000 francs, I ^nche, of the Palais Royal, collects china. One actor

440

ACTT&SSSIS LOVE-LETTERS*

has a collectioQ of clocks of Louis XIV.; another, a choice little cabinet by Meissonier; a third is a good sculptor; a dozen paint landscapes; nearly all are musicians, and moat play on the violin. As for the actresses, it is not too mach to say that every second one sings skilfully, and plays the pianoforte as a matter of course. Many French actors write elegant and lively verses — ^^proverbes" some- times— which they act for their own amusement All this botokeu3 a refined tone of thought The directors of the theatres are very often skilled and successful drama- tists, and more often still trained and refined critics, who have served an apprenticeship on influential papers. The green-rooms are not like ours, bare, unfurnished apart- ments, but noble salons, full of busts of great players and dramatic authors, covered with pictures of scenes from great plays by great artists, furnished with presents from ' the kings of France,

That actresses are, as a rule, in the habit of receiving great nurabcra of love-letters from unhappy young men who have no better employment than to write them, is most true.

It is also true that actresses are as a rule in the habit of dropping these tender missives into the fire without be- stowing a second thought on their writers.

The foUowiog is a specimen of the sort of love-letter Mtreases are most familiar with; for impudence and igno- mnc^ usually go together.

The letter is a real one:

Um

NeW). Orleans. L*

It-. .

rnin apply for your ncqualntance If myne U Acceptible I hare

• ^ - noti periormance in tlio —— , Your perforrnance suited

<Hw w\* wvU |h*t I nm not ttt ense until form your acquaintanco I am a tiiurMUnn* Ux\ it is no rcnson that I wtint you to think any the more of 1*^ I Mir hn» a Inrcro plantation. Your fcnters is so nioo that I think

* WMUt n husbjiud thiu is J *•'* i A '1 *u Ht iiuGii to you,

Your most ohident

your chanco let me know ninodiHily

A ROMANTIC ADMIRER,

441

A funny story ia told about a beautifQl French actress, in one of the minor theatrcSj who received daily, for about a month, a little penny bouquet of violets. She found the bouquet in the box or with the doorkeeper every evening the play was about to begin, and this simple ofiering of an unknown love affected her in spite of herself. While acting, she looked carefully around — at the boxes, the parquet, and even behind the scenes — but to no purpose ; she saw notbing by which to recoguize the man of bou-

"quetai. And thereupon she gave her imagination free rein, and the imagination of an actress is very similar to that of other folks. Was he a foreign prince who wished to

^captivate her heart before placing at her feet his crown id treasure? or was he an artist, too bashful to declare his passion ? She interrogated the box-keeper, the tire- woman— in short, everybody employed in the theatre, but nobody knew anything about it. Still the bouquets came. *'Do they tell ua that constancy is a chimera T* murmured she* The other eveuing, as she entered the theatre, she received a fresh bouquet of violets, and this time the flowers were accompanied by a letter. "At last !" said she and, opening it by the light of a reflector, she read as follows :

" Mademoiselle — I have loved you for a long time, for ia not beholding and loving you the same thing? Every

^day I come to admire you, to applaud you, to delight my- Belf with the brightness of your eyes and the charm of your %'oice^"

** Ho must he in the house," thought the actress, and ihe peeped through a hole in the curtain. The audience had just commenced to assemble. She resumed her readhig:

— ''of your voice. You are, indeed, beautiful and charming, and happy are they w^ho may approach you. What would I not give to be near you always ? Would

442

A DELIGHTFUL CEBATURE.

the treasures of all the world be worth one of your smiles? No!"—

"Ah, that is nice !" she sighed; and, taming the page, she continued:

**No ! And yet I dare to love you — to tell you that I love you. Still more, — I venture to beg you not to reject my homage/' —

"He begins to explain himself/' said she to herself, ** and I shall know — " and she continued :

" my homage. If this expression of my love does not offend you, place this bouquet of violets in your bosom. Oh ! then I shall be the happiest of men !**

** Well," said she, "no signature, do name given ; but let UB see — here is a postscript f*

" P* 8. — K you are curious to know who writes to you, look up to the fourth tier ; my legs will hang over/*

The note dropped from the hand of the actress, and her arms nearly dropped from her shoulders.

It ia needless to say that the romance of the afiair was quite destroyed by the reality- Many stories are told of actresses who have married into high life, among the most interesting of which is that of Miss Mendel, an Augsbourg actress. It is related that she was considered "the most lovely woman in Germany, her beauty being of the true German type, of the peculiar fairness beheld in no other country — ^golden hair, in soft, silky masses, without the smallest tinge of auburn — pure gold — unburoished ; a complexion delicate as the inner petals of the Bengal rose — pale pink, scarcely ever seen in nature, and almost impossible to produce by artificial means ; lips of deep carnation; teeth small and exfpiisitely white, and eyebrows of the darkest brown* with eyes of the deepest blue. All this made such an iinjircssion on the heart of Dnke Louis of Bavaria, that {hm\ the moment he first beheld her, at the Munich

THE CHALLENOl OF PEARLS.

443

Theatre, he TOwed himself to the worship of this one idol. But Mile. Mendel was valiant in defence of her reputation, and, aware of the reeponsibility incurred by the possession of great talent, she resisted every overture, even that of marriage, on the part of the duke, well knowing that it was almost out of hia power to contract any alliance of the kind, as much was expected of him by his family. At that time Mile. Mendel was in the habit of wearing a velvet collar with a clasp ornamented by a single pearl of great value, which had been presented to her by the King of Saxony, and in order to quell all hope of success in the bosom of her ducal admirer, she declared to him one day that she had made a vowto bestow her heart and hand on him alone who could match this single pearl with as many others as would form the whole necklace. The declaration was made laughingly, for the fair creature knew well enough the duke, living fally np to his income, which was but mediocre for his rank, could never accomplish this Herculean task, and she laughed more merrily still when she beheld the discon- solate expression of his countenance at the announcement Bhe had made. But soon afterward she heard that the

iuke had sold bis horses and broken up his establishment, jne to live in strict retirement in a small cottage belong- ing to his brothor*s park. That very night, when about place the velvet band upon her neck, she found, to her

reat surprise, that a second pearl had been added to the claap. She knew well enough whence it came, and smiled sadly at the loss of labor she felt sure that l)uke Louis was incurring for love's sake* By degrees the velvet band became covered with pearls, all of them as fine as the one bestowed by the King of Saxony, until one evening great was the rumor in Augshourg, the fair Mendel had been robbed ; while on the stage, divested of ornament, in the prison scene, as Bettmavon Amtsiecti^ her

444

AH sxcrmrG soBirB.

dreasing-room bad beea entered, and the velvet collsr with iu row of priceless pearls had disappeared from tbe toilet table. The event was 60 terrible, her nerves so shaken, that in spite of the assurance of the chief police magistrate, who happened to be in the theatre at the moment, that he was sure to find the thief in a very short time, for he had the cine already, poor Mile. Mendel was BO overcome by grief that her memory failed her entirely, BO that on returning to the stage not a word could she re^ member of her part. The audience waited for some time in astonishment at the silence maintained by the actress; the actress gazed at the audience in piteous embarrass- ment, untilj by a sudden inspiration, and almost mechani- cally, indeed, she remembered she had the rehearsal copy of the play in the pocket of her apron* She drew it forth without hesitation, and began to read from it with the greatest self-possession imaginable. At first the audience knew not whether to laugh or be angry, but presently memory, pathos, forgetfiilness of all but her art had returned to Mile. Mendel, and in the utterance of one of tbe most impassioned sentiments of her speech she flung the rehearsal copy into the orchestra and went on with her part without pause or hesitation. The applause of the audience was so tremendous that one of the witnesses to the scene has told us that the great monster chandelier in the centre of the roof swung to and fro with the vibra- tion. But on her return to her dressing-room the excite- ment proved too much for her, and she fainted away. On coming back to consciousness it wa^ to find Duke Louis at her feet, and the head commissaire standing by her side, bidding her take courage, for the pearls had been found. ^* Where are they ?*' exclaimed she. "Are you sure that none are miasiuff? Have none been stoleoT" Duko Louis then clasped round her neck the string of pearls, complete at last, no longer sewn on to the vel?^^

THE FAIRY PEEEINA.

445

band, but strung with symmetry, and fastened with a diamond clasp, What more could be done by the devoted lover ? lie had epared neither paius nor sacriiiee to attain his end, and Mllo. Mendel consented to become his wife. The Emperor of Austria appears to have been much moved by the story, and suggested the nomination of the bride elect to the title of Barooeas de WallerseCj which thus equalized the rank of the fiances^ and enabled them to marry witliout difficulty. They live the most retired life possible in their Httle chateau on Lake Stahnberg. They say that the Duchess Louise of Bavaria never puts 0&] night or da}^, the necklace of pearls, the clasp of which she had riveted to her neck, and that in conseqiience of this peculiarity she is known all through the country round by the name of the Fairy Perlina, from the old [JJerman tale of the Magic Pearl/'

The critic of a Kew York journal recently printed an article containing so much shrewd wisdom on this subject that I quote a paragraph from it: "Because actresses have become duchesses, it by no means follows that every actress who marries of the stage will become one. The men who solicit them are seldom lords in disguise or Admirable Crichtons. On the contrary, they are too often adventurersj who cast up with keen calculation the exact value of the actress, and propose to her as a commercial speculation. A popular actress is worth anywhere from five to twenty thousand dollars a year income, and that is no light temptation to the well-dressed idlei-s, loungers, betting sharps, and Bohemians who prey upon humanity. The man who marries and takes hi^ wifc from the stage ia, of course, as much removed from comment as any Cither private gentleman who marrie^i any lady* But the isband of the actress who remains upon the stage, even ainst his will, must expect curiosity and criticism, specially if his wife is a popular favorite. It is quite

446

ACTORS AKB OLD AOB»

fresh iu the recollection of play-goers that when the charming aud universally esteemed Jean Daveaport became the wife of Mr. — afterward General — LanderTalie left the stage and remained oiF until after his death, aitd then went back in defiance of the opposition of his family. Mrs. Lander had reason for thus placing upon the play- bills the honored name of one of the' most exclusive and respected of the old families of Massachusetts, in the &ct that she had given up, with a noble generosity, a large fortune to our sick and wounded soldiers daring the war, and had thus reduced herself to comparative poverty. _Mi8s K'Mf Ttf^|Ammi, n lady whose private worth and social virtues have gained her the esteem of two hemi^ pheres, married Dr, Crow, a surgeon, but remained on the stage in obedience to the protest of the world against the eclipse of her rare genius. Miss Kate Terry, of the English stage, was w^edded to a rich linen-draper, who removed her at once to the wealthy sphere she is hence- forth to occupy.'*

The gentleman who wrote the above has since married an actress himself!

Players arc celebrated for the extreme age which they often reach, and the excellent health which they generally maintain.

It is rare for an actor or actre;ss whose private habits are good, to lose his or her physical or mental powers early. The cases in which players have become insane are so few that they are celebrated.

One of the saddest of these cases was that of poor Marian Macarthy, an actress who was made insane by an excess of brain-work. Various causes of her insanity have been given; the real cause was simply overwork* She was not possessed of a naturally strong mind, but accident placed her in the position of 'heading lady'* at a theatre where it was her duty, in order to maintain

THE MAD ACTRESS.

447

position, to commit to memory a number of heavy Shakespearean parts in rapid succession. Never having been drilled by slow and healthful degrees to such pro- digious mental exercise — ^her memory all untrained to the task — she still struggled desperately with it, and at last, poor girl ! broke down completely. She fell to babbling wildly on the stage, and was taken home a inaruac.

Her home, so long thereafter as she lived, was in the Indiana State Lunatic Asylum* Here she fancied herself before the public, and smiled, and sang, and spouted Shakespeare, and bowed her acknowledgments to her shadowy audience, hour on hour, day after day. It was a pitiful spectacle-

An hour or two previous to her death, reason returned. Her distorted features were restored to the gentle beauty which had so otl:eu called forth the plaudits of the gallery aud the bouquets of the boxes. She opened her eyes once more on the world of reality, and then closed them forever.

*< Sho is doftd and gonei

At her he&d a gmBB-grccn turf,

At lier heeU a Btone/'

The asylum in which she was confined was the first retreat for the insane that I ever visited, and I shall never forget the profound impression it made upon me. I had heard accounts of the strange doings of the afflicted beings who dwell in these abodes, but they had ranked in my mind with the Arabian Nights and ^sop's fkblea. Did some of these poor people really deck their brows with straw, and fancy tlierasclves like Lear, ** every inch a king?'' Were there really professional gentlemen there, men of great intellect, quite unimpaired except for some one mania which vitiated the whole?

Yes^ there were just such poor beings here, and others who were quite as mournful to look upon.

448

DEJAZET.

0^^

" Canst thou minister to a mind diseased?" asked I, as

I stood within these halls.

It was answered that many of the insane are cured, though many more remain permanently demented, while still others die in the asylum, as poor Marian did.

It is very rare to find professional people of any other class who retain the ability to practice their profession to eo advanced an age as actors have often done.

Two notable examples of this, still living, are Dejazet, the French comedienne, and ''old Holland,'* the veteran comedian of Wallack's theatre in New York — more lately of the Fifth avenue theatre*

Mr. Holland must be now, as I judge, not less than seventy years oldj and still he plays nightly with a sprightliuess and gayety which many of his juniors might envy.

Of Dejazet, one of the most interesting descriptions I ever read was that which was recently printed in the Galaxy. **It was about ten years ago that I first saw Dejazet and she was then somewhat beyond the age of sixty. It waB the first night of her resumption of * GentiU Bernard/ and half the fmtkuih were filled with the best known repreaentatives of literature and art. Most eager and expectant among these, I remember, was Victorien Sardou, who at that time, lost no opportunity of testifying his gratitude to the friend who had exerted herself 80 assiduously in assisting him to the position he had recently gained. The preliminary vaudeville was endured with less weariness than usual, the seats of D6jazet's theatre being so benificently arranged as to allow moderate free- dom of action to their occupants. In most French plaees of amusement the accommodations provided for the spec- tator are pretty nearly as comfortable, not quite, as a pillory. If he dilate unduly with emotion over one of Jane Essler^s tearfal scenes, he exceeds the limit assigned

FRENCH EKTHUSIASM.

449

to him, crowds his neighbors on both sides, and provokes frowns if not audible remonstrance. If he be shaken from his forced rigidity by Brasseur a mirthful influence, he chafes his knees in the most exasperating manner, or

rcrushes contiguous ribs. Even when quiet, he is comfort- less as the occupant of a Third avenue car in a snow- storm. I have no doubt that one of the reasons for the continued toleration of the claque is the frightful struggle which attends every attempt of an audience to applaud for itself. Ilere, however, the enjoyment of the perform- ance is never impaired by the sense of physical incon- venience. Tlie visitor, accustomed to other bouses, on seating himself in a Dejazet fauicuil suddenly imagines himself lost, and passes a moment or two in extreme bewilderment before he sinks contentedly back into its luxurious depths. On the ovening in question, DejazeVs reception was an event to be remembered. Her first step vpon the scene was the signal for loud outcries of wel-

'"come, not only from the orchestra and parterre, but also from the more decorous boxes, whence proceeded shrill feminine tones, agreeably diversifying the chorus. Hats

^and handkerchiefs were waved, and for five minutes

pthe business of the stage was suspended in order that the audience might have its jubilee out And when quiet at last returned, it was curious to observe how the house continued to beam '^with silent, though not

tiess expressive delight at the re-appearance of the dear old favorite. On all sides, little phrases of compliment and endearment were murmured: *What grace;* 'Younger than ever;' *"Well done, peiiie ;' ^Ahyla niaUffne.' Pleas- antly conscious of the favor lavished upon her, she glided through the repreBcntation wnth truly astonishing elasticity

land buoyancy. Her attitudes and movements were liter- ally like those of a young girl. Her face, closely viewed,

'betrayed advancing age, but by no means to the extent 29

450

A GIRL OF SIXTY.

that woold have boeu expected. Her eyes flashed as brilliantly as those of her youngest supporters upon the stage ; and I am sure that few of them could rival her lithe and supple form. Altogether, her appearance was

' that of a woman of about tbirty-fLve, It is difficult to be- lieve that her acting could ever have been more thor- oughly artistic. The timid flirtations of Bernard, his ionocent wickedueasj liia immature attempts at gallantly,

'the aflected bravery of his soldier life, the jaunty efforts to prove himself a man of the world^ and the mischiei'ous persistence of his last love-suitj were all expressed with inimitable grace and humor. The faculty of inventing impromptu * by-play,- always one of her best gifts, was everywhere conspicuous, and was recognized at each ne^' point by bursts of laughter and applause. Of course, it was inevitable that at certain moments some evidence of timers changes should assert itself; but even these were made the occasion for demonstrations of encouragement and good'Will. Wbcn about to sing a rather difficult song, she would advance to the rampe^ nod saucily, as if to say, ^ You think I can't do it, but you shall see/ then pliickily assail her bravuras, comically tripping among the tortuous cadenzas, and at the end receive her applaaso with an odd little air of pride, indicating entire indiffer-

Lence as to the lost notes, or perhaps a i?atisfiod conviction that everything had gone better than she had expected or the public deserved. Dejazet was always more famoQs for the manner than for for the method of her singing. It was her son, I think (a capital musician), who said of her that *Bhe sings out of tune with the most exquisite cor- rectness iu the world.' **

In this connection, the following bit of information, which has just appeared, has more than passing interest: ^*A double stroke of good luck has fallen upon the Theatre Dejazet, belonging to the celebrated actress of

AN ELDERLY SOUBRETTE. 451

that name. M. Victorien Sardou, the author of *Patrie' and ^Nos Bona Villageois/ has consented to write a com- edy for it, and Baron Haussmann has determined to demolish it next Summer, to run a new street over its site. The effect of the first of these measures will be to give Mademoiselle Dejazet a full house during all the winter season, and that of the second to put ten thousand pounds in her purse as indemnity. Truly, Providence is never kind by halves, for, had neither M. Sardou nor M. Haussmann turned their thoughts toward the Theatre DSjazet, it must inevitably^have come to grief before long. The public had quite forgotten the way to it. Mdlle. Dejazet, it should be remarked, is seventy-three years old. She first appeared on the stage during the first Empire, and still acts now in the parts of S(mbreUes — ^that is, young servant maids !"

45S

THE SACKED FIRE OF OEJntTS.

CHAPTER XXXnL

Successful Actors. ^George Frederick Cooke. — Success not alwftjillie Guerdon of Merit. — E, h, Davenport and Mis« Lotta, — Jcfienon, Booth ftod Forrest. — Boothia "Wealth. — Booth ns Hamlet. — Forrest. — The Sock-and-Buskin View of Nature and Emotion, — Forroii^ • Debut.— Jefferson and Ristori. — Foreign and Native Actora.^ — Jdtvt* ton and EUza Logan. — Jefferson^s Home. — We ulthy Actors. — Tips uid Downs. — ;Macrcady.— The Great Riot in 1848,— J uUa Dc&n And Wm Logan « «

I have always believed tliat the energy, the perse- verance, the *'vim'' required to make a fine position as an actor would be enough to make any person suecedsful iu other less precarious pursuits. For all art is precarious. The painter, the sculptor, the poet, the musician, all these lead exactly as visioijarj' lives as the actor. But the veir same spirit, the passion, which induces the painter to stick to his easel in spite of starvation^ is what lures many a "poor player*' on, — love of the art

George Frederick Cooke, whose popularity was so great in England that he had to be fairly kidnapped to get him .over to this country, never had Ids talents recognized until he was forty-five years of age. It may be that he did not reach perfection until that time ; if so, this is a strong argument agaitist those who claim that genius alone^ — and not stody and application — makes an actor. If this idea could once be effectually scouted, it would drive many men who now are a disgrace to the theatrical profession, cither to hard study, as a means of possible distinction, or to an abandonment of an art for which they are obviously unfitted.

But I know many writers, many painters, many sculp* tors, who labor under a delusion — exactly as some ^

GENIUS IN HUMBLE GUISE.

458

do — that one fioe day the world will discover them to he great geuiiasea, aud they have only to wait for that day, which will inevitably come, without exertion on their part. Aud the coii8equence is, they live and die in pov- erty, and perhaps druukenneea and vagabondage.

Cooke was called, in his day, the king of actors, the genius of geniuses. On the stage he was one man, an- other off it ; as Cooke the actor lie bore scarcely any resemhlance to Cooke the man. Off the stage he was nervous, awkw^ard, and embarrassed ; on the stage impas- sioned, graceful, and '^monarch of all he surveyed." Off the stage he had no voice, but spoke in a disagreeable, indistinct whirtpor; on the stage he had a fine, mellow and poAverfiil voice. In short, off the stage nothing but his grand eyes gave earnest of what he could perform upon it. And, as I have said, he did not attain eminence until he reached middle age, the period of youth being spent in the ordinary drudgery of a theatre.

Every actor wbo has not acliievcd fame and fortune will be quite willing to concede that success is not always the guerdon of merit

There are, it is undoubted, numberless actors now per- forming in comparatively humble capacities in stock com- panies, w^ho are for more meritorious than numberless others who diej^lay themselves as '* stars," and make large sums of money.

Actors like E, L. Davenport, who have never created any marked sensation, and, in spite of rare abilities and conscientious effort, see themselves outstripped in the race for fortune by people far below them in all the qualities which should deserve success, may be excused for some- times feeling that the theatre-going masses need edu- cating.

And apropos of this actor, there is a story which is good enough to print, for its own sake, as w^ell as for the subtle irt^ which it suggests.

454

LOTTA — JEFFEBSON — RISTORL

A lady iu Chicago asked Mr. Davenport to write his autograph in her book, with 8ome geDtiment or quotation added. lie wrote the Hue from Shakespeare : —

^*A poor player."

E* L, DjLvzjsvonr,

When little Miss Lotta came along, the lady made the same request of hen With ready wit^ she inscribed be- neath the first: —

A good biU]}o play or.

