broke his throat and caused his heart to burst and sob his soul away,
as did our beloved Booth. Did he ever cause a ripple of laughter to
equal those ripples set running by delightful Willie Collier? Did
he ever make you feel like bounding upon the stage and climbing up
to Juliet's balcony, as one is prompted to do when witnessing E. H.
Sothern pay tribute to Julia Marlowe? Did he ever make you start
from your seat and thank God that the performance was over, as when
listening to Edwin Booth's appeal to be allowed to enter the banquet
hall where his daughter is being held prisoner in "A Fool's Revenge"?
Did he ever rivet you to the spot by pure, sweet, untheatric delivery
of a speech without effort, as did Charles R. Thorne, in "The Banker's
Daughter"? Did he ever hold you enthralled in a spell of reverence,
as did Salvini or John McCullough in his address to the Senate in
"Othello"? In a word did Mansfield ever make you really laugh or truly
sob? Never? Then greatness was denied him.
I argue that if an actor cannot appeal to you through the emotions
he should take down his sign. If an actor cannot make you laugh or
cry; fails to impress by any method except that of physical force
or personality; cannot make love, he fails to qualify. Mansfield's
attempts to storm or win any of these emotions were as futile as they
were absurd and when he ventured within the realms of Shakespeare
he was atrocious or preposterous. With all his unquestionable
intelligence, he was never able to master Shakespeare's rhythm or to
scan correctly, as those who have witnessed his Richard, Henry the
Fifth, and Shylock, will remember.
That is my opinion of his acting.
What he did for the American stage is a far different proposition.
There is no denying the fact that he was quite as successful in
elevating the drama in America as Irving was in England, but he
suffered by comparison, as Irving was superior in knowledge of stage
craft. He was not the equal of Irving, either as actor or stage
manager. True, he was denied Irving's authorities and the assistance
of technicians who lightened Irving's efforts and materially added
to his fame. Neither were Mansfield's methods, employed to further
his ends, as legitimate as Irving's. Irving never found it necessary
to insult his audience for its lack of patronage, or failure of
appreciation. Dear benign Henry Irving devoted as much time to beget
a friend as Mansfield did to destroy one. Had Mansfield studied his
characters with the same amount of reverence which he bestowed upon
his productions and attention to "detail" I might have agreed with his
biographers; but I conscientiously say that I cannot. The mistakes he
perpetrated were often misconstrued into perfections of art.
Mansfield, in my opinion, was an actor who selected the one art in
which he was totally unfitted to shine and in which nature never
intended him to soar. He did everything wrong, well.
Personally, I liked Mansfield. He was most companionable, full of
anecdotes, a fine musician, sculptor, linguist, conversationist and
could be most agreeable, particularly to those whom he cared to
interest. I had several delightful chats and very often dined with him
in his private car and always came away wishing he could be persuaded
to send over his charm into some of the plays of his extensive
repertoire. But no, his channels were in the deep, dark waters of the
uncanny.
I have never left the playhouse, after witnessing one of his
performances, with a sweet taste in my mouth or a wholesome thought.
The trend of his characterizations was towards the cruelty in mankind.
He catered to the morbid. There was little sunshine in his plays.
They were as a rule overcast with the clouds of misery, crime, and
the "Winter of our discontent!" In the words of Joseph Knight, "_How
Awful!_" Yet what a true disciple of Cazauran he proved to be! No one
remembers a laugh provoker, while even third rate "serious" actors win
posthumous praise!
Mansfield was considered a great actor by the masses. But do the masses
know? No! You will hear them prate about his "detail." I do not agree
with the masses and never have agreed with them.
I do not enjoy a visit to the morgue.
I consider Mansfield's detail, as a rule, misapplied. If sitting upon
a great piece of scenery resembling an artichoke and stabbing himself
with a huge Roman dagger without toppling over, as he did as Brutus,
is detail, then I am wrong. When I saw him perform this piece of
"business" I marvelled at the vitality of Brutus and the weight of his
head for surgeons tell me that when one dies of a self-inflicted wound,
particularly when administered by a cleaver, the head falls forward
and naturally the body follows. Not so with Mr. Brutus as played by
Mansfield! He appeared too busily engaged in counting the people in the
gallery to allow any authority on self-inflicted wounds to interfere
with his "detail."
