[Speech of Joseph Jefferson at the annual banquet held on Founders'
Night at the Players' Club, New York City, December 30, 1893. This was
the first time that Mr. Jefferson, the newly-elected President, spoke
to his fellow-players in his official capacity.]
FELLOW-PLAYERS:--Founders' Night should be of joy, unshaded by
the slightest tinge of gloom. I know this, but how can I speak to-night
without a loving reference to the one whose gift we now hold--a gift in
which our children and theirs for many generations will take pride,
delight and comfort. It would be a twice-told tale to rehearse the
career of Edwin Booth. You are as familiar with it as I am. But there
are incidents in his early life that may interest you, and possibly that
no one but myself could tell you.
An early remembrance of the stage brings before me the figure of the
elder Booth. When I was but five years of age I acted the Duke of York
to his Richard III. You may think it strange that I remember this
circumstance; but even a child as young as I was could not have stood in
the presence of this superb and magnetic actor without being indelibly
impressed with the scene. His son, Edwin, was then just born. We first
met when he was a handsome youth of sixteen. A lithe and graceful
figure, buoyant in spirits, and with the loveliest eyes I ever looked
upon. We were friends from the first, and it is a comfort to me to know
that our friendship lasted nearly half a century, unbroken by a single
act or word. His early performances upon the stage did not give much
promise, and there were grave fears that he had not inherited the genius
of his father. But after the death of that father young Booth's friends
and the public were suddenly startled by the news from across the
Continent that a new star had arisen, not in the East, but in the West,
and was wending its way homeward.
In 1854 I became the stage manager for Henry C. Jarrett in Baltimore.
That gentleman is a member of our Club and now stands before me. He one
day brought a young girl who had been given to his care and placed her
in mine--a beautiful child, but fifteen years of age. Her family, a most
estimable one, had met with some reverse, and she had decided to go upon
the stage to relieve them from the burden of her support, and possibly
to contribute to the comfort of her father. This loving duty she
faithfully performed. She lived in my family as the companion of my wife
for three years, and during that time became one of the leading
actresses of the stage. One morning I said to her: "To-morrow you are to
rehearse Juliet to the Romeo of our new and rising young tragedian." At
this distance I can scarcely say whether I had or had not a premonition
of the future, but I knew at the conclusion of that rehearsal that Edwin
Booth and Mary Devlin would soon be man and wife; and so it came about,
for at the end of the week he came to me in the green-room, with his
affianced bride by the hand, and with a quaint smile they fell upon
their knees in a mock-heroic manner, as though acting a scene in the
play, and said: "Father, your blessing," to which I replied in the same
mock-heroic vein, extending my hands like the old Friar: "Bless you, my
children!" Shortly they were married. We know that his life was filled
with histrionic triumphs and domestic bereavements.
May I not speak here of this gift of the Players? It is comparatively
easy for those who are rocked in a golden cradle, and who at their birth
are endowed with great wealth, to dispense their bounty. I do not desire
to disparage the generosity of the rich. Those of our land have done
much good, are now freely dispensing their wealth, and will continue to
do so; but we must remember that the fortune of Edwin was not inherited.
The walls within which we stand, the art, the library, and the comforts
that surround us, represent a life of toil and travel, sleepless nights,
tedious journeys and weary work; so that when he bestowed upon us this
Club it was not his wealth only, but it was himself that he gave.
But a few years ago he was (though rich in genius) poor in pocket. He
had been wealthy, and had seen the grand dramatic structure he had
reared taken from him and devastated. His reverse of fortune was from no
fault of his own, but from a confiding nature. When he again, by
arduous toil, accumulated wealth, one would have supposed that the
thoughts of his former reverses would have startled him and that he
would have clutched his newly-acquired gold and garnered it to himself,
fearful lest another stroke of ill-fortune should fall upon him. But
instead of making him a coward it gave him courage. It did not warp his
mind or steel his heart against humanity. No sterility settled upon him.
His wrongs seemed to have fertilized his generosity, and here we behold
the fruit.
When the stranger comes here and asks us for the monument of Edwin Booth
we can say: "Look around you." For some time past he had looked forward
calmly to his dissolution. One year ago to-night in this room, and at
this very hour, he said to me the memorable words: "They drink to my
health to-night, Joe. When they meet again, it will be to my memory."
Two years ago last autumn, we walked on the sea beach together, and with
a strange and prophetic kind of poetry, he likened the scene to his own
failing health, the falling leaves, the withered sea-weed, the dying
grass upon the shore, and the ebbing tide that was fast receding from
us. He told me that he felt prepared to go, for he had forgiven his
enemies, and could even rejoice in their happiness. Surely this was a
grand condition in which to step from this world across the threshold to
the next!