Lotta.

Lotta, by the way, is said, by those who know her, to be a YQvy estimable little creature in private life, — not at all given to the frisky eccentricities which characterize her on the stage, but quiet, modest, and ladylike*

Doubtless the three most prominent names in the list of successful actors of our day are Jefferson, Booth, and Forrest,

In the autumn of 1867, it chanced that Joseph Jeffer- son and Adelaide Ristori were playing engagements at the same time iu New York, and I then made the fact a theme for comment as regards foreign and native actors.

These players may be taken as representatives of tho American and foreign schools of histrionism. Mr. Joseph Jefferson represents the former no less forcibly than Madame Ristori represents the latter; and, by the latter, I mean to indicate the histrionism which deals with a foreign tongue. English players speak our native tongae, and the criticism which separates acting into these twa classes caimot well avoid the seeming solecism of includ- ing mother England under the native banner. An English actor, in an American theatre, becomes an Amer- ican actor.

In the season just previous to that which I am now epeaking of, Mr. Jefferson appeared at the Olympic

bbi

RISTORI UP AXD DOWH,

455

Theatre, after an absence of many yearsj during which period he had received enthusiastic praise in England and elsewhere where our tongue is spoken. But Mr, Jeffer- son's engagement at the Olympic that season was, com- paratively speaking, a failure, the prestige of which followed him, like a ban, to the other cities of the laud.

The reason of this failure was, that the public eye was then filled with Rietori, the great Ristorij the wonderful Ristori, as her skilful advertisers gave her to us oA nauseanu Her houses were crowded from night to night, her praise was a parrot-cry on eveiybody's tongue, and he who praised her most was thought the must capable of appreciating high art.

Afterward she sailed through the provincial towns, like a line-of-battle ship, and made a fortune out of a public which was determined to prove its admiration t>f high art.

The people were, enlre nons^ sadly bored by Madame Riatori, whose language they could not understand, but they endured it bravely, thinking, good souls, that after all it would Foon be over, "and there an end."

"Oh, how lovely she was/* cried society, "when — ^ah — she— ah — said to him — ah/' hastily consulting the libretto^ and not finding the place, ** You know what I mean.'*

Of course, everybody knew at once, and everybody said *' extraordinary !"

But Ristori came a,gain, and, to her own astonishment^ perhaps, and to the astonishment of Manager Grau, the fickle Yankee public did not rush to see her after the old fashion.

No doubt it 13 a debasing e\ideuce of our want of taste fur high art that we don't know Italian, but it is fair to presume the people of Italy are as ignorant of English. If Mr. Edwin Booth, or Mr* Forrest, or Mr. Jefferson, were to play in Italy, I doubt if he would make the money or meet with the enthusiasm that Ristori made and met here daring her first season.

456

FOREIGN GRIMACES.

It was not Kiatori's fault that the American public had had enough of her. Keithcr was it the American public's fault. It was, however, Ristori's misfortune. The fi[ishion her first season was to try and make yourself believe that you were overwhelmed with awe and admiration of Ris- tori ; and next season the fashion changed. There wert moments, certainly, when the power of her undoubted ge- nius forced itself upon us and won our admiration in spite of our iguoraoce of what she was talking about. But those eyes which can be on the stage and on the libretto at once are bo rare that I have never yet seen any.

Besides, the libretto was often so very fanny in its Eng- lish tranektiou that one felt like bursting out laughing at the most serious part of the play. The actress herself 'was also a source of laughter sometimes, and her Italian breth- ren often er.

Nothing in the way of burlesque, it aeema to me, could be more provocative of merriment than the spectacle of those grimacing, shoulder'sh rugging foreigners mouthing their absurd translation of Macbeth. If any one ever saw a funnier stage creation which was intended to be gmvely impressive, than an Italian Scotchman, I beg to be in- formed of it.

The florid Italian school of acting, with its wild, ner- vous, tempcstuous-teapotty gesticulation and articulation, is unanited to the American stage — or so, at least, it ap- pears, when we are witnessing gestures which to us em- phasize nothing, and hearing words which to us have no meaning.

While a foreign actor is a novelty, it is natural that we should rush to see him, as we should rush to see any other curiosity. But we soon get familiar with his *' classic poses,'* his "artistic drapery,'* and his mouthed thunder^ and he is lucky if he do no more than bore us — h^ ii lucky if he do not become food for laughter.

-

FQimiiST IN PRANCE.

45T

I have no experimental acquaintance with the Italian stage, but no doubt all countries are alike in loving their own language best in an actor's mouth, and I can easily imagine the effect of Forrest, for instance, on a I^Tnch audience. Fancy his shouting at the Comedie Francaise his

Th(3 world is out of joint — oh, cursed spite That ever I-I-I-I Wiia bor-r-rn to set it right f

Or hia

Cade the bon-n-ndmaji I

*' Grand DieuT' I fancy my next neighbor remarking; ^'7nais it is the giant of the fairy tales, this-one-here ! lie makes fear to the children^ — he is an Ogre."

I doubt if the Comcdic Francaise would long draw crowds with Forrest, spite of his fine declamation, his fervid force of style, his muscularity, his superb panto- mime» his statuesque attitudes, his speaking eye, and, in a word, his genius. Nor would Mr. Jeftcrson, I think, fare better.

Mr. Jefferson^fl Rip Vkn WinMe is triply American , in that it is an AmeriL^anacloi^VTJreaentation of an Ameri- can author's story of an American legend. We all under- stand the language this actor speaks, Duteh though his accent be, and we can only admire utterly the great skill with which he makes a character so simple in itself a me- dium for stirring the most varied emotions of which the human heart is capable.

Joseph Jefferson, like Edwin Booth, comes of a theat- rical family. His father was a comedian of high ability ; and so were his grandfathers for three or four gene- rations,

Jefferson's debut was made in New York, when he was a lad six years old.

He spent a large part of his childhood in the "West,

V

4S8

JEFFERSON AND BOOTH.

however; and, while they were both still children, he and my sister Eliza used to sing little comic dnets together on the stage of varioua Western towns*

Mr* Jefferson is now very wealthy, the foundation of his large fortune having been laid in Australia, through which country he made a tour when it was *'a8 ripe fruit for the gatherer," and his profits were enormous.

lie resides in a charming villa at Hoboken, a romantic and beautiful spot in the Saddle Eiver Valley, within a short ride by railroad from New York city. His house is a delightful combination of the old with the new, being an old-time Jersey brown-stone mansion, metamorphosed by a well-known architect, under whose hands the bouse, outbuililiogs and grounds assumed most picturesque forms and faces. It is surrounded by handsome grounds, with shrubbery, and the lawns are fronted by a transparent and lovely little lake.

Edmn Booth, like Jefierson, is to the stage manuer born*

Unlike his Mher, Edwin is a model of morality and irreproachable character. He has no bad habits, is care- fal and conscientious, and his great success is chiefly due to an unremitting industry and assiduity in the practice of his profession.

He is very wealthy, and possesses many of those " solid citizen'* qualities which were in former days supposed to be impossible to an actor,

Jefferson and Booth are both married to estimable young ladies— both Chicago girls — and both belonging to theatrical families.

Booth's wife is the daughter of the manager of the same theatre in ^vhicli JefferBon's present father-in-law has for many years acted as treasurer.

Thus, out of one little theatrical circle, in a Western town, the two greatest actors of America have chosen their life-companions.

n

BOOTH S HAMLET,

469

This 16 oue of the best bits of tcstimouy that could be offered of the appreciatioti in which theatrical people hold their owq class.

Jefferson or Booth had, as no one needs to be told, a very wide world of ladies before them where to choose. Booth, particolarly, might have made a very grand match with a high-life dame, if he had chosen. But he chose from the little circle whose merits ho knew.

Every present-day theatre-goer may be supposed to have seen Edwin Booth in his most celebrated part — HamktM

The existing history of the American stage is so iden- tified with him in this character that I quote from one of the most delightful of our critics — George William Curtis — ^hia comments on this creation: '^Mr. Booth looks the ideal Ilumlet For the Ilamlet of Shakespeare is not the ^seaDt of breath' gentleman whom the severer critics in- sist that be should be. He is a sad, slight prince. It ia^ indeed, a fair question, how much John Kemble and Sir Thomas Lawrence are responsible for the ideal Hamlet. The tall figure, preteroaturally tall in the picture, clad in the long black cloak, with one foot resting upon the earth from the grave, the skull in the hand, and the tine eyes uplifted to the chandelier — this is the imperious tradition of Hamlet. We see it in youth, and it remains forever. But Mr. Booth disturbs this tradition a little. When he appears, we perceive at once that a certain melancholy youthfulness is wanting in the stately Kemble. lie rep- resents the Prince, but he is not identified with him. But Mr, Booth is altogether princely. His costume is still the solemn suit of sables, varied according to his fancy of fitness, and his small lithe form with the mobility and in- tellectual sadness of his face, and his large melancholy eyes, satisfy the most fastidious imagination that this is Ilamlet as ho lived in Shakespeare's world. His playing tlirou^out has an excellent tone, like an old picture.

A GREAT CROWD,

461

not how often, every autumn and winter when Edwin Forrest haa bean plajaug — and when, pray, was Edwin Forrest not playing?— and yet he had never seen him ! If he had said that he had never seen Trinity Church, or the Astor House, or the Hospital, it would have heen strange; but to aver that he had never seen Forrest wms to tax credibility. The street was full* Upon a pleasant autumn evening how pleasant Broadway is ! There is such a gay crowd swarming up and down. The stress of the day-8 work is over. There is an air of festivity, not of business, in the groups that pass. The absence of al- most all carriages bnt the omnibuses, decreases the loud roar of the daytime^ so that you can hear the sound of conversation and light laughter. It is even tranquilizing to move slowly along the street. The shops are not yet very pretty, but tliey are very bright Then people are going to and from the theatre, and eager, happj^ children are with them. Every warm, pleasant autumn evening in Broadway is a glimpse of CarnivaL We paid our money at the little hole, where the strange being within must have a marv^olous opportunity for studying the human hand, and entered the theatre. It was crammed M'ith peo- ple. All the seats were full, and the aisles, and the steps. And the people sat upon the stairs that ascend to the sec- ond tier, and they hung upon the balustrade, and they peeped over shoulders and between heads, and everything wore the aspect of a first night, of a debut. And yet it was the thirty or forty sometliingth night of tlie engage- ment. And every year he plays how many hundred nights? And people are grandfathers now who used to see him play in their youth. Yet there he is — the neck, the immemorial lege — the ah-h-h-h-li, in the same hopeless depth of guttural gloom— if gloom could be guttural; which, indeed, any rustic friend may fairly doubt until he has heard Forrest But the crowd is the perennial amaze-

462

forkest's world.

ment ; for it ia not to be explained upon the theory of deadlieack. The crowd comes every night to behold Alfilamorsi^^nd S^rtacus, and Damon, and Richelieu, be- cause it delights in tne representation, and ehouts at it, and cries for more, and hastens and squeezes, the next night, to enjoy it all over again* Certainly tliere wafi never a more genuine or permanent success than the act- ing of Forrest. We may crack our jokes at it We may call it the muscular school, the brawny art, the biceps »fl- thetics, the tragic calves, the bovine drama, rant, roar and rigmarole; but %vhat then? Mdamgra folds his mighty arras, and plants his mightyTegs, and with his mighty voice sneers at us, * Look there !* until the very ground thrills and trembles beneath our feet; for there is the great, the eager, the delighted crowd. He has found his pou s(o^ and he moves his world nightly. To criticise it as acting is as useless as to criticise the stories of Miss Braddon, or of Mr. Ainsworth, as literature. That humaij beings, under any conceivable circumstances, should ever talk or act as they are represented in the For- rest drama and the Braddon novel is beyond belief- The sum of criticism upon it seems to be that the acting is a boundless exaggeration of all the traditional conventions of the stage. Atler ten minutes' looking and listening the rustic friend turned and said, 'Why, I seem to have seen him a hundred times.* It was true to the impression ; for there is nothing new. You have seen and heard ex- actly the same thing a hundred times, with more or less excellence. I say excellence, because it is certainly very complete in its way. The life of 'the stage,* was never more aderjoately depicted. It is the sock-and-buskin view of nature and emotion; and it has a palpable physical effect, Tliere were a great many young women around us crying, in the tender passages between Damon and his wife. They were not refined nor intellectual women* They were,

FOHREST AS A BOY OF SIXTEEN.

463

perhaps, ratber coarse; but they cried good hearty tears, and when, upou the teiiiptatioti to escape, Pt/ihkw slapped bis breast aod, pushing open the prison-door, with what may be termed a * theatrical air,' roared out, * Never, never I^-death before dishonor T the audience broke out into a storm of applause/'

Few people are familiar with the circumstances of Forrest's debuly the general impression being that he never made any "first appearance," but, as Topsqf phrases it, "jest growed'' on the stage, and in his earliest infancy played with tragedy instead of a rattlebox.

Forrest, however, made his debuty in due form, in the city of Philadelphia, fifty years ago. An old manager thus relates the particulars of tlfb "first appearance of a young gentleman of Philadelphia, Master Edwin Forrest This youth, at sixteen years of age, was introduced to the managers, by CoL John Swift, as a person who was deter- mined to be an actor, and had succeeded in obtaining the slow leave of his family. "We had been so unfortunate in the numerous * first appearances' of late, that the young aspirant could hope for little encouragement of his wishes, the drooping state of tlieatricals furnishing another and stronger reason for our course. The usual arguments were strongly urged against embracing a profession at this time so especially unpromising. The toils, dangers, and sufferings of a young actor were represented with honest earnestness, but, as was soon discovered, in vain. For- rest was at this time a well grown young man, witli a no- ble figure, nnusually developed for his age, his features powerfully expressive, and of a determination of purpose which discouraged all further objections. lie appeared on the 27th of November, 1820, in Doughty with the fol- lowing cast: Lord Bandolph, Mr. Wheatley; Glenalvorif Mr. Wood; Old Norval, Mr* Warren; Lady Ramiolphy Mrs. Williams; Anna^ Mrs. Jelferson, So much disap-

UPS AND DOWNS OF FORTUNB,

465

Lester Wallack is another wealthy actor. He resides in a house in Thirtieth street, for which he paid $49,000.

Actresses of greath wealth are not so common as actors. Perhaps this is because so many wealthy actresses are married to actors — as in the case of Mrs. Florence, Mrs. Williams, Mrs, Chanfrau, etc* — and their wealth is in- cluded in their husband*s !

Charlotte Cushman is believed to be worth a quarter of a million. Maggie Mitchell is worth at least $100,000. Mrs. John Drew is probably worth us much. Mrs. Lander was at one time very wealthy, but her wealth was nearly exhausted by her husband, Gen. Lander, in patriotic uses during the war of the rebellion. Little Miss Lotta is sup- posed to be worth a fortnne.

But such are the ups and downs of theatrical life, that many an actress now living, who was once the possessor of large fortune, is now worth nothing but what she can earn from season to season. Miss Lucille Western, for example, has seen two or three fortunes slip from her pos- session during the past fifteen years. So with her sister Helen — at one time worth probably $100,000 ; at her death she was not worth as many cents.

Mr. Macready, the great English tragedian, has proba- bly earned as much money as any actor living — but he retired from the stage, some years ago, a confirmed misan- thrope.

Mr. Macready is sometimes quoted by the opponents of the stage as one who testifies to the wickedness of theat- rical life — because he says no child of his shall ever be an actor, if he can lielp it.

Setting aside the fact that Macready is a soured, misan- thropic, world-weary man of genius, I would ask if it is not a very common thing for fathers who have pursued a toilsome profession through long years, to declare that there is 7io profession so unsatisfying as theirs, and that their sons shall never follow it? (80)

466

THE MACREADY RIOT.

A gentleman at my elbow answers that his father was a physician^ and that he warned all his sons against a phy- sician's life. This gentleman bad a strong inclination to be a doctor, but bis father said, *^ No— be a farmer — be a carpenter and joiner^ — bo a day-laborer— in fact, anything bnt a doctor." So this gentleman became a printer, and subsequently an editor and author,

Macready's misantbropy is said to have dated from the time of his visit to this country, when be was mobbed.

The story of the Astor Place riot, in 1849, is one of the most interesting in the history of the American Btage. It is stated that there was a feud between certain partisans of Edwin Forrest, who at that time was endeavoring to ride into Congress upon the Native American excitement, and the adherents of Macready, the English tragedian. A reckless crowd — led by E. Z. C. Judsou (Ned Buntline), who was secretly supjiorted by Capt, Isaiah Rynders, Mike Walsh, Ed. Straban^ and other disturbers of the peace — filled Astor-place, and assaulted the Opera House with a storm of paving-stones. The Seventh Regiment had been called for, but when they arrived on the ground they were ruthlessly assailed by the rioters, and for some time were in great disorder. Prominent citizens urged the Sheriff to order the militaiy to clear the streets, but he had not the nerve. Then they appealed to the Mayor, bnt be was even more useless than the Shcrifl*. The excitement, meantime, was spreading, the police were uaelesa, and the military was powerless for want of orders. Finally, Recorder Tallmadge, having proper authority, ordered the military to fire over the heads of the crowd. They did so ; but, as no one was hurt, the rioters gave a yell of defiance, and again rushed np to the lines, hurlitig all manner of missiles upon tlie soldiers, who, to their credit be it said, held theii writh no perceptible wavering, thoogh many of tl

A rUHIOUS EXCITEMENT.

467

had been taken to the rear, disabled by the missiles hurled upon them. At this juncture Recorder Tallmadge gave his second order, to **fire low," and within three minutes nciirly twenty of the rioters were killed, and more than thirty seriously wounded.

It is verj' iiitereating to read the newspaper accounts of this celebrated riot, as printed at the time. The following account is compiled from various journals :

On Wednesday night, mi the first appearance of Mr. ilaeready on the stage, he was received with the most vociferous groaning, hisses, and cries of "off! off!" A portion of the audience were warm in their plaudits, and waved their handkerchiefs, but they were overborne by the horrid and uncouth uoiaes winch cou tinned almost without intermission (except when Mr. Clarke appeared, and he was cheered) until the end of so much of the trag- edy as was performed. Mr. Macready walked down to the footlights, and abode *Hhe pelting of the pitiless ^•tonn** of groans and shouts of derision and contumely with wonderful firmness. A placard was hung over the upper box, on which was inscribed, "You have been proved a liar !" Then arose louder yells, and these were accompanied with showers of rotten eggs, apples* and a bottle of asaftrdita, w^hieh diffused a niost repulsive stench throughout the house. Mr. Macready endured all this without fliiichiug for some time ; and at lengtli com- menced his part, which he went on with, in dumb show, through two acts, and a part of the thinL But as the play proceeded the ftiry of the excitement seemed to increase; until the mob began to shout to the lAidy Macbeth of tlie evening to quit the stage ; and on Mr. 2ready'8 next appearance, a heavy piece of wood was flung from the upper tier, which fell directly across Mr. Macready's feet. The curtain then fell, and there was a long intermission. During this time several of the gQw-

438

THE MILITARY CALLED OUT.

tlemen undertook to reraonatrate with the rioters, but without avail Mr. Chippendale then came forward, but could not obtain a hearing. He then advanced, with Mr. Sefton, bearing a placard on which was written, "Mr, Macready has left the tlieatre.'* Meantime, another placard had been displayed by the mob, on which was inscribed, "No apologies! it is too late!*' Mr. Clarke was thea called for, came forward, expressed his thanks for his reception, and said he had accepted this engagement as his only present means of supporting himself and family by his professional exertions. This over, the rioters slowly left the house.

Early in the morning of the following day, placards were posted up through the city, stating that the crew of , the British steamer had threatened violence to all who ** dared express their opinions at the English Aristocratic Opera House," and calling on all working men to "stand by their lawful rights/' In consequence of this and simi- lar threats, a large body of police was ordered to attend at the Opera House, and in case this should not be suffi- cient to preserve order, the Seventh and Eighth regiments, two troops of horse, and the hussars attached to Gen. Morris* brigade were held in readiness. They formed in two bodies, one of which was stationed in the Park, and one at Centre Market. In anticipation of a riot, the rush for tickets was very great, and befcjro night none were to be had. For some time before the doors were open^ people began to collect in Astor place, and the police took their stations at the doors and in the buildings. The crowd increased every moment, and at half-paat seven the square and street, from Broadway to the Bowery were nearly full There was such a tremendous crush about the doors, in spite of a notice posted up, stating that the tickets were all sold, that several of the entrances had to be closed. The -^ed every exertion to maintain order, and

ARRESTING THB RIOTERS.

