He was a strolling player. During the month of February, 1868, I was at
Chicago, gathering up a theatrical troupe to do the provinces. I found
no difficulty in getting my general utility people, but still lacked a
“first old man.” Every person wanted leading business—that was exactly
the trouble. When I was in the midst of my perplexity, I stumbled across
Carey, whom I knew to be out of a job, and offered him the position.
Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had
never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should
say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed,
dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refused
it,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd
twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just
married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the
stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did
not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad
enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver;
the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love
which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that
I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision.
I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in
earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention
of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me
except to retreat, which I did with many apologies.
Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one
Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days
after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he
was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar
dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon his
English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set
eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by
fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular
individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were
a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the
wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and
hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the
shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one
would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had
apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time
immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too,
as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in
body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad
spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the
fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as
we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head.
But, notwithstanding these peculiarities, there was something in his
bearing that gave Boydell the appearance of a finished gentleman, and
his fine address added to the impression he created of eminent
respectability. He accepted the position, and our business was speedily
accomplished. I requested him to call on the following day, when I would
be able to make the final arrangements for our departure, and he left
with a dignified bow.
Gathering together a company of actors and actresses from nowhere in
particular, and attempting to form them into something like an organized
troupe, is not by any means the most encouraging work with which one
might employ himself. Again and again my patience was exhausted, and
again and again I resolved to persevere. Several times we had almost
been ready for action, when somebody would “back out,” and throw us once
more into confusion. Now, however, I determined to surmount every
difficulty, no matter what, so that the next train might bear us _en
route_ for the West.
In the midst of the morning’s turmoil, Boydell made his appearance. I
informed him of our arrangements, inquired where he kept his baggage,
and told him I would send for it immediately.
“That will be unnecessary, as I have it with me. This, Sir, is my
baggage.”
While Boydell spoke, he put his hand back into his coat-tail pocket and
quietly drew out a scratch wig. I looked at his face to find something
which might belie the dignified voice, but there was not even the shadow
of a smile breaking up its gravity. His countenance was as composed when
he returned the wig to his pocket as though he had just shown to my
admiring gaze a complete wardrobe of great magnificence. Indeed, I was
so impressed by his aristocratic manner, that the ludicrous aspect of
the interview hardly presented itself to me until it was over.
But I had no time to be amused, and, with the annoying trials that would
turn up where I least expected them, no inclination. When I sent round
for the luggage I found that two of the boys had “shoved up their trunks
at their uncle’s,” and, as it was the last moment, I was compelled to
redeem them. Then I hired a carriage, and went to conduct the
_soubrette_, to the depot. When I arrived in front of the house,
_Madame_, _la mere_, came out and informed me that her daughter could
not go, would not go, unless I gave them fifteen dollars to get her
front teeth away from the dentist’s! What could we do without a
_soubrette_? With a groan I handed over the fifteen dollars.
Playing in the smaller towns along our route, we cleared our traveling
expenses, and got into pretty good working order.
When we arrived at St. Joseph we gathered up all our strength, and came
out in full glory as “The New York Star Company.” There we played for
three weeks to crowded audiences. On “salary days” the money was
forthcoming, a rare occurrence with strolling actors, and of course we
were all greatly delighted.
Under such circumstances our spirits ran high, and each one began to
tell of the particular _rôles_ in which he or she had, in days gone by,
electrified an audience and won applause. Boydell caught the infection.
It happened that we had been running plays in which the “first old man”
was, at best, only a “stick” part, and Boydell fretted considerably at
his ill-luck. One night he came into the green-room, and to his
inexpressible joy found himself cast for the part of “Colonel Damas” in
Bulwer’s comedy of the “Lady of Lyons.” Now this was his pet _rôle_, and
at the intelligence he felt all his dramatic genius kindle into a fresh
flame.
“Boys,” he said, straightening up his dignified form, “Boys, you will
see me make a great hit to-night. The passage commencing, ‘The man who
sets his heart upon a woman is a chameleon, and doth feed on air,’ has
never been to my mind rightly given.”
Many of us had seen him do pretty well before, but now we looked forward
to such an effort as the stage in St. Joseph had never witnessed.
The next evening I repaired to the theater half an hour earlier than
usual, but found Boydell already dressed for the play. His shabby black
coat looked more eminently respectable than ever, and was buttoned over
smooth white linen, or what he made answer the purpose of linen,—half a
yard of paper muslin folded into tucks, and pinned to his paper collar.
In his hand ready for use he held his one valuable—the scratch wig. It
still lacked a few minutes before he would be called, and he
disappeared, as he said, to “steady his nerves.” Various winks and
knowing looks passed among the boys; such disappearances on his part at
this time of the evening were by no means rare or unaccountable.
Boydell came back and went directly on the stage. The excitement behind
the scenes grew, for, although few of us would admit it, we all knew
Boydell was a born actor, and we clustered eagerly around the wings in
breathless expectation.