One Man in His Time: The Adventures of H. Watkins, Strolling Player, 1845-1863, from His Journal [Reprint 2016 ed.] 9781512806861

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME THE ADVENTURES OF H. WATKINS Strolling Player 1845-1863 FROM HIS JOURNAL

By MAUD AND OTIS SKINNER

One man in his time plays many parts His acts being seven ages

UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS Philadelphia LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

1938

Copyright 1938 UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA PRESS

Manufactured

in the United States of America

To the memory of MY WIFE the inspiration of this book who with infinite toil and keen eye deciphered the manuscript of Harry Watkins's Journal. O. S.

FOREWORD From the day that Mrs. Skinner exchanged the amount of Amy Lee's dentist bill, together with an appreciative honorarium, for her father's Journal she never abandoned the idea of making it into a book. We frequently debated the question, What kind of book should it be? until, in the summer of 1936, we found the answer and set to work. It was no easy matter to decipher the cramped chirography crawling, closely knit, over both sides of halved foolscap paper in the pile of manuscript. Its recorded adventures commencing a century ago, notwithstanding the zealous care bestowed on its preservation, are inscribed on pages yellowed by time, in ink that frequently fades. Was it all veritable or was the adventurous and imaginative Watkins composing drama and thinking of a future audience? To ascertain the military record of young Harry the army files at Washington were consulted and inquiries made of the Minnesota Historical Society regarding Old Fort Snelling. Newspaper files of the mid-eighteen-hundreds were diligently scanned and myriads of photographs, playbills and volumes connected with the theatre in America during its days of vagabondage were gone through. Everything dovetailed. There was "nothing extenuate nor aught set down in malice" save the temperamental flares of the envious diarist, his repetitious "I made a hit," and that humiliation that "patient merit of the unworthy takes." Ornate and melodramatic, many-colored as Joseph's coat, the Journal is a pageant of the theatre seen through the eyes of a humble but eager practitioner. The Journal's dates are a bit baffling. There are evident lapses in time. Sometimes the week day is set down, or again the day of the month; the very year is often guesswork. vii

ONE MAN IN HIS

TIME

After all, these details take but little from the value of the narrative, its timelessness need not concern us. In elaborating the record by adding information wrung from many books, reminiscences, essays, autobiographies, and histories I am chiefly indebted to N. M. Ludlow's Dramatic Life as I Found It; Sol Smith's Theatrical Management in the West and South; the chronicles of the New York theatre by Ireland and T. Alston Brown; and to Mrs. Trollope's amusingly vituperative Domestic Manners of the Americans; but above all to Professor George C. D. Odell's monumental work, Annals of the New York Stage. OTIS SKINNER

Woodstock,

Vermont

1938

viii

PREFACE It was during the War that Amy Lee and I became friends. The Stage Women's War Relief had appointed me their "Representative on Tour," and I had tried to make good my ambiguous title in first qualifying with a Red Cross First Aid Certificate, and then seeking in each city along Mr. Skinner's hurdy-gurdy route of Mister Antonio enough women who had been connected with the theatre to establish a branch and give them a chance to work for the New York Headquarters or donate their finished products to local organizations. My experiences were a heartening revelation of the eagerness to serve and countless sacrifices made by stage women. In Philadelphia a whole house was given to us by Mrs. James Elverson (Nellie Mayo) as our workshop. We were only a handful, so we stretched the requirements of eligibility rather thin in order that the long tables might be filled with white-aproned bandage folders; but I had the happy thought of asking two women whose long and honorable service in the American theatre made them not only eligible but notable members of the Philadelphia branch of the Stage Women's War Relief. They were "guests" from the Edwin Forrest Home. One was Sidney Cowell, a little frail for hard work, but the other seemed robust enough—she was Amy Lee, the daughter of Harry and Rose Watkins. It gave pleasure to them to serve and a prestige to us in having two retired actresses from the Home which Edwin Forrest had left to his peers. From our small cash fund we arranged for their transportation to and from Holmesburg, and they were eager to come; they always arrived on time, Amy Lee giving Sidney her right arm as aid up the stone steps (Sidney did not see very well), while from her left arm swung an ix

