TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected
after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and
consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK
NAT GOODWIN'S
BOOK
BY
NAT C. GOODWIN
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration: (Publisher's colophon)]
BOSTON
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
TORONTO: COPP CLARK COMPANY LIMITED
COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY NAT C. GOODWIN AND RICHARD G. BADGER
_All rights reserved_
THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U.S.A.
PREFACE
In penning memoirs or autobiographing it is extremely difficult to
avoid writing impersonally, yet I shall strive to avoid it as much as
possible, not so much from a sense of duty as from a standpoint of
mercy.
I have never enjoyed reading about myself and I am firmly convinced
that there are few who have. Perhaps, if I am tempted during this
review to give myself an opinion of myself, it may be received with
favor even by those critics who have never agreed with any of my
characterizations.
I started this little work with some degree of terror. I had such a
poor background to frame my somewhat checkered career upon. I fully
realized that a man must be a very great person, or at least imagine
himself to be, to write an autobiography. But finally after listening
to the advice of friends I approached myself, albeit surprised at my
temerity. After having read many autobiographies I discovered that
most nearly-great persons who indulge in the dissipation of giving to
the world their opinions of themselves were either born in dilapidated
garrets or on unproductive farms.
As there were no trees in my garden of youth nor a candle placed in
an empty bottle to shed its effulgence upon my future life I wondered
how I could diversify and be truthful, yet entertaining. A feeling of
apprehension akin to that which always follows the first night of one
of my productions took hold of me. I wondered how this little effort
of mine would be received.
When reading a criticism the morning following a production I am always
fearful of being found out. If I am condemned I know I have been!
But after I have fully digested all the unkind criticisms, which are
usually written by those who do not fancy me in any serious effort, I
am in the end always superlatively happy in knowing that the critic has
done his duty.
If I had my way, he would be doing TIME!
Generally he is so blissfully ignorant of what he prates about that I
have a silent chuckle all to myself at the expositions of his glaring
and blatant incompetency. Yet it has always been a question in my mind
whether the public enjoys reading vituperative attacks upon its stage
favorites particularly after it has been entertained and amused the
previous evening. I think that it is thoroughly satisfied with its own
verdict and resents another's antagonistic to it. It much more enjoys
reading something of the actor's private life particularly when it can
read something which exposes his or her particular vagaries. And the
public is prone to believe everything the visionary gentlemen of the
press chronicle. The more unwholesome it is the more it believes; the
more suggestive, the more palatable.
You have only to put any sort of halo around an actor or a cigar, good
or bad, to beget a following or a smoker!
Unfortunately the halo that the public has been kind enough to place
above me will not bear minute inspection. It is opaque. However, being
unable to escape it I have always been content to smile within and when
the haloed one has been supposedly exposed I can do nothing but sit
tight and accept the inevitable. At times it has been a bit harrowing
to submit, yet it has taught me self-control which I will endeavor to
exercise in this little work. If I am tempted to use the personal
pronoun more frequently than necessary I shall deflect and command my
thoughts, to wander among more agreeable persons. Having lived so long
within the confines of my kindly bestowed halo I have become fully
aware of my limitations. The agreeable personalities are easily found
and I hope my readers will enjoy their companionship as much as I have
enjoyed them.
Every reference made to these delightful people is inspired by the
kindliest of feelings and if I have judged one or two more harshly than
they seemingly deserve the error is of the head, not of the heart; for
I loved, liked or admired them all and I am none too poor to do them
reverence--even now.
While some may regard my opinions as impertinences none can
convincingly deny my right to think, and as all is given impersonally I
believe that none will doubt my motives.
Many will question the various attitudes in this book particularly
regarding marriage and divorce. They will advance the theory that
the bonds of matrimony must be welded more closely even when the
participants find it difficult to live normally. I know that many who
are incarcerated in the dungeons of matrimonial thraldom would not
stop at murder to burst their bonds. It does not require the philosophy
of a Bacon or an Emerson to prove that such incarceration is wrong. Why
make martyrs of those forced to live together when hate supplants love,
when bodies and thoughts play upon different instruments producing only
discords? The laws of our country make it possible for us to file the
bars of our unwholesome cells and suppress this monumental mockery. The
views I have incorporated in this book, right or wrong, I stand by. All
through my life I have never feared criticism for any of my acts. My
moral or physical courage has never failed. I have been and always will
be willing to stand by my guns and take my medicine.
Before completing this work I unfortunately submitted a few excerpts
to a visionary representative of one of the Los Angeles papers.
He immediately published broadcast what he had absorbed and very
obligingly gave it the title of his own imagination, "Memoirs of
Matrimony," thereby creating the impression that my book was to be
devoted simply to my marital experiences. Such was never my intention,
but as more than thirty years of my life have been devoted to matrimony
naturally my autobiography demands mention of the women who have borne
my name.
I have been censured sometimes harshly for my versatility in the
selection of wives and many have marvelled at my fortunate (or
unfortunate) selections. I have always been long on the market of home
and wives.
I truly believe that no home is complete without a wife, providing
she is of the kind that enjoys the company of intelligent, honest and
clever people. Some men only lease their mates and then prate about
their respectability. If I have decided at different times to tear
down any of the Ephesian domes which I have erected, is the fact of my
destroying them enough to warrant my being known, as was Alexander, as
the fool that razed (or is it raised?) them?
While autobiography and a round up of memories will necessarily
be conspicuous I shall endeavor also to make this book a medium
of retrospective thoughts given to the many people, prominent and
otherwise, with whom I have come in contact. As I have no notes I shall
write purely from memory's tablets. If inaccuracies occur they will be
unintentional.
