MORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES
Through the Great American Desert--A land of desolation--An
adventure at Santa Fé--“Hands up!”--Railway strike methods in
the wild and woolly West--At Kansas City--The Magicians’ Club
--“Welcome to our city”--A disappointing show--In the land of
the Mormons--Salt Lake City--Brigham Young’s seraglio--The
Mormon Temple and Tabernacle--Something like an angel--Brigham
Young’s statue--My worst Press notice--A journalistic tragedy
--In New York--I am served a scurvy trick--Hammerstein’s--
A row with the management--Sharp Yankee practice--I perform
in the New York Synagogue in the presence of the Chief Rabbi--A
unique honour--Rubber-neck cars--The almighty dollar--The
Statue of Liberty--A suggestive pose--New York hotels--A tip
as to boots.
Leaving Los Angeles for the East, we travelled by the Southern Pacific
Railway, and plunged almost at a bound, so to speak, from one of the
most lovely regions in the world into one of the most dreary and
inhospitable.
This is the rightly named Great American Desert. For a thousand
miles or so, practically all the way to Santa Fé in New Mexico, the
railway runs through a wild and barren country--flat, dreary, and
wholly uninteresting. Here and there patches of thorny “mesquite”
bush alternate with vast stretches of grey and red sand and dazzling
expanses of snow-white alkali. Other vegetation there is none, except
that occasionally some gigantic cereus--emblem of barrenness--rears
its contorted form into the thin clear air, and at night casts weird
shadows athwart the moonlit level.
The first portion of the line, as far as Fort Yuma on the Arizona
border, is the worst. For nearly two hundred miles the track runs over
what was once in prehistoric times the bed of the Pacific Ocean, and
which is now a wilderness of billowy shifting sand, devoid of either
animal or vegetable life, and of course totally without permanent
inhabitants. The greater portion of this horrible desert is below sea
level. It is, as might be expected, entirely destitute of fresh water,
and in the old pre-railroad days its ever-changing sand-dunes formed
the only graves of many hundreds of poor wretches vainly seeking to
reach California by what was then known as the “Southern Trail.”
At Santa Fé, where we arrived at ten o’clock at night after one of the
dreariest journeys imaginable, there was a wait of two hours, and I got
out of the train to stretch my legs a bit, and strolled down the line,
taking with me for company my contortionist, Harry Cardoe. By the side
of the track there was a kind of covered-in stall, kept by a Mexican,
where liquor of a sort was dispensed, and we turned in for a chat and a
drink.
From the proprietor of the shanty we heard that a big railroad strike
was in progress, and it was said that the strikers had blown up the
line in several places, and were threatening to dynamite the trains.
This was lively news, and I thought I might as well return to my car,
where were my wife and kiddies; which I did, leaving Cardoe still in
conversation with the Mexican.
An hour or more passed, and I was half asleep, when I was aroused by
our train being put in motion, and a minute or so later there was a
big commotion, and Cardoe, livid, dishevelled, and in a half-fainting
condition, came stumbling into the car, and sank, gasping and panting,
into the first seat he came to. So exhausted was he that it was full
five minutes before we could get anything out of him. Then, when at
length recovered his speech, he unfolded the following remarkable story.
It appeared that he had stayed some time after I left, chatting with
the Mexican keeper of the grog shop, when he was startled at hearing
the warning clangour of a bell, and at the same time he saw a train
drawing out of the station, or “depôt,” as the Americans prefer to
call it. Imagining it to be our train, he made a bolt for it, and
just managed to jump on the rear platform of the last coach, which he
presently entered, after a brief pause to recover his breath.
“Hullo!” quoth the conductor, eyeing him suspiciously. “Where in h--ll
did you spring from? Where’s your ticket?”
“Mr. Carlton’s got it,” answered Cardoe, with easy assurance. “He keeps
the tickets for the whole crowd of us.”
“Don’t know no Mr. Carlton,” cried the conductor brusquely. “Where you
goin’ to?”
“Kansas City,” said Harry.
“Huh!” exclaimed the conductor. “This train don’t go to Kansas City.
Off you get!” And, suiting the action to the words, he suddenly pounced
upon my poor contortionist, and flung him bodily out of the car.
By this time he had, of course, travelled some distance away from Santa
Fé, and after picking himself up, and carefully feeling himself all
over to make sure that no bones were broken, he started to walk back
along the railway track. But he was not yet at the end of his troubles.
He had not gone far, when two big men sprang up from the darkness
alongside the track, thrust in his face two big revolvers, and curtly
cried, “Hands up!”