ONE

MAN

IN

HIS

TIME

ugly little satchel which she like other suburban Philadelphians chose to call a "cabba." It was not only for her personal necessities—coin purse, handkerchief, spectacles, etc., but to hold the tiny purchases she had made as errands for other guests at the Home. Billy Beach, for example, was only to be satisfied with smoking tobacco from a certain shop in Chestnut Street. Sidney took her seat at the head of the table. The place was hers by priority. Often the work laid out before her was untouched; she would fold her hands in a majestic manner and talk of the long ago; she had an inheritance in the theatre none of us could match. But Amy Lee, too, had a background and usually topped Sidney's stories with others perhaps not so brilliant but merrier, for she was ever the comedienne. In her chair near the middle of the table her tiny hands fluttered as she folded compresses, and often I had to raise a warning finger when she knotted a thread by moistening it in her mouth. She always laughed merrily in accepting the rebuke, shook her head at me, but never paused in the story she was telling. She was probably never very pretty and now she was dumpy, with a sweet high-pitched voice, and her tiny wrists and ankles showed that one day she had been as she was frequently billed: "The accomplished juvenile actress and songstress La Petite Amy Lee." She was too young for retirement; with her sense of comedy she should have had at least another ten years in the theatre; alas she never told us she had been given her warning. Her laughter so infectious gave no hint that not only were her acting days over, but those in the comfort and ease of the Home were to be brief. I had seen her twice upon the stage, once at the Girard Avenue Theatre where for years she was a star in a stock company, when she played Nan, the Good-for-Nothing at x

PREFACE

a benefit performance. The play was old-fashioned and she too seemed old-fashioned; but her audience adored her. The next and last time I saw her was in a French comedy at the Broad Street Theatre just before her retirement. She was deliciously funny. All her comedy tricks of the early years had matured into an art so keen, so sure, that the other actors seemed amateurs. She knew just when and how to get a laugh or to repress one. In some newspaper I find this comment upon one of her youthful performances: "Amy Lee had precocious talent, but her green silk dress, however, was out of place on a peasant girl." I have a great suspicion this is a fair summing-up of Amy Lee's talent. She was a good actress but she needed some one to hold the whip-hand over her natural tendencies. One day Sidney arrived at the work-room with a handsome Morocco-bound book. It was a document in evidence of the family's position in the theatre. This was her father's autograph album. After we had been sufficiently enthusiastic over the signatures and letters, Sidney still in her majestic dignity announced that the album was her all—her unique treasure, and she would like to sell it to give something to the soldiers and a token of remembrance to her friends. I found the one who could be generous to Sidney and she in turn could then be generous in her gift to the boys in khaki, and in little presents to her fellow guests of the Home. Eventually our workshop had no reason to exist—the war was over, my occupation was also over, but the pleasure of seeing Amy Lee did not end. She made a few trips to New York and she loved writing sprawly, gossipy little letters about the Home, plays that came to Philadelphia, etc. Occasionally she sent me a piece of stage jewelry which had belonged to her mother or to her mother's more celebrated sister, Mrs. John Hoey. (Amy Lee's mother had lived in xi

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

the Edwin Forrest Home for nine years and Amy always regarded it as a matter of pride that she had inherited her mother's place—there was no sense of poverty or failure in her make-up. They had both been inheritors of Edwin Forrest's generosity.) Remembering Sidney Cowell's luck with her autograph album Amy wrote me one day asking if I would be interested in her father's diary and, if I liked it, could I sell it for her. She needed a new set of false teeth! Amy got the teeth and for twelve years I have kept the diary, together with her agreement for its publication. It was written with the hope of publicity, and it stands as a record of our theatre in its struggle during a low ebb. Harry Watkins always fought for his place in the retreating tide with only too infrequent success, but did actor ever devote his life more ardently to the profession he adored? We find the record beyond impeachment. One story I have sought in vain to trace to its end, that of the child wife, Harriet Melissa Secor; she seems to have faded out of his life after he met the radiant Rose Shaw Howard. She was such "stuff" as dreams are made on," and yet some tribute should be paid to any actress who, in the days of her honeymoon, dared tell her husband that there was, perhaps, another way to play a part—a quieter way. Moreover he tried it and found it was probably more artistic when not so noisy. She caused him as little trouble as possible; the birth of the first baby boy occurred on Sunday when he was not at the theatre. When I think of that poor young thing, far from her own family, living in a cheap, insanitary boarding house in Louisville, I sorrow for both of them. It was a heart-breaking day. However, like all self-effacing women she had a tenacious nature, and would not be denied when later he got an engagement in Philadelphia. She and the little boy must go too, and there quite bravely she chose the midweek matinee day (while Harry was at the theatre), xii

