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Full text of "Before the footlights and behind the scenes: a book about "the show business" in all its branches: from puppet shows to grand opera; from mountebanks to menageries; from learned pigs to lecturers; from burlesque blondes to actors and actresses: with some observations and reflections (original and reflected) on morality and immorality in amusements: thus exhibiting the "show world" as seen from within, through the eyes of the former actress, as well as from without, through the eyes of the present lecturer and author"

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OlMMATI,  O.} 

1870. 


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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. 


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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 


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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