Again take the death scene in "A Parisian Romance." He is supposed to
die from a stroke of apoplexy, not a stroke of lightning. Mansfield
flopped over as if hit on the head with a club. The original, Germaine,
who played the part in Paris, received his stroke like a gentleman,
sank into his chair, was carried into an ante-room and calmly passed
away, a white hand appearing between the curtains as he endeavored to
rejoin his disreputable friends. If one were privileged to read the
original manuscript one would find that the Baron is supposed to faint
as he has fainted many times before. The people carry him off and the
party continues its revels until notified that its host has passed away
in the adjacent room. Not so with Mansfield, catering to the masses,
which enjoy "detail!" He got his stroke, dropped his glass upon the
table, fell--tableau! All stand riveted. Someone cries, "The Baron is
dead! Stop that music!" Curtain!
The American people not only fancy "detail"; they also want "ginger"
and "the punch"! No _pousse café_ for them! They want "the straight
goods"--and Mansfield certainly handed them over!
_Chapter XIII_
IN VARIETY
After my engagement with Robson at the Howard Athenaeum, which lasted
for only a week, my mind was fully made up to adopt the stage as my
vocation. I went to New York and secured a position as utility man at
Niblo's Garden, under the management of Charles R. Thorne, Sr., and
Edwin Eddy. But this lasted for only a few weeks, the season proving a
failure.
During the seasons of 1875 and 1876 I found it difficult to secure
any employment whatever. The variety business, now called vaudeville,
about this time had well-nigh supplanted the legitimate drama in the
estimation of the masses and I, being rather an astute observer for
a youngster, determined to turn my attention in that direction. The
salaries offered were tempting and the opportunities of advertising
one's ability much greater than in the legitimate. I persuaded my
father to advance me enough money to have some costumes prepared and
succeeded in inducing Bradford to prepare a sketch for me. It was
called "His First Rehearsal," the receipt for which I take pleasure
in submitting. You will see that sketches in those days cost small
fortunes!
[Illustration: (Handwritten receipt from Joseph Bradford.)]
[Illustration: IN THE LITTLE REBEL
_One of my first excursions into the legitimate_]
I succeeded in procuring an opening at the Howard Athenaeum under
the management of John Stetson. My associates appearing in the same
programme were Gus Williams, Sol Smith Russell, Pat Rooney, Denman
Thompson and several others who afterwards became famous players. I was
handicapped to a great extent by this competition and my success
was not very flattering until about the end of the week when I gained
more confidence and my methods were a bit surer. On the Saturday night
of my engagement Bradford brought a friend of his, Clay Greene, to
see his _protegé_. That evening, fortunately for me, my sketch went
particularly well. Years after Mr. Greene wrote the following tribute:
THE LEGEND OF NATHANIEL
BY CLAY M. GREENE
"Come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile,
To see the mummers; not at the Museum:
'Tis laughter's Tomb. The Park's a dull Te Deum;
The Globe's a Morgue. Mayhap there be a smile
That lurketh somewhere in the dingy Athenaeum."
Thus spake my friend, Joe Bradford: Rest his soul!
I'd known him then a day, and we were chumming,
As though we'd been for years Love's lute-strings thumbing.
We'd told each other's lives; each ope'd his soul,
And drank the other's health 'till riotous becoming.
To his beloved Athenaeum, then,
We almost reeled, and in a trice were seated,
So close that we could scent the footlights heated.
We laughed indeed, again, again, again,
As clownish Mummers ancient songs and quips repeated.
Then came into the light a slender boy,
And Bradford yelled with lusty acclamation:
"That's NAT, God bless him!" Then, without cessation,
The stripling held each hearer like a toy,
And thrilled him now with song, then wondrous imitation.
First Farce, then Opera, now broad Burlesque,
Then e'en in tragic realms majestic soaring,
And each attempt success prodigious soaring;
(Be it pathetic, tuneful, or grotesque,)
Till every palm was bruised with ravenous encoring.
The youth had scarce outgrown his spelling book,
And yet tho' oft some honored name defaming,
By matchless ridicule, his pure declaiming
Came easily as ripples to a brook,
Or thrills to lover's souls when latest sweethearts naming.
"Who is this boy?" I cried. "He's clever, quite;
Whence came he? Where began his gentle schooling?
'Tis pity there's no art in such tomfooling,
And much I fear this youth I've seen, tonight,
Is but a clever clown! Alas! Such kindless ruling!"
"Then thou'rt a weakling Judge to so decide!"
