were stars. I was in a theatre, a truly national playhouse, where
plays were written every night. The plots of these dramas were so
thrilling as to make their telling cause for envy! I count it one of
the greatest privileges of my life to have seen these players as I saw
and heard them.
Well, the hostelry is torn down, the landlord has paid his rent and
sought a perpetual abode. All those whom I have mentioned are John's
guests, wherever he is. He will meet them with a cold bottle and a hot
bird and in some far off star I fancy I can see them all reunited,
old Mammy, the cook, still quarreling with the head waiter as he
communicates to Peter, "The season for canvas-back ducks is over, but
Mr. John has just ordered some Philadelphia capon that he can highly
recommend."
Chamberlain is now only a memory as far as Washington is concerned,
but he has left a monument at Old Point Comfort where the hotel that
bears his name now stands. It took him years to consummate the deal
whereby the government gave him the concession that enabled his friends
to advance the money to build that magnificent hotel. John never lived
to see it succeed. Before he died the property went into the hands of
a receiver and his friends lost their money. His grief undoubtedly
hastened his end.
Which star do John and the brilliant men I have mentioned occupy?
I wonder!
_Chapter XXIX_
W. S. GILBERT
One of the most gifted men I have ever met was W. S. Gilbert, of
Gilbert & Sullivan fame. He was not a very pleasant companion socially
as he was more of a cynic than a wit, but at intervals he would make
his cynicism subservient and become most agreeable.
At the Crystal Palace one evening I had the pleasure of being seated
next to him at a banquet, where, Bernand, Editor of "Punch," was
chairman. Bernand, I was told, was very jealous of Gilbert, which
became rather apparent as the banquet progressed, both he and Gilbert
indulging in several combats of repartee.
Gilbert was telling us a rather amusing incident at which we were all
laughing very decidedly, when Bernand shouted down the line of diners,
"Are you chaps laughing at those funny sayings of Gilbert, which he
sends to 'Punch' and never gets in?" Gilbert quickly replied, "I do not
know who sends the funny things to 'Punch,' but I do know that they
never get in."
Gilbert was once asked his opinion of Sir Herbert Tree's performance
of "Hamlet." "Well," he said "it was very, very funny and not at all
vulgar."
_Chapter XXX_
HENRY E. DIXEY
Equal if not superior to myself in the versatility of "ups" and "downs"
in the theatrical firmament has been the career of Henry E. Dixey.
Twenty-five years ago he was the toast of the Town. As Adonis his
fame was heralded from coast to coast and even permeated across to
England. His appearance on any stage was an event. When he appeared
in Boston after a run of nearly two years in New York he stopped the
traffic and multitudes swarmed the streets as he passed through the
city on his way to the Adams House. He was finally forced to appear
upon the balcony to acknowledge this tremendous reception. Ten years
after I saw him smothered nearly into oblivion as one of the members of
Weber & Field's burlesque company on Broadway, the scene of his former
triumphs. My heart bled for him, as I had seen him previously give
splendid character performances in the melodrama "Romany Rye." A few
years after I saw him come forth again resplendent as David Garrick in
Stuart Robson's play of "Oliver Goldsmith," only to disappear again as
a legerdemain performer and in vaudeville. Then he scored a tremendous
hit in one of Miss Amelia Bingham's plays. So it has gone on for over
twenty-five years. Undaunted, the graceful Harry jumps over the rails
of failure into the pastures of success. He is truly a wonderful man.
We have known each other for many years appearing as long ago as 1876
in Rice's "Evangeline" at the Boston Museum, when Dixey performed the
character of the _forelegs_ of the heifer not the _hind_ ones, my dear
pal, the late Dick Golden, performing that equally strenuous rôle. I
doff my hat to Henry E. Dixey and wish him a long prosperous career
on his journey down the other side of the mountain of life. He, like
myself, has passed the fifty mark, and he tells me he is just learning
how to act and Mr. Oliver Morosco tells the public he has no use for
middle aged actors. Think it over Mr. Morosco. Dixey has just scored
one of the hits of his life in young Mr. Mackaye's play of "A Thousand
Years Ago." I'm glad and I congratulate my good friend, Henry E. Dixey.