469

succeeded in preventing all attempts to force an entrance* Inside, the bouse was filled, but not crowded, and the amphitheatre was not more than half full. The general appearance of the audience was respectable, and it was hoped, at first, that there would he no serious attempt at dietorbance. The windows had been carefully boarded up, and the doors barricaded— the object of wliich was afterwards made manifest. The firat two scenes passed over with a vociferous welcome to Mr. Clarke as 31akolm. The entrance of Mr. Macready, in the third act, was the signal for a perfect storm of cheers, groans, and hisses* The whole audience rose, and the nine-tenths of it who were frieodly to Macready cheered, waving their hats and handkerchiefs. A large body in the parquette, with others of the second tier and amphitheatre hissed and groaned with equal zeaL The tumult lasted for ten or fifteen minutes, when an attempt was made to restore order by a hoard being thrown upon the stage, upon which was written, ''The friends of order will remain quiet," This silenced all hut the rioters, who continued to drown all sound of what was said upon the stage. Not a word of the first act could be heard by any one in the house. The policemen present did little or nothing, evidently waiting orders. Finally, in the last scene of the act, Mr. Matsell, Chief of Police, made his appearance in the parquette, and followed by a number of his aids, marched directly down the aisle to the leader of the dis- turbance, whom he secured after a short but violent struggle. One by one, the rioters were taken and carried out, the greater part of the audience applauding as they disappeared. Before the second act was over, something of the play could be heard, and in the pauses of the shouts and yells, the orders of the Chief and his men in different parts of the house could be heard, as well as the wild uproar of the mob without. Mrs, Coleman Pope, as Ladjf

470

STONING THE THEATRE,

Macbeihj first procured a little Bilence, wbicb ended, bow- ever, immediately on Mr, Macready's reappearance. The obnoxious actor went through his part witJi perfect self- possession, and paid no regard to the tumaltuoos scene before him. As the parquet and gallerj were cleared of the noisiest rioters, the crowds without grew more Tiolenty and atoues were hurled against the windows on the Aetor place side. As one window cracked after another, and pieces of bricks and paving stones mttled against the terrace and lobbies, the confusion increased, till the Opera House resembled a fortress beseiged by an invading army, rather than a place meant for the peacefd amusement of a civ^lized community. The policeme4i

.were constantly engaged in nailing up the boards dashed >m the windows by the stones cast by the mob. The

lattack was sometimes on one side and sometimes on the [>ther, but seemed most violent on Eighth street, whew lere was a continual volley of stones and other missilee. The retiring rooms were closed, and the lobbies so ** raked" by the mob outside, that the only safe places were the boxes and parquet- A stone thrown through an upper window, knocked off some of the ornamenta oi the large chandelier. The fourth and fifth acts werti given in comparative quiet, so far as the audience wa^ concerned, a large number of whom assembled in tl^^ lobby, no egress from the building being possible, A"^ these words of JIacbcth :

«*I iHU not bio afraid of destb «Qd bdkne, TtU Biruftm forest come to PunsioaQo."

attempt was made to get np a tumult, but foiled, Th^

^** Oar cjtftle'8 ttreng^h *1 Iftugli ft mgo to eoonii"

aded. But^ in spite of the constant

FIRING ON THE CROWD,

4T1

crashing aud thumping of stones, and the terrible yells of the crowd in the street, the tragedy was played to an end, and the curtain fell. Macready was called out aod cheered, as was Mr. Clarke, Towards the close, a vio- lent attack was made by the mob on one of the doors, which was partly forced. A body of policemen, armed with their short clubs, sallied from it, and secured a num- ber of the leaders, who %vere brought in and placed in a large room under the parquet with those who had been previausly arrested. These rioters, to the number of thirty or forty, battered down the partition of the room with their feet, and attempted to crawl out at the bottom by the holes so made, A strong guard was therefore placed to watch tliein, and no one succeeded in making his escape. After the play was over, the noise being apparently diminished somewhat, the audience waa allowed to go out quietly by the door nearest Broadway, The crowd was not dense in the middle of the street, a body of troops having just passed along, but the side- walks, fences, and all other available positions, were thronged, and a shower of stones was kept up against the windows. Two cordons of police in Eighth street kept the street vacant before the building, but the shattered doors and windows showed how furious had been the attack on that side.

The crowd refusing to. disperse after the reading of the riot act^ a volley was fired by the troops, the quick, scat- tering flushes throwing a sudden gleam over the crowd, the gas-lights in the streets having all been extinguished. The crowd seemed taken by surprise, as, on account of the incessant noises, very few could have heard the read- ing of tlie Riot Act. Many assert that it was not read, but we have positive testimony to the contmry. Presently ' aecond volley was fired, followed, almost without panso, ree or four others. A part of the crowd came rush-

472

END OF THE RIOT.

ing down Lafayette place, but there was no shout nor noise except the deadly report of the muskets* After this hor- rid Bound had ceased, groups of people came along, hear- ing away the bodies of the dead and dying. The excite- ment of the crowd was terrible. Most of those who were killed were inuoceut of all participation in the riot. An old man, waitiog for the cai*s in the Bowery, was instantly shot dead, A little boy, eight years old, was killed by a ball at the comer of Lafayette place, and a woman, sitting in her own room, at tlic Bowery, was shot in the aide. Some of the bodies w^ere carried into Vauxhall, others into Jones' Ilotel, and others to to the City Hospital and the Ward Station Uouse, Groups of people collected in the streets and in front of Vauxhall, some of which were ad- dressed by a speaker, calling on them to revenge the death of the slain. The troops for a time anticipated another attack, in consequence of this, but none was made.

Afler the performance of Macbeth was finished Mr, Macroady passed through the cn)wd with the audience who were leaving, on foot and unrecognized, and made his escape. lie left the city during the night, and was seen at New Rochellci the following morning at iive o'clock, where he breakfasted and took the early train to Boston. He soon after left the country.

I need make no further comment on this disgraceful event than to say that while it was nominally a theatrical riot, it was in reality nothing more nor less than a poliUcol disturbance, with a foreign actor as the seai:>egoat.

Mr. Maeready could come to New York to-day and meet with the most cordial welcome on the stage, tlie political feeling of that time having entirely subsided. Enmity to foreigners is no longer tlie basis of a political parly in America; and against Mr. Macroady profesdon- ally or personally there is no prejudice.

During the starring career of Julia Bean and Eliza

DBANITK3 AND LOGANITES.

473

Logan, there was supposed to exist a bitter feeling of rivalry between the twayoungactresscSj though in reality the young ladies were excellent friends from their child- hood, which friendship was uoiiiterrupted till the death of Julia Dean Hayne, which occurred in New York city fiomo two years since.

But being the only candidates in the Western country at that period for the same dramatic favors, the dear public at once concluded that they must necessarily be bitter rivals and foes.

The whole valley of the Mississippi engaged in a sort

of theatrical war of the red and white roses. Each lady

had her separate antl ardent set of admirers. Mies Dean

' was admired for her beauty of face, my sister for her

beauty of mind.

Excitement was intense when either appeared at the theatres in the different cities.

Omnibuses, steamboats and race-horses were named after the young ladies by their different admirers. They had bands of music to escort them from the steamboat landings to the hotels, and serenades given them after the

play-

If Miss Dean had a service of silver given her^ Eliza'fl friends at once presented her with a set of diamonds. Clubs were formed — the Deanites and the Logan ites, and party feeling ran very high.

Of course the newspaper critics had tlieir feelings en- listed, and their colnmna teemed with the subject daring the engagement of ooc or the otlier, their preference for their own favorite being given in earnest words, with very frequently a comparison of the merits of the two actresses.

One enthusiastic admirer of both said in describing their acting that Julia Dean in her efforts was like beau- iiful flashes of lightning, while, on the other hand, Eliza Logan's voice was like the thunder of Heaven*8 artillery.

COOPER S TRIUMPH,

475

story of his triumph over a iioisj and belligerent Euglish audience, ou the occasion of hh debet in Manchester, ''Of all actors Cooke had long been the first iavorite, particolarlj in liichard — a part enited to rather a rough audience, who had coldly received Kemble, and were not disposed to fiivor a young American actor (which Cooper always claimed to be), a title at that time far from being a recommendation. The determination was formed to oppose any actor in Cooke's great part, when Cooper un- consciously selected it. Upon his appearance, a large audience greeted the stranger with every kind of noise and insult. He was soon, however, made folly aware of the cause and motive of the attack, by yells for * Cooke I VCooke!* 'No Yankee actors!' 'Off with him!' and other more oftensive cries; but, summoning his accustomed fortitude, he acted with his best ability through three entire acts, without seeming conscious that not one word of his speaking could bo heard. Wbethcr from fatigue, arising from their brutal exertions, or respect for the con- stancy which no outrage could shake, tlicy suffered the fourth act to commence in comparative silence; when ^Cooper, taking advantage of the momentary lull, played 'Lis part so well, that the act was scarcely disturbed in its progress, and its conclusion marked by a long-continued applause, lasting nearly to the commencement of the fifth, which began and ended in a tumult of applause. Ho fre- quently adverted to this triumph over unfair opposition m one of the brightest scenes of his life."

476

COMIC LECTITBSBS.

CHAPTER XXXtV.

Ciurosttiei of the Lecture Field, — The Comic And the Pathetic in Leciorei. — False Idefts about Wcaterii Audlencea. — Doctor Charlctan — How I Chanced to Turn Lecturer. — My First Trip, — AmusiDg IncldenU. — Wabasha. — What Iho American Lecture Syitem U, — Its Perpetuity.— Womea Leeturers.^ — Anoa Dickiuson. — DedcripUons of £Terett aitd Emerson as Lecturers. ^ — The Requisites for Succe^a.

One of the most cnrious curiosities of the lecture-field

is that, beiiig the most intellectual of all the branches of the "show business/* it should include among its votaries so raany nunibsculls, whoso only idea of success with au audience is involved in making it laugh.

It 18 the pathetic touch of nature, and not the humorous, which makes the world kin.

The strictly comic speaker is not to be envied; for one man to laugh at his pet joke he will find twenty to remain perfectly s(olid under it, fifty to be disgusted with it, and perhaps double that number %vho will extend their disgust of the joke to the joker himself Notwithstanding this fact the pcrvadiog impression among tyros in the lecturing business, is that for a speaker to meet with greatest success he must appeal altogether to the comic taste of the crowd; and especially is this idea prevalent in regard to Western audiences* The conviction is based, to speak truly, on a firmly 'grounded opinion that audiences in the West are exclusively composed of giggling louts and their red- handed feminine companions, who desire to be entertained, and comprehend entertainment in no other wise than aa an evcning*s roaring with insensate laughter.

The immediate result of this idea is that the whole Western country is flooded with traveling lecturers (comic of course), migratory 'Hheatres comiques/' itin-

f. :4'

THE COMICAL BOBBY.

477

erant minstrels with their immensely ludicrous Billy Bummum and Bobby Bobbem in their excruciatingly laughable drolleries, and many other comicalities too hnmorons tor minute recapitulation.

The consequence of the influx of this mirthful crowd of merrymakers has been to draw to them the rough and uncouth element in every town they visit, and to ebnt out all the culture and retinement of the same town until, not seeing any, these wanderers have concluded that no re- finement existed there.

It* it be but one step from sublime to ridiculous, it is no less than that from the '* comic** to the coarse and vulgar. This it is, no doubt, which has caused what may be called the aristocracy of the small towns of the West to look with distrust upon every epecies of ''entertainment" which comes to their town and puts its colored bills up; which has set up a law which makes it a lo^s of caste to be seen witnessing the comicalities of the comical Bobby.

The popular lecturer who has tears in bis voice and pathos in his soul can appeal to all classes in a way which the comic man looks at aghast Ho can play on the feel- ings of his audience, be it composed of the louts or the aristocracy, as easily as if he were a skillful musician touching ivory keys with practised fingers. Only this first; himself must be honest* The tears which sob through his voice must really be wetting his eye-lashes ; the pathos of his story must really be born in his own soul. Otherwise, he may go his ways with the comical Bobby,

Of all audiences in the world, I think, the Western audieuce is keenest alive to humbug. It scents it from afiir. It will have none of it. Why it is that the im- pression prevails in New York that Western audiences are not critical, that they go into boisterous exclamations of delight over coarse and vulgar performances, is quite

478

EASTERN AKD WESTERN AUDIENCES^

ill explicable to me. As a rule> New York audiences are

fkr less difficult to please than those of the West, when tlio performance is of an intellectual character.

Artenius AV'ard ooce told me tliat before a ^Testeni audience ho always felt like a mountebank. In New York he never had any hucU uncomfortable feeling*

It is clear then that the comic element is least attrac- tive to Western audiences; pathos is appreciated by them ; but above all attractions the most attractive is that which furnishes information of a valuable eort^ Never was known a people more hungry for knowledge* They also care much for strong and clear expressions of indi- vidual opinion on vital topics. They are a thinking people — ^far more deeply thinking than the generality of the people of the metropolis — and they have their own opinions, which they like to compare with those of thp lecturer, and do so with the utmost good-nature while [ perhaps contradicting him point-blank. For applause, they do not give much at the best; consequently they are never guilty of that horrible delinquency — ^applauding in the wrong place ; but the speaker who can read the faces of his audience will find appreciation there, even if hands and umbrellas are silent. It is true that one who has been speaking to a New York audience misses these noises of approbation at first* The metropolitans are such a well-educated body of amateur chiqueurs ! "With what admirable exactitude they always send down a ripple of applause at the very proper moment! Wise young judges!

The patience of Western audiences has been tried for years with impostors. A curious class of these are travel- ing *" physicians," graduates of Query College, with a tliploma unfortunately left at home. These men come into a town, engage the hall, get their colored bills out, and hang up a photograph of somebody with a good deal

DOCTOE CHARLETAN.

479

of hair on his head and face, and a written inscription to kuow all men by these presents, that thia is Di% Charlatan, the "lecturer."

Dr. Charletaa lectures for a night or two free of charge; and the conaequence is that all the louts in town a!id all their red-handed companions go en masse to hear him. He then proceeds to frighten them very nearly to death by prognosticating the most fatal consoqnonces in case they do not immediately put themselves under the treat- ment of some one who knows how to cure them of the ills wliich tiesh is heir to; and he mentions casnally at the close of his lecture that he may be consulted every day at the principal hotel of the place between such and such hours. In a night or two be begins to charge an atlmission fee for hia lectures; and generally makes a handsome thing of his charlatanism all around, for poor human nature is especially weak when it comes to a ques- tion of keeping this moi*tal body in order, and sick people are like the drowning who clutch at straws.

One of the coolest operations I ever heard of was that performed by a self-styled ^'lecturer on mesmerism," who announced *'that he would hold forth at fifty cents a head, and exhibit the wonders of clairvoyance. The liall was well filled, as the newspapers say, *with a highly intelli- gent and appreciative audience/ The money for admis- sion having been counted over, and salted down by the lecturer, the latter locked the door to keep dead heads out, put the key in his pocket, and mounting the platform, commenced the performance. Uaving selected a subject from the audience, subject to their approval, he made a few remarks upon the wonderful science, and then, after a few passes, the subject passed into a deep sleep. ' Now, my friends,* said the operator, *you can ask the sleeper any question you please,* and so saying he left the subject and passed behind the screen. A couple of gentlemen

480

TURKINO LBCTURER.

went upou the platform, and tbougb thej propounded questions of the most simple nature, the subject failed to respond in a single instance. In fact, he was oblivious to all around him ; he was as mum as an Egyptian mummy. They turned to hjok for the lecturer, but he had passed away; behind the scene was a back window, from which dangled a rope, showing how the lecturer had disappeared; a sponge, saturated with chloroform, was discovered on the stage at this stage of the proceedings, which told the story of the subject's slumber. Before the andieDce could obtain egress, the lecturer was off on a railroad train,'*

I have sometimes been asked how I chanced to " tom lecturer." It was by a very gradual process* I turned writer iirst. Then it occurred to me that, having left the stage behind me, I n^ight still turn my stage training to advantage in the literary field by appearing in public to speak my own pieces — ^so to speak.

I Avrote a lecture about theatrical life; committed it to memory, line by line; delivered it in public; and finding it was well received in New York, accepted an offer to deliver it elsewhere. Thus, little by little I became a regular hxborcr in this field.

There were some amusing incidents connected with my first essay in a field with which I was so little acquainted then.

Any one who starts on a lecture tour must, of course, be under the impression that he or she has sufficient repu- tation to draw audiences.

Lecturers are not generally so attractive in themselves as to awaken provincial enthusiasm to any great extent, and to crowd uncomfortable halls on unpleasant and sturmy nights.

Therefore, the point is to get persons who have already a name in some one of the fields of art, science or litera- ture.

AN EAGER QUERY.

481

There is scarcely a young writer in the East but imagines he has enough reputation as a lUterateur to be immensely attractive on the rostrum.

And about the most effectual means I am acquainted withj of convincing him of his error, is to send him "out West'* to try it.

"Seeking the bubble reputation at the cannon's mouth" is a trifle compared to seeking it in the lecture field, "out West."

We are wont to speak and think of the West as if it were a potato field in size. We forget that New York is a very email island, while the West is a vast continent; and that while the brilliancy of your metropolitan reputa- tion may have extended to portions of the West, it must be very great renown indeed if it has penetrated every- where.

In the green and flower-perfumed village of Mon- mouth, Illinois, I was engaged to lecture in aid of the Baptist Church.

I afl-ivcd at night, and awoke in the morning to find the rain coming down in a deluge. I sat at my window drearily looking out

Presently I heard a rap at the door, and in answer to my **come in !" in rushed a girl of about sixteen, with her hair dragged ofi^ her face by a round comb, and her whole visage expressing the keenest interest.

She closed the door carefully, and then, after assuring herself that there were no listeners, pounced down upon me and popped into my ear this momentous question :

"Do you tell fortunes?'*

Fortunes! Tell fortunes! Why, what in the world had put that in her head ?

"Not I,'' I replied.

She was wofully chopfallen. Not, I think, so much on account of her faux pas as because it waa a dire disap- 81

FUNNT 8T0EIBS,

4m

A long pause — liis fingers outstretched toward the pic- tures curiously.

"^You — don't — mean^ — to say — how't you're goin' to show them folks alive that way ?"

What insane conceptions were in that man's brain, aa to the kind of creature "A Live Logan** might be, who can tell?

And what*8 in a name ?

Nothing — ^[not even an indication of sex, sometimes ; few, in another place, a misguided enthusiast was one day loudly congratulating the assembled crowd on the good luck that was in store for them.

** What's the matter?*' asked the country editor, elbow* ing his way in amongst the knot of assembled friends.

"Matter!" answered the ringleader, contemptuously, "why, haven't you heard? Olive Logan is coming next week."

**Go8h! IS HE? Hooray!"

As the funny papers say, "comment is unnecessaty/'

St. Paul ]9 a delightful town. My audiences there were among the most select and brilliant I anywhere addressed. My lecture was very extensively announced there, and generously received. I gave a Heading from the Poets on a subsequent evening.

A gentleman from (he East got in quite late at the Reading, under the impression that he was to hear the lecture on theatrical matters.

The next morning he was asked how ho liked it

"Capital," said he, "Never thought so much could bo said on that subject Sfie's been there !"

Where ? thought I, when I heard of it. I had simply occupied the evening with selections from different authors, without the slightest connecting links of my own contriTing.

Like the man who read the dictionary through, this

A FAKTASTIO CAKT.

486

tected by netting, but the musquitoes and the heat triumphed,

I was lying on a loungej in the afternoon,, fanning myself, and wonderiog who would be tempted to come to a hot hall and listen to a lecture on Bueh a night, and coming to the conclusion that nobody would, when I heard the brazen blare of a brass band thundering on the dead stillness of the heated atmosphere the beloved strains of Yankee Doodle,

What could it be ?

Could it bo a circus ?

It mnat be. I arose to look at the "pageant.*'

There, on the parched lawn before the door, was drawn up a huge cart, fantastically decked with white cotton drapery, in which were seated a dozen or two Teutonic musicians, blowing away lustily, while the perspiration rolled oif their faces ; and on each side of the cart was hung a flaming canvas banner, announcing to the expect- ant world that there was to be an ''OLIVE LOGAj^ TO- NIGHT *^— a "STAGE-STRUCK TO-NIGIIT;'

And even while I looked the big cart creaked over the roasting gravel, and sped aw^ay on its mission of drnm- ming np customers for the evening "show."

All that long afternoon it rolled around, visiting wondering people who lived a half a dozen miles oft*, blowing its patriotic tunes and persistently exhibiting its astonishing banners.

At length night throw her sable mantle over the earth, and pinned it with a **Btar" (meaning me).

There was a fine audience assembled in the close little hall That is to say, fine in point of numbers.

There were about a dozen really congenial and appre- ciative ones present, among the rest, **642,'* who sat at the door taking tickets, and laughing till he cried, at his first effort in the "show'* business.

THE LEVEE.

H Ah, such a funny crowd as that was to deliver such ft

lecture as "St^ge-strucV* to ! A crowd which had hcen

^ drawn like fties to molasses, by the cart and the brass

f band, and which, I truly believe^ had no more idea

what an Olive Logan was than what a ** Stage-struck"

■might be ! A funny crowd of farmers in heavy shoes, and nonde- script beings in moccasins, and women in cotton sun- bonnets, which completely obliterated them — covered them out of sight ; and the German musicians, with their caps on and their brass instruments clutched affectionately in their arras, sitting on the top boards of some rough,

IMised seats at the back, listening earnestly, and striving to be amused, and failing dismally. I left Wabasha that same night. The boat was ex- pected along at about nine o'clock, and I did not think I should catch it But after the lecture was concluded, and ** 642" had laughed again over his wagon feat, and pa- tiently endured my reproaches for the brass band, I learned that the boat had not yet come, and I might still leave that night

So I hastened to don traveling dress and pack baggage, and was soon ready on the levee, where we — a small party Bof ud — sat down upon the trunks and waited.

The moon had risen by this time in glorious beauty. The wide Mississippi lay placid in her light, and the bluffs looked down like dark, enchanted castles.

■ And w^ sat there three hours ! \

How we managed to kill the time I h'^rdly know. T

have a dim recollection of falling asleep on the trunk, and

waking up again with a start «nd giving an impromptu

■■^•reading** to my little audience with those noble "Lines

on the Mississippi," written by my fether:

QOOB-BYE. 4ST

Sweop on 1 sweep on i thou Emprew of the World 1 Upon thy rolling tide thou bear*&t the wealth Of youthful nations— richer far than all The gorgeoua gems which sparklo in FotosL Thou host a gem — a peerless gem — Whose ever- radian I corruscations flash A thousand Icaguefl along thy sunny banks, *Tjs brightest in the heavenly diiulom, Blood-stained, but dimless. Men call it freedom V*

Or, did I dream it?

At any rate, there was the Mississippi| aud here was I| and there was

Soddoiily *'642*' brightens up, and points to two far-oft" jewels in the distance:

An emerald and a ruby, dancing high in air over the still waters below.

We watch them as they approach, and then we see a weird monster ploughing the water, with dancing torches ^'ickeringly reflected in the mirror-like river, and strange Dlaek men, half clad, running about and arranging weighty objects, and shouting unintelligibly, with full reverbera- tion on the heavy air.