Now any American under such circumstances would have known what to do,
and would at once have raised his hands above his head to avoid being
shot. But poor Harry was unused to the summary methods of the wild and
woolly West, and instead of doing as he was ordered he simply stood
stock-still, and gazed at his captors in hopeless bewilderment. The
next instant, however, he was on the ground, another member of the
patrol--which had been sent out by the railway authorities to guard the
track--having sprung upon him from behind and downed him.
Then, having pinioned his arms, they started to cross-examine him. Of
course, directly he began to speak in answer to their questions they
knew that he was no striker, and presently they let him go. They told
him, however, that he had narrowly escaped being shot dead in his
tracks, and warned him on no account to attempt to walk back to Santa
Fé along the line, lest he should meet some other patrol the members
of which might very likely shoot first and challenge afterwards. As a
result, the poor chap had to make a wide detour into the desert, and
only just managed to reach the “depôt” and scramble into the train as
it was on the point of starting.
At Kansas City I had a somewhat disconcerting experience; which,
however, was not without its humorous side. I arrived there, after
travelling all night, in the early morning after breakfast, and as I
was billed to give my first show at a matinée the same day, I was in a
bit of a hurry. I was hustling round seeing to the baggage, when an
old gent with a long white beard came up to me, accompanied by quite
a number of other people, and, beaming at me through his spectacles,
inquired:
“Are you Mr. Carlton?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well,” he went on, “I am Dr. Wilson.”
“Oh!” I replied, somewhat mystified.
“Dr. Wilson!” he repeated. “You’ve heard of me, of course?
I’m the President of the local Magicians’ Club, and these
gentlemen”--indicating his companions by a wave of his hand--“are
members of the deputation organised in order to bid you”--here he made
a long and impressive pause, and beamed upon all and sundry--“to bid
you,” he repeated, “welcome to our city.”
“Much flattered and obliged, I’m sure,” I replied, as each member of
the deputation was introduced to me in turn. And each member of the
deputation--there were about thirty of them in all--remarked effusively:
“Welcome to our city.”
Next, the old gentleman who headed the deputation made a speech. He
said that he and his friends had heard of my fame, which was indeed
world-wide, and that he and they wished me most cordially:
“Welcome to our city.”
By this time the baggage was loaded, and I was on thorns to be off. But
another old gent, who introduced himself as the editor of the _Kansas
Magicians’ Magazine_, butted in with yet another speech. He told me
that the magicians of the place had booked the front row of the stalls
for the coming matinée, and had arranged to entertain me to dinner
after the performance, in order to show their appreciation, and to bid
me--I knew what was coming by this time:
“Welcome to our city.”
Now mine is of course, in its essence, a spoof show. I rely on my
patter for effect, and on my sleight-of-hand to draw the applause of my
audiences. These people, I gathered later on, expected me to perform
some wonderful illusions with the aid of a lot of complicated apparatus.
When I first went on the stage there was a lot of applause and
hand-clapping from the front row where the magicians were, mingled with
shouts of:
“Welcome to our city.”
But as I proceeded with my show, I could see that their opinion of me
was rapidly undergoing a radical change. “The fellow’s not a magician,”
they exclaimed to one another; “he’s an impostor. Why, we could do
better tricks ourselves.”
They mostly quitted the theatre before the show was over, and I heard
no more of the proposed dinner. But I pleased my audience all right,
which was of course the main thing, and the unstinted applause which
came from all parts of the house, both then and thereafter, proved to
me that they, at all events, wished me:
“Welcome to our city.”
I had heard a lot about the Mormons--who has not?--and I was quite
looking forward to visiting Salt Lake City, where I was billed to
appear at the Orpheum Music-hall. As a matter of fact, however, I was
rather disappointed with the place, which has little to recommend it to
the casual visitor.
Of course we “did the rounds,” and saw all the sights worth seeing,
notably the Temple and the Tabernacle. The former is a very fine
building, but we only saw it from the outside, no others than Mormons
being permitted to enter its sacred precincts. It is said to have cost
£600,000, and to have occupied forty years in building. On the topmost
pinnacle, dominating the whole city, is a statue of the angel Moroni,
over twelve feet high, of beaten copper, covered with purest gold.
Moroni is the angel who, according to Mormon mythology, is supposed to
have revealed to Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism, the existence
and location of the golden plates on which were inscribed in mystic
characters the writings afterwards translated and published as the
“Book of Mormon.”