_Chapter XXXI_
SWAGGER NEW YORKERS OF ANOTHER DAY
When I was quite a lad in New York I had the good fortune to mingle
with some of the swagger men-about-town. They were the real society men
of the time, not the milk sops of the present day. My acquaintances
were men like Leonard Jerome, known as Larry among his intimates,
William P. Travers, Wright Sanford, Cyrus Field, John Hoey, Neil
O'Brien, whose sobriquet was "Oby," and many others. And they were all
witty, clever men of the world. My talent for mimicry was the cause of
my association with these charming men.
Among the wittiest of the lot was Mr. Travers, who was handicapped by
an impediment of speech, a slight stammer, that was almost fascinating.
One day, he asked me if I knew where he could purchase a good dog that
could kill rats. A lady friend had commissioned him to purchase one. I
took him to a dog fancier's in Houston Street and introduced him to the
canine connoisseur.
In a few moments Travers was the possessor of as fine a looking terrier
as I ever saw. When I told the proprietor who his customer was he was
overwhelmed and, taking him to one side, said, "Mr. Travers, I want to
give you a practical demonstration of what that dog can do with a rat."
"Ger-ger-a-go to it," replied Travers, "b-b-bring on your rer-rer-rat
and I'll rer-rer-referee the ber-ber-battle."
In a few minutes the man returned and threw the largest rat I ever saw
into the pit. It had flowing gray whiskers and looked every inch a
fighter as it stood on its hind legs ready for battle. The dog looked
at it for a moment as if in surprise at the bellicose attitude of the
rodent. While the terrier hesitated the rat acted! With one flying leap
Sir Rodent fastened his teeth upon the upper lip of the dog. Howling
with pain the canine finally shook off the rat and with a yell jumped
over the pit and ran yelping down the street.
The owner started after him, but Travers held him back, saying,
"Nev-nev-never mind the d-d-dog, wha-wha-what'll you take for the rat?"
One day Travers was inspecting one of the palatial steamers that had
been built by James Fisk, Jr., and Jay Gould. As he passed down to the
main saloon, he was confronted by two huge medallions, painted in oil,
of Fisk and Gould, on each side of the stairway. He looked at them for
a moment, then turned to one of his companions, saying:
"Where is the per-per-picture of our Saviour?"
_Chapter XXXII_
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
It was just after I had learned of the serious illness of that
delightful poet and blessed friend, James Whitcomb Riley, the Bobby
Burns of America, that I penned the following:
How cruel of Nature to take one of her favorite children if she decides
to!
Why make humanity weep and chill our hearts?
Why cause the Indiana flowers to cry for a gardener--for who will sing
their praises when dear Jim has gone?
Why clog "The Old Swimmin' Hole" with weeds? When our truant fancy
wanders to "That Old Sweetheart of Mine," we won't purchase tickets for
"Grigsby's Station" for "The Latch String" will have been severed. No
coffee will be served "Like Mother Used to Make" for "Dat Leedle Boy of
Mine."
Only the barren, dusty road of decay will mark the meadows of melody
that Riley has planted with the seeds of song and when Dame Nature
commands his spirit to join the other singers in the celestial choir
we who are left saddened can only kneel upon the sod made fragrant by
his presence and entreat the messengers to bear him gently over the
hills out to "Old Aunt Mary's" where the "Raggerty" man will whisper
"Good-bye, Jim; take care of Yourself."
As events transpired it was I who nearly started on the last long
journey--and Jim recovered. And one day in 1912 came this message to
ease my bed of pain:--
Indianapolis Ind Oct 9 Via Long Beach Calif Oct 10th 12
NAT GOODWIN,
_Ocean Park Calif._
Heartiest appreciation for your good birthday greetings and all
best wishes for your speedy recovery Loyally as ever.
9 28 A. M. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
_Chapter XXXIII_
DIGBY BELL AND DE WOLF HOPPER
It is a supreme satisfaction to look back over a period of 25 years,
and realize one has retained the friendship of even one man. I have
been successful with a few, but the most gratifying has been the
continued friendship between Digby Bell, De Wolf Hopper and myself. We
began our respective careers in the seventies, at about the same time,
and have appeared often in the same characterizations, principally in
comic and light opera, and always enjoyed the other's performances
much better than our own. We have frequently appeared at benefit
performances and always enjoyed ourselves immensely, irrespective of
the pleasure we were contributing to others.