'* Chu ! Chu : Chu !'* The boat has arrived.

Good-by, '' 642.** Qood-by, Wabasha, good-by.

One of the beat explauations I have ever seen of the peculiarities of our American lecture system, is furnished by that veteran lecturer, Mr, Curtis: "Lecturing, in the flense that we understand it, is a purely American af&ir. The scientific themes, or papers, and the literary essays which are read in England to select audiences, and called lectures, are as different from ours as the Earl of Carlisle or Professor Faraday are different from Mr. Gougli or Mr. Beecher, An American popular lecture is a brisk sermon upon the times. Whatever its nominal topic may be, the aubstance of the discourse is always cognate to this people

THE REQULA& OEY.

489

a natural and simple curiosity to see the men of whom bo much had been said ; and the shortest and eusieBt way was to ask them to lecture. For an hour they were thor- oughly inspected ; then, if they could say something in an agreeable way, as well as bo looked at, they were very sure to be called again. When yon reflect that every Ly- ceum lecturer in good practice speaks to fifty thousand persons, at least, during the season, and that they are the most iutelligent men and women in the country, the power of the system is evident euough. It may well al- lure amhitiou, for it brings the orator into the direct per- sonal presence of all those people. Probably the chief Lyceum lecturers are personally more widely known than any other class of public men in the country."

Regularly, each year, as the lecture season draws nigh, there comes up a cry from certain people and presses, that the lecture system is dying out. On the contrary, its per- petuity is as positive as that of the drama itself/

The same influence, as a gentleman well informed in this matter recently said, *' which is doubling the number of theatres is increasing the bulk of lecturers and of Ly- ceum organizations. Accurate statistics are impossible. Lecture associations are largely intermittent Probably not more than seven hundred regular courses exist in the country, and perhaps even this number is overstated. But of fresh lecture organizations ; of towns which had no course last year and will have one during the present sea- eon ; of charitable courses; of individual lectures for spe- cial objects, the number is very great, and we presume that, taking all the lecture-patronizing communities through, not less tlian three thousand of them may be enumerated* Between two and three millions will be spent this year on lecturers' fees and contingent expenses ; indeed the chances are that this will prove an altogether inadequate estimate* New England was the old foraging-

THACKEBAY IN PniLADELPHIA.

491

iDg businesa is not about run out?* Why this polite ques- tion should be put to an Easy Chair, which, reposing qui- etly here, in Franklin square, upon four good solid legs, profoundly pities the *itincranta' aa they go rushing about the Iand» is incomprehensible. * Itinerants' is the wither iog sarcasm hurled at the unfortunates by newspaper editors who, as the clergymen say, have no * call/ * Itin- erants*— the word has a sound of tin peddler in it which is overpowering. These wretched ' itinerants,' who are paid a hundred dollars anight, with their expenses, how pitiful

their case must seem to the luxurious editor of the ,

who gets home to bed at three o'clock in the morning. However the question is not itineracy, but lecturing. Why, then, not address your remarks to Demosthenes and Cicero, who are familiar with the whole matter, and suf- fer the Chair to remain Easy ? Of course, wo have all been wondering when the public would tire of hearing certain people talk — prose, the wise it call^ — through an evening hour or two. Thackeray used to wonder in the same wa3\ One evening lie lectured in Philadelphia, in a terrific storm. He expected to find nobody in the hall. *But,' said he, 'I went, and lo ! eight hundred mild mani- JIC8 awaited my coming !' The further ho went the greater his amassement grew. *It is incredible/ ho exclaimed, * but^ my boy ! let us make hay while the sun shines, for presently they^l find us all out,' There are some who have not been found out yet No, and it is doubtful whether the first lecturers of all, those who began twenty and thirty years ago, arc not the most sought and liked. They are the planets, the fixed stars in the Lyceum sky. Comets, meteors, shooting stars, flash and dash and dazzle and expire around them, but their steady, lambent light beams cheerfully on* It is an interesting and curious study, even for an Easy Chair, to remark how faithful the Lyceum is to men who not only amuse but instruct, and

I

GENIUS — ANITA DICKINSON.

493

a speetacle of herself, there is do such shudder in the morDing, and the sturdy moralista of which we spoke do not fiod it necessary to laugh, or satirize, or solemnly condemn, but simply criticise as if nothing extraordinary had occurred. If Jenny Lind or Malibran were your sis- ters, would you be sorry to have them sing in public? Or if Charlotte Bronte were your cousin, would you be sorry if she wrote a novel? Or if Rosa Bouheur were your niece, would you be sorry if she painted animals ? But it isn't customary for women to speak. True ; nor is it the habit for us men to write epic poems. Shakespeare is not the habit God gave one man the genius to be Shake- speare ; to a few men to be great painters ; to others to be sculptors, poets, singers. In all it was the genius that jus- tified the work; and whenever the genius to do is given, what do you think of a fiishton or a habit which insists that the thing shall not be done? Kind souls who sit splendid io opera boxes, with bare necks and arms, and hanging gardens in your hair, who so sternly frown upon the * female orator,' speak her more fairly. Have no fear that your little sister most paint because Rosa Bonheur paints — nor study the stars because Mrs. Somerville is an astronomer — nor address the public because Miss Dickin- son does it. These women do these things because they have the gift. It is for the same reason that you do not ring — ^for the same reason that you do not dance grace- fully— for the same reason that you do not look as Helen of Troy looked, nor more like Juno — dearest lady, it is be- cause you cannot, not because you would not*'

The same delightful gossiper thus pictures the lecture- room on the occasion of an eminent lecturer's appearance, and comments on Edward Everett and Ralph Waldo Emerson : **The audience is now waiting, both upon the stage, and in the boxes with a kind of expectation. There is little talking, but a tension of heads toward the stage.

A BRILLIANT MOSAIC.

496

alienate atteation. The discourse itself, bo far, was a compact and calm histoiy by a man as well versed in it as any man in the country; and it culminated in a deacrip- tion of Sumpter. ThiB was an elaborate picture, in words of a perfectly neutral tint There was not asingle one which was peculiarly picturesque or vivid ; no electric phrase that sent the whole dismal scene ehuddering home to every hearer; no sudden light of burning epithet, no sad elegiac mueic. It was purely academic. Each word was choice ; each detail was finished ; it was properly cumulative to its climax; and w^hen that was reached, loud applause followed. It was general, but not enthusiastic. No one could fail to admire the skill with which the sentence was constructed; and so elabo- rate a piece of workmanship justly challenged high praise* But still — still, do you get any thrill from the most perfect mosaic? Then followed a caustic and briUiaut sketch of the attitude of Virginia in this war. In this part of his discourse the orator was himself a historic personage ; for it was to him, when editor of the North Amcricari Bancw^ that James Madison wrote his letter explanatory of the Virginia resolutions of**98. The wit that sparkled then in the pages of the Bcmetv glittered now along the speech. It was Junius turned gentleman and transfixing a State with sarcasm. The action was much the same. But , after, in one passage, describing the wrongs wrought by rebels upon the countr}', ho turned with upraised hand to the rows of white-cravated clergymen who sat behind him, and apostrophized them : *TelI me, ministers of the living God, may wo not without a breach of Christian charity exclaim,

" ' li thore not Bomo biddoa curso,

Some cbosen thunder in the stores of HcftToa, Ri*d with DncommoD wrath to bUat the m^a ThAt seeks his greatness in his countrj^s rum T'

EMBBSOH.

497

not if the venerable Chief Justice Taney should live yet a centary, aad isBue a Dred Scott decision every day of his life. Ilere followed the sineerost applause of the whole eveniDg; and the Easy Chair pioehed his neighbor, to make sure that all was as it seemed ; that these were words actually spoken, and that the orator was the one he came to hear. The hour and a half were passed. The peroration was upon the speaker's tongue, closing with an exhortation to the old men and old women, young men and maidens, each in his kind and degree, to come as tbe waves come when navies are stranded; come as the winds come when forests are rended ; come with heart and hand, with purse and knitting needle, with sword and gun, and light for the Union. IIg bowed : the audience clapped for a moment, then rose and bustled out * * * Many years ago the Easy Chair — a mere footstool in those days — used to hear Ralph Waldo Emerson lecture. Per- haps it was in the small Sunday-school room under a country meeting-house, on sparkling winter nights, when all the neighborhood came stamping and clattering to the door in hood and muffler, or else ringing in from a few miles away, buried under buffalo skins. The little low room was dimly lighted with oil lamps, and the boys clumped about the stoves in their cowliide boots, and laughed and buzzed, and ate apples and peanuts, and giggled, and grew suddenly solemn when the grave men and women looked at them. In the desk stood the lecturer, and read his manuscript ; and all but the boys , sat silent and enthralled by the musical spelh Some of the hearers remembered the speaker as a boy, as a young man. Some wondered what he was talking about ; some thought him very queer; all laughed at the delightful humor, or the illustrative anecdote that beaded for a moment on the surface of his talk; and some sat inspired with unknown resolves, and soaring upon lofty hopes as S2

8TaRY-TBLLIN0.

499

CHAPTER XXXV.

CoriouB Stage Anecdotes. — The Mud King and the Drunken Actor.-* Eliza Logan and the Cr(K>le Belle. — The Iriah Greek in Ion. — An Actor who had Lived long Enough. — A Disgusting GlasB. — The Cash- man Sisters and their Bcd-sprcad Balcony. — Queer Verbal Trips,^ Playing Behind a Ragged Curtain , the Audience Looking through a Hole in it, — Kembk and the Apple.-'A Horrified Auditor of Booth in Othello. — A Saucy Stage King.— A Boston Notion, — A Blonde^s ITig on Fire. — An Amateur who Deterniined to Do Himaelf Justice, no Matter for the Part,— Not Dead Yet.— The Slipped Garter and the Dropped Skirt. — How Shakespeare Picked up a Glove while Playing. — A Luckless Lad, — Shaking Dangle'a Head, — Tickling a Stage Ghoat. Fainting on the Stage. — A False Alarm.^ — Snow on Fire.

There are iiumberles3 curious ataga anecdotes in circu- lation among the members of the profession^ which in themselves would suffice to fill a volume. Some of the less hackneyed ones I propose to devote the present chapter to telling.

Let the reader imagine himself one of a circle of plajers "off duty/* eittiDg about a pleasant parlor fire on a "^^ntry afternoon ** telling stories," The scene opens with a story about the ^'little giant'' tragedian, Junius Brutus Booth, which I think has never been published,, and which is strictly true.

During one of his visits to the "West on a starring tour, Mr. Booth was engaged to appear at the Louisville, Ky., theatre, and my sister Eliza, who w^as then the *' leading lady" at the National theatre, Cincinnati, was summoned from the Queen City to support him.

Mr. Booth, who was, as is well known, somewhat given to hard drinking, kept religiously sober throughout the week, until the night appointed for his benefit, when it was evident that he had taken a little stimulant. From

A QUESTION OF STRAW.

501

Btraw for the vvreath ! I won*t finish the acen^ without it! I always demand rye straw for this mad scene/*

Here Pratt, the property man, made his appearance,

"Ned/' said Booth; ^'what kind of straw d*ye call this r

The reader will boar in mind that before the footlights the audience were waiting impatiently while this absurd colloquy went on behind the scenes.

*' Wheat straw, Mr. Booth,'' replied the property man.

** Well, sir, I want rye straw/*

**Ah/' rejoined the man ^'I know you do, and I tried to get it for you but couldn't."

" Could n-t! why not, sii*?''

" Because they didn't have it, sir,"

** Did you go to Jonson's stablea ?''

**Ye9, sir."

'* Didn't they have it there V

*< No, sin"

**Did you go to the jail?''

"Yes, sir,"

** Didn't have it there?"

*'No, sir;'

" Well/' said Booth, turning to Eliza, " ain't that sin- gular? When /was in that jail, five years ago, they had plenty of rye straw !"

At that instant the prompter's whistle blew, the ecene drew, and discovered Kin/j Lear flinging his wTeath of wheat straw at the unhappy property man, and Misfl Logan, the fair Ophelia^ in a most unmistakable fit of laughter.

The old Latin proverb, in vmo Veritas^ was never more fully illustrated than in this case. The truth was that Booth had been in the Louisville jail exactly five years before. He had got through a very profitable engage- ment and was on a big spree* A man in town waa

IN WASHINGTON,

503

" Oh I oh I don't kill Miss Logan, she's going to bo my bridesraaid to-morrow !'*

The ciFect on actors and audience can be more easily imagined than described.

The excited young lady in a moment recovered herself and shrank back in her box, much embarrassed. Gennarro was stayed for a moment from his deadly purpose, but recovering himaelfj he gave the death blow to the fair Liicrctla^ and as her prostrate form lay upon the stage, the fiame lovely girl was seen to stand up in her box and to lower from it to the stage a pair of beautiful carrier doves bridled with white ribbons, bound together with an im- mense diamond bracelet, and in their mouths a billet-doux for Miss Logan, containing cards for the wedding of the Creole belle. As the curtain descended, they perched their snowy forms upon the lifeless Lucrviia^ while shouts and bravos went up from the enthusiastic audience.

An incident of a somewhat similar character occurred one night in a Washington theatre where Eliza was play- ing. The occasion was her benefit, and Ion her character.

A more elegant or cultivated audience than was present on that evening never graced the inside of a theatre. Henry Clay occupied a box, and at his side sat his then proteg^, John C. Breckenridge.

The part of Ckmaniht was assigned to a lady who, bo- sides being a novitiate, had evidently at some period of her life visited the Emerald I^le, and had carried away with her a most unmistakcable brogue.

Throughout the tragedy the audience seemed ** wrapt" with the language of a play which took its author twenty years to complete. The last scene was reached, when the •* devoted youth" plunges the consecrated knife into his own bosom, when CUmcmihe rushes on and throws herself upon the body of her heroic lover.

Fancy the eftect on the audience when the excited Cfe-

KEW ANECDOTE OF FOEREST.

fiOfi

appears only in the first act, was pressed into double duty, in the fourth act, to appear as one of the eight apparitions who crosa the stage at the back (sometimea behind a gauze) during the scene of—

it Double, double, toil and trouble ; Fire, burn j and cauldron, bubble,"

Upon the appearance of the first apparition, the Ian* gaage runs thus —

" Thou art too like tb© spirit of Banquo j down I Thj crown does aear mj eyeballs/' &c.,

till the appearance of the eighth apparition, when Mac- beth exclaims —

" I'll aee no more ; — And yet the cightb appears, who bears a glass, Wbkli abowB mo many more.'*

Mr, Forrest was always very particular about the so- called " business ** of this scene, which is somewhat com- plicated, but exceedingly etieetive in his hands when the actors engaged did their duty as directed by him* He stopped in the rehearsal to give particular instructions to tlie party who was " number eight" of the apparitions, and who ** bore a glass.'*

**Be particular, if you please,** he said, "respecting the I instructions I have given you concerning the part you take in this scene, when you appear with the glass in your hand/*

**It will be all right at night, Mr, Forrest,** responded ** number eight**

Night came, and so did the play ; likewise the appear- ance of the apparitions. Mr, Forrest commenced the line —

*' And yet the eigbtb appears, who bears a "

**Iii the name of mercy, what is that?'* exclaimed the first witch.

i

A BEI>-SPRBAD BAICOKY*

507

sisters should have acquired such fame as that which at- tended their representation of these same chaiacters, throughout the United States and Europe, hut a few years ^following the date of this occurrence 1

They met aud conquered many obstaclca in the way of icenor)% until the balcony scene was reached, at the re- hearsal. The balcony for the gentle Juliet was the one thing needful, but where was it to come from? liow be manufactured or built?

After much perplexity, an old-fashioned bed-spread, or patch-work qiiiltj of many colors^ appeared to be the only thing that could be found to answer the purpose (!) and the manager declared it to be "the ver)- thing.*' But, to this day, I presume, Miss Charlotte has failed to see it with the manager's eyes, or to discover any positive re- semblance in that faded bed-quilt to the wall of Julkfs balcony.

The immortal bard has said, "Sweet are the uses of ad- versity/* but I have heard very few agree with him on this point

It was arranged that tlie bed-spread sliould be stretched across the form of JuUeij and be held up on one side by the manager, while it was supported on the other (from behind, of course,) by a little colored boy belonging ta the hotel, whose duty it was to auswcr the bells.

When night came, the balcony scene had progressed as far as where JuUel addresses her lover with the words — <fAi what o^clock to-morrow fthiU I aond to thee?"

Romeo replied —

•^ At iho hour of—"

Here they were interrupted by the appearance of the little darkey who, tired out with hokling up the bed-spread balcony, stuck his head out from the side, and, turning his shining ebony face up at Juliet^ said —

" Miss Cashing, I bear my bell ringin', and I is obleeged to let my side of de bouse i>EAr!"

THE AWKWARD SQUAD,

509

cord which kept the curtain up, and the curtain coming down by the inn, stmck against the lamps and canght fire. The flames were imnieiliately extinguished^ but the curtain could not be raised, and the play was acted out, the audience looking at the performers through the gap caused by the fire.

A magazine writer saya : When we consider the inevi- table and ridiculous interruptions, and constant blunders which characterize the most careful of stage representa- tions, we find it to be a cause of wonder that the illusion is even partially preserved. Whatever may be the merits and skill of the prominent performers, every stage main- tains a fltjuad of awkward and ignorant persons, to whose mercy the minor parts are committed, and by whose stupidity they are continually murdered. It matters not rhether Alexander the Great be a hero, or a very ordinary

"person, to his valet dt chambre; but it does matter a good deal whether the valet afiect military airs and a parody of the royal eequipedality, or is content to deliver messagea in a modestly aggravated tone. A very small matter suffices to disenchant us. Some gallery god once cast an apple at John Kemble whHe he was stalking through one of the stateliest scenes in Coriolanus. lie came down to the foot-lights, holding the pomonie missile in his hand, appealed to the kind consideration of a British audience, and concluded, amidst great applause, by ofieriug a reward of fifty pounds for the discovery of the tasteless malefac- tor* It must have been hard for the most enthusiastic

iapectator to get back «* before the walls of Rome'* that lightt It was a little curious that the pippin came down

L just as Coriolanus was kneeling in the speech beginniug:

** Like A dull ftctor noW| I liftvQ forgot my part, &nd I am oat, Even to a fUll dii^race."

Au amusing incident is related, which occurred at the

A TBAK8FORMATI0H SCEKfl.

511

editor who announced that, '^last evening, at one of the theatres^ an actor had his clothes burned off with a tur- pentine thunderbolt, which descended on a theatrical ship, of which he v/as the romantic and desperate commander, during a sheet iron tempest."

At a tlieatre in Troy, New York, last Summer, an actress in a burlesque, who was to all appearances a pretty blonde, was suddenly transformed into a good-looking brunette. She had occasion, in the character of a Peri, to hold a lighted torch in her hand, and was engaged in the lively dialogue of the piece, with Miss Sophie Worrell, when the flames caught her flaxen wig, which immedi- ately was in a blaze. Miss Worrell, with great pluck and presence of mind, seized the burning tow in her hands, and then finding it impossible to extinguish the flames, snatched the wig ofl'the head of her companion and threw it on the floor, discovering that young lady's own hair neatly tied up in a conical mass at the back of her head. j She skipped ofl:* to the wings, and returned almost in- stantly, amid thundering applause, with her own hair untied and falling with graceful negligence down her back. The poor girl was very much frightened, as her palpitating bosom plainly showed. With the exception of having slightly scorched her face, she escaped unin- jured.

In a town in Michigan, the play of t^ondon Assurance" was announced to be played one night by a strolling theatrical company ; but the actor who was to play Max Harkaway was suddenly taken ill At the last moment, a young amateur belonging to an association in the town was recommended aa having played Max HarkatDoyheton a ** select audience," with great success. The manager found the gentleman, and he "kindly consented to volun- teer,*' if his name was not placed on the bills. On the evening of the performance, Mr. Amateur appeared in the

AN ACTRESS S RBADT WIT.

518

of Mddle. Chaumont'fl petticoat produced an amusing uorehearsed effect ^* In the first case, the great French actor was performing the Earl of EsscXy and his garter slipped from below his knee, in the scene where only he and the traitor Cecil were on the stage. Such a person \£!ssex might treat with indifference or contempt; and accordingly he replaced the dropped band round his leg, while he continued to address Cecil in a disdainful tone. The effect was sosuccessfnl that succeeding actors adopted the incident of affecting to tighten the garter as a good 'bit of business/ and the tradition continued to be ob- \ served as long as *Le Comto d' Essex ' continued to be acted- Mdlle, Chaumont's slip was of another character. It taxed lier readiness in an emergency, and did not find her wanting. She was playing mybreite in '-Nos Gms^ and was engaged running to and fro to collect and burn the presents of various old lovers. In the very middle of her action she was impeded by her petticoat suddenly falling about her feet* Of course it was a very pretty article of its sort, and she got out of it, and out of the embarrassment which had come with it, by describing it as a tribute of admiration from one of her old admirers, which must be sacrificed like all the rest; and she thrust it into the stage fire accordingly^ with a merry laugh^ and amid the general hilarity of the house/'

There is a pleasant story which relates how Queen Elizabeth, when Shakespeare was once acting in her presence, endeavored to put him at pleasant perplexity between his sense of stage discipline and that of his royal gallautr}% After many a vain attempt, wo are told that Elizabeth, crossing the stage whereon the poet-actor was enacting the counterfeit presentment of a king, and en- gaged in royal work, dropped her glove. Shakes- peare, without departing from the character he was illustrating, interpolated the original text with words ta 38

A FUNNY OLD STOEY,

615

happiest manner. Dowton, the actor, playing a ghost part — to judge from the illustration, it must have been the ghost in ^* Hamlet,** but tho teller of the storj- does not say fomially that such was the fact — ^had, of course, to be lowered in the old-fashioned way through a trap- door in the stage, his face being turned to the audience* Elliston and De Camp, concealed beneath the stage, had proTided themBclves with small rattan canes, and as their brother actor slowly and solemnly descended, they applied their sticks sharply and rapidly to the calves of his legs, unprotected by the plate armor that graced his shins* Poor Dowton with difficulty preserved his gravity of countenance^ or refrained from the utterance of a yell of agony while in tlie presence of the audience. His lower limbs, beneath the surface of the stage, frisked and cur- vetted about "like a horse in Ducrow's arena,** His passage below was maliciously made as deliberate as possible. At length, wholly let down, and completely out of sight of the audience, he looked around the obscure regions beneath tlie stage, to discover the base perpetra- tors of the outrage. Ho was speechless with rage, and burning for revenge. Elliston and his companion had of course vanished. Un fortunately at that moment Charles Holland, another member of the company, splendidly dressed, appeared in sight. The enraged Dowton, mis- taking his man, and believing that Holland's imperturba- bility of manner was assumed, and an evidence of his guilt, seized a mop at that moment at hand, immersed in very dirty water, and thrusting it in his face, utterly ruined wig, rufBes, point lace, and everj^ particular of his elaborate attire. In vain Holland protested his innocence, and implored for mercy; his cries only stimulated the avenger's exertions, and again and again the saturated mop did desperate execution over the unhappy viotim'a finery.