PREFACE

for her second accouchement—this time in a cheap hotel bedroom. Whatever became of her, Harriet Melissa was not a stumbling-block in his character building. 1936

MAUD SKINNER

xiii

CONTENTS Page FOREWORD

vii

PREFACE

ix

Chapter I II

BARNSTORMING IN THE 'FORTIES

1

THE WARTIME THEATRE

19

III

THREE SOUTHWESTERN PLAYHOUSES

28

IV

A GALAXY OF STARS

41

BOOTH, FORREST, AND BOSTON

54

MORE BOSTON ACTIVITIES

62

VARIED ENGAGEMENTS

73

AUTHORSHIP AND MANAGEMENT

98

V VI VII VIII IX

A YOUTHFUL ADVENTURE

122

X

EXIT THE ELDER BOOTH

130

TRIALS OF A MANAGER

144

MATRIMONY

158

XIII

INSURRECTION

171

XIV

PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS

189

XV

THE EMINENT MR. BURTON

213

THE GREAT SHOWMAN

225

THE ENGLISH INVASION

234

"AND THEN IS HEARD NO MORE"

245

XI XII

XVI XVII XVIII ENVOI

251

INDEX

255 XV

ILLUSTRATIONS HARRY WATKINS

frontispiece

JAMES E . MURDOCH

FACING PAGE

36

EDWIN FORREST

"

"

56

WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY

"

"

74

JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH

"

"

130

J . R. ANDERSON

"

"

194

MATILDA HERON

"

"

208

WILLIAM

"

"

222

E. BURTON

xvii

I BARNSTORMING IN THE 'FORTIES It was with an obvious foreboding of evil days that Harry Watkins began a theatrical engagement in the vast, unpeopled state of Texas in 1845. At f a r away Fort Snelling on the banks of the upper Mississippi he had had his first taste of drama at the age of fifteen. H e had been a soldier up there, a regimental fife player. The country was rife with war rumors; there was trouble down on the Mexican border and he had given his youth to the service of his country. But in that northern wilderness (Minneapolis and St. Paul were mere frontier villages) there was little conflict; the Indians were peaceful. To rescue themselves from boredom the troopers organized amateur theatricals, and for his graciousness and good looks young Harry was elected leading lady, appearing as the love-lorn Juliet, and the soulful Pauline in The Lady of Lyons. Because of this Uncle S a m lost a good soldier. Patriotism had become lukewarm; the theatre was calling; if there was to be warfare it must be with the heroics of blank verse and the clash of stage weapons. After three years' service, his enlistment at an end, he gave a respectful salute to the Stars and Stripes and fought his way down the river to New Orleans. That way lay adventure, theatrical activity was stirring in the South. Drama was not always a paying enterprise, to be sure, nevertheless it was alive; great stars were appearing in New Orleans and Mobile. He does not tell us of that voyage or how he financed his passage—perhaps he worked his way, he was adept at many things. We can picture him easily making friends 1