Cried JOSEPH, redd'ning in his indignation.
"A clown? No art? Why 'tis no imitation
That we have heard; nor can it be denied
This callow boy is that one genius of a nation!"
"You smile; you purse your lips; and even doubt.
E'er I have drunk myself into perdition,
NAT GOODWIN will have filled with inanition
The fame of every actor hereabout:--
For Nature gave him the Creator's tireless mission!"
He reproduced no song, no speech, no jest,
But it was lustered by some hidden power
That comes to Genius born with Fortune's dower.
Youth in his veins, ambition in his breast,
This boy will be one day the hero of his hour.
More than a decade passed. Unlike to me,
Joe lived not to fulfill that night's foretelling;
Yet oft adown the years there comes a welling
From that Somewhere, to green prophecy
Which in my doubting soul that night usurped a dwelling.
Today, I saw an eager, jostling throng,
Like some greed-laden human panorama,
Surround a playhouse door with vulgar clamour,
To honor Bradford's star. "Seats! Seats!" their song:--
To witness his, NATHANIEL'S, show of laurelled glamour.
Oh, gentle friend of mine, thou art no more;
But lend thy spirit ear while I am spinning
My admiration's tale of endless winning
NAT ever made. He never failed to score
Since we together saw his modest first beginning.
I hid thy prophecy within my breast,
And ever and anon its force recalling,
Watched GOODWIN stride with speed that was appalling;
Till now his very foes proclaim him best
Amongst his votaries, thy very words forestalling.
And I am glad to know, my spirit chum,
That I long since let honest admiration
Be leavened by a Friendship's adulation
For him who in these decades hath become
No artless clown, but that one genius of a nation.
Drink deep with us, thou gentle Friendship's wraith;--
If thou hast aught to drink where thou'rt abiding,
And Nat and I'll recall thy stalwart faith
Which met my doubting with indignant chiding,
That night when you a new star's orbit were deciding.
"Come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile,
To see the Mummers (not at the Museum.
'Tis laughter's tomb; the Park's a dull Te Deum;
The Globe's no more): for I would see thee smile,
While thousands laud the star of thy loved Athenaeum!"
After my run at the Howard Athenaeum Tony Pastor offered me an
engagement at $50 a week to appear at his Variety theatre in New
York. When I arrived I was terror stricken at the way in which he had
announced me. I was advertised as "Actor, Author and Mimic." I remained
with Tony several weeks and when I left Gotham my salary had grown to
the sum of $500 a week, a tremendous salary in those days.
Variety was hardly to my liking as it gave me too much time to myself
and I regret to say that I saved but little from my season's work.
Colonel Sinn of the Olympic Theatre, New York, made me alluring offers
to continue on the variety stage, but I decided to enter the legitimate
and accepted an engagement to appear as Captain Crosstree under the
management of Matt Morgan, then the manager of the 14th Street Theatre
in the burlesque of "Black-eyed Susan." It was there I met for the
first time dainty little Minnie Palmer and we appeared together in two
farces, "Sketches in India" and "The Little Rebel."
After a few weeks at the Fourteenth Street house we accepted an
engagement to return to the Howard Athenaeum and we opened there at
a joint salary of $750 a week. I was very proud of this, as I had
previously left that theatre, not particularly successful, at a salary
of only $15 a week.
_Chapter XIV_
ELIZA WEATHERSBY
Minnie and I determined to remain together and continue in vaudeville
through the following year and made our arrangements accordingly. But
these were vetoed by her mother who decided that we had better earn our
respective livings apart.
The following summer (1876) I opened in the production of Rice and
Goodwin's "Evangeline," words and lyrics by J. Cheever Goodwin, music
by Edward E. Rice. I appeared in the character of Captain Dietrich.
My associates in this production were William H. Crane, James Moffit,
Harry Josephs, Veney Clancy, Lizzie Webster and Eliza Weathersby, one
of the most famous beauties of the burlesque stage, who came to this
country originally with Lydia Thompson.
A friendship sprang up between Miss Weathersby and me. It quickly
ripened into love and at the close of our season we were married by the
Rev. M. Kennedy of New Rochelle, New York, on the 24th day of June,
1877.
Eliza Weathersby proved a loving and lovable wife and was of great
assistance to me in my profession, playing the principal female rôles
in all my plays with great success until she was forced to retire from
the stage because of the illness which gradually brought about her
death.