516

FAIKTING OK THB BTAGB.

It is not often that players give evideDce of sickneBs on the stage, but it sometimes happens j aud I remember a case where a lady fainted so opportunely that some of the audience thought it a part of the play.

It was at the New York theatre, in the play of "Cen- drillon/' Mrs. Marie Wilkius was playing Madam dr Hous^piffnolky the wife of Pinchonniere. In the fourth act, where Pinchonnkre (Lewis Baker) subdues hia wife, he had seized her by the wrist, to force her to her knees; "you hurt me/' she says, according to the text, and was soon iu a kneeling position. Suddenly she commenced to groan, then fell prostrate in a swoon ; two or three of the performers rushed to Mr, Baker's relief, who was endear-j oring to raise her, and she was carried back a little way, and the curtain was closed, Mr. Baker subsequently appeared, and stated that she had left a sick bed to plajj her part, but the eflort was too much for her, and she was^ obliged to succumb* For a time, the event created quite an excitement in the audience, although some of thoi^j who had not before witnessed the play supposed it was i part of the business of the character, and commended he for the natuml manner in which she did it.

A curious panic once took place among the audienc at Barnum's Museum, during the performance of the ^«fibriatisg^ Martyrs/' The wild animals, soldiers, and auxiliaries Iiad jus£ left the stage, when a dull, heavyj aouud was heard, followed by a crash. The audiencevi bolienng that one of the wild animals had broken loose, made a rush for the doors, jumping over seats, bencheSyJ aud nulings. Several persons were bruised more or less, i Quiat was not restored until the actors returned upon the ittfa. The noise was occasioned by the breaking of nyp^ to which was attached a heavy piece of wood. None' of tho f^T^^TO^lo asci^^ed from their cages, and the excite* mant was wholly causeleaB.

SNOW ON FIBB.

«1T

During the performaoce of *^Pauvrette*Vflt tho Park Theatre in Brooklyn, on one occasion, a circumstance occurred which nnight have reaultecl disastrously had it not been for the coolness and courage displayed by those on the stage. The scene of "the hut on the mountain'* was on the stage. The snow is represented by masses of raw cotton, which arc thrown from the flats. Maurice and Paurrette were in the hut, and the terrible avalanche began to crumble. By some means or other the light snow (cotton) took fire, and in a moment the roof of the hut and the floor of the stage were covered with the flaming material The actors, supernumeraries, and others connected with the theatre, rushed upon the stage, and the curtain was rung down. In about five minutes it was hoisted again, and the hut waa discovered with the avalanche, the only thing that reminded one of the fire being the disagreeable smell of the burnt cotton. The first words of the text uttered by Maurice and Fauvretie were very suggestive.

ifannw.— We haTo eucaped a great danger, FmrnrUU. I Tes, but thank God it ii all over.

PROFAHB AND SCANDALOUS PLAYS.

519

For I read that in the <*good old days*' the theatre waa cursed with plays more vile and iudeceiit than auy thing known to the present day, and I am quite ready to agree that '*it is not w^onderful that the honest Puritan, who wished to educate his children in the lovo of God and the practice of virtue, was unwilling to carry them to such an entertainment as this. If he were a tradesman, he would hardly care to have his progeny taught that the patient and plodding pursuit of a competence argued a low and mechanical nature, and that it would bo far finer and more manly to live by the gains of tavern-dice, and upon the sufferance of extortionate money-lenders. If he were a member of a dissenting congregation, how would he have relished the ridicule of swaggering swash-bucklers, who with profuse profanity, swore that ho was a hypo- crite, and that the wife of his bosom was always iu the market when the fops of the court were seeking such light commodity? How the people of the play-house re- garded the Puritan may be gathered from Sir John Van- brngh's preface to * The Relapse/ * As for the saints^ your thorough-paced ones,' said he, * with screwed fiices and wry mouths, I despair of them : they arc friends to nobody; they love nothing but their altars and them- selves ; they have too much zeal to have auy charity ; they make debauchees in piety, as sinners do in wine, and arc na quarrelsome in their religion as other people are in their drink; so I hope nobody will mind what they say.' And this is in the preface to a play, which, to borrow a line from FieUling, is but a ragoQt of smut and ribaldry. The sober citizen wlio knew that upon the stage he was libeled, slandered, ridiculed, and maligned — that the Scriptures which he held in awful reverence w^ere quoted with unserupulous license, to make him a laughing-stock — that the plays of his time were full of gratuitous oaths and indecorous jests to which we could not listen without

VITALITY OF THE DBAMA,

621

the wandcrful intrinsic vitality of the drama. For twenty- four hundred years it has existed. It was invented at Athens, Greece, twenty centuries ago. It has survived the rise and fall of empires, the change of the Greek and Latin languages from living to dead tongues j the down- fall of kings, empcrora and nations.

But above all it has outlived the destructive influences of vice and shamelessness, brought against it by wicked and worthless men, who have from time to time been its representatives and defenders.

A writer in the Cincinnati Gazette^ in a mistaken con- ception of my position toward the drama, and a severe criticism thereon, said some things which I could not say better, if I tried. *^ We read of the time when people of rank attended the theatre, and we read of noble and other literary celebrities writing for it, and of the literary circles that went together to gee a new play, and to approve or denounce it ; and from this we have fancied that in those days the theatre must have been much more respectable than now, and that the actors and actresses were reputable and virtuous. But the manners of the time were coarse. The plays which they witnessed are mostly banished from the stage now, because of their indelicacy. Even the plays of Shakespeare, whom we have lately seen written down a Christian dramatist of the time when the theatre was a school of pure morality, have to be much * cut' to suit the delicacy of our degenerate times. Literary men themselves were not considered a very reputable class at that time. And to bo the mistress of a man of fashion was regarded as the natural relation of a favorite actress. The honest Dame Qiiicldi/ expresses naively the common report, when, in admiration of F(ils(aff*s acting of the heavy father in reproving Prince Haly she exclaimB, * O rare ! he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as over I see/ If wo place the palmy age of the stage at the time

CEAKGES,

623

In one respect it is undoubtedly true that there baa been a retrograding movement on the part of our theatres, I refer to the accommodations provided for the players.

In former days, when the theatre was almost invariably a building from ground to attic, entirely devoted to theat- rical uses — to the theatre, iu fact — the comfortfl of the players were greater than they are in this progressive and utilizing age. But, now that ground is so very valuable in our large cities, and as theatres must always be situated in the most populous and fashionable quarters of the town, etores below and offices above encroach upou the theatre's , space, and " Behind the Scenes" is a more cramped and crowded world than ever. Every available inch is given to the auditorium and the stage. In many theatres there I no longer exists a green-room — that time-honored rallying ground of the players — and the dressiog^rooms are bare and beggarly little cubbyholes, ill-lighted, damp, and foul- ^ smelling.

But this is counterbalanced in numberless particulars, [wherein the march of improvement has been steadily on- [ward. A writer in one of our theatrical journals thus brings up several of these : "As a rule/* he says, *' our actors now take more pains to understand their parts than they did at a former period — this with regard to little ones as well as big. We have known the time when a profes- sional having a part under what is technicallj^ called a * length* (forty*two lines), was either careless about it, or exerted himself to render it ridiculous, deeming it below his deserts. Then, as to the dressing and scenery of plays — both betrayed the utmost ignorance on the part of man* lagers who could pay for better. A gratifying evidence of [the improvement we speak of, is aflbrded us on the occar 'eion of Mr, Edwin Booth's appearance at the Winter Gar- den as HamkL How this tragedy used to be given, we , need not inform our readers* If there was a tolerable per-

4

WALKING TRAVESTIB8.

in a very oarGlesa way* It too frequently happened that we had no music save that preceding the firat piece and that which followed, if there was a second, and this was of 80 lugubrious a quahty as to remind ua of the famous and oft-mentioned piece of our younger days, said to be *tune the old cow died through.* Plays other than * Hamlet^ have suffered through negligence in the respect wo have spoken of There was * Richard the Third/ wherein the actor, first as Gloucester and then as Kiiiy^ was a mass of tinsel and high calves. * Othello,' wherein the 3foor looked more like an Indian juggler than a military chieftain and the governor of an island ; * Romeo and Ju- liet,' in which young MunUigue showed, in the earlier scenes, more like a tight-rope dancer than a gentleman of Mantua, and in the latter more like the usual Hamlet than anybody else; * Macbeth,* where the ambitious Thane and his associates were fancy ball Scots and nothing beside, and the Witches so many scavengers ; and ' King Lear,' wherein the old monarch reminded us of some of the prints of Moses. Only fancy plays dressed like this, sccned in a similar manner, carelessly acted, and preceded and followed by melancholy tunes from a shabby orchestra, and you will confess bow different a thing a dramatic enter- tainment was to what it is. In the Old Country, it took a long time to bring the change about ; but on this side of the water, from obvious causes, a comparatively brief period was required. We hear that in Shakespeare's time great improvements were introduced on the stage, but after then ^H there must have been a retrograde movement, until the ^H stage had little aid. It ia a matter of authenticated I reconl, that Garrick played Hamlet in * smalls,* and a

I straight coat and vest ; Macbeth in similar fixings, with

I the addition of a plaid scarf over his breast, with Mrs.

I Pritchard as his wife, in a high head dress and hooped

SfiS

MirSIO — SIATS — OBNAMEirrATIOJir.

Garrick made many improvementa in the dressing of

I plays, and was followed in the good path by the Kembles. Still, these improvements were confined to only a few of the principal parts — the honor of clothing an entire dramaiis persons with propriety being reserved for Mr. Macrcady and Madame Vestris — ^to the former in his asso-

' elation with historical plays ; to the latter, in respect to comedittas and mythological pieces* It has been the game with the music at theatres; jingling tnnes, and not many of them, have been succeeded by a liberal supply of fine pieces; and so have the qualifications for actors and

[ tnanagers been enhanced^ till it requires very accomplished persons to fulfill the respective duties as they ought to befiil- filled. In the omameutation of theatres, in the seating of the audience, and in the facilities for seeing, the people on this side of the water have the start of those on the other. It was at one time expected that care In what is called the * mounting* of pieces would, in devoting so much atten- tion to the material, detract from the efforts of actors and cause audiences to be less critical than it was proper they should be. In our time we have had objections like these piled lip till they formed a perfect Ossa. But we never placed faith in them, and the sequel has shown how well

'we judged in assuming that the greater the pains taken in the direction of illusion by means of scenery and costume, the greater would be the endeavor of actors to

I perfect the illusion of character. One of the most obvious improvements in our theatres is their having numbered seats. This we derived from the French, who have their seats separate as well as numbered. This prevents crowd- ing, and assures every person buying a ticket of the &cili* ties for seeing and hearing* But simple and meritorious as the plan is, it is often sought to be abused by pc whom nothing on earth or in heaven x^ill satis example, there is Mr* J. and Mr. A,, who have t tickets, which entitleH them to a couple of M

INTRODUCTION OP BESEEVKB BEATS.

627

have a friend, Mr, B,, who has bought an ordinary ticke at the box office in the evening. It docs not provide him with an exact location ; bnt he sees Mr, J. and Mr. A. ; he wants to be near them, and so takes a seat next to one or the other, Alt well for the time ; presently, however, the person who has bespoken the seat presents himself with his proper check, and the interloper is politely requested to give it up. lie does aOj though not with a good grace ; in fact, we have often seen gentlemen very angry on the occasion, and heard them say something terrible about the manager and the theatre — even to go so far as to threaten the entire withdrawal of patronage therefrom. At the Boston theatre they have a very neat arrangement by which the time is told every five minutes. Two little compartments in the centre of the proscenium, above the stage, attract notice, the one on the right showing the hour, that on the left the figures five, ten and upwards to fifty-five, the change next ensuing gives the new hour and so on. There is a great deal of cleverness in this idea, and credit is due to the person who first conceived it.*'

It is curious, in these days when the reserved seat system is 80 universal at all places of amusement, to read an account given by manager Wood in his "Recollections," of the troubles following the introduction of private boxes into the Philadelphia theatre* The difficulty attaching to this innovation, ho relates, came to him with the very opening of the theatre in 1793. "Mrs. Bingham, a lady, in her day the chief leader in the fashion of Philadelphia, the wife of an early and valued friend of Wignell himself^ a lady of great social and family influence, and very ex- . tensively connected, proposed for the purchase of a box ai amj price to be fixed by the manager. She had passed much of her early married life in France and England, where she was uncommonly admired, and being a woman of exclusive and elegant tastes, was desirous to have the privileges which were allowed in the theatres with which

528

A TEMPTINQ OFFER.

she had been familiar abroad. She offered to furnish and decorate the box at her own expense; but it was an abso- lute condition that the key should be kept by herself aud no admission to it allowed to any one except on her assent. Mr. Wignell had many strong inducements to accept this offer. He was undertaking a new enterprise. He could naine his own sum. It was a certainty. It would gratify an early friend, whose large fortune might prove of great value to him. He knew that it was probably the only condition on which he was likely to have either the presence, or perhaps the very cordial wishes of a fair^ ele- gant and influential woman, whose house was the rendez- vous of the distinguished and really elegant foreigners whom the French revolution had brought here. Her voice in the small world of fashion which Philadelphia then acknowledged, would be quite potential. He looked at the matter, however, with much more comprehensive and philosophic regards. He knew that the theatre in a country like ours must depend entirely for permanent success, not upon individuals, however powerful, not upon clubs, cliques, factions or parties, but upon the pubuc atone ; that in a country where the spirit of liberty is so fierce as in ours, such a privilege would excite firom an immense class a feeling of positive hostility ; and it made no difference in his view that the expression of it might be suppressed, which it was doubtful whether it would be, as the suspicion would be fat^l. He saw that it must be a cardinal maxim of any American manager to act on the principles of his country's go%^ernment, and on the recog- ^ nition of feelings deeply pervading the structure of its society ; to hold, in short, all men *free' to come into his house, and ' equal* while they continued to be and behave themselves in it. This country he well perceived has not, and cannot have any class which, as a body, possesses even the claims to exclusive privileges which exist abroad,

BEACTT 07FKNDED.

629

I

and which give a prestige impossible and unfit to be asserted or allowed for an aristocracy here; an aristo- cracy whichj with occasional exceptions, must be one of money merely, the most despicable and poorest of all grounds of distinction. lie therefore with great address, and with many expressions of polite regret, declined the offers of his beautiful friend, and stuck steadily to his wisely settled system. The result was just as be anticipated. The lady, though not capable of re- sentment, and expressing her acquiesence in his views as a sound one, scarcely ever visited the theatre again ; but the theatre itself was filled by a constant and satisfied public. It was pleasantly intimated by some persons that Mrs, B. fixed on some occasions of extraordinary benefits at the theatre for evening entertainments at her house* Bat though exceedingly caressed, she was not an un- amiable woman, and her house was very often open. This coincidence was probably accidental. Another case oc- curred at a later day* A gentleman of Baltimore, a pro- prietor in the theatre, and a constant supporter and true lover of the drama, made a proposul nearly in these words : *I wish to secure a box in which I shall always be certain of seats for my family. I will give at once $3,000 for an ownership of this box for the terra of my life. No fashionable box is desired. One of those in the second tier, not more than four from the stage, will satisfy me. I will engage that on any day at twelve o'clock, when I may not be able or willing to oecupy the box, the key shall be sent to the office, and the box be at the service of any you may choose to accommodate.* Nothing could be more liberal than this; nor would anything have been more convenient to us than the receipt of so large a sura as $8,000, at a moment when we were making great ex- penditures in the opening of our house. A short con- sideration of the subject settled the answer of tho 34

AN OLD PLAY-BILL.

681

means of iimoceDt mtellectual diversion for the long winter eveoioga.

May it be loog ere the fkulte which have cursed the theatre shall attach themselves to the lyeeum!

The plaj- house of a hundred years ago was brought before me in vivid colors by an old playbill which I lately saw, and of which the following is a copy :

By ParlicuJftf Desire,

*

70H THE BENEFIT OF HISS BBICKLER.

THEATRE ROYAL, IN COVENT GARDEN.

On Saturday ncJtt, being May 10th, 1767,

"THE BEGGAR'S OPERA/*

G«pUin Mnebeatli by Mr. Beard, Poacttiiij by Mr. Sbuttor, Locket by Mr Dun^tallf Fileb by Mr. Holtomi Player by Mr. Gftrdner, Beggfir by Mr. Ben net, Miit-o'-tbe-Mint by Mr. Bakcr^ Lucy by Mrs. B»ker» Mw. pBAchuin by Mrs. Stephons, Diana TrapU by Mrs. Copin, Mrs, Slam- znekin by Mrs. Green, Pully by Misa Bricklor; witli a bornpipe by Miaa D. Twisty and a country dance by tbe cbaracters in the opera.

End of Act I. Miss Bricklor will sing a favorite song from ** Jtiditb,'^ mccompanied by Mr. Dibdin on a new instrument called Piano-Farte,

To whicb will be added a farce called

"THE UPHOLSTERER,''

The Barber by Mr. Woodward, Feeble by Mr. Murdin, Bellmoar Mr. Perry, Bovewell by Mr. DaTb, Watchman by Mr. W«^ller^ Quid- nunc by Mr. Dunatttll, Pamphlet by Mr. Shuter, Harriet by Misa Vin- cent, Maid by Mt§s Cockayne, Termagant by Mrs, Green. Tickets to be had of Mr. Sarjant, at the sta^ door, where plaoea for ^^ boxes may be taken.

^f It was a curiouB custom in that day to permit a portion

f of the audience to sit upon the stage, and it is easy to un-

I derstaud how these spectators must have incommoded the

I actors.

^K la an early number of the Spectator^ Steele, describing

^^ a visit to the Haymarket Tlieatre, makes mention of his

^^ surprise at seeing a '* well-dressed young fellow in a full

I-

J

I

trumpets, battle-axes and spears, were enacted between two aodiences, while Jiichard spoke liis tent soliloquy and his dying lines npon a carpet no bigger than a table- cloth:"

Tate Wilkinson relates that he had seen Mrs. Gibber, as Juliet^ prostrating herself on an old couch covered with black cloth to represent the tomb of the Capulets, with ■ at least two liyndrcd persons behind her, and that when Quin returned to the stage for one night to play Falsiaff for Ryan*s benefit, notwithstanding the impatience of the audience to see their old favorite, it was several minutes before he could force his way on to the stage through the _ numbers that wedged him in. "But this arrangement, how* ■ ever remunerative to the actor whose benefit was thus so liberally i»atronized, was very unsatisfactory to those among the spectators who came to the theatre for enter- tainment and with an eye to scenic illusion. Moreover bickerings and jealtxisies ensued between the audiences before and behind the curtain. Thereujion arose a prac- tice, especially favored by the less popular comedians, of inserting at the bottom of their advertisements and play- bills, by way of an additional attraction, a notice in the following terms: *N, B. — There will be no building on ■ the stage.* Thus, on the occasion of Mrs. Bellamy's ben- efit in 1753, the bills of the night announced, 'No part of the pit will be railed into boxes, nor any building on the stage.* The presence of the spectators behind the scenes was for a long period a grave inconvenience and annoy- — ance to the players. Efforts were made from time to time | to abate what had become a real nuisance. In 1738, on the production of 'Comus* at Drnry Lane, there was a notice in the playbills; *To prevent any interruption to the music, dancing, etc,, 'tis hoped no gentleman will take it ill they cannot be admitted behind the scenes or in the orchestra.* In the following season another notification

ASSUMING A VIRTUE.

5S5

The changes which have taken place in the theatres themselves are as great as those which have taken place in the plajs which were represented therein. We seldom see on our stage to-day any such abaohite detiance of good morals as Wfts exhibited by the dramatists of the Resto- ration*

Even onr blonde burlesquers make a pretense of reapectr ing public opinion, and ofler "appeals to the public" in defence of their nude *" innocent amusements/-

Not so in old times. The dramatists of the Restoration were frankly and confessedly wicked. '' If they were de- void of virtuous instruction, they did not pretend to prof- fer it; if their plays were one long-drawn sneer at female chastity, they did not aftect to believe in its existence ; if they gibed at the sober citizen, they vowed that they thooght a rake-belly life the only one for a man of spirit, and money of no value except to sqnander in the brothel or at the basset- tab! e» upon looae ladies of quality or upon tailors of a brilliant taste. The refined corruptions of the court and the stolid virtues of the city were the constant themes of playwrights, who professed an easy familiarity with the one and an impudent contempt for tlie other. They laughed at their monarchs, and they libelled their merchants. They borrowed money, and repaid the obli- gation by ruining the lender*a wife. It was a rare joke, at which the whole theatre roared, to bilk a banker of his cash, and then to destroy his domestic happiness. It showed wit and good breeding to gibe at his honesty, to caricature his religion, to sneer at his punctuality, and to burlesque the formality of his manners. Yet the men who w^ere thus systematically subjected to derision not merely laid the foundation of the commercial greatnesa of England, but were continually called upon to supply the oeoesaities of a poor yet extravagant court. The pal- ace depended for food and raiment upon the counting-

TBE HORKIBLB OLD THIRD TIBR.