Bell and Hopper, are directly opposite to one another in make up and
manner, although both are gifted with conspicuous personalities,
particularly Hopper. They gave a keen sense of humor accompanied with
much gray matter, and I consider them two of the most intelligent men
on our stage to-day. Both are gifted with the power to amuse off the
stage as well as on, being splendid raconteurs. Hopper is particularly
happy as an after-dinner talker and before the curtain speech-maker,
and his Casey at the Bat, has become an American classic.
Bell and Hopper, make charming companions and one never regrets an hour
or two spent in their society.
They say the only true way to know a man is to travel with him, or be
associated with him in business. I had the privilege many years ago
to spend many happy days in the society of Hopper, enjoying a holiday
spent abroad. We intended making a journey over the Continent, but
London proved so attractive that we remained there most of our time.
I had the pleasure of introducing Hopper to my English friends and some
of the London clubs, and he very soon made a host of friends.
Rather a funny incident happened during our stay in London. A Miss
Bessie Bellewood had made a tremendous hit in the music halls at this
time, and I was particularly anxious that Hopper should witness one of
her performances, as I considered her one of the cleverest vaudeville
artists I had ever seen. Hopper was doomed to disappointment, however,
as he had tried several times to witness her acting, but on these
various occasions, something happened which prevented the clever Bessie
from turning up at the hour she was advertised to appear, and when her
turn came, instead of her name being pushed into the receptacle which
announces the respective performers, they would shove in a sign which
read, "Extra Turn," and somebody would take her place.
[Illustration: IN CONFUSION
_Back in the eighties_]
One afternoon I met Hopper and told him that I had made arrangements
for us to accept invitations to luncheon, dinner and supper, but I, not
feeling well, decided I would only accept the latter, and intended to
go to my hotel preparatory to joining him at supper. He condoled with
me and we parted, I ostensibly to go home and secure my much needed
rest, Hopper determining to accept all three of the invitations. As he
was returning from his dinner engagement, he noticed Bessie Bellewood
was to appear that afternoon at the London Tivoli Music Hall, Hopper
determined to take another chance, his seventh, at seeing the
elusive Bessie, purchased a ticket after inquiring the time which she
was to appear that evening, and went, full of expectations. When the
time came for Bessie's appearance, to Hopper's horror, again was the
card thrust into the aperture saying, "Extra Turn." He arose and went
into the street filled with rage, and meeting a friend, he said that he
did not believe any such artist lived as Bessie Bellewood. The friend
assured him there was, and if he would take time to cross over and
look into Romonas' Restaurant, he would find the festive Bessie, with
his friend Nat Goodwin, at a sumptuous repast, where they have been
sojourning since two o'clock that afternoon. Hopper came over, his
massive form appearing at our table and said, "I thought you were home
in bed," to which I replied, "I was on my way my dear 'Willie,' but
meeting my friend Miss Bellewood, we came in for a quiet tête-à-tête,
and have been tête-à-têting all the afternoon."
I apologized for interfering with Bessie's professional duties, but
told Hopper that if he would accompany us upstairs, Miss Bellewood
would volunteer to sing three of her latest songs. We adjourned to
one of Romonas' private music rooms where Bessie regaled us with song
and anecdote, which caused us both to miss our supper appointment. He
agreed with me that Bessie Bellewood was the best music hall artist he
had ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
_Chapter XXXIV_
BLAINE AND INGERSOLL
"Eddie" Sothern, De Wolf Hopper and I were returning to America after
a most delightful trip abroad when we suddenly decided to stop off at
Queenstown and take a drive through Ireland in a jaunting car.
The driver of the vehicle proved a most loquacious fellow who bubbled
over with Irish humor. It took him but a very short time to set us down
as Americans.
Hopper and I actually are!
I took a seat beside him and began to question him about the
possibilities of Home Rule. He evaded my questions for a time, but
presently in a spirit of confidence told me that he was convinced that
the time was ripe for the freeing of Ireland. He even gave me a date
when they would be relieved from thraldom. He leaned quietly forward
and imparted the information, under promise of profound secrecy, that
there were ninety thousand men hiding in the County of Kildare, 110,000
in Tipperary and among the hills, rocks and caves of Killarney, 200,000
on the outskirts of Dublin and an equal number distributed through
County Cork, combined with several secret organizations throughout
Ireland numbering more than 600,000! The hills were well stocked with
dynamite and Winchester rifles, sent from America and closely guarded.