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

among the passengers; now and then, despite a disposition to sobriety, getting a little tight, posing grandiloquently in the saloon against the steamboat's bar, spouting Shakespeare to maudlin plaudits. Life was going to be very wonderful down in the Crescent City for young Harry Watkins; he was eager to enter it and chafed under the boat's snail-like progress. But it was not all ennui; his keen eye and his romantic soul exulted in the picturesque, colorful life of the river—the busy days and nights at the levees discharging supplies, machinery, flour, lumber, whiskey, taking on cord-wood fuel for the boilers and cotton bales rolled across the gangplank by sweating negroes who, when they grew lax, were speeded into activity by the overseer's whip. Leisurely groups of tobacco-chewing planters coming aboard with their overdressed wives. Then on with the flood, dodging snags, "sawyers" and sunken hulks, saluting vagrom river craft, rafts, flatboats, scows, rowboats, dugouts, as they were passed or as their own was left astern by some huge floating palace plowing down to New Orleans. Foggy nights tied up to the bank listening to the hooting of owls, shrilling of frogs, the wavering toot of mistshrouded steamboats in midstream, the mingled voices and banjos in slave cabins, and dreaming of triumphs to come as Hamlet, Romeo, and Claude Melnotte. Then this magic city of the South, New Orleans. He finds two theatres playing nightly with constant changes of bill and presenting high-ranking actors. At the St. Charles Theatre he buys a gallery seat for twelve and a half cents. Mounting to his lofty perch he is confronted by warning placards that give us a suggestion of behavior in the Forties: The proprietors are determined to maintain strict order in the establishment: to put down at every risk any attempt to disturb the quiet and attention which should always be ascendant in a

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IN T H E

'FORTIES

public assembly, but which is too often violated by ignorant, or by disorderly persons who, because they pay their money and because it is in a THEATRE think they may make as much noise as they please. The following regulations of the City Council will be enforced by a properly organized POLICE. ORDINANCES F I R S T — N O AUDITOR SHALL BE ALLOWED TO WEAR H I S HAT DURING THE

PERFORMANCE

SECOND—NO

AUDITOR SHALL BE ALLOWED TO SMOKE

SEGARS IN

THE BOXES OR LOBBIES OF T H E THEATRE THIRD—ANY

PERSON WILLFULLY

CREATING A DISTURBANCE

BE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE E J E C T M E N T FROM T H E

WILL

PREMISES

The curtain rises on a scandalously empty house and young Watkins sees a performance such as he has never before witnessed—James R. Anderson's Shylock; it thrills him to the marrow. Before the afterpiece there is an entre acte, a polka executed by two agile children—they are Master Joseph Jefferson and his sister, Cornelia, who have been engaged by Manager Ludlow for the season. It is quite true, here is our beloved Rip Van Winkle taking the first steps that are to lead to the comedy supremacy of America! In his Autobiography Jefferson speaks of a Fourth of July celebration during this period wherein he was one of a group appointed to sing "The Star Spangled Banner." He was to have the first verse and was in a frightful state of nerves about it. He says, I had studied and restudied it so often that I knew it backwards; and that is about the way I sang it. I got as far as " 0 , say can you see—" when my mind went blank. I tried it again: " 0 , say can you see—•" Whether they could see or not, I know I could not, I was blind with fright. The audience began to hiss. My poor mother stood at the wings in tears; I threw myself into her arms and we had it out together.

3

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

But what did it mean, this beggarly audience? Harry soon found out. Asiatic cholera had struck the city, causing many fatalities and ruining business. He seeks his shabby attic lodging and passes a sleepless night. Is his golden dream to come to nothing? He is f a r away from his home in the East. It is all most discouraging. But the morning brings hope and he sets out to storm the managerial stronghold of Ludlow & Smith, who are in control of theatrical enterprise in the South. There is scant encouragement; this cholera visitation has been devasting, moreover yellow fever has broken out in a neighboring parish; there is a possibility that the theatre season may be abandoned. Ludlow is not impressed by this raw youth who has only an amateur experience in a military post for credentials. He has difficulty in paying salaries as it is and he doesn't propose adding to his burdens. Over in Mobile there was another Stock Company but conditions were even worse there. After a few weeks the epidemic passed away, audiences came back to the theatre once more, though not in overwhelming numbers. It was a struggle for the youthful Watkins; now and then he got a chance to go on in mob scenes with other supernumeraries, to be a Macbeth soldier or something equally undistinguished. His small stock of lares and penates went to the pawnbroker. There were a few jobs in the shops along Canal Street, a bit of clerking down on the levee; nothing lasting. At the recruiting stations he was tempted to reenlist, but he had given up soldiering—it was the stage or nothing. He set his teeth, pulled his belt a little tighter, and lived on bread and water with an occasional cup of coffee at the French Market. In April Ludlow & Smith give up the fight and closed the theatre; they could not go on piling up debts. The company's principals departed immediately, the others entered into