Many of those dear friends have long since passed down the lonely
mountain trail, but their sweet memories still linger by the roadside.
If they but leave the perfume of their souls to mark the road for me
to follow when I arrive at the corral nature has established in the
valley I hope that we all shall meet and that they will elect me their
callboy, that I may be privileged to ring up the curtain upon perpetual
joy.
N. C. G.
OCEAN PARK, CALIFORNIA.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I COMMENCEMENT DAY 17
II MY DEBUT 22
III STUART ROBSON 26
IV JOHN MCCULLOUGH 35
V SIR HENRY IRVING 38
VI "BARRY" AND JEFFERSON 41
VII A SUNNY SON OF SOMETIME 49
VIII CHARLES HOYT 51
IX SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM 54
X CHARLES R. THORNE, JR. 56
XI SOL SMITH RUSSELL 61
XII RICHARD MANSFIELD 67
XIII IN VARIETY 75
XIV ELIZA WEATHERSBY 80
XV SUCCESSFUL FAILURES 89
XVI BACK IN THE 'EIGHTIES 92
XVII THE HALCYON DAYS OF UNION SQUARE 96
XVIII THE BIRTH OF THE SYNDICATE 101
XIX STARS 109
XX ATMOSPHERIC PLAYS 115
XXI ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT 118
XXII MAUDE ADAMS 121
XXIII TYRONE POWER 126
XXIV AN ARTISTIC SUCCESS! 127
XXV THE SKATING RINK 131
XXVI NUMBER TWO 134
XXVII A FIGHT WON (?) 140
XXVIII JOHN CHAMBERLAIN 148
XXIX W. S. GILBERT 152
XXX HENRY E. DIXEY 153
XXXI SWAGGER NEW YORKERS OF ANOTHER DAY 155
XXXII JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 157
XXXIII DIGBY BELL AND DE WOLF HOPPER 159
XXXIV BLAINE AND INGERSOLL 162
XXXV JIM CORBETT IN ENGLAND 164
XXXVI THE COCKNEY CABBY COMEDIAN 166
XXXVII A GILDED FOOL AND OTHER PLAYS 168
XXXVIII GEORGE M. COHAN 177
XXXIX THOUGHTS VAUDEVILLE-BORN 179
XL JOHN DREW 181
XLI THE RIVALS REVIVAL 182
XLII WILTON LACKAYE 185
XLIII "YOUNG" MANSFIELD 187
XLIV DAVID WARFIELD 190
XLV A DAY AT RENO 192
XLVI LILLIAN RUSSELL 197
XLVII DRAMATIC SCHOOLS 198
XLVIII NUMBER THREE (ALMOST) 201
XLIX THE CONFESSIONAL 207
L SAN FRANCISCO 211
LI ANTONY (?) AND CLEOPATRA 216
LII HONOLULU AND SAMOA 223
LIII PUBLICITY--ITS RESULTS 230
LIV IN THE LAND OF THE KANGAROO 233
LV WELCOME(!) HOME 240
LVI NUMBER THREE 243
LVII WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE AND OTHER PLAYS 248
LVIII AT JACKWOOD 254
LIX "WHY DO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN MARRY NAT GOODWIN?" 262
LX BILLY THOMPSON 265
LXI THE CRITICS 266
LXII JAMES A. HEARNE 277
LXIII EDDIE FOY 279
LXIV WILLIAM GILLETTE 280
LXV WILLIAM BRADY, ESQ. 283
LXVI ROBERT FORD 284
LXVII MORE PLAYS 286
LXVIII WILLIE COLLIER 288
LXIX HENRY MILLER 290
LXX WHAT'S IN A NAME? 291
LXXI I TRY BEING A BUSINESS MAN 293
LXXII THE FIVE FATEFUL FISH CAKES AND NUMBER FOUR 302
LXXIII SIR BEERBOHM TREE 315
LXXIV THE ORIGIN OF THE STAGE 317
LXXV MY STAGE-STRUCK VALET 321
LXXVI GEORGE C. TYLER 324
LXXVII I FIND THE VERY BEST PHYLLIS 326
LXXVIII THE LAMBS CLUB 329
LXXIX I "COME BACK" 332
LXXX I GO BACK 334
LXXXI DAVID BELASCO 336
LXXXII "AUTHOR--AUTHOR" 337
LXXXIII MUSHROOM MANAGERS 341
LXXXIV "KEEP OFF THE GRASS" 345
LXXXV CALIFORNIA 350
LXXXVI I BECOME A BARNSTORMER 352
LXXXVII NUMBER FIVE 355
LXXXVIII L'ENVOIE 356
INDEX 359
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
NAT C. GOODWIN _Frontispiece_
WILLIAM WARREN 20
_The greatest comedian that ever lived_
STUART ROBSON 26
_The best Shakespearean clown of modern times_
TONY HART 30
_He had the face of an Irish Apollo, did Tony Hart_
JOHN MCCULLOUGH AND ASSOCIATE PLAYERS IN THE DRAMATIC FESTIVAL 36
_"Mr." McCullough and the rest of us_
SIR HENRY IRVING 40
_An extraordinary man_
JOSEPH JEFFERSON 46
_I firmly believe I improved his morals_
SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM 54
_A remarkable man_
CHARLES R. THORNE, JR. 60
_A royal picture to contemplate_
IN THE LITTLE REBEL 76
_One of my first excursions into the legitimate_
ELIZA WEATHERSBY 80
_The wife who mothered me_
IN HOBBIES WITH ELIZA WEATHERSBY 84
_The play I won at faro_
LITHOGRAPH OF GOODWIN'S FROLIQUES 88
IN TURNED UP 92
_In the days when I was an imitator_
LOTTA 98
_In the days when work was play_
JACK HAVERLY 102
_The man who conceived the syndicate_
IN THE GOLD MINE 112
_My get-up in The Gold Mine_
THOSE WERE THE HAPPY DAYS 118
COQUELIN 124
_Would he have gone in vaudeville? I wonder_
NELLA BAKER PEASE 134
_The best amateur piano player I ever heard_
NAT C. GOODWIN, III 138
PALS 150
_Richard Carle, Fred G. Stanley, Nat Goodwin, Walter Jones,
De Wolf Hopper_
IN CONFUSION 160
_Back in the eighties_
NAT GOODWIN AND COMPANY IN IN MIZZOURA 168
_One of the best casts I ever saw_
TICKET SALE FOR IN MIZZOURA 176
DICK GOLDEN 182
_We were pals for many years_
DAVID WARFIELD AND NAT GOODWIN 190
_I'm proud of the company_