He further assured me that when the "head-centre" was satisfied all the
forces would be concentrated and Ireland would be free.
"Why don't you do it at once?" I asked.
"Begorra, the police won't let us!" he replied.
On my arrival home I told this story to Robert G. Ingersoll and
James G. Blaine at a luncheon given me at the former's residence in
Washington. They were very much interested in my narrative. In fact
they took it seriously, Blaine being particularly impressed with the
amalgamation of the Irish forces and in their serious intentions. As
I went on, repeating the number of troops that were supposed to be in
hiding I noticed a twinkle in Ingersoll's eyes. Blaine looked somewhat
surprised, but credulous.
As coffee was being served, I sprang the climax of my story with the
result that the coffee spread its course over the damask table cloth.
They must have laughed for five minutes.
I always knew that Ingersoll had a tremendous sense of humor, but I
never credited Blaine with any. Whenever we met in after life, he never
failed to refer to my jaunting car story.
_Chapter XXXV_
JIM CORBETT IN ENGLAND
Some years ago James J. Corbett, the ex-champion pugilist of the
world, was appearing at Drury Lane Theatre in London much to the
dissatisfaction of the resident actors, authors and managers. They
considered it in the light of a sacrilege for a prize fighter to
desecrate the boards which a Kean and a Macready had trod.
One night at the Green Room Club I was taken to task by that clever
dramatist Hamilton for allowing my countryman and fellow player, as
he sarcastically put it, to appear upon London's sacred stages. I
disclaimed all responsibility.
"I know, my dear boy," he insisted, "but you Americans should not allow
one of your countrymen to take such liberties with the drama; you
should take the necessary means to prevent such acts of vandalism!"
He continued with a tirade of abuse, accusing me of being a party to
Corbett's appearance. He finished his remarks with, "Do you and your
enlightened countrymen consider Mr. Corbett a good actor?"
By this time I had become very much angered at his many impertinent
remarks and I said, "No, but he can whip any man in the world and
that's why we worship him--not as an actor, but as a representative of
the manly art of self-defense!"
As I warmed to my argument I went on to extol the man's gifts that
have made him famous in Fistiana, using terms and expressions utterly
unknown to Hamilton who was aghast at the adulation and adjectives I
applied to Corbett.
"This man not only combines the prowess of the average heavy-weight,"
I explained, "but he can counter, side-step and swing! In avoiding
punishment he has the agility of a feather-weight! In fact," I
concluded, "you can't hit Corbett with a bullet!"
"What a pity!" said Hamilton.
_Chapter XXXVI_
THE COCKNEY CABBY COMEDIAN
I was returning from the Newmarket races in England after a very poor
day, having failed to back a winner. Arriving at Waterloo station I
found it was raining in torrents. Not fancying hansom cabs in that
kind of weather I permitted the crowd to rush along the platform in a
frantic endeavor to secure a cab, having made up my mind to content
myself with a four wheeler. It is not a particularly attractive vehicle
(four wheelers are generally in use all night and retain a stuffy and
most uncomfortable aroma therefore), but it is safe!
At the station there is an opening of about fifty feet from one
platform to another, unsheltered and roofless. I looked across
and discovered a solitary cab with an old man holding the ribbons
listlessly. The downpour fell about his narrow shoulders which were
meagerly protected by the thinnest of rubber covering. After I had
shouted several times for him to come over and get me he slowly turned
around and replied:--
"You come over here; my beast is a bit weary."
I dug my head into my coat and waded across the street, drenching
myself to the skin in that short interval. I quickly opened the cab
door, fell upon the damp cushions and gasped, "Carleton Hotel."
"Righto, Governor," came the response from the all but drowned cabby
and the vehicle began its weary journey, fairly crawling down Waterloo
Hill. Having a very important dinner party on hand and realizing
it was late I became somewhat anxious. Leaning out of the window I
shouted:--
"My good man, send your horse along. I am in great haste."
"He's doing his level, governor," he replied. "I can't shove him. He's
human as we are and besides he's been out all night."
I sank back onto the cushions biting my nails in sheer desperation as
the cab moved even more slowly. Again indulging myself in a shower bath
from the open window, I looked out and pleaded.
"For heaven's sake, driver, send that horse along; he's simply
crawling."