[Illustration: ELIZA WEATHERSBY
_The wife who mothered me_]
Eliza Weathersby was one of the most beautiful women whom I have ever
known and one of the most self-sacrificing wives that ever blessed man
with devotion and love.
Forced by circumstances, she left a position at the Haymarket Theatre,
London, where she was considered the best soubrette since Mrs. Keely,
and came to America with the celebrated Lydia Thompson's famous troupe
of British blondes. Her environment was most distasteful to her as the
women with whom she was forced to associate were not to her liking.
Lydia Thompson, herself, was a most exemplary woman and as virtuous as
Eliza. She, too, was a very clever actress even before entering the
field of burlesque and a friendship sprang up between them which lasted
for many years.
The reason for Eliza Weathersby's entry into the burlesque field was
that the salary offered enabled her to support her widowed mother and
five sisters who were left in want by the death of their father. She
knew that no matter what her surroundings were she was proof against
all temptations and her after life revealed how thoroughly she had
diagnosed her character and future. Every week after our marriage a
certain sum was sent across the ocean, out of our joint salary, to the
widow and orphans left in London and, one by one, each succeeding year
a sister would come over and join our happy family. Emmy, the most
beautiful, our favorite sister, was taken away from us two years after
she arrived. Contracting a severe cold she died of pneumonia and we
sorrowfully put her away in Woodlawn. She was a charming girl. And she
gave promise of becoming a splendid actress.
I was only a stripling when I married this beautiful creature. Moreover
I was unreliable and, I confess, unappreciative of what the fates had
been so kind as to bestow upon me. Many have accused me of "wanton
neglect." I may have neglected her, but only for the companionship of
men. She never complained and during the ten years of our happy married
life there was never one discordant note. She was ten years my senior
and treated me more like a son than a husband, but, like the truant boy
who runs away from school now and then, I was always glad to return and
seek the forgiveness that an indulgent mother always gives a wayward
child. Our own home near Boston was a little paradise. I was seldom
away from it and together we spent many, many happy hours, surrounded
by our little sisters and my friends--who were always her friends. She
was domesticated to a degree and never cared for the theatre. A loving
sister, a dutiful daughter, a loving wife, she is resting in Woodlawn
and the daisies grow over her grave.
We remained with the "Evangeline" aggregation during the summer of
1876. This engagement was interrupted by my accepting another to
appear at the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia in conjunction
with the famous John Brougham. This only lasted for two weeks when I
rejoined Rice and continued with him until I was discharged for having
a fistic encounter with the stage manager who was always making things
particularly disagreeable for me. Eliza was offered an increase of
salary to remain, but she preferred casting her lot with me.
We packed up our parcels and went to New York in search of an
engagement. I succeeded in procuring an opening with Harrigan and Hart
at the Theatre Comique where I remained for several weeks. Tony Hart
and I were always like Damon and Pythias.
What a delightful character was Tony Hart!
"His face was a thanksgiving for his past life and a love letter to all
mankind."
About 1872 a bright-eyed Irish-American lad named Anthony Cannon came
over the theatrical horizon like a burst of sunshine and it took but
a few short years for him to establish himself in the hearts of the
American public. I met him about 1874, before I went on the stage, and
a friendship sprang up between us that terminated only when he was laid
to rest in the Worcester graveyard.
Tony Hart was the name of the lad of melody, after he had fired the
Cannon. From the time he became associated with Edward Harrigan until
the name of Harrigan and Hart became famous from coast to coast, that
boy caused more joy and sunshine by his delightful gifts than any
artist of his time. To refer to him as talented was an insult. Genius
was the only word that could be applied. He sang like a nightingale,
danced like a fairy, and acted like a master comedian. No dialect was
too difficult for him--Irish, Negro, Dutch, German, Italian became
his own, and one lost sight of the individual in the truthfulness of
portrayal. His magnetism was compelling, his personality charming. He
had the face of an Irish Apollo. His eyes were liquid blue, almost
feminine in their dove-like expression. His head was large and round
and covered with a luxurious growth of brown curly hair which clustered
in ringlets over a strong brow. His feet and hands were small, his
smile almost pathetic. His disposition turned December into May. This
was the lad who sang, danced and acted himself into the hearts of
America during the seventies and early eighties.
Tony Hart was the friend of all mankind and my especial pal.
I have loved three men in my life, and he was two of them.