4

BARNSTORMING IN THE 'FORTIES

mutual agreement among themselves, organized a commonwealth and laid out a route northward to Baton Rouge, Natchez, Vicksburg, and other river towns. Here was Watkins' chance. He had formed friendships among these people •—they were short handed and he was familiar with the plays. There was no sort of work he couldn't do—act, paste bills, make manuscript parts, clean the lamps, sweep the stage, anything. Nobody would expect to make money by this venture. If they battled out a mere living, it would be enough. It certainly was enough for our youngster; he hadn't been living at all. It would have been marvelous to go along with that little troupe, traveling by river barge or whatever conveyance they might lay their hands on—playing in barns, hotel dining rooms, Masons' halls, any place where they could put up their shabby scenery and distribute handbills announcing their unrivaled attraction—always hoping, praying for good weather, keeping their fingers crossed against ruinous rains that would annihilate the night's box office receipts. Unfortunately we lose them; there is no record of that Odyssey; it is unhonored, unsung, and as far as we can find out, unwritten. They were sure to have found life packed with adventure, blasted hopes, and torrential spring rains. Barnstorming in the Forties was a hazardous business at best, but the careless children of Momus found charm in that very uncertainty. Their worst enemy was the clerk of the weather; him they cursed roundly, and made libations to the god of the sky in potations five fathoms deep. As long as they could drink to the god of the sky or to any other god, find shelter and food, a cot to sleep in, what did it matter? Their road led through the rivers of Bohemia, a long road that had many turnings. After this venture, which must have been ruinous, our

5

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

strolling players probably met their fate, separated easily, cheerily, conventionally, some to struggle northward up the river to Cincinnati and Louisville, others to return to New Orleans like murderers who are alleged to haunt the scene of their crime. All this was according to the laws of the Medes and Persians. It must surely have been to the South that Harry Watkins went. Where else could he go? He hadn't the wherewithal to go home to his mother, nor could he borrow anything from anybody. It was much easier to starve in New Orleans than elsewhere. He puts an end to our uncertainty in November of 1845 by his diary, composed with scrupulous fidelity, with an evident eye to posterity, to the day when his name should be numbered with the great ones of the theatre. This record has been preserved with reverence by his descendants and is largly meteorological. On good actors and bad its rain falls with strict impartiality—like Portia's well-known shower on the just and the unjust. On his voyage by the steamer New York, from New Orleans to Galveston, he was oppressed by thick-coming fears. He had no great faith in his Texas engagement. He had been fighting ill luck ever since his discharge from the army, over two years ago, and had become a skeptic of this El Dorado of the Southwest. True, he had been promised a small salary, but his funds had been completely devoured in the cost of his passage ticket, and as an added omen he arrived in Galveston with a sore toe! That was a feeble challenge to fate. One can scarcely put his best foot forward with a sore toe. Nevertheless, he screws his courage to the sticking place and begins his daily record with what valor he can evoke. I leave him to his own words as he writes the heading to a narrative that carries through long years of ambitious struggle.