"He's striving 'ard, governor," came back the reply, "but he's no
sprinter at his best. I'll get you to the Carleton, never fear."
By this time I was frantic. I opened the door and stood on the step
disregarding the rain and shouted:--
"You fool, I'm not going to a funeral."
"Nor me to no bloomin' fire, neither," replied the cabby cheerfully!
_Chapter XXXVII_
A GILDED FOOL AND OTHER PLAYS
In looking about for an author capable of writing me a play wherein I
could endeavor to exploit comedy and pathos I met with much opposition
until I finally ran across Henry Guy Carlton. Carlton was living
in Boston, financially on his uppers. He had just indulged in the
dissipation of writing two tragedies, "Memnon" and "The Lion's Mouth"
and when I approached him with this idea of mine he quite agreed with
me.
I invited him to be my guest for a few weeks and during that time we
evolved the plot of "A Gilded Fool." I produced it that spring at
the Providence Opera House with a carefully selected cast, including
Clarence Holt, Theodore Babcock, Arthur Hoops, Louis Barrett, John
Brown, Robert Wilson, Mabel Amber, Minnie Dupree, Estelle Mortimer and
Jeane Claire Walters. Five of this cast have joined the vast majority.
We spent but little time in preparation and after only three weeks'
rehearsals produced it at the Providence Opera House. I was not
particularly hopeful as to the result. In fact a few days before its
production I became somewhat depressed and sent for my dear old mother
to run down from Boston to join me. I needed her consoling words, to
hear her tell me once more what a great actor I was. She "always knew"
I was "a genius." Of course the dear old lady came and after witnessing
one rehearsal pronounced it "absolutely perfect."
[Illustration: NAT GOODWIN AND COMPANY IN IN MIZZOURA
_One of the best casts I ever saw_]
At the last rehearsal I became very pessimistic. We rehearsed from
ten in the morning until four in the afternoon and then we hadn't
reached the last act, so I dismissed the rehearsal, mother and I went
to dinner, which was followed by a short siesta. I went to sleep
predicting all sorts of failure.
Before going to the theatre that night my old dad came down. He had
witnessed one rehearsal a few days before and gone home disgusted. We
both predicted defeat. I really could see nothing in my part. He shared
this opinion with me. (I regret to say he never thought me great in
anything. There you have a discerning old gentleman!)
Night came and much to my surprise my first line provoked great
laughter. As it had some reference to drink perhaps that was the cause!
It always seems to appeal to an audience! Each scene seemed to go
better than the preceding one and when we got to the poor, despised and
neglected last act it proved to be the most agreeable one of the lot.
That night we knew that we had a success.
Charles Frohman who came out from New York to witness the production
said, "You have made a great hit to-night, Nat, and I only wish that
John Drew, whom I contemplate starring next year, had so good a
vehicle."
The following year John began his starring tour with a play equally
as strong, by the same author, called "The Butterflies." In this play
Maude Adams sprang into fame.
"The Fool" made a great metropolitan success and I still play it in
repertoire.
Carlton was a most amusing and unique man, although a bit uncomfortable
to associate with. He was cursed with an awful impediment, a stammer.
With a keen sense of humor and an unusual amount of funny stories at
his command, his ability to lampoon you made an afternoon spent in his
society somewhat trying. He was fully cognizant of his infirmity, but
seemed to revel in it and in the discomfiture it caused his friends.
One day he called me up over the 'phone and after vainly endeavoring
to say "Hello" took one long breath (he generally spoke inhaling and
coughing his sentences, reminding you of a person endeavoring to speak
through a thunderstorm, while on horseback, jumping hurdles) and, after
a paroxysm, said, "Nat, have you half an hour to spare?" I replied,
"Yes." He coughed his reply back through the instrument, "Well, if you
have half an hour to spare, I want five minutes conversation with you!"
I once complimented him upon some medals which he wore. They bore
inscriptions for bravery displayed in an Indian war. He said he was
never entitled to receive them. "Why not?" I asked.
"Well," he answered, "I was leading some troops down a ravine when
we were suddenly surrounded by the Indians, lying in ambush. I was
frightened stiff and tried to give the order to retreat. For the life
of me I couldn't say it. All I could get out of my throat was 'Charge!
charge! charge!' and the more terrified I became the louder became the
commands! The result was we turned defeat into a victory and I became a
hero!"