IN MIZZOURA 200
_One of the greatest of American plays_
MRS. N. C. GOODWIN, SR. 210
_A dear old lady living in Boston_
HOW MUCH A LAMB I WAS I DIDN'T KNOW--THEN! 216
AN AUSTRALIAN GREETING CAN'T TOUCH ITS FAREWELL! 220
IN AN AMERICAN CITIZEN 232
_If we had been associated a few years longer my name would
have been up as her leading support!_
AS BOB ACRES 240
_I gave Bob a country dialect_
MAXINE ELLIOTT 246
_Fate's partner_
IN WHEN WE WERE TWENTY-ONE 252
_The biggest bit of any play I ever produced_
IN NATHAN HALE 258
"_They hang Nat in the last act_"
WM. H. THOMPSON 264
_An artist to his finger tips_
JAMES A. HEARNE 278
_He knew how poor Sol "fell"_
ROBERT FORD 284
"_A cold-blooded, conscienceless murderer_"
AS CAMEO KIRBY 294
_I never played a character I liked so well_
EDNA GOODRICH 304
_My young and handsome star_
AS SHYLOCK 310
_One of my successful failures_
IN HAMLET 320
_It had always been my desire to appear in Shakespearean roles_
MARGARET MORELAND 326
_The very best Phyllis_
AS FAGIN IN OLIVER TWIST 330
"_Fagin was a comedian_"
DAVID BELASCO 336
_An intellectual giant_
DRAWN WHILE WE WERE "BARNSTORMING" 344
THE RANCH AT SAN JACINTO, CALIFORNIA 350
_A scene not equalled in the Austrian Tyrol_
NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK
NAT GOODWIN'S BOOK
_Chapter I_
COMMENCEMENT DAY
One bright morning in June, 1872, the Little Blue Academy of old
Farmington College, Maine, rang with the plaudits of an admiring
throng of visitors. Some of them had come in their capacious coaches,
lumbering and crushing their way through the streets of the usually
quiet village, while others in good old Puritan fashion had come
afoot and across fields and by-ways. Altogether the tumult was great
both without and within and the Puritan housewives, their quiet thus
sadly disturbed, devoutly offered up thanks that such affairs occurred
but once in a twelvemonth. But the clatter of contending Jehus and
vociferous villagers on the campus was nothing compared with the
resounding clash of palms and other noisy demonstrations of approval
within.
It was Commencement Day. Eager papas and mammas, sweet, admiring
misses and anxious friends were there that neither valedictorian,
salutatorian, orator nor poet might lack that proper sort of
encouragement, without which any affair of this nature must necessarily
be incomplete. They were to decide as well the winner of the prize in
elocution. Truly it was a day of mighty portent.
Many had spoken their parts and the rafters and roof had given back
the approving shouts in echoes almost as resounding as the words
themselves. At length my name was announced by our preceptor and worthy
master, Mr. Alden J. Blethen, the present manager and owner of the
Seattle "Times."
With some timidity, but tremendous eagerness, I mounted the improvised
rostrum and began my recitation of a poem called "The Uncle." As I
began my eyes seemed to be swimming back and forth in my head. I saw
nothing but birds floating into space. Then a death-like silence
ensued and images usurped the place of birds. They assumed forms and
through the mists came men and women and one by one they seemed to come
before my vision until the room was filled. I finished, I thought, in
a hush and was utterly oblivious to the great burst of applause which
greeted my efforts. My seat-mate, poor Charlie Thomas who in after
years was associated with Charles Hoyt, the writer and producer of
many successful farce comedies, grabbed me by the arm and hurled me
back upon the stage whispering, "Give them that 'Macbeth' speech!"
Mechanically I acted upon his suggestion and began the soliloquy. I
remembered nothing more until we left the hall. In fact I was in a
comatose state until summoned that evening by Mr. Blethen to come
into his library where, in the presence of the other scholars, I was
presented with a set of Shakespeare's Complete Works.
As I went to my room that night I began to dream of the life to come. I
saw myself startling the world as King Lear.
Two days after I received the first newspaper criticism of my work from
the Portland papers. The notices pleased me beyond words and brought
more joy to my young heart than any I ever received in after life. With
pardonable pride, I trust, I set one forth here:--
"The little Academy had never known the delirium of applause until a
slight, delicate youth, with peculiar flaxen hair, round blue eyes,
and a complexion as fair as a girl's mounted the rostrum and spoke his
lines. Such elocution must have awakened unusual interest, and so easy
was the speaker, so perfect his actions and charming his intelligence,
that the old dormitory shook with plaudits."