6

BARNSTORMING IN THE

'FORTIES

A JOURNAL Commenced at the request of my brother, George Washington Watkins, on my arrival at Galveston, Texas, 20th November, 1845. November 20th. Arrived at Galveston on the Steamship New York. Put up at the Washington House kept by Beisner, a German. Confined to my room with a sore Toe received on the New York by a fall. November 21st. Passed a sleepless night in consequence of the great pain arising from my toe. Day fair. November 22nd. Passed another bad night. I shall have to lose the nail of that toe. Wrote off Count Montalban in "Honeymoon." I fear my Texas engagement will end in a "Bustification." The 24th will tell. Sunday 23rd. A hard blow all night. Thwarted! November 24th. Passed the night miserably—had part of the nail of that toe cut off. Went to rehearsal at 10 A. M. "This is the night that makes us, or fordoes us quite"—does us, I hope, for I'm awfully short of funds. Played Count Montalban—"Honeymoon." House middling. And that is what it has all come to! After a year's waiting for his professional début we are eager for the account of that memorable night when, quivering with emotion, he faced his first audience as a salaried actor—how his performance was received, etc., etc. But he vouchsafes us nothing. Merely "Played Count Montalban. House middling"! We shrewdly suspect that his toe-nail is leading him into the Valley of Shadow and he peers through the gloom to the ignis fatuus of salary day. Indeed we are assured of it when we read the next entry in the diary. Tuesday 25th. Another piece of that toe-nail cut off. Played Captain Vauntington in "Spectre Bridegroom." Rained all night and blowed a gale. This is what's called a "Winter in Texas." If my $10 a week engagement turns out a Pay-My-Board one, I shall be satisfied.

7

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Wednesday 26th. Still raining. In consequence of the inclemency of the weather there was no performance this evening. If ever I return to the North, I shall never use salts while there is rainwater in the cisterns. There is nothing else used in Galveston, and to persons unaccustomed to the use of it 'tis very apt to give them the disentery—though it does not last long. Thursday 27th. Pulled off the remaineder of the nail of that Toe. Clark settled my board for one week, so I have that off my mind. I did not play this evening. Now that he is freed from the martyrdom of his toe and his week's board, settled by Manager Clark, we might look for greater cheer, but the record of the following night's doings is not exactly hysterical in its joy. It was customary for the mid-nineteenth century theatre to present long and complex bills—a comedy, a tragedy, and a farce—frequently with ballads between pieces and a bit of ballet dancing for good measure. What it lacked in quality it gave in quantity. On Friday, the 28th, there were two full-length plays, with an afterpiece, and Watkins informs us that he played Velpare in Therese, Tillwell in The Irish Tutor, and would have played Hans in The Idiot Witness, but for the audience leaving the theatre after the Tutor, thinking the performance was over—"for which," he tells us, "the players were very thankful, for 'twas very c o l d ! " Saturday 29th. The weather about the same. Cold and windy. The oldest inhabitant cannot remember such weather. No performance. Tuesday 2nd. Weather as bad as ever. If it holds this way much longer not only myself will be broken, but what is worse, the Treasury, for our expences are about Si00 a week, and there has not been over $150 taken the whole engagement. I shall soon number 21 years in the world, during which time I have never had what might be called good luck. Well, perhaps it will come

8

BARNSTORMING IN T H E

'FORTIES

one of these days. I might do better if I would play the hypocrite—but if ever I do that, may Old Death grab me. Played George in "Ambrose Gwinett," and Hans in "Idiot Witness." Best performance of the season. $8.00 in the House. Thursday 4th. Open beautiful—sun shining with clear sky, though cold. Should fair weather continue we shall see whether anything can be done here or not. Done, I hope. Received a letter from my Brother George, the only man on earth whom I can really call a friend. Commenced a new page in my Journal and turned over a new leaf in my conduct—which I should have done long ago.

This spartan resolution was unquestionably inspired by economic reasons. It was difficult to lead the gay life without the means to support it. Moreover the skies were beginning to cloud more darkly than ever; dissensions break out. The two charming leading women, Mrs. Cook and Mrs. Newton, become a pair of termagants and claw each other's faces. Each accuses the badgered manager of favoring the other in the parts they are given; no matter how he may cast the plays, the rival queens are never satisfied. Mrs. Cook refuses to play. From the sidelines young Roscius looks on at the conflict in bitter mysogynism and exclaims: Oh, Woman! Woman! I have often said I would never marry, but if it should please Dame Fortune to shower wealth on a poor devil like myself, I think I would travel the world over, find the worst tempered woman in it and have the pleasure of taming her.