I miss him greatly, especially on the 25th of each July. We both were
born on that day and during a period of twenty years we exchanged
telegrams, letters or cables of loving friendship.
He went away many years ago, but his memory will always linger with
me. We laughed and sang together for twenty years and when they took
him away to join the seraphs, nature discarded the mold that fashioned
him. She could find no one worthy to fill it. When poor Tony left us
the stage was seen through tears; an artist had gone to join the past
masters; the world had lost a man and I, man's greatest treasure--a
friend.
After leaving Harrigan and Hart, Eliza and I made up our minds to go on
our own. I knew my limitations and her reputation. She had previously
made one or two journeys into stardom alone and I thought it would be
a good idea to organize a company featuring her. I would be in her
support.
Our finances prohibited a production sufficiently elaborate for a
burlesque organization so we determined to have a play written on
the lines of The Vokes Family skits and Salsbury's Troubadors which
were then playing successfully throughout the country, I interested
a ne'er-do-well playwright named George Murray. We collaborated and
brought out a little play called "Cruets" into which we injected all
the little stunts in which we excelled (and all others that we could
crib!). Thus we started out on our first starring tour, her name
heading the company.
We played through the New England circuit where we had previously
appeared in "Evangeline." Our proceeds the first week went away beyond
our most iridescent expectations. We cleared in the neighborhood of two
thousand dollars profit.
[Illustration: IN HOBBIES WITH ELIZA WEATHERSBY
_The play I won at faro_]
Out of the proceeds of our first week I paid a retainer to Benjamin
Wolfe, a Boston journalist who had written "The Mighty Dollar" for
W. J. Florence, to write us a play on the lines of the one we were
then doing. Had I known what was in store for us I would not have
indulged in such extravagance. For the next five months we never saw
a house of more than two hundred dollars at any performance and in a
little while the remainder of our $2,000 had almost vanished. I had
paid Wolfe a thousand dollars down as a retainer on his agreeing to
deliver the manuscript in five months. We had been travelling through
New York, Ohio and Illinois to gradually decreasing business. We always
left a favorable impression, so much so that John Albaugh who was then
managing the leading theatre at Albany wired me for a return date. I
accepted with avidity, as it meant a week's rest and a possible relief
from bad business.
Upon our arrival at Albany I received a telegram saying that Wolfe had
sent his play, called "Hobbies" C. O. D. A thousand dollars was needed
to get the manuscript from the confines of the post-office. A thousand
dollars to me then looked like a million!
Poor Eliza had saved enough from her earnings to enable her to put
aside ten one thousand dollar government bonds. These I insisted
she lock up in a safe deposit box the day after our marriage with
instructions to tell no one of her hidden fortune nor ever to molest it
unless we were starving. When the telegram arrived she insisted upon
going down to New York and taking out one of the bonds with which to
release our play. I would not give my consent and started out to try to
borrow the money. I knew few people in Albany, but had two friends in
Troy whom I thought I could rely upon to come to my rescue. One was a
judge, the other a gambler. I found them both financially embarrassed,
but between them they dug up a hundred dollars which they presented to
me.
My gambler friend suggested that I take the hundred dollars, go
upstairs into a faro game in which he held a slight interest and
try to win out. I reasoned that the hundred was of no use to me and
determined to take a chance. I went into the gambling room, and bet
the hundred dollars on the high card. It won. I let it stay and it won
again, giving me four hundred dollars. I asked for a chair then and sat
down.
In ten minutes I had eleven hundred and fifty dollars! I immediately
returned the hundred dollar loan, bought Eliza a bunch of lilacs, her
favorite flower, went to the post-office and returned home with the
much coveted manuscript.
I was ashamed to tell her how I "earned" the money, but I wouldn't tell
her a falsehood and finally told her of my afternoon's experience.
This worried her greatly as she never believed that any good results
came from money obtained that way. I assuaged her grief and as usual
was forgiven. We spent that night pondering over the manuscript and
at the finish we both decided it was vastly inferior to our little
play "Cruets." However, we announced a production for Friday night.
This gave us only five days of preparation. We thought so little of it
that we never gave any attention as to what we should wear, arriving
at no definite conclusion until the night of the performance. So
little did we think of the play that I offered Charles Bowser, my
leading comedian, a half interest in it for five hundred dollars and a
cancellation of the three hundred and fifty dollars I owed him for back
salary.