Salt Lake also boasts of a very fine statue of Brigham Young. He stands
with his back to the Temple, and his right hand stretched out to the
Deseret National Bank opposite. Scoffing Gentiles, of whom there are
many in the city, say that the pose is characteristic of the man. We
were also shown the Bee House and the Lion House, as they are called,
buildings joined together by covered passages, where in the old days
Brigham kept his numerous wives. Originally it was surrounded, after
the fashion of an Eastern seraglio, by a high wall, so that no prying
eyes could penetrate its interior; but this was pulled down after
Young’s death.
It was in Salt Lake City, by the way, that I was treated to absolutely
the worst newspaper slating that my poor little show has ever called
forth. “Carlton the long magician”--so ran the notice--“has the most
disgusting and joy-killing ten minutes the Orpheum stage has offered in
recent times. For cheap, slap, stick stuff, he gets the blue ribbon.
The Orpheum has no business inflicting such a pest on its patrons.
It is easy to believe the statements made by the eastern vaudeville
booking agents that good acts are hard to get these days.”
This gem of journalism appeared in the _Salt Lake Evening Telegram_. I
made inquiries and found that it was written by a lady who was consumed
by a furious hatred of everything and everybody English, and that
she invariably “slated,” to the best, or worst, of her ability, any
“pro.’s,” whether male or female, hailing from our country. The affair
did not bother me in the least, more especially as I got excellent
notices in the other Salt Lake papers; but some of the English people
there resented it, and went up to the office of the _Evening Telegram_
and had a row with the editor about it. Soon afterwards, and before I
quitted the city, the lady journalist who had penned the notice went
off and drowned herself in the Great Salt Lake. A verdict of “suicide
while insane” was brought in; and it is therefore, I take it, a fair
assumption that she was mad when she wrote it. In any case I am proud
of it and I have had it framed and hung up in my house. An artiste,
even a poor artiste, can always get plenty of flattering Press notices.
He can even buy them. But he cannot buy one like the above.
In New York I was served what I considered to be rather a dirty trick.
I had been on what is known over there as the Orpheum Circuit, a
twenty-two weeks’ tour through the principal Western American cities,
finishing at Milwaukee, when I received a wire from a New York agent
to say that he had booked me for four halls in that city, the Alhambra
and Palace; the Orpheum, Brooklyn; and one other. In between, a week
intervened, and I also received an offer from another New York agent
to put in this period at Hammerstein’s Music-hall, provided terms could
be arranged.
Now I was naturally rather anxious to achieve a reputation for myself
in New York, because a name made there counts. What I mean is that
just as in England a London success means far more to an artiste than
a provincial one does, so it is as regards New York and the rest of
the United States of America. So in consideration of their “featuring
me,” as we say in the “profession,” I agreed to a big reduction of my
usual salary at Hammerstein’s. I also got an assurance from the agent
that my name was to “top the bill”--what they call out there a “head
liner”--and that I was to come on not earlier than the seventh turn.
My reason for making this latter stipulation was that Hammerstein’s is
something like what the old Westminster Aquarium used to be in this
one respect, it is practically an all-day show, and there is, in the
ordinary way, hardly anybody there at the commencement. Consequently
any “dud” turn does to lead off with.
I badly wanted to see Niagara Falls on the way from Milwaukee to New
York, but found that the train arrangements did not fit in, so I had
to forgo the experience. Meanwhile a rather curious thing happened. My
contortionist overslept himself on the morning he should have started,
and as there was no other train, and as I could not afford to miss
the one I had arranged to travel by, I left his ticket at the booking
office and came on without him, heartily cursing him in my own mind for
his dilatoriness.
I, of course, imagined that I should have to open in New York without
him, and was very much upset and worried in consequence. As a matter
of fact, however, he turned up there at about the same time as I did;
he having had the luck to catch a special train which ran on that one
day only. And not only that, but his train came via Niagara Falls, and
stopped over there for a couple of hours, so that he was able to “do”
them thoroughly, a pleasure denied to me and my wife, and to the rest
of my company who had been punctual. The moral, in this case at all
events, would seem to be: “Take things easy, and they’ll come all right
in the end.”
On arriving in New York I naturally looked for my name on the top of
the bill at Hammerstein’s as arranged. To my surprise it was not there,
and I had to search diligently through a couple of yards or so of print
before discovering it in very small type, and right at the bottom,
sharing a line with the moving pictures. Naturally I was very much
annoyed, and I told the agent who had engaged me so in language that
left nothing to be desired in point of plainness.