I was told twenty-five years later by a little Jew critic named Cohen
that I lacked all these attributes, after I had devoted a quarter of
a century in earnest endeavor to accentuate them! How I must have
retrograded in all those years! Until he told me I thought I must have
travelled ahead, for I could not possibly have gone back. But perhaps
I never started! The notices in the Portland papers fanned the smoke
into a flame and from that day I determined to become an actor. Some
years before I had become imbued with the idea, the inspiration coming
from my living in close proximity to an actors' boarding-house kept by
a Mrs. Fisher at No. 3 Bulfinch Place, Boston. Many and many a time
have I waited between school hours and play to catch a glimpse of the
occupants of this celebrated yet modest hostelry, for here were housed
many conspicuous actors of the day. Many a time I endeavored to touch
the sleeve or any part of the garment of the players as they emerged
from the house on their way to rehearsals and if I succeeded my mission
was fulfilled for the day.
On one occasion William Warren's hat blew off. I rushed for it and
rescued it from beneath a horse's hoofs. I returned it to the owner and
he thanked me very graciously. The incident was too much for my young
nerves. I played hookey that afternoon. School had no charms for me
that day. An actor had spoken to me!
Years after I was privileged to meet this gentleman at a breakfast
given in my honor by the Elks of Boston with Mayor O'Brien in the
chair. I had been invited to appear at a charity benefit to be preceded
by this breakfast. I was playing at the time at the Bijou Theatre, New
York, but I arranged to leave on the midnight train, arriving in time
for the breakfast at nine. Afterwards I appeared at eleven o'clock at
the benefit, catching the one o'clock train back to New York.
Upon my arrival in Boston the Mayor met me at the train with a
Committee which took me in charge. We drove straight to the breakfast
room. There the first to greet me was dear old William Warren. A lump
came up into my throat as big as a water melon. Think of it--that tall,
big player to greet me! With out-stretched hand he bade me welcome
home where, he said, all loved me. "Come and sit by me, my son," said
he, and as I turned to answer him he looked to me like a god. I was
privileged to sit by the genius whose coat hem I had in years gone by
waited for hours to touch. He was unconsciously rewarding me for my
boyish hero-worship. He was touching my heart strings and creating
delightful memories to remain forever in my mind. No food passed my
lips. I was above the clouds playing upon a golden harp! My blood
flowed through my veins like lava! I was sitting by a great comedian
and, believe me, I was glad, for I consider William Warren the greatest
comedian that ever lived.
After the breakfast which was hurriedly eaten we started for the
playhouse. I was so nervous that I could scarcely make up, but I knew
that I had to do something as this great man was in the audience.
[Illustration: WILLIAM WARREN
_The greatest comedian that ever lived_]
At length the moment came for me to make my entrance. Tremendous
applause greeted me. I endeavored to play as I had never played before.
My inspiration was the gentle face in the right-hand box beaming
upon my incompetency. I was dreadfully self conscious. I knew I was
in the presence of a master and try as I would nothing seemed to get
over the footlights as I wished. Every word seemed to stop dead at that
right-hand box and would not go beyond. When the finish came I offered
up a silent prayer of gratitude.
As I wended my way slowly to the dressing-room someone congratulated
me upon my efforts. As I sank into my chair the stage manager opened
the door, reiterating the congratulations. I simply asked, "How did
Mr. Warren like me?" Before he could answer the tall figure of Warren
appeared at the door and he said, "I couldn't have done it better
myself, young man!" Then he patted me on the shoulder, saying, "Hurry,
or you'll miss your train." He shook me by the hand, bade me good-bye
and returned to the boarding-house where he had lived for many years,
to his little back room. A few weeks later twelve men bore his body to
Mt. Auburn Cemetery placing him among the roses.
Warren's Sir Peter Teazle, Jefferson Scattering Batkins, Jessie Rural,
Tony Lumpkin, Bob Acres, Dr. Pangloss and about all of Shakespeare's
clowns have never been equaled by any player of any age. He had all
the humor and the pathos that comedy is heir to--a player of the old
school, not the night school.
_Chapter II_
MY DEBUT
After leaving the Little Blue Academy of Old Farmington I returned
to New York with my parents. We were there but a short time when
we returned to Boston, where my father, one of those thoroughgoing
Bostonians who intended me for the law, compromised by securing for me
a position as an entry clerk in the counting-room of Wellington Bros.
& Co., dry goods merchants. This did not appeal to me, and at stray
intervals I found great pleasure in fraternizing with a few actors with
whom I had become acquainted. I preferred play books to the ledgers and
account books of Wellington Bros. They were my special delight, and I
devoted all my spare time to committing the lines of the leading parts
to memory. My father always allowed me money to attend the theatres. I
was privileged to see all the great actors of my day, and every other
night found me in either the front row of the balcony, or gallery of
the local theatres. I would go over the lines as I had heard them, and
in doing so found that I could reproduce the tones and gestures of the
players I had seen. Thus I discovered that I had the gift of imitation.
One by one I added to my parts until at length I found that I had a
repertoire of seventeen. I would rehearse them with my only auditor, my
mother, who considered them perfect.
Night usually found me at the back door of the Boston Theatre or Boston
Museum importuning the Captain of the Supers to be allowed to carry a
spear. The major portion of my time was given to affairs theatrical
until finally my employers decided to dispense with my valuable
services, and much to my delight I was cast adrift.