After heaving that ungallant threat at the entire race of females he goes to the theatre, plays three parts and finds "the weather still blowing." He determines to go back to New Orleans, but how can he find the money to get there? It doesn't grow on the bushes in Texas. The next night the weather turns fine, he plays Toby in

9

ONE MAN IN HIS

TIME

Rent Day, and records the audience greatly pleased with his acting. The dwindling box-office takings reaching almost a vanishing point, the wretched Clark, whose woes were endless, found he could not pay his company's board, let alone paying them any salary. He found a dwelling where he could lodge the entire troupe and let them pool their resources for food. When they moved in, the rival Xantippes both pounced upon the best room. Neither would give it up; Clark declared that neither should have it. Whereupon both swore by bell, book, and candle they would not act without it; it was a gorgeous row. For two nights there was no performance. Harry writes in his Journal: A l a s ! I think I have got into a damn bad snap. I'm nearly broke but not quite; if something does not turn up shortly I shall be. I have a place to sleep at night—that's all. I don't know where the grub is to come from though I have managed so far to raise some beef and bread.

His weather reports continue for a few days, then we find this small ray of sunshine through the dark clouds: December 11th. Clark made arrangements with the landlady of the house to cook for three of us, we finding the materials. Had supper this evening, the finest meal for some time as we have been living on dry bread for a week.

Then a few days later: Wednesday 17th. I don't know how to account for it unless we have offended the Clerk of the Weather. As soon as the bill poster comes out of the Printers with the bills, no matter how clear it is, up come the clouds, and down comes the rain. Tonight $3.00 came in the House. The management would not play to it, so we had no performance.

10

BARNSTORMING IN THE

'FORTIES

In the ancient and palmy days of the theatre the benefit system prevailed in Stock Companies; by this device the manager could often place the weekly stipend of the actor at a somewhat lower figure in the contract. It meant that in addition to the stipulated amount the actor could once, and sometimes if he were a valuable member, twice in a season, share the proceeds of a regular performance. Frequently it was a "half clear benefit"—50% of the gross box-office returns, or, if the manager were skeptic concerning the actor's drawing power, all above a certain sum which the manager would retain to cover his expenses. Canvassing for subscriptions was generally a precedent to the event. As its date approached, the beneficiary sallied forth to sell tickets to friends and supporters. This occasioned many social calls and many healths to be drunk, a proceeding that sometimes proved fatal to performances at night. Hoping to prevent his enterprise from going completely on the rocks, Clark now sought succor in a round of benefits, beginning with his own (for which his leading actor got gloriously drunk, sending word that he was sick, causing Clark to apologize to his audience and to change his bill) and going down the list from the wavering leading ladies to the humbler members. This was a chance for each actor to prove his attraction, rally his supporters, and replenish his larder. Ultimately came Watkins' night and here is what happened: Friday 26th. Fine day. By all the Cods, it does not rain! Saturday set apart for my benefit. Wrote off Charles Paragon in "Perfection." Sat up nearly all night to study it—slept at the New printing office so that I would be up early to post bills etc., etc., etc. Saturday 27th. Splendid day. Posted bills before breakfast—spent the morning sweeping out the House, cleaning lamps, and so on. Worked harder all day than I ever did in my life, thinking I might make enough to purchase myself a few articles that I needed,

11

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME but all to no purpose. 7 P. M., opened doors, lit up the House, got a person to stay in the Box Office, hired music to play—all in fine style—and three good pieces to perform, but 'twas of no use. Only $2.00 came in. Couldn't play to that, the expenses being $11.50, and so dismissed the House!!! Two men in the Boxes, one boy in the Pit, and a Nigger woman in the Gallery!!! "Alas, poor Harry!" "Poor Harry," indeed! Two days of perfect weather and a nigger woman in the gallery! However, he cannot remain placid while Santa Anna is raising the devil over the Texas border. Here is the entry for four days later: Wednesday 31st. Steamer New York from Orleans. News from Congress! Resolutions for putting the country in a state of defence, showing the world that however we may be divided as party men—we Americans are united when our country is threatened. So Tyrants—beware! Let us alone! Took another Benefit this evening. Played Richard in 1st Act of "Richard III," and Dick in "The Apprentice," with Harlequin in a pantomime. $14 in the House—expences $12.50. Through the liberality of the Painter and Musicians, I cleared about $6.00. I suppose the "Stars" would say that was no benefit at all. There they would be mistaken, for I had nothing on my feet before, and now I have a good pair of boots, and enough money left to buy something to eat with, and that is a good deal in Texas. January 1st, 1846. A beautiful day. Settled up my bills. Settled—"Hear that, ye Gods" and weep. I, Harry Watkins, have paid my own bills in Texas for the first time. Apropos of benefits, there is a hoary Philadelphia legend relating to the comedian of the Walnut Street Theatre who asked the comic of the Chestnut Street Theatre to play the Second Grave Digger in Hamlet to his First in order to strengthen the bill for his "night." The rival was compliance