He was apologetic. Said it was due to a printer’s error, and that
anyway it would be all right as regards my turn. But it wasn’t
all right. On the contrary, it was all wrong. When I arrived at
Hammerstein’s on my opening day, I was shown into a long bare
dressing-room, where were about twenty other performers, all strangers
to me. I set about getting ready in leisurely fashion, and was only
half made up when I was astounded at hearing the call-boy cry out:
“Your turn next, sir!”
Thinking that I had miscalculated the time I made a rush for it, but
when I got on the stage I was surprised to see that there was hardly
anybody in the building. Looking round I saw “No. 2” up, and it was
then that I realised for the first time that I had been done once
again by the slick Yanks.
They had played me a scurvy trick twice over. Not only had they not put
me at the top of the bill, but they had given me the worst turn, and--I
was to get only about half my usual salary.
Well, there was no help for it then, of course, but I made up my mind
that I was going to get a bit of my own back. And I did. When I went
on the stage there was practically nobody in the house, and I led off
by congratulating the management at having brought me all the way from
Europe at a big salary, and then putting me on when there was nobody
there to listen to me.
This patter raised quite a big laugh from the small audience that was
there. They, in fact, thoroughly appreciated the joke. Not so the
management. Mr. Kessler, the manager, was furious.
“Cut that out,” he cried in a stage whisper. “Don’t pull that
gol-durned stuff here.”
What I said in reply wouldn’t look well in print. In fact it nearly
ended in my breaking my contract, and chucking the engagement there and
then. And indeed I think I should have done so but for my wife, who
strongly advised me not to do anything of the kind.
“After all,” she said, “what does it matter? You’ve got two years’
bookings in England to go back to. Don’t throw good money away.”
This, after all, was sound common sense, and I took her advice. But
all the same I have no very pleasant recollections of Hammerstein’s,
more especially as because I declined to give a touting advertisement
canvasser an order for a page “ad.” in his paper--price one hundred
dollars--his editor slated me badly, saying that I was a bad copy of
half the variety artistes in the United States--performers whom for the
most part I had never seen.
At the other halls in New York where I appeared, nevertheless, things
went very well indeed. I was given a good “turn,” and made a big hit;
so much so that Mr. Martin Beck, the proprietor, asked me to give my
show in the New York Synagogue before Chief Rabbi Wise. This is an
honour that up till then had never been accorded to any music-hall
artiste, and I was, moreover, heartily congratulated by Mr. Wise at the
conclusion of my show.
So I quitted New York with pleasant recollections after all, but before
going, as a sly dig at Hammerstein’s, I inserted the following “ad.” in
_Variety_, a trade paper answering over there to our _Performer_:
“Sorry cannot come to terms with American managers. Boat sails
Wednesday next. CARLTON.”
A great feature in New York, and in fact in most of the big American
cities, is what is known as “rubber-neck cars.” These are really
observation motor-cars, holding twenty or more people, in which
visitors are taken round to see the sights. A man with a megaphone sits
in front with the driver, and roars out information at express speed
regarding the various buildings, etc., as the conveyance is driven by
them, and the term “rubber-neck” is used because you have to twist and
turn and bend that portion of your anatomy at all sorts of different
and uncomfortable angles, in order to properly view the skyscrapers,
etc., he points out to you.
Most of these conductors call out their information in terms of
dollars. “Over there,” he will say, “is the brown stone palace of old
Jacob Astor--cost five million dollars. That white marble mansion
to your right was built by one of the Vanderbilts--cost six million
dollars. City hall--cost eight million dollars. Post Office--cost
seven million dollars. This is the residence of Silas K. Jenkins, the
dry-goods king, came to this country without a cent in his pocket--cost
four million dollars”; and so on, and so on. All the while I was
entering the amounts in my pocket-book, and when I came to add them up
afterwards the total came to about 4,000,000,000,000,000 dollars--more
or less.
The people of New York are never tired of expatiating on the beauties
of their city, and especially are they proud of the gigantic Statue of
Liberty, overlooking the harbour. It is noteworthy, however, that they
have erected it with its face to England and its back to America.
One word in conclusion regarding the New York hotels. They are fine
institutions in their way, but there is one thing they won’t do for
you. They won’t clean your boots. I only put my boots outside my
bedroom once to be cleaned. In the morning they were not there. Nor
did I ever see them again, and the only answer I got in response to
repeated queries was: “In American hotels, sah, folks only put outside
their doahs things they don’t want.”