My mother, who always had a great fondness for the stage and was always
seeking the society of those connected with it, made the acquaintance
of Mr. and Mrs. Charles R. Thorne, Sr., the father and mother of
Charles, Edwin and William Thorne, and persuaded them to take a suite
of rooms at our house in Boston, situated at the corner of Bulfinch and
Howard Streets, directly opposite the famous Mrs. Fisher's theatrical
boarding-house. The Thornes were very delightful old people, and for
hours I would sit and listen to them discussing the favorites of olden
times, dating back to the advent of the Keans. Finally, they persuaded
their son Edwin to come and live with us, and for the first time I
found myself in the divine atmosphere of the players' life. Edwin was
the leading man at the Howard Athenaeum, playing stock pieces and
supporting travelling stars.
The Thornes were a great delight to me, as they had the entry to all
the playhouses in Boston, and it was my joy to accompany dear Mrs.
Thorne to every "first night."
Edwin Thorne finally left our house and became leading man at the
Providence Opera House, under the management of William Henderson.
I would often visit Providence, go behind the scenes and hold the
book while Thorne was committing his various parts to memory. It is
unnecessary to state that I was always enthralled at these golden
opportunities. After repeated requests Thorne was persuaded to use his
influence in procuring me an engagement. Finally I was offered the part
of Sir George Hounslow in the old melodrama, "The Bottle." I fortified
myself with a blonde wig, never dreaming of using my own blonde
locks. I thought every actor should wear a wig. From Thorne's wardrobe
I selected clothing altogether too large for my slim proportions. I
required inspiration and atmosphere and decided that in the wardrobe of
the illustrious player I should find it. Bedecked in those ill-fitting
garments I stood at the wings on the opening night waiting for my cue.
I was possessed of so much assurance at rehearsals that little
attention had been paid to me regarding the details of stage business,
the stage manager taking all for granted. I was the bad young man of
the play, seeking to bring about the dishonor of the soubrette. I
was supposed to have endeavored to embrace her down the road, she to
have eluded my advances and broken away, rushing onto the stage, I
following. Naturally she did not rehearse all she intended to do that
evening, and while I was quietly talking with her in the entrance, the
cue was given and she uttered a fearful shriek! I didn't know what had
happened and looked around for the cause. Then I found she was in the
center of the stage wildly beckoning me to come on and finish the scene
that was supposed to have started down the road. Somebody shoved me on.
The orchestra played chilly music suggestive of my base intentions.
This took every line out of my head, and I simply stood there and
gasped! Not a sound could I ejaculate! The young lady contemplated me
for a moment and cried, "You shall not!" Then she rushed off, leaving
me transfixed. From each side of the stage I could hear, "Come off!
Come off!" but I seemed paralyzed and could not stir. At last the
lights went out, the scene was changed and when I came to I found
myself in the property room with two or three gentlemen in red flannel
shirts throwing water into my face. They left me for an instant, and
I ran out of the stage door in all my makeup and Thorne's wardrobe
(which he afterwards told me I failed to return). I waited until the
train came through for Boston and boarded it, utterly oblivious of the
sensation I was creating among the passengers by my painted face and
penciled eyebrows. I jumped into a cab upon my arrival at the Boston
station, drove home to my parents and threw myself into my mother's
arms crying, "I cannot act! Get me a position in a shoe store!"
I was heartbroken for many weeks and firmly resolved never to become
an actor; but gradually my mother, who always believed in my hidden
histrionic powers, instilled some courage into my soul, I yielded to
her sympathy and advice and determined to try once more.
Through my mother's influence my father bowed at last to what seemed
the inevitable and consented to permit me to prepare myself for the
stage, exacting from me a promise, however, that I would devote not
less than five hours a day to my studies. Accordingly I was sent to
Wyzeman Marshall, an old-school actor of some repute during the reign
of Edwin Forrest, who undertook my training. I spent many happy hours
with this charming old gentleman as he devoted most of his (and my)
time to anecdotes and stories of the past. He taught me but little,
apart from the scanning of Shakespeare, which he thoroughly instilled
into my mind, so the few months which I spent under his tutelage did me
much good. I had no thought of being a comedian and devoted all of my
time to the study of serious rôles, from Douglas to the bloody Thane of
Cawdor, and committed all those parts to memory.
Fortunately for me at this time I became acquainted with Stuart Robson.
_Chapter III_
STUART ROBSON
My meeting with Stuart Robson was brought about by the influence of
Joseph Bradford, a clever playwright of the day. He had heard my
imitations of actors and pronounced upon them favorably, "not only for
their accuracy," as he put it, but the methods I employed reminded him
of a dear friend of his who had passed away some years before--Robert
Craig, to whom I was told I bore a striking resemblance.
Robert Craig was a clever player, playwright and wonderful mimic. He
was for years leading comedian at Mrs. John Drew's Arch Street Theatre,
Philadelphia. Had he lived he would certainly have made dramatic
history for himself. I have only a faint recollection of him, but
Bradford often told me of his many wonderful gifts and I have many
times wished that I had been born earlier or he later.
Bradford was an extraordinary person. A most incompetent actor, which
he often with great regret admitted, but one of the greatest geniuses
that I have ever met--a master in all matters pertaining to the drama
and literature of the theatre. Had he lived I feel certain that he
would have become the Pinero of the American stage. Alas, he was given
to conviviality and lived only for his friends.
[Illustration: STUART ROBSON
_The best Shakespearean clown of modern times_]
He possessed a splendid physique and was gifted with fine
conversational power. His fund of humor was excelled by none.