687

Coming down to more modem days, and to American tlieatres, it is noteworthy that changeB of the most thor- ough and sweeping character Lave taken place in the dramatic temples of our daya.

It is within my own recollection that the hideous abom- ination known a% the ^* third tier'' was in existence in our theatres. I can only speak from hearsay, of course, concerning the wickedness of this shamefnl evil ; but I well remember, in my early girlhood, having looked up from my place on the stage^ to the brutal exhibition of faces in the gallery, with something such a feeling as one might have in looking over into pandemonium*

That dark, horrible, guilty ** third tier !*' How dreadful it seemed to me that the theatre should be cursed with Euch a monstrous iniquity !

I well remember the newspaper war which was waged upon the last lingering remnant of this shameful thing in the Cincinnati theatres. There was but one theatre left where the loathesome wickedness of the **third tier" had failed to yield to the onward march of public opinion. And on this theatre a determined attack was made by the press, with the settled purpose of breaking up the wick- edness*

I cannot better place on record this foul shame than by quoting one of the articles which appeared at this time in the Cincinnati Ikuli^ EnqtureVf — an article which at once tells my readers what the vile old third tier i^a^,and illus- trates the vigor of the war which was made upon it when public opinion was once turned against it.

"From the bills of this house,'* says the Unquirer^ alluding to the old National theatre, *' the public learn that itB doors will be closed for the time being, for the purpose of re-decoration, etc., and that it will again open, in a few days, with a powerful company. It is to bo \ hoped that if its polluted doors are again to be opened to

A SrOGKSTIVK PIOTURK^

with a promise that it should not be opened again,^ — at least we were bo advised by the stage manager. What was the result? It was announced in the bills and through the press, that the third tier would be dosed in future. The better portion of our citizens took the man- ager at his word, and once more graced the theatre with the beauty and fashion of the city. The third tier being closed, everything was orderly and quiet; the ear of the wife and daughter was not shocked by the profanity of language and licentious actions that nightly before de- scended from that sink of iniquity, the *aa8ignation house' of the National, The warm season coming on, and the greater portion of our theatre-going public leaving the city on tours of pleasure, the attendance at the theatre necessarily diminished. The cause was natural, but the . management thought not. They thought the people must be brought oat; if they could not bring the respectable portion to the theatre when the thermometer stood at 95, the rabble must be induced to come; and to do this, the third tier was again opened, and an officer despatched to the low dens of prostitution, to invite their inmates to revel once more within the luxurious bar-room of the assignation tier of the National. Reader, think for a moment on the idea of the management. Is it not horri* ble, revolting, and diabolical ? lie seeks to fill his theatre and put money in his pocket, by placing proBtitutcs in the third tier, that they may, by their temptations, allure the youth of our city from the paths of rectitude. It is noth- ing more, disguise it as you will, but opening an assigna- tion house on a large scale, and in a public manner; for do not the abandoned women who visit there nightly do »o for the purpose of cariying on a trade in the prostitu- tion of their bodies and souls ? Most assuredly they do. Our laws are stringent on this subject, and yet, although the police have been busy, within a few days past, in

m ^

k»A

m ftailj wffl fp tp the Ljitc*^

„__ _ VfthtBf nMMd off Ofd07

. oti pnntilatw w«rt admitted to the haoie, dig «iir of dii vvtooiii l^niale lAsulted if ^ i%»l4^ af dii myilDiL Tbe nejEt daj tfae midi ^ inoi ttooeb to noQtIi, 'The opera troof^ iTM i^liQiiift^ Tou csan tike " «ri&ottr feif of liaritig thmr lb

the jwQJt r Tbe

POWER OP THE PRESS ILLUSTRATED,

541

next evening tho Ljceum was crowded, and numbers were turned away, unable to gain admission, and so the attendance cootiniied. The troupe left our city for Louia- vi!lc, where they also played a most successful engage- ment. On returning to this city, the management of the National effected an engagement with the troupe, tliinking that as they had crowded the Lyceum, under all disad- vantageous circumstances, they would certainly crowd to overflowing the great National. But here they reckoned without their host. The opera troupe came, but the people did not follow them. The edict had gone forth, 'We will not patronize an institution that insults our wives and daughters by making a portion of its edifice a common assignation house, no matter how great the attraction. The man who seeks to put raon4?y in his pocket by cater- ing to the base passions of man, is no better than the most degraded cyprian.' Tho opera troupe, after playing to comparatively empty benches, left our city, we are informed, fully convinced of the unpopularity of the management of the National, and with the eonsciousnesa that the manager was one thousand dollars worse off in pocket than when they entered it* The people would not visit a house like the National after the exposition that had been made of the doings of its management by the Press of this city, no matter what the attraction. If the management of the National wish to make their theatre such as it should be, let tliera close their third tier, and put a good company on its stage. Unless they do this, we as- sure them all their efforts to draw respectable houses will be futile, and the result will be that they will have again to close their doors, at a heavy loss. The people will not countenance an attempt to play on the baser passions of man to fill their theatre. It is an insult to their good sense to cater to their amusement in a theatre by placing apart a portion of the house as a place of assignation/'

PUBLIO opinion's WORK. 548

It was public opinion, moved to action by the press, which demanded the abolition of the vile third tiers in our theatres.

They are abolished !

It was public opinion, awakened and inflamed by the press, which recently demanded the return of the theatres of New York to the proper walks of the drama, and the banishment of the blonde jiggers.

They are banished !

Wherever and whenever public opinion has directed its tremendous force steadily against an evil, that evil has disappeared.

And the best proof that the theatre can be kept free from the orgies of leg-performers, and the degrading influ- ences of foul and immoral plays, is afforded in the above iBBtimceB of public opinion's work.

GRISI AUD MARIO,

545

originally brought out here by Mr. Bateman; and these representations had 60 many objectionable features con- nected with them that they were religiously tabooed by a very large class of people with whom the grand opera ranks first among all amusements.

The genial gossiper of the Easy Chair, whose cultivated reminiscences are always fraught with the truest artistic sense, chatB abont opera in New York^ — ^and what he says of New York is mainly true of Philadelphia, Boston, Chicago and all American cities — in these terms: ** The opera is always a lottery in New York. Since Grisi and Mario did not surely and always fill the house, it is in vain that the city talks of taste, and knowledge and en- joyment of music. It has its metropolitan degree yet to take. For if it had known itself better it would not have built 80 huge a house ; and if it insisted upon the opera from knowledge, and not from fashion and imitation of other capitals, it would have recognized the great singers

rhen they came. What wonderful singing was that of Grisi, in her resolute moments, upon this very stage! When she saw the impassive audience, and determined to conquer, by the force of superb disdain ^ she recovered her old splendor and swept the stage and thrilled the house with great bursts of lyric passion. They had slight re- sponse, and she drooped again, and everybody said 'What a pity such an old woman does not sink into private life !' Well, she did persist too long. Her voice in New York was not what it had been in Paris twenty years before. But the grandeur of her style was still the same ; yes, it was finer. And Mario was in his prime when he was here. One evening when he sang in* Lucia,* the last scene was the most marvelously sung of any in the annals

)f ihit A^orliimt? uiraira j^ jg hard to bcHeve that Eubini

"'"ins it is part of the fascination that the associations are so

BEGINNING OP OPERA.

547

was Brignoli's, He is not in the least magnetic. He 13 even more of a lay-figure than tenors generally are. He has all the childish whims and abflordlttes of the tenor. But his voice is exquisite, and he sings much more easily than he walks. Wo have had no such voice except Mario 8. Antoquini I did not hear. Salvi had to pump up his voice, and it was a thin trickle when it came — thin, hut very clear and sweet. Bettini's voice was inade- quate for the house and his own size. But Brignoli's has tlie charm and quality which make a tenor voice the luxury of kings and the enthusiasm of fashion, A king gives enormous sums to tempt a tenor to his theatre, as the Emperor of Russia tempted Kubini. But he does it as he would give a fortune for the rarest flower or the most brilliant gem- And Nature hides all these treasures in queer places. You shall find the flower in a lonely, noisome marah, or the pearl in the oyster, or the voice in Alboni, It is well worth a fortune when you find it. * * * The opera with us began properly in ChamberB street There was the old National, indeed, where Miss Sherriff sung ; and we do not forget that Malibran herself had sung in the old Piirk* But as an institution of our fine society it dates from Palmo's in Chambers street They used to sing 'Belisario' tfaere^ and we all looked I knowing, and said that it was really very well. They f^ang, too, the plaintive, pathetic 'Puritani;' and then I Bome people for the first time felt the character of Italian music. The theatre was very small. It was prodigiously uncomfortable. But dear me I in white gloves and white waistcoats (they were actually worn then), who could be conscious of anything but bliss ? Then came the flight up town to Astor Place. Palmo was submerged, and t P^tti and Sanquirico appeared as managers. The golden ^Age of the Astor Place Opera was the brief and beautiful epoch of Truffi and Benedetti. No operatic success in

i

OPERATIC EXPB1TSB8, 549

Btockhoidera ; and has to pay a dividend to the same stocklioklers in the shape of a heavy rent He has, in short, to meet tLe usual expenses of a first-class theatre, with a very large amount of additional expense for his peculiar attmctions.

When it is remembered that even in foreign cities, where certainly the opera is more popular than with us, its expenses are largely met by governmental appropria- tions, the wonder is, that here — where the government has enough to do to pay its own expenses, and does little or nothing for art — we should have ever had any opera at all.

The Parisian Grand Opera, since its foundation by Louis XIV., has constantly been — except during the reign ofLouisPhilippeand the ephemeral Republic of February — fl a strictly governmental establishment, ''founded and sus- ^ tained to advance national musical genius, and, perhaps, it should be added, to attract and retain strangers in Paris^ Louis X^^II. is reported to have said to one of his cour- tiers who remonstrated with him on the enormous amount of money annually expended on the opera, *Do you think the receipts of the opera are taken in at the door? Ko, they are received at the frontier.' The royal remark was just, for it is these intellectual appeals which allure the roving traveler, who, after * doing' a score or so of cathedrals and museums, is but too glad of a decent ex- cuse for retiring from sight-seeing and closing his 'Murray^ forever. But it is rather difficult to suppress a stare, when we learn that this decoy-duck requires an- nually sums varying from a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars above the receipts at the door. ■ Even after we are told that there is an orchestra of eighty performers, some seventy choristers, eighty daucerB, ^ Bventy machinists, and we know not how many super- H "numeraries, all living on the operarhonse treasury^ it is "

a

PALMO*

551

The history of this once wealthy autl successful impres- ario ia one of the most curious known to the amiala of the "show*' world — of which, of course, even grand opera is a branch*

Palmo was born in l^aples, about 1785. When he was a young man of twenty-tivej he came to this country, and settled in Eichmond, Va. ** There he remained in busi- ness for six years, when he removed to New York city and opened a confectionery store on Broadway ; but ha was not successfulj and he returned to Virgiuia, After paying two visits to Europe he once more settled down in New Torkj built an establishment known as the Cafe d£S jmile Chlonnes^ mado quite a snug little fortune. In 1835 he opened a saloon on Chambers street, afterwards known as Palmo's Opera House, Burton's Theatre, and now used by the United States Courts. When he first opened this place it was a sort of concert saloon, but unlike those of the present day. In 1844 If r. Palmo, having a great de- sire to introduce Italian opera on a firmer basis than had yet been attempted in America, altered his establishment, at an expense of $100,000, and called it Palmo's Opera House, which he opened Feb* 2d, 1844, for a season of Italian opera, presenting 'H Puritani.' Vattelina was the director of the company, and Rapctti leader of the or- chestra* During the season he produced the best operas of the day* The venture proved an unlucky one for Palmo, in a pecuniary sense. * High art' was not culti- vated, or, in fact, really appreciated in those days, and, after three years of managerial experience, Palmo found himself reduced to poverty. Assisted by a few friends he opened a hotel, which he kept nine months, when he re- turned to New York and became cook for Mr. Chris* Williams, who kept the *"WaverIy,* corner Fourth street ' where he might have often been seen 'on and square paper cap, and en-

OPIRA BOUfFB.

668

with praises of French operatic jollity and jingle ; Offen- bach waa a prince; the can-can was pic^uant, if naughty; and the crowds went to see, to hear, to laugh.

Then other naanagers caught the fever. Other French troupes were brought oven The thing was overdoire, and the rage died out, just about the time Bateman sold out.

GraUj with his troupe at the French Theatre, and Fisk, with his troupe (bought off Bateman 's hands), at tlie.Fitlh Avenue Theatre, floundered along into the slough of de- spond, sinking money by the bagsfull, and finally giving up in despair.

The French singers packed their trunks, sold their greenbacks for gold, and hied them merrily across the sea, leaving the French Theatre and the Fifth Avenue Thea- tre alone to gloom and desolation*

Since then, both these theatres have returned to their legitimate uses* The Fifth Avenue, under the manage- ment of August! n Daly, the author-manager, has under- gone a thorough purification ; and Shakespeare and Col- ley Gibber have taken the place of Offenbach*

And thus be it ever.

Apropos of Oftenbach, a mixture of reminiscence and criticism by an English writer is interesting. ** Mr. Offen- bach made himself originally known in London as in Paris, some forty years ago, as a graceful but not vigorous violoncello player, who wrote pleasant music, not merely for hia instrument, but for the voice. Nothing much more meek, nothing much less marked, than his playing and hia music, is in the writer^s recollection. His was the appearance of a slender talent — if there was ever such a thing — ^a talent which for many after seasons could make but a languid assertion of its existence in the c rooms and theatres of Europe, The composer's advancing, and such success as artists lov. distant as ever, when some demon

ENOLISH OPERA.

566

I

which, till the opportunities afforded for their display ia the prurient stories which M, Offenbach has set to color- less music, were confined to such singing and smoking houses as the Paris Alcazar, to the signLSeant gestures of Mile* Theresa, or her shabby imitators in the open-air shrines of the Champs Elyseea.'^

English opera has a very different history among ua from that of the brief and rather dubious career of opera.H bouffe.

We have had English opera for a number of years, and its reputation has alwaj^s been of the most irreproachable character. M

Thousands of people have listened to English opera in ■ this country who never saw a play of any kind, nor attended an evening of Italian or French opera, and w^ha would be shocked at the idea of so doing, — -many of the ultra-religioua seeing something about Eoglish opera to save it from the stigma which is cast upon all other amusements of a theatrical character.

There are, at this writing, but two English opera com- panies in existence, so far as I know, — one, that which Mrs, Richings-Bernard has labored for so many years to establish ; the other, that more recently organized by Madame Parepa-Rosa,

Parcpa-Rosa ranks deservedly high as one of our most delightful singers — especially in simple soulful ballads — but no higher than Mrs. Richings-Bernard does as a rare and thorough musician. Besides being a fine singer^ Mrs. Bernard is a good pianist, and is capable of going into the orchestra and seizing the baton herself, directing the opera with a skill and precision which has few par- allels.

Madame Rosa ia an English woman by birth, but ia very fond of America. Iler husband, Carl Rosa, the violinist, took out naturalization papers in New York last winter, thus to become a voter, as becomes a man.

I

I

THE STAGE AI^D THE GEEEN-ROOM.

657

weights, lamp-racka, curtain Sj clouds, gothic cathedrals, public sqoarea, groves of trees, broad-oceans, bed-cham- bers, light-housefl, palaces, cloisters, cemeteries, lie or stand jumbled up together iu 'most admired disorder,' which is heightened by screams, orders, couoter-orders, * aye-ayes,' from the upper, uether, and surrounding voices. Here men sweep {what a cloud of dust they man- age to raise !) and water the stage floor; scene-inspectors cry and push to keep the stage clear, and bellow their eternal *take care,* to warn actors and the curious of impending dangers ; singers and songstresses in costume, trill and quaver, to be ready for the ^call;' dancing girls are bounding about in every direction, practising their steps ; firemen, with sponges, or wet blankets, or buckets of water, are standing everywhere, to wage war on fire, if that terrible mar-all should show its least sinister glance ; and machinists are running, like sailors, up and down the ropes. There's a fellow making thunder by beating a suspended bass-drum, and there's another burning lico- pode powder, to imitate lightning, while, hard by, a party is tossing rapidly large plates of sheet iron on each oth^r, to represent the striking of the bolt, and their neighbors are whirling watchmen's rattles with wonderful energy, to persuade the audience that a terrible * fusillade' is going on in the streets. It is not so much the stage as the green-room of the Grand Opera which the astute pleasure seeker tries to attain. There are two green-rooms, the singing and the dancing, both popular, but the danc- , ing green-room is incredibly so, — *why,' we shall, per* haps, enable the reader to understand. Very thin par- titions divide the feminine corps of singers and dancers, but they are separated irom each other by a diilerent physiology, a different constitution, we had almost said a different conformation. This difterence is visible even in their respective green-rooms. The singing green-room,

EACHEL IN LA MARSELLAISE.

559

The combination in the same person of true genius for both acting and singing, is a most rare and preeioas one, but it has existed iu several instances. One of the most Btrikingof these was furnished in Rachel, the tragedienne, who was also a singer of fine powers*

Among the interesting remembrances of my sister Eliza, few are more interesting than her account of Rachel and La MarseUmsCj the stirring French hymn which almost every patriotic heart is familiar with. I give my sister's recital in her own words.

"To my mind/' said she, ^^RacheFs utterance of the French hymn of liberty contained more of the feu sacre than all the rest of her acting put together. If ever a woman was inspiral, it was she when she appeared dressed for La 3IarseUais€, She first was seen standing like a marble statue in the centre of the stage, far away in the distance* Her dress was white, composed of some fabric which clnng in graceful folds to her form. As the band struck up the symphony, she advanced with rapid strides to the footlights. Iler face was livid with emotion, and marked the strong contrast with her eye, which was black as night, and briUiant as the stars. At the close of the short prelude, she extended her right arm towards the audience, as if to impose silence. The vast multitude, assembled in the large Boston theatre, held their breath as one person, A death-like BtillneBS prevailed. When she tremulously uttered,^

*' *Sou3 of Feibdom \ awako to glory V

I felt myself getting cold to the very tips of my fingers. Words can never describe the emotions that took posses- sion of my innermost sool as she half spoke half sang these patriotic words. The close of the first verse runs thus:

***To arms ! to arraa ye b"** The avenging 8w March on I nia* On victc

AN 0ECHE8TRA ON A STEIKE.

561

A curious story is told of Cooper, the tragedian, which occurred when he was manager of a New York theatre, many years ago. The occasion was the production of the pantomime of "Cinderella/* "Much labor and expense were lavished upon this beautifal dumb piece, which, relying solely on music and action combined, demanded nicetj' and care. The band, however, had on several occa- sions exhibited the most insolent neglect of the rehearsals, and Cooper placed a notice in tbe music-room, to the effect that all absentees from rehearsal would in future suffer such fines and forfeits as were designated by the orchestra rules and their several contracts. The notice was in vain ; the fines were exacted, and a conspiracy determined on. On the first night of * Cinderella,* an audience, forming a receipt of fifteen hundred dollars, was assembled, and on ringing the orchestra bell for the over- ture, Mr, Uewitt, the leader, was informed by the ring- leader that the whole orchestra was determined not to play a note until the whole sum forfeited by their absence should be refaoded. Here was a situation ! He rushed almost speechless to Cooper's room, and unfokled the plot. Cooper coolly asked, ' Can you play the music V *Why, yes sir; I have been practicing it before your eyes for three weeks ; but how am I to get through a panto- mime without aid V 'We shall see/ said Cooper. He at once went before the audience, stated the full particulars, with much regret at the position in whicli the theatre was placed. He then frankly proposed two alternatives for tlie decision of the audience ; the first, to receive back their entrance money, if desired; the next, — and a droll I one it was, — that as there was so large an audience, and \ many doubtless, were unwilling to be deprived of their amusement by the freaks of underlings, he offered to them * Cinderella* led and played solely by Mr, Hewitt, with the assurance that on its next representation the orchestra 36

DAKCIN6, AN ABI.

m

CHAPTER XXX Vm.

Alrout Ballot Dancers. — What the Ballet ii. — A BcmlniflcencG of Parid. — The Bancing Greenroom,— The Ballet Girl's lii&eriea and Tortiirei, — The Story of Hlle. Eulalie.— Beauty and Ugliness at Odds,— Religion Among Dancing Girls.^Thelr Love of Mourning Kobes. — A Ballet at Behearaal. — The Ballet in its Influenco on Morals, — Tlie Eesults of Observation. — ^A Romantic Western Story, — Celohrated Dancera,^ — CubaSi Fanny Elbler, Voatrls, Taglioni, etc.— Serpents and Devils.

There is no branch of my eubject more difficult to deal with tliau that with which this chapter has to do; for there are numberless people — for whom personally I have the greatest respect — wlio are utterly unable to see any difference in decency between the dancing of a ballet-girl and the caperings of a jigging burlesque woman.

Yet dancing is an art. It is not necessarily coarse. It can be degraded — and we all know it has been very much degraded, in this country, by groveling and consciencelesa speculating managers — ^but so can any art be degraded*

Thisj howeverj is art's misfortune — not its fault

In this countrj^ dancing lias never taken its proper grade as an art — with the public, that is ; for with the dancers themselves there is no branch of art ranking higher. The professional dancer has a high opinion of the value of her efforts in an artistic sense, and she resents with pain and indignation the low estimate placed upon them by Ameri- can audiences.

But it is also true that here in America the highest manifestations of the artistic sense^ — painting, sculpture, even music — liavc not yet received one tithe of the admi- ration and appreciation which they meet in foreign lauds.

And if this be the case with the noblest of the fine arte,

SMMil LITRT.