12

BARNSTORMING IN THE 'FORTIES

itself; he was glad to do anything in his power for his brother actor; there was only one condition— "Anything at all, my dear fellow!" "I want my exit." "Exit? Of course! Introduce all the gag lines you like." "Not a line. Just my exit." He could have anything on earth if he would appear. The episode of the two grave-digging clowns having finished with Number 2 giving up the conundrums of Number 1, Number 2 was bid, "Get thee to Youghan; fetch me a stoup of liquor." The beneficiary's rival instead of making an exit into the wings, took the jug and to the amazement of the audience went down into the grave. The eminent tragedian playing Hamlet entered; Number 1, with his pick and shovel, slid down into the grave and began to heave up dirt and bones; the audience responded to this with an audible laugh. Ophelia's body was lowered into the grave—the laugh became louder. Laertes leaped down to clasp his sister's body; Hamlet leaped after him and the pair were locked in a struggle. Was all this atop the vanished actor? There was the grave and he was in it. By this time the house was in a gale. Of course the culprit wasn't in the grave at all; he had slipped off the trap into the cellar and fled from the theatre. He had ruined his rival's scene. The Galveston engagement coming to the end long foreseen by Watkins and his fellow players, Clark took boat for the army camp at Corpus Christi, and after vast difficulty in perfecting arrangements with the officers at the garrison, returned with the news that they were to pack up at once. In forty-eight hours they were on their way. January 5th. Morning beautiful. At 8 A. M. got on board the Alabama for Corpus Christi, then because of sudden rain cannot leave

13

ONE MAN IN HIS

TIME

before tomorrow. Sat up nearly all night playing Whist, drinking porter, eating oysters. January 6th. Gambled all day, and part of the evening. I had but 50ff when I commenced, and now I have $1.50. "Necessity does much." Eighth. Arrived at St. Joseph's Island about 6 P. m. Stayed on board all night. Started at 11 A. M. for Corpus Christi, arriving just before dark. T w a s a sight to behold the long line of tents on the beach. Hearty welcome from the soldiers when we landed. Passed the night in a soldier's tent. Monday 12th. Fine day. Clark's Company played for the first time at the Army Theatre. Did Sassen in "Idiot Witness" and Charles in "Irish Tutor." House crowded—receipts $280. [And then] Tuesday 13th. Morning fine and at dark the rain poured down in torrents. The House being covered with nothing but poor oil cloth, was soon filled with water. No performance. Wednesday 14th, 1846. This is the day that 21 years before gave me light, though if it was not lighter than it is today, my eyes could have seen very little. One thing certain I am not much better off for funds. 21 years! When I think what scenes I have passed through! When I was born Fate filled up all her roads and left me to shift for myself. Played Frederick in "Dead-Shot," Thornton, "Turning the Tables." Friday 16th. Morning cool. Everything damp. No breakfast. Some pie and beer for dinner and supper. Went to funeral of a soldier who belonged to " G " of the 5th Infantry, who, when sergeant of the guard up at Mackinac not long ago, passed me out of No. 1 gate. Such is life—just when a fellow gets along so he can say he is living, off he goes—Dead. Played Thornton in "Turning the Tables," Charles in "Irish Tutor." Sunday 18th. Rained hard all day. In the evening several soldiers of the army came to the Theatre and we passed a pleasant night drinking porter, whiskey, etc., and eating oysters and lobsters. Slept on the stage with a stream of water running under us, which we kept from us by means of stage scenery and blankets.

14

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Tuesday 20th. Received the first week's salary I ever received in