He was liberal to a fault, devoid of egotism, with always a kindly
word for those with whom he came in contact and possessed a brain as
pyrotechnical as Paine's fireworks. You can imagine his influence upon
those who were fortunate enough to be his associates. His knowledge
of painting, drama, music, sculpture, literature, poetry, in fact all
the arts, seemed unlimited. As a critic he had a style peculiarly his
own, equalled only by Hazlitt, Lamb, Lewes and a few others. He was a
graduate of Annapolis and left there with many honors. Very often we
would sit in his rooms and he would read me his prose and poetry, which
he never allowed to be published but which I think was as nearly unique
as that of Edgar Allan Poe, to whom he bore a striking resemblance. He
was a devotee at the shrine of Poe and often regretted the untimely
end of America's greatest lyrical genius. Little did he imagine that
his end would be the same. Burns, Poe and Bradford were the victims of
their mastering passion--the loving cup.
Through his kindly interest and guidance I was enabled to secure
my first real engagement and make the acquaintance of the best
Shakespearean clown of modern times and one of the cleverest of modern
comedians as well, Stuart Robson.
I remember the morning Bradford guided me behind the scenes of the old
Howard Athenaeum to present me to Stuart Robson. As we entered we found
that gentleman in the throes of a busy rehearsal of one of Bradford's
plays. As I stood in the entrance faint from excitement Robson stopped,
looked toward the entrance where I stood, transfixed, walked toward me
and said, "My God, Brad! who is this young man?" Bradford answered,
"A young friend of mine who wants to go on the stage. Of whom does he
remind you, Rob?" Robson looked at me for a minute, and ejaculated,
"Merciful powers, Bob Craig!" After being introduced we shook hands
and he said, "Come into my dressing-room, young man, and let me have a
good look at you." As we entered the room he seated me upon a trunk,
took both my hands in his and with the tears streaming down his face
gasped, "Wonderful! Wonderful! I have never seen such a resemblance
between two human beings!"
Within a few minutes the rehearsal was dismissed. Bradford and Robson
took their seats in the front row of the parquet and I went through my
repertoire of imitations. I rendered sixteen and Rob, bless him, always
pronounced the last one the best. I was about to leave the stage when
Brad insisted that I should give one of Robson. I put a veto upon that
proposition and after about fifteen minutes of violent pleading Robson,
who understood my feelings, sustained the veto.
Robson immediately offered me a part in the play which he was about to
produce, and on the following Monday I appeared in Bradford's play,
"Law in New York," as Ned the newsboy, and in the pier scene I first
gave my imitations of celebrated actors on the stage of a theatre.
They told me that my stunt went remarkably well, but I have no
recollection of what occurred. After I had responded to several encores
someone in the gallery cried out, "Give us an imitation of Robson!" It
took my breath away, but I stood still and calmly shook my head. I was
recalled and still the cry came, "Robson! Robson!" He was standing in
the wings and as I came off I said, "What can I do, Mr. Robson? They
are clamoring for me to give an imitation of you!" "Do?" said he in
that falsetto voice so well known to theatregoers of that period, "Go
back and give the villains hell!" On the impulse of the moment I went
through an entire scene which the audience had just witnessed between
Robson and a favorite player named Henry Bloodgood. As I assumed each
voice, particularly Robson's, the applause was deafening, and at the
finish, after repeated recalls, Robson was obliged to take me on and
make a speech, thanking the audience in my behalf.
After the play Robson said to me, "Young Goodwin, you have done two
things tonight that I shall never forget--halted the performance of a
very good play and given a very bad imitation of me. I could have done
it better myself."
Poor Rob, like all people possessed of conspicuous mannerisms, was
never able to detect his even when emphasized by mimicry. One can never
see himself in another.
I appreciated this in after life when I was seated in the private box
of the Broadway Theatre, New York. A young man named Alf Hampton had
given what I considered some remarkably clever imitations of leading
actors. Having somewhat of a reputation at that time in this same line
and being rather conspicuous that evening I gave vent to my pleasure
by applauding most vociferously all of his efforts. To my horror he
approached the footlights and announced an imitation of me! As he
finished the applause from all over the house shook the rafters, but
I could not discover one familiar tone. As he gave the imitation a
friend of mine, seated in the front row, looked over and very audibly
asked, "Well, what do you think of that, Nat?" I replied, "One of us is
rotten."
Poor Bradford dissipated his genius, and died, twenty odd years ago, in
penury. I was not present at his death, but fortunately I arrived in
time to save him from a pauper's grave, and he now sleeps tranquilly in
beautiful Mt. Auburn with his poems and other children of his brain--a
happy family known only to the elect. Adieu, dear friend. "Though lost
to sight, to memory dear."
Through all my theatrical career up to Robson's exit from life's
theatre the closest association and dearest friendship existed
between us. He was always my sponsor, my adviser; and what knowledge
he bestowed relative to the ethics of our art! Analytically he was
master of more of the fundamental rules of acting than even Lawrence
Barrett who was an authority. While Robson was never able to convey
a sentimental thought by any facial expression or delivery, he could
point out correctly the methods required to convey them. Had he not
been handicapped by a vocal organ that squeaked forth only fun, his
pathos would have equalled John E. Owens' or Joe Jefferson's.
I shall never forget the time when Robson, Crane, and I appeared in an
act of "Julius Caesar" at a benefit given to poor Tony Hart. Robson
was the Cassius; Crane, Brutus, and I was cast for Antony. We gave the
characters all the study and attention due to the great master and
were firm in our resolution to play the respective rôles with proper
reverence, to bestow upon them all the tragic force and power within
our capacities; but the public took the idea in a spirit of jest and
came prepared to see us burlesque the characters, never assuming that
we were in earnest in our purpose.