565

garters to proclaim their valiaDt deeds or gentle blood ; the graceful Eugeme, Empress of Beauty and of the French; Louis Napoleou, proud and happy; German princes, English dukes and duchesses; the young and graceful lad with the red hair which has rue through the race for generations, the Marquis of Douglas ; generals, magistrates, statesmen, merchant-princes from New York, scholars from Boston, celebrated beauties from all parts of the globe.

What was the occasion of this great gathering ? Was it a council of nations, an opening of Parliament, the re* ception of a foreign potentate ?

No ; it was simply a first appearance in public of a young girl less than seventeen, and whose only claim to attention was that she was a dancer.

Her name was Emma Livry. From her earliest child- hood she had been devoted to the art of dancing — ^though this was no extraordinary thing, for there are a large num* ber of girls always in training for the Grand Opera, in Paris, who are taken at the age of four years, and kept in constant practice until they reach womanhood, when they appear in public. ^

But this girl had shown extraordinary genius. In her later years the celebrated dancer Marie Taglioni, Countess de Voisins, hearing of the new dancer, left her villa on the Lake of Conio and her palace in Venice to come to Paris and give the girl lessons.

Iler improvement was miraculous. Taglioni said she would renew the triumphs herself had won in fonner days.

And now she glided upon the stage. The brilliant au- dience ceased their chatter as she appeared. The occasion took the character of what it was afterwards called in the newspapers — " a great solemnity/'

She was very young, and was just at that period in the

THE dancer's mother.

W7

timns in the vestibule. Her face was flushed, and she was wiping tears from her eyes*

**You weep, Madame?** said a gentleman who was paasing,

*' Yes, monsieur,** she replied, *^ but it is with joy* Who would not be proud of such a daughter, and of such a tribute to her genius V*

The early death of this young artist was a sad event. If Bhe had lived she would have conferred honor upon an art which has so much to degrade it^ — so much to contend against.

The life of the ballet girl is far from being that roseate and delightful thing which many people picture it to be.

A peep into the dancing green room of the opera, or , of a theatre in which a ballet is progressing, will showl the life the ballet dancer leads.

One striking peculiarity of her public life is that a" ballet dancer can never sit down /or one minute either on or off the stage, after she is dressed for the evening*8 per- formance. This is the standing rule with dancing girls. If they sat down even once, their tarletan skirts would be crushed, their silk leggings (known as ** tights*') would bo wrinkled about their knees; in short, they would bo un- presentable fairies, untidy Undines, or whatever they per- sonate.

The audience sees these pretty creatures daueing awajl for dear life to rapid music, with beating chest and flushe fooa, and no doubt some charitable souls say to themselves, ** Ah, well, she will rest as soon as she gets off the stage. She will sit down and have a good rest."

Nothing of the kind. She will stand up till midnight if the performance lasts so long, leaning her aching back against a canvas scene or a damp stone wall ; laying her hot forehead against some iron clamp ; but never once fitting down — ^never while she is behind the scenes.

BVhALVL

569

larly twice a-day. A great Dumber live three or four iBilea from the Grand Opera, a distance which they trudge almost shoeless to their matutinal dancing lesson, re- hearsals, and evening perfbrmances, and on their return home, long after midnight, in the the summer's rains and the winter's snows, nothiog buoys them up but that bladder which kept Trotty Veck afloat on the stream of life: * There's a good time coming, Trotty ; there's a good time coming!' They laugh and say, *I sufier to-day, but per- haps I shall be rich to-morrow.' '*

The story of Mile. Eulalic is related by a Boston writer, who had it from a friend in Paris. "They had just brought out,'* said the friend, '^ a great spectacular piece, of rare attraction, requiring a very large corps du baUcL The sub-manager, a Mend of mine, invited me behind the scenes the first night of representation. I went and had my usual chat with my favorites in the corps, in the green-room, before the rising of the curtain. While in the green-room, I noticed, sitting quite apart from the girls, a young dancer whom I had seen before a few times, and whom I had always spoken to in vain; she never would answer me ; and I always noticed that she treated all the other gallants in the same way. On this evening she was sitting apart, and I observed tears were rolling down her cheeks, which were heavily rouged. She was dressed, very sparsely, in pink gauze. I approached her, and, touched by her evident depression, asked what the matter was. 8he shook her head and tamed away. One of the girls, a bold hussy, on this came up, and said, * Can you guess what's the trouble with our fine little Made- moiselle Eulalie? Why, 8he*8 crying because she has got to appear in that light dress, and offer the king, in the play, a goblet of wine, kneeling. J/on DieUy how terrible ! Commc c'est affreuz F And the speaker bounded off laugh- ing- We Frenchmen are so hardened by our devil-mo-

A FAirnFUL DAUOHTEE.

571

taught Frangoiso to write a * lawyer-like hand/ It ap- pears that a uephew of the nnfortunate stepfather was acting in scenic pieces at the Chatelct, and waa an enthu- siast in his art ; and he, obsemng the advantages which the young Fraii^oise possessed — her grace of movement^ etc. — proposed that she should take lessons for the hallet. This shocked the mother, who refused her consent ; but the heroic daughter, although she shuddered at the pros- pect, was so earnest in favor of the plan, that she at last won Mme. Ileynard*s consent The gii4 saw the difficul- ties her mother had in providing means for her subsistence and for the support of the unfortunate invalid in the asylum, and was ambitious only to aid in earning enough to support them* Iler cousin was able to be of great assistance; he engaged a master at less than half price, to be paid from the future earnings of Fran^oise ; and when she had become a proficient, which she did very quickly (owing to her zeal and natural brightness), he procured her a situation at one of the smaller theatres, where she at first, of course, only appeared r/i corpB^ She rose rapidly, had the satisfaction of carrying home a goodly number of francs every week, and of seeing both her mother and her poor imbecile stepfather supplied with many comforts of which tbey had long been deprived. When she came to the ballet, rehearsal mornings, she was observed to carry a little parcel of papers, most neatly tied ; and in the intervals, when she was not wanted on the stage, she was seen writing with great rapidity at on© of the tables in the green-room. She was doing her mother's copy work. And more* Immediately after rehearsal, which lasted till twelve or more, she hurried home and continued her copying, working three or four hours at it \ then she went to the market and bought a basket of fruit, with which she rode in an omnibus to the asylum, and gave her purchases to the imbecile step-

i

BELIOIOUS CONCEEIT.

5T3

raises — "how the dickens did she get there?" No one knew; but there she stayed. The manager ordered her to be discharged time and again^ but nobody would con- Bent to discharge her. At last, one day when the manager bect^^.e more peremptory in his orders, she went to him. *'Don^t dismiss me, 1 beg of you/' she said, *^for if you do, I shall fall into the deepest poverty; I am very punctual, I know how to dance, and I supply the place of anybody who fails to attend the rehearsals in the morning or the evening's pertbrmance; I stand behind everybody, that no one may see mo ; do take pity on me/' The manager was touched, and retained her among the ballet corps. Some months afterwards, she again spoke to the manager. She thanked him for his kindness, and told Mm ho might get rid of her whenever he pleased; that she had succeeded in inspiring an attachment in a gentle- man whom she had now married. The silks and lace and watch she wore showed that she had married one above the reach of the surging wave of poverty.

The ballet dancers of the Parisian Grand Opera are many of them devout religionists. It is a very common thing to see them with amulets on their necks, and other symbols of the Roman Catholic Church — this being the prevailing religion in France,

It is related that when Mdlle. Fanny Cerrito was ojffered her first engagement at the Grand Opera, her first act after signing the contract was to hasten to an eminent silversmith and order a splendid silver chalice, which she had vowed to the Blessed Virgin if she ever received an engagement at that theatre.

The ballet corps have, too, an ardent longing for cloister life. A retreat to a convent is not an unusual occurrence among them. • ^^^^

Another morbid taste amon? "^ ^^ these

girls is their fondness for U

PERNICIOUS MORAL INFLUENCB8.

575

are making a parody on the last pantomimic scene they have just witnessed; in some dark recess is a beauty poring over a love letter the stage porter has just given her; altogether presenting a varied, gay, picturesque scene, which baffles alike the pen and the pencil."

As to the ballet's influence on morals, it must be ad- mitted by its most earnest defender, unless he be steeped in the prejudices which discredit manhood, that in its de- graded state in this day and country, it must be often pernicious.

To this the common reply is, that none but a depraved nature could be influenced perniciously thereby; and the question la thus argued : ** Bailey's lovely statue of Eve at the Fountain, in which there is not the slightest pretense of drapery or concealment of the divine form fresh from the hands of the Creator, is purity itself; and any one who sees impurity in it has the impurity in his own heart. In the same manner, there is no indelicacy in the display of the pretty bare legs of little maidens of from four to five years old, or in the bare feet and ankles of the bonny Scotch lassies, innocent alike of shoes and stockings and of evil intent, though there would be indecency in the display of a naked leg and foot in the streets of London or Edinburgh by full-grown damsels, who made the dis- play for a meretricious purpose. There are statues and Btatuettcs to be seen all over Europe in which nudity is as complete as it is beautiful ; but when such statues or statuettes are imitated by purveyors of obscenity, and crowned with a modern bonnet, wrapped in a modem shawl, and encased in modern stockings, and nothing else, their vile intention becomes apparent, and they fall prop- erly under the cognizance of the police. The display is not indecent per se^ as when an actress of high attainments and genius, in default of an actor of truthfulness and talent enough to undertake the part, appears as Itomea^

A WESTERN TALE,

been an actress, and guarded her daughter's character with all a mother's solicitude. **Biit the mother became a victim to disease, her scant earnings were soon expended, and Fanny, obliged to support herself and invalid mother, joined a traveling ballet troupe as a dancer. While per- forming in Chicago, a young ' Captain Tom/ a hero of the late war, and a son of a well-known clergyman and editor of Chicago, fell in love with the girh He was struck with her modesty, simple manners, and the air of purity which surrounded her. Like a frank, open-hearted fellow as he was, he mentioned his love and his intentions to his parents. They^ of course, were shocked, — it was useless to plead with thera,^ — they threatened to disown him, and appealed to his family pride. Captain Tom left his parents angrily, went directly to the ballet-girl, and offered to make her hia wife. To his astonishment, the strong-minded ballet-girl, who fully reciprocated his affection, said *no,' very emphatically. She declined to wed him against his parents' consent, and under circum- stances which would bring him and his family into disgrace. He pleaded hard, but she refused firmly, and granted no appeal. The mother of the yonog man called soon after, and was informed by Fanny of her decision- She was pleased, and offered her presents, which she proudly refused. After the troupe left Chicago, Captain Tom became gloomy, melancholy, and careless in business.

kThey forced him into society, but found it all useless. They were sensible parents, and accordingly came to a sensible conclusion. The people of Milwaukee, in the mean time, noticed a young girl among the dancers at Music Hall who modestly retired from view whenever her duties would permit her. She would edge behind her com- panions, and retire from sight as often as possible. Last Friclay night, at tViA *^nr! of the third act, the manager in- formed her very well, she might

A

CUBAS — ELLSLER*

679

spoken by a native with all the native asperity* It was ijot softened, and modified, and adapted, and flavored to different national tastes, as when EUaler, or Cerito, or Lucille Grahn, or Taglioni danced a Spanish dance. It 16 Spanish^ he said, as the Tarantella, danced by a Neapo- litan girl npon the shore, is Italian. Bata cosi, amico mio, let us go and see Cubos. It was certainly all that he had said. Years ago, at the old Park Theatre, where we used to be boxed up in those firightful red boxes, and look with cramps and stitches in every limb, and envy in the heart at the free movement of actors or singers, or dancers upon the stage — ^years ago, Fanny Ellsler came, danced and conquered. She danced Spanish, and Polish, tind Italian, and Hungarian dances, and all with such stately grace that the braioa ran out of some people's heads, and they became asses, and drew her in a carriage. Jenny Lind made no more intense, although a much more last- ing and extended impression upon the public mind than Fanny Ellsler. We had Celeste and Augusta before, and Augusta in the Bayadere was beautiful; but Fanny Ellsler fascinated the town, and triumphed. Eemem- bering this, recalling her in the Cachuca, the Jaleo, and the Haute Airagonaise, there was a curious expectation in the mind of the Easy Chair when he saw the black-eyed Gubas in her gold skirt, dashed all over with huge flaunt- ing black bows, standing at the side scene, and then clicking her castanets, with a few rapid bounds leaping to the front The coal-black hair, eyes and eyebrows, the glittering grin, and the powerful, rapid, darting, snake^ like quality of her movement, amazed rather than pleased the audience. But the dancing was wonderful. Her partner thumped and rang the taraborine, and she rattled her castanets, while she flew and bounded about him with marvelous muscular agility ^^e tliat of a

blade of grass. She dar ^^^und

THB ELLSLEK SISTERS.

581

saw, and was conquered. Mile* Fanny Ellaler was very anxious for an engagement at Paris, but Mllo. Thereso was afraid of that city, and these iudecisions rendered the manager's negotiations a very delicate affair. Wliile they were vacillating between a small salary, very irregularly paid, at London, and eight thousand dollars and punctu- ality, in Parisj he gave them a grand banquet at the Clar- endon Hotel, and served them up, with the dessert, a silver dish containing forty thousand dollars' worth of jewels and diamonds, which was banded round to the guests as if it contained but so many pea-nuts. The sisters selected each one of the most modest trinkets in the dish — ^though these bagatelles were worth two thou- sand dollars a-piece — and, to the gratiflcation of the manager, signed an engagement, after Mile. Therese^s tears bad been satisfied by the insertion of a provision that the engagement of three years might be ended at will at the expiration of the first fifteen months. Mile, Therese did not come to America with her sister, and we are inforraed that we lost a great deal by her absence, as Mile. Fanny was never so brilliant as when her sister was at her side. The two diflTerent talents completed each other, and made a harmonious group of an exquisite per- fection. Both of these eminent dancers have retired from the stage, the possessors of very large fortunes. Mile, Therese has been the wife (by a morganatic marriage) of the Prince Royal of Prussia, and Mile. Fanny EUsler married a wealthy physician of Ilamburg/^

Taglioni is celebrated as the founder of a more modest and pure style of dancing than that which Vestris had popularized in Europe.

Taglioni, the father — whom we only know in these days through the fame of his daughter — would never allow his pupils to make a gesture wanting in modesty. He was wont to tell his daughter, '' Dance in such a way that any

AN UfFAMOtrS BUSIKESS.

68d

CHAPTER XXXIX.

The Leg Buameat. — Tbo Blonde Burlosquerg, How tbej Grew* — Hiatory of the Kudo Woman Question in America.— -Tbe Blo^k Crook, — Tho White Fawn. — Iiion. — The Deluge* — Padded Legs Wriggling and Jigging ftll over the New York Stage. — Obscenity, Vulgarity and In* decency Running Riot.— The Wild Orgies of the Hour — Tbe Effect on the Theatrical World.— Man agora Lose their Senses- — Decent Ac- treues thrown Out of Employment.— The Temptations of Debauchery. How I came to attack this Shame. — The First Resultfl of My Attack* AbuflOf Threats and Contumely ; Praise^ Encouragement and Word« of Cheer. ^The Religious World ver^i the Nude- Woman World. — A Despairing Poet.— The Final RcsulU.— Flight of the Foul Birdft.— The Stage Returning to its Legitimate tjiei.

The ** leg busipese'* is a branch of the ehow buaineaa which I have labored with somo earnestness to render in- famouB.

Those who have read my various Tnagazine articles bearing on this question, or my little book entitled *'Apropo8 of Women and Theatres," (published in New York by Mr, Carleton), do not need to be told what the **leg business'* is; but as these pages are expected to fall into the bands of thousands of people who will need the information, I will explain that the ** leg business" is a term in common use among theatrical people, and means the displaying in public, by women, of their persons, clad in close-fitting flesh-colored silk "tights/' and as little else as the law will permit

Considering it a burning disgrace to the theatrical pro- fession that there should be in its ranks a class of so-called actresses, whose claim on public patronage lay in their boldness of personal display, I have persistently made war upon them lor several years past

EKGLAKD VERSUS FRANCE,

585

** worked" for weeks in advance with the most indefatiga- ble persiatence ; wonderful rumors were set afloat; public curiosity was excited to the utmost ; and at last the doors of the theatre were flung opexi and a dense crowd rushed for seats,

The play was a ma&s of dreary twaddle, magnificently mounted, superbly costumed, and presenting a troupe of French and Italian dancers in costumes which at that time were startlingly scant.

The piece created a furore. The leading dancers be- came the town talk; their portraits, hung about town in public places, were surrounded by crowds of gaping men ; they were exalted to the pinnacle of public favor, and men raved about Boofauti, Sangali, Betty Rigl, etc., as if they had been demi-goddesses instead of being merely ballet girls.

But there came a time when this highly spiced sensation palled on the masculine appetite. The BVench and Italian demi-goddesses were dethroned ; and were destined to be- hold their subjects rally in greiit force around the flag of **pertidious Albion,** on the arrival from England of a troupe oft blonde-haired burlesque women, to whom the fickle public transferred its devotion, and over whom it went wild.

The " Black Crook** was withdrawn, and a piece of the same character, entitled the '* White Fawn," appealed in vain for favor.

The burlesquers came, and ** Ixion*' was the rage. This was a burlesque which contained a great number of Brit- ish novelties, whose chief piquancy was derived from the fact that the women who performed in it talked slang and sang coarse songs with a very good imitation of that Eng- lish accent which had hitherto been associated in our minds with ideas of culture and refinement There was

THMPTATIOKS TO TOUNG AOTEESSES.

587

The effect upon the theatrical world was such that nma- agers lost their senses, became crazy to share in the prof- its of burlesque, aod turned off decent actresses by scores, that tliey might fill their theatres with the coarse womea who had now come in fashion.

I was then, as now, separated from the stage, and foK lowing the profession of literature ; but I was still in fre- quent association with reputable actresses in private life, and I stood appalled at the state of affairs.

I saw heautiM young women, whom I loved and hon- ored, tempted by the offers of managers to go upon the stage in the most immodest garb, and engage in the all- prevailing orgies of the "leg-business.'* It became a question with actresses seeking a situation, not whether they were good actresses — not whether they had stage training and histrionic talent — but whether they w^ere pretty and were willing to exhibit their persons, and do as the burlesque women did.

It was this which, more than anything else, made me attack this shame; and I set about it with my purpose clear before me — to make this class of performances odious, I resolved that I would never cease to wage war upon the prevailing grossneas, until this end was aceomplighcd.

I wrote one article, I called it "The Nude Woman Question/* so that in its very title it should strike a hard blow ; and the article contained many another plain word, simple in its meaning, and certainly without a trace of squeaniishness.

Some people found fault with me for having spoken so plainly ; but I knew the enemy, and how as well aa where to strike.

The first blow "told." I was astonished at the effect I saw at once what a reeking muck I had stirred up, and congratulated myself on the speedy effects produced.

The primary result was, a tempest of abuse and defa-

A Fimaus-

589

ence. The theatre ofiers a grand field for the exercise of woman's reforming abilities. * * * "wr^ observe that the lady has been pretty soundly abused for what is called an attack on 'the profession/ What profession, we should like to knoWj is insulted by such a protest? Nobody at- tacks the stage in attacking a brazen imposture, reeking with vice, that has mendaciously assumed the stage's form and function. Acting is an honorable art, and the people who worthily pursue it and live by it are honorable peo- ple; and it is in their interest, and not against it, that rebuke of al! this frivolity and vice is directed. The bare- legged women who tramp over the boards in burlesque, and kick up their heels in the can-can, have — with here and there an exception — no more title to be regarded as members of the dramatic profession than they have to be fegardcd as members of the French Academy, They are a sort of fungus upon the stage^ and the fungus has now become excessive and intolerable. We do not mean to say that, in all this flock of pantomimes, burlesques, and ballets, existent or yet to come, features of merit may not be found. Nonsense has its graces and its rights, as well as sense. But it is needful to remind theatrical managera that there is such an institution as The Drama, for the de* velopment of which theatres exist, and that intelligence, taste, refinement and morality — matters of great import to the welfare of society — have rights (hat theatrical greed cannot safely violate. Licentiousness and reckless thirst for gain have gone very far, of late days, to ruin the American stage as a vehicle of art and a school of acting; and strong measures are justifiable to combat the evil. * ^ * The stage is overwhelmed wnth mummers and dancing girls, variously ridiculous or vulgar, who are striv- ing, with all the little gifts they have, to win the reward of prosperity by pandering to the sensual instincts of the people. And this medley of bombast and dirt proclwms

dimoralthno hesoets.