The afternoon came. The theatre was packed. I was the first of the trio
to make an entrance. Fortunately I came on with the mob and my few
lines passed unnoticed, as none in front recognized me. To be sure I
was denied the thrills of a reception, but I had the end of an act and
was quite content to wait.
[Illustration: TONY HART
_He had the face of an Irish Apollo, did Tony Hart_]
The scene was soon over and the full stage of the old Academy of Music
opened radiantly as Robson and Crane made their entrances as Cassius
and Brutus. They came majestically forth and were greeted by applause
that lasted fully a minute. They looked pictures. Forrest and Macready
never looked more like Roman senators than those two comedians as
they acknowledged the plaudits with true tragic dignity. Then a hush,
as the audience settled back for the expected travesty. It needed only
the familiar notes of Rob's voice to reassure them that they were right
in their conjectures and a shout of laughter went up as he began the
speech, "That I do love you, Brutus," etc. The shrieks of laughter
interrupted his long thought-out delivery. He paused. His face became
livid even through his heavy make up. Then he began the speech again in
a more modulated tone. The second time he got as far as "I do love you,
Brutus," when another yell blared from the front. He again stopped,
bit his lips with suppressed rage and waited a few seconds. It seemed
an eternity to us in the entrance. Then Rob raised his hand and by a
simple gesture commanded silence.
The laughter soon quieted down as it became apparent that Robson was
endeavoring to play the part legitimately and a subdued silence greeted
him as he began his speech for the third time. He started in even a
lower key and continued the speech. As he got into it he began to feel
the meaning of the words and tried to read them with true expression.
As he gave them the necessary emphasis his voice, that most ready of
organs, refused to obey the dictation of the brain and the gradual
crescendo required for the delivery became a succession of Robsonian
squeaks! The audience loyally tried to suppress its hilarity. At first
it smiled, then giggled, then peals of laughter hurled themselves
across the footlights like shots from a Gatling gun. All upon the
stage, except poor Robson, heard the merry storm. He was now thoroughly
engrossed and squeaked away to beat Gilmore's band, utterly oblivious
of the fun he was creating. Thinner and thinner came Rob's squeak;
louder and still louder came the laughter until it became a veritable
avalanche. As he reached the line,
"Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder the old Anchises bear"--
He realized that the audience was laughing at him and he continued,
"Did I, the tired Caesar, you blankety-blank, blankety-blank!", his
added interpolation being really unfit for publication.
Fortunately the laughter drowned the words. Had the audience heard them
the performance would have ended then and there. We all thought that it
must have heard, that the end had come. I prayed fervently that it had,
but no such luck! It gradually quieted down and the play proceeded.
When my turn came to end the act some of my friends said I did very
creditably. At all events I got through without a laugh. And that I
considered a triumph. We often referred to it in after life and always
with great pleasure.
Robson was a unique person, gifted with the most thorough sense of
right and wrong of any man I ever knew. His word was a contract and
with it went the liberality of a king. He absolutely refused to grow
old and sought only the young. He tried to emulate the deeds of
charity of the Good Samaritan and had a kind word for all humanity. He
possessed the soul of a saint and the heart of a fawn. His motto was
JUSTICE. He wrote the words and music of HONOR.
In a spirit of jest he once promised a coachman a gift of five thousand
dollars if the coachman succeeded in winning the hand and heart of a
certain lady. He gave him one dollar on account never dreaming that the
man would woo and win successfully. Imagine his surprise when six years
later the man turned up and informed him of the date of the wedding. I
happened to be present at the time at his summer place at Cohasset,
Mass. The coachman went his way and Rob told me of his promise. I
said, "Surely, you are not going to make good a promise made in jest?"
He answered, "I am," went inside the house and in a few minutes came
back on the veranda with the cheque for four thousand, nine hundred
and ninety-nine dollars in his hand. He called his daughter and sent
her down the road with the cheque in quest of the young coachman, with
instructions to present it to him as a wedding gift "from S. Robson,
Esquire," ordered a brandy and soda from his servant and rudely left
me with instructions to "Go home!" Knowing dear Rob's proclivities for
B and S's, I loitered about for a few hours and then returned to the
house, but Rob had disappeared.
His daughter and I finally located him, with a few convivial friends in
the hotel bar at Hingham. He called us to one side and quietly asked
his daughter if she had performed the duty as requested. She answered,
"Yes, papa, I gave him the cheque." Rob asked, "How did he take it?"
His daughter replied, "Papa, he cried!" "How long did he cry?" asked
Rob. "About a minute," she replied. "That's nothing," said Rob, "when I
signed it I cried an hour!"
I could fill pages with such deeds of his as this one and I knew him,
man and boy, for thirty years. The world never knew a better man than
Stuart Robson; a loving father, a dutiful husband, a great comedian,
an honest actor and an upright American citizen. To quote from one of
Boucicault's plays in which he appeared, "He had the soul of a Romeo
and the face of a comic singer."
God bless you, Rob, wherever you and our dear friend, Bob Ingersoll,
are! Move over, and leave a place for me! If it's hell, I'll invoke
a blizzard; if Heaven, we shall need each other's companionship! We
shall say that we were wrong down here and ask to be forgiven.
Shall we be?
I wonder!
_Chapter IV_
JOHN McCULLOUGH
At the end of the year 1882 I attracted the attention of the manager
of the Dramatic Festival which was to be held at Cincinnati and
was engaged to play the grave digger in "Hamlet" and Modus in "The
Hunchback." Neither of these parts had ever been assumed by me prior to
his engagement. It had always been my desire to appear in Shakespearean
rôles and other legitimate characters.
The Dramatic Festival was a splendid success, artistically and
financially. We began April 30, 1883, the first performance being
"Julius Caesar." My associates were John McCullough, Lawrence Barrett,
James E. Murdoch, Mary Anderson, Mlle. Rhea, Clara Morris and Kate
Forsythe. The other plays given were "The Hunchback," "Much Ado About
Nothing," "Othello," "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet." The enterprise
was managed by R. E. J. Miles and stage-managed by William H. Daly. The
receipts for the week were in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand
dollars. It was a happy time, marred only by our discovering that poor
John McCullough was a doomed man, his mind showing a gradual decay. It
was the beginning of the end, for in a few months the curtain rang down
on dear John and he walked the stage no more.
A great, big-hearted, genial soul was lovable John McCullough!
Everybody loved him and who could help it? Broad-minded and equally
broad-shouldered, his companions ranged from prize-fighters to
senators, wantons to duchesses. He was a splendid player and many
suggestions have I received from him. He was a tragedian on the stage,
a comedian off. I knew him for twenty years and in all that time, as
intimate as we were, I always addressed him as "Mr." McCullough--and it
annoyed him greatly.
One night at the old St. James (New York) bar I greeted him with the
usual salutation. He replied, "Damn it, my name is John!" I answered,
"I don't care whether it is or not, I can't say it"--and I never did.
To me he was a Roman senator and oh, how simple, how kind! I was always
awed when in his presence. When we met and he slapped me on the back
by way of comradeship my spine would open and shut. Maybe it was the
vehemence of the attack, but I always attributed it to my admiration of
the man.
One noon I went into Delmonico's after a long siege of poker with the
late Billy Scanlon, actor (and clever chap by the way), William Sinn,
proprietor of the Park Theatre, Brooklyn, Billy Barry, Henry Watterson
and John R. Fellows, District Attorney of New York City. I wanted
a bracer badly, I can tell you, for we had participated in a very
strenuous evening. As we entered, there was dear old McCullough having
luncheon.
[Illustration: JOHN MCCULLOUGH AND ASSOCIATE PLAYERS IN THE
DRAMATIC FESTIVAL
_"Mr." McCullough and the rest of us_]
I stopped, transfixed. He saw me and beckoned me to a seat at the
table. I was terribly self conscious. He said, "Son, have a drink."
I replied, rather timidly, "No, thank you." (I was slowly passing
away.) He continued, "Well, you do drink, don't you?" "Yes," I replied,
"once in awhile." "I mean you get drunk!" he insisted. I replied in
the affirmative. "Good for you! I wouldn't give a damn for a man who
didn't, occasionally!" he commented. "Is that right?" I queried.
"Certainly," he replied. "Well, then," and I yelled to the waiter,
"Give me an absinthe frappé!" "That's right, my boy; and, waiter, make
it two," he quietly remarked.
We sat there for some time and soon I forgot all about my losses,
listening to his fascinating stories of Edwin Forrest and the palmy
days.
He was a most entertaining man and my memory often returns to the
many happy hours passed in the company of my good friend, "Mr."
McCullough--"John" for short--and sweet--now.
_Chapter V_
SIR HENRY IRVING
After the Dramatic Festival my wife and I embarked for Europe. It was
during this time that I made the acquaintance of Henry Irving who
was then managing successfully the Lyceum Theatre in London. Irving
apparently took quite a fancy to me. He showed me many attentions and I
was the recipient of many hospitalities at his hands.
Irving was an extraordinary man in many ways and considering what
nature had denied him his achievements were little short of marvelous.
Possessed of a voice of but little power, utterly lacking in grace,
even ungainly and awkward in action, he was possessed of that occult
power that made all those infirmities subservient to his fine intellect.
I think that Irving had a wider knowledge than any man whom I have ever
met in the theatrical world. So much has been written by able writers
regarding this remarkable man's abilities that anything that emanates
from me will seem puerile in comparison.
Irving's humor always appealed to me, his sense of it ever being in
evidence no matter how serious the surroundings. His utterances were
subtly humorous and at times a little cynical, but never harsh, his
gentleness of delivery always disguising the little cynicisms that
might lurk beneath them.
I remember lunching with him one afternoon at the Garrick Club. An
actor named Kemble came in, a little under the influence of the
succulent grape, and began bewailing the decline of the drama. He
expatiated upon the downward trend of the player, expressing great
dissatisfaction over the then present conditions and his desire to
"chuck it." He preferred solitude, away from the incompetency that
he was forced to witness. He would like to build a shack and relieve
himself from all these humiliating associations on some desert island.
Irving, calmly wiping his glasses, looked at him for a moment and
asked, "Why not try one of the Scilly Islands?"
Another time an awful bore, one Fletcher, whom Irving detested, rushed
up to him in a most affectionate manner, saying, "My dear Harry! whom
do you suppose I met in Paris, last week?" Irving replied, "I have no
idea. Paris is so filled with people." Fletcher continued, "I know,
dear Harry, but it was our old friend Graham--Charlie! You remember
him." Irving grunted, "Ah!" Fletcher rattled on. "Well, Harry, you
know we had not met for years and he accosted me right in front of the
Louvre and placing both hands upon my shoulders he said, 'Great God! is
this really Fletcher?'" Irving quietly looked up and queried, "And was
it?"