591

a legitimate business, its followers should be regularly bred to it, althougb, as Joseph Miller remarked of the law, and as Miss Logan complains of the stage, it cannot always be relied upon to be regularly, bread, to them. The German stage, undoubtedly the highest morally and ®sthe- tically, io Europe, was brought to ita excellence by thia means. Goethe did not disdain to charge himself for a term of years with the drudgerj^ of managing the little theatre at Weimar. And our own dramatic authors ought not to expect a proper production of their performances unless they are willing to take similar pains. Nor ought our play-goers to expect an improvement, either in the ways of actresses or in the goodness of their acting, so long as they are willing to forgive any ignorance of her business and any impudence in the actress who bestowa upon them the boon of a pretty face and a pretty tigure.*' Baid the Times: ** For a considerable time the many in this country who regard the drama as one of the noblest and moft elevating branches of art, have seen with sorrow that while all the other arta are advancing, the drama alone, in spite of some noble exceptional eiforts, is in de- cline, and that the theatre, instead of being dedicated to its proper province of proffering a high intellectual or, as might be, a gay and graceful amusement, had become in many instances a place of licentious exhibition and de- moralizing resort. .This feeliog, born in the * Black Crook,' has grown and strengthened with this blonde business, and if this style of art is permittod to ride ram- pant much longer, must eventually make extinct, as it is now doing, the old school of artists, and apply the torch to the dramatic pile/'

The Evening Teteffram, which, in a facetious way, was unsparing in its goadings of what it called "the blonde angels," said: *' Our people have no difficulty in investing ^he paint and gew^ws of the stage with the special

TMUTH-

sparadiae. Under

m fitf thsl they should be dts*

thej ahoald be

thej now grin and

tlie press has all

of the characteristics

of London, but oulj

noodles who

where honria will

twinkling 1<^ will

charms which wt such eircumsUficei it possessed of their made to sh odder i worship. Under along withheld its foil of the blonde moss grawing out of compassion for thft poor aspire to live in a dramalie pirouette for all time befixe keep time with seraphic onJieitzafi^ vhile thev, the princely noodles aforesaid, enjoy the unbomAad delight of throw- lag them bouquets by the buslieL Tlie first who has dared to lake a step towards breAkhig down this radiant fidbqr is a woman — a strong-miiided womaii — mad no leas a per- ton than Olive Logan^ herself an actrcswi^ who is supposed 10 be well posted in regard to all the arts of make-up, with the modern improvements in 1^ {Mida, ^symmetries* ittd M the meohauics of angel mana&^nre. OKve comes out heavily against sylphs and blows their goflsamer %ares to atoms with a few IcfVhanded but powierfnl pufis from t Ihi hieturo platform* She declares that Um yeUow-haired > Mrtee ai« bnustui, painted^ dyed, padded, homely, inartis- tk\ iittuimnt, uneducated and immodest. And she tells Iko ptain^ unvurmehed truth/'

Among the religious papers whidi spoke good words on tlio Hubjcct, tl»o Jndfpnidait said: '^Donhtleas some of her Ungusge ia startlingly plain and direct; bofl we hon* wtly think *^ho hiis done a service to art as well as to mor- ala iiy hor doinuuiation of the base degeneracy at which hor oHoHi* an* dirocted."

The Jhtlletifi qf the Brooklyn Totmg Maes ChisHim A$^ 9ooiaHim »iiid : ** It is really refreshing, in these days when prinoi|ilo in triiumed down to fit expediency, and giant

NONB BUT QALLED JADES WINCB.

598

Bins are clothed in jeweled phraaes, till their hideous character is quite concealed, and plain Anglo-Saxon words full of force and vim, are substituted bj foreign dishwater importations, and in danger of being crowded out of our vocabulary altogether — it is truly refreshing in these days, we say, to read an article like that of Miss Olive Logan where a naked subject is pelted with naked words. We bespeak for Miss Logan ^ in her brave battle with the devilish forces at work to ensnare our young men, what she claims to be her due — the hearty support and co-operation of every righteous &oul in the land. We arc glad to learn that her first trenchant blow is not to be the last; that she intends^ if we inaj' use the hackneyed phrase, ' to fight it out on that line^ if it takes all summer,' aye, and winter, too. We understand that Miss Logan ia deluged with imprecatory letters from the hounds who fatten and grow rich on the profits of their lascivious shows. So much the better. It proves the strong pur- gative properties of the dose she has administered. It shows, too, the nature of the broth in this unclean caul- dron, that such a little stirring should produce so large a stench. And if the crj^ of one woman can make such a flutter among the carrion crew of vultures and buzzards that are pecking out the vitals of the drama, what might not be accomplished if every friend of public decency would rally around the standard which she ha^^setup? Meanwhile, wield your trenchant pen without mercy, Olive, and the more imprecations the batter. None but galled jades wince/'

The Christian Recorder even went so far as to 8sy : "The article by Olive Logan on 'The Nude Woman Question/ deserves to be put in tract form and circulated far and wide."

But the comments of the press were as nothing when compared to the private letters w^hich poured in upon me 38

A FRANTIC POET.

Away to Cbina hj Central Park| Wbirling along long after dark, Gracious goodness t what a lark, And all becattse of t lie women J

**In the good old days, wben a girl said *Ko/ The man was voted a * muff/ aud *ilow/ Who didn't quite well at the bottom know

That ' jes' was the darling's motto. * You reallj mu«t n't/ meant • kiss me quick/ And the fellow was voted a perfect brick Who'd battle his way through thin and thidc To do what a laas said * No' to.

" But now the lasses, alas t declaro On poor bu-man-ity desperate war, And vow they'll votOi though tbey never will wear

The trousers or any such nonsense. 'The woman's rights doctrine is upside down. Bays Olive Logan with charming frown, 'I'm going to vote in a trailing gown/ And the girls all chorus ^B<m sense P

'<Xach belle by her chignon swears she'll vote, And chatters a lot of stuff by rote^ About suffragei amendments, and how to promote

The highest good of the species ; The duties of every eHoyewit, The case of rooster va-wui hen, And vow they are going to leave the men

To oookingf and washing the dishes.

"Oh, horrible hullabtllo of— well, Amidst thia burly and loud pell-mell A mere male man scarce dares to tell

The full extent of his feolingi. As the chorus echoes with loud hurrah The voice of the speakers expounding the Iftw, Till the air is vocal with echoing jaw

And a babal of feminine squealingi.

** Bnt Anna Dickinson roasting the prai| And Stanton calling for fierce rtdnH ; And Susan Anthony making a meat By snubbing each male who liMm

m

A SUDDEN CnANGK. 697

*Ei filal querr^P she cries again, While rouod her fall our tears like rain ; 'Doomed is the dirty drama^s reign,* And yain la all our pleading.

*' Alas I alas I what timei are these \ No longer we can take our ease, For battle-cries on evorj breezo

Are echoing and ptmling, Ai round and round the warriors pranco In robes of lace, with diamond lance, And Hoating plumes, and shout avtmctl Until our sense is reeling 1

'* With hidooQs din on every hand^ Ko longer peace is in the land, But vengeful sword and flamiDg hrand

Are flour bhed madly o'er us. The female cohorts scour the plain, And sweep us down with swooping train, Till in despair wo shriek again,

And swell the hideous chorual**

The effect of the combined attack made upon this evil by the more repatable press generally, was quick aud decided.

With my lance still quiverini^ with the shock of the first blow, I saw the enemy retreating, demoralized aod overthrown. There was no need to strike further blows*

In a time so brief that as I look back opon it now it seems almost marvelous, the theatres turned the barlesque women adrift and set about providing a more reputable style of entertainment.

The change was as magical, as sudden, as If worked by some dramatic Aladdin, with the wonderful lamp of public opinion — whose power to control theatres as well as other public institutions, is one which no wise manager will dare to resist*

It was public opinion which wrought this work — public opinion, aroused by the press, which is mighty in its

WHOLESALE COKDEAINAIION,

599

CHAPTER XL,

The Moral Aspects of Life BebiDd the Scenes and Before the Footlighti, Can the Tbeatr© be Purified at all 7— Argument on Both SideB.— Tlit Views of Dr Chunning. — The Error of Wholesale Denunciation.^ Nothing on Earth Utterly Bad. — The Bad should he Denounced, and the Good Recognized. — Candor the Great Rc*qiiiroment of our Moral Censors, — Twaddle Fit for Babes. — Men Laugh at It, and Satan Chuckles. — Some Divines who have Spoken with Candor.— Br- Bel1owi*s DefensG of the Stage. — Grave Mistakes.*— Vices Not Amua^- menta. — A Baleful Feud. — Ajnusement Defensible. — Advice to Play- ers.— The Perilfl of Theatrical Life.^ — Preaching and Practice. — A Noble Demand.— CoKCLDfiiON.

The moral aspects of life behind the scenes and before the footlights have often been the theme of writers and speakers, and the usual tone of the religious press is, I need not say, one of wholesale condemnation.

The effect of wholesale condemnation of anything which is not utterly and wholly bad, is worse than useless — it is pernicious* It iujures the cause of morality and religion, and steels the heart against those who are guilty of this grave error.

** It is difficult," says a thoughtful writer in Harpers' Magazine for June, 1863, " for an honest and simple- minded gentleman, who in his youth went to the tlicatre with his grandmother, and in his old age still goes to the theatre with his grandchildren, to comprehend the heavy charges of immorality which sober and serious people have made so long and with so much earnestness against the drama. lie feels that his love of the mimic art has not contaminated his own nature; and he will not, with equanimity, be told that he is a degraded creature because he relishes the exquisite repartee of Congreve, and likes Shakespeare better in the show than in the printed ftheetfl/*

THB QUESTION AROtTED.

reltgions. It is difficult to draw any exact line, and to set ^ down this amuaement as einful and that as innocent, but our Christian casuists should not find it impossible to state the general principles governing all such matters so plainly tbat tbeir application to particular cases will be obvious. In games of skill and chance, chess, checkers, back* gammon, and such like, have long been tolerated in tho | most puritanical circles, while cards were formerlj tabooed^ j for the then sufficient reason that gambling was chiefly done with cards, and there was consequently danger that ' whoever shoiJd play them might fall into that vice. If that objection has disappeared, cards are in themselves aa innocent as chess or jaekstraws. The practical question is, does card playing naturally lead to gambling ? So of theatricals; religious people formerly opposed them be* J cause of the loose ^^orality of plays and players, and the bad associations of the theatre. The prevalence of tab* leaux, exhibitions and parlor theatricals, and thegrowingtol- erance of the theatre proper among our most precise Chria- m tians, show that the real objection is not to the stage, but" to the abuses connected with it. It is very evident that the church is now educating its children to be theatre- goers, and that in the next generation the theatre is to be more universally patronized than ever before. In princi- ple there is no more objection to the theatre than to the exhibition of tableaux, and there are necessarily no greater moral exposures there than in any other place where all claases meet for instruction or amusement The sam^j may be said of all amusements not intrinsically wrong. What specially needs to be considered by those who en- deavor to direct Christian opinion is this: If the church (by which we mean all who accept Christianity) does not think it necessary or possible to check or tnni aside the current now setting so strongly towards public amuse^j ments, if it has tolerated them, it should take the dire<

1

M

TO OQITTSOL THE THfiATBB*

them safe, by excluding all that is

The atage will Blough off its

^m come from the cliarch, and

morality in the performancea.

I will nol attempt to reform and control

tlfeen ti must keep away from them

iemwe tiiem wholly to the publicans and

m the manifert alteruatiTe/'

time there appeared in the PhiladeU '•n article contaiiiing these wise words: '*Pop- are founded on the instincts and affections of L beait. With Bfidi a foundation, tliej are capa- Ueaf dBMluig great good and great evil, jast as their ten- dsacieft are directed* The wiser course of the moralist would be to a^ail himself of inflnences so powerful in their operation, to give them the right direction, and thus have the powerful assistance of the stage in forming virtu- OH habits, and correcting vicions tastes inimical to good P^Ff^la^ Xext to the pulpit and the press, the stage has thp gr^test capabitities in itself of influencing the masses of eociety* Why should so powerful an agent be neg- lected^ or why should not its capabilities be cuUivated for the good of society? How long would grossness of q»eech or of thought be tolerated in places where intelli- gence and refinement are accustomed to resort ? How is a good standard of taste created except by the best ex* amples?* And where are vice and vulgarity, always more or less allied to brutal instincts, so completely abashed as in the presence of virtue and refinement, or at least of those who in their outward conduct observe all the decen* ci<^ and proprieties of life ? Let respectable and moral people encourage a proper public taste by their presence at our popular amusements. The stage reflects the man- ners of society, but it is the manners of the society which rUit the theatre. It is, therefore, in the power of tho©e

A BO0NI), PRACTICAL IDEA.

608

who condemn such axnuBements aa gross and immoral, to make them as moral and refined as themselves."

All my experience of theatres and mauagers goes to as- sure me that this -view is practically a sound one.

I feel absolutely certain tliat if it were the common habit of clergymen to go regularly to theatres, and to reg- ularly hiss indecency and immorality there, their influence would be utterly irresistible. Players and managers alike would learn to stand in awe of such a body of determined moral censors, and the eflfect would be positive and per- manent for^ood.

But while clergymen and religionists, as now, stand afar off' and denounce the theatre in wholesale terms, act- ors and managers will reply indignantly, '* What do they know about us and our business? They never visit the theatre— many of them never saw a play in their lives — how can they judge of that of which they are confessedly ignorant?''

Mr* Lewis Tappan once gave an interesting account of a meeting he attended thirty or forty years ago at the house of Rev, Dr, Channing, of Boston^ composed of law- yers, clergj^men, physicians and merchants, at which the question was discussed of encouraging the Tremont The- atre, then projected as a reformed place of amusement* Dr. Channing stated that he had long thought that reli- gious persons should interest themselves more than they had done in public amusements, with a view to elevate tlieir character, allure the young men from corrupt plea- sures, and make amusements subservient to good morals.

The truth probably is, that there is nothing on earth wholly bad, and the true principle for the earnest and candid reformer is to carefully separate the good from the bad, recognizing the former while denouncing the latter,

Candor is the great requirement of our moral censors. The stupid twaddle which well-meaning men often utter

TWADDLE.

to good moralB, as well as an insult to

bmefbl twaddle, a writer in the a "Lectare on Popular Aniase- TO«Dg men by a celebrated preacher ••With admirable perspicuity, fiddlers, Jfasbionable actors, IioiHes, and boxing men,* in the a naiTete truly refreshing asks a theatre in which a prayer Cttd of the performance would ^ wtawAon. The only term fit to eztfanganee is * bigoted in- v3l think opposition useless and tmde represents the opinion of a part of the community, who mdi a compromise with con- to dM tiieatre themseh-ea, and who pii milling such lapses from grace The feeling is illiberal^ and

It and most ably cooducted of I ottoe read this silly mess:

la ^Qve from the T^larifii ihe body of t WmperOTt the firat cSiuaberlsiii and Et had ievent«43fi gnmd crossea of the Simw «ti tkt ^Undtd tifku, m&d heard all tht m^^ Iboie whose taste wu in that dlrectiau, ^ mm. Bat alAA [ noi to ^*ak a/ re%iaii, mm Ma more hard daily^ labor than the mA tlias wa» the getting of a Huie rest

T>r

awful examples of the evil to say that there is no

f

SERVING 8ATAK UNWITTINQLT- 605

Lack of the power of getting sleep, as everybody knows, is a peculiarity unknown to people who never go to thea- tres,— who never see the "splendid sights'* and hear the "wondrous music/'

I had some acquaintance with Count Bacciochi when I lived in Paris, and I chance to know that he was so blase about these things that he cared about us much for the ** splendid eights" and the *' wondrous music" of the theatres as a railroad superintendent would care for the "magnificent scenerj^*' he advertised oe his road as an inducement to travelers to go that way, So^ if for his sins the Count Bacciochi could not sleep, it certainly was not for the sin of being too "happy" over the theatres which his duties made him oversee.

It is twaddle like this which makes wicked men laugh and Satan chuckle.

Some enthusiastic enemy of the theatre once printed the appalling statement that "It is estimated more money is expended in the United States for theatres than for all the Sabbath-schools in the country/*

This astounding intelligence drew forth from an irrev- erent wag the counter statement that "It has been esti- mated that the cost of washing linen that might just as well be worn two days longer, amounts to enough, in this country, to defray the expenses of the American Board of Foreign Missions. The expenses of buttons on the backs of our coats, where they are of no ejirthly use, is equal to the support of all our orphan asylums. It is estimated that the value of old boots thro^vn aside, which might have been worn a day longer, is more than enough to buy flannel night-gowns for every baby in the hind. Also, that the cost of everj^ inch on the full shirt collars of our young men is equal to the sum necessary to put a Bible in the bands of every Patagoniau giant/'

VICES AKD AMUSEMENTS*

607

and in no mood far delight For certainly we must not con- found things different, and call the grim eatisfaction with which the miser pursues bis gaina, the tyrant his victims, the rogue his prize, with which envy surveys the mortifi- cation of a competitor, or liatred the misfortune of an enemy, or jealousy the pangs of a rival, — amusement Nor arc the vices of society, drunkenness, lust and gam- bling, to be placed among the relaxations and amusements of mankind. They are the serious and horrible outbreak of lawless appetites, which do nothing to recreate, but only to destroy. If they are found in connection with the pleasures of the world, they are just as often found in absolute separation from them. Indeed, the lack of the wholesome excitement of pleasure is commonly seen pro* ducing the noxious excitement of vice; and intemperance, lust, and gambling have devastated communities in which public diversions have been scrupulously forbidden. It is a terrible fact, that the first hundred years of Puritanism in New England was marked alike by ascetic public man- ners, and the prevalence of vices almost unheard of in our free and more indulgent society; and it is even now asserted that the soberest of our sister States contributes more than any other State in the Union to the sad cata- logue of female frailty. There is hardly a more baleful error in the world than that which has produced the feud between morality and amusement, piety and pleasure. By presenting as the mark for reprobation the recreations instead of the sins of society; by confounding amusements with vices, the moral feeling of the world has been wastefully diverted from its opposition to absolute wrong and depraving affections, into opposition to things inno* cent, indifferent, or hurtful only in excess ; and thus a very mischievous confusion has been introduced into the natural and the Christian conscience of evil. Consider the thick darkness, the absence of interior light and moral

A PECULIARLY PERILOUS LIPIL

609

distinctiODB, excuse vice, reward crime, or ridicule religion, are eBaentiallj niischievouft, and cannot be defended any- where. If managers wish to place themselves on the eame catalogue with pimps, they have only to continue to quote the public taste as an apology for producing im- moral and depraving pkys. All honor is due to those among them who strive to produce the legitimate drama, and I know and believe that some managers feel a laudable and artistic loyalty to their profession, and make sacrifices to the exactions of taste, propriety and purity, which the public do not enfficiently appreciate."

Speaking of the perils of theatrical life, Dr. Bellows said : ** I have spoken of 3^our life as a peculiarly perilous life — ^i:>eri Ions to the moral nature; and before I explain particularly why it is so, let me say that the post of moral danger may be the post of moral honor. It by no means follows that because a line of life is hazardous to virtue, it is a life forbidden to a moral being. There may be reasons for adopting it which are imperative — such as a strong constitutional proclivity, making any other course exceedingly difficult; an early education fitting for nothing else; a powerful combination of providential circumstances leading up to that path ; or a parental will which had shaped that course before responsibility began. If the theatre be a social necessity, the profession of the actor 18 a lawful one ; and its moral perils, while they should make it a calling slowly and reluctantly adopted by those who have a choice, are not such as to excnso any want of virtue, probit}-, or the strictest decorum, iti any of its professors. If they were such, the calling would be self^condemned. Perils and temptations are not of the nature of compulsive forces, and we are none of us, having adopted a morally perilous vocation, to claim on that account any larger charity than other men of other callings. Only we are to put forth a greater and

6ia

more canstauit effort to coQEtetuct these dangers* Thd life of a player is a monUj perilous life, duefly^ becaaae it is a pablie life ; and public life in eTerj form \b tryiti|^ to the character. The actor shares with the poUtidati, the dergymao, the dangers oC a ^tfeer in which he b oontinaaUj appealing to masses; where he is an ol^eet of interest to maaeea ; where strong temptations exidi to aabatitnte immediate repntation for aelf-respect, and to make fine words and skiUfol manceixTers to do the work- of sonnd prindples and patient performaoee of dntir. Pablie life, in all its forms^ is snrronnded with flattereiB and &wn6rs, and templed to the bargain and exdiai^ of ite opportanities for the opportimities of others. All men who live by the longoe^ whether it be in the otter- ance of their own tboo^ts or thoee of other?, whoee reputation and livclihiood is tn the ear of the public, are greatly exposed men ; and it would be a long step in self- knowledge, if ^e membeis of the derical profeasioo recognized Uie fiurt that the aarioiisness of dieir subject does less than they think to save them from the dangefa which essentially belong to the talking rocatioos. The error of mistaking the glow of compositioo for the flame of fiuth ; or the pleasure of uttering geoerons sentiments, for the honor of holding them ; or natural sympathy with doqnent passion, fur the oonrage and resolotiofli of a good heart and Hfe; this is a danger which rofltmni^ pnlpit and stage may equally share, and the eonsdonsneas of which. I confess, increases my setisn of firmtemilr with your cidUiig. And yet it remiiiis solemnly true that your pro* Umiiion is a daageroos pfofessioo, howerer lawM and ne- cwairr it may be, and shariag in some req^eets its perils with oiImis. It is peaifiaiiy open to Tmnity, levi^ and i^^MiBlj iHnra ihng^atiiiis than it need be» on aceoaat pndimt state of pnbfie opinion— but neeeasuUy m^ vtk am^aHia ot pmMm sentiment Aiming to

TTISK AND CANDIB WORDS.

611

pleaee, and finding its chief incentive in the applnuse it nightly excites; peculiarly exposed to jealousy ; required to atlect seiitimentB and personate characters not its own ; usually in contact only with its own clasa; feeling deeply the need of animal spirits and physical energies, most conveniently supplied by urtiticial stimulants; working chiefly in the night; vacillating between long seasons of leisure and short periods of excemve labor; at the mercy of a capricious public, here very kind, and there very cruel; overpaid in its fiivoritcs and underpaid in all who are not; splendid for its stars but dull for its slocks — what elements arc wanting to make your profession one of very singular moral trial V

Such words as these are listened to by players with respectful attention* They are seen to be the voice of candor, and not of cant; and they have an influence therefore for positive good.

And in the ftjUowiug passage is involved a demand, from the preacher on behalf of the player, which is noble and just: "What I demand for you, in the name of Chris- tian brotherhood and of universal morality, is a complete restoration to the common rights and the common pro- tection of society. Your calhng is a lawful calling; lawful, in that it is the exercise of providential gifts and talents for the gratification and well-being of society — itself a divine order; lawful, in that its highest and best fulfillment involves necessarily not the least infringement of one of Qod*s laws or Christ's precepts ; lawful in that it is recognized by the law of the land. Not only so; it is an intellectual and artistic calling, demanding a some- wliat rare organization^ — physical and mental — for its pursuit, and requiring for high success a degree of general information, culture and self-discipline, which should elevate it to the rank of the liberal professions. It is your duty, therefore, to claim, and our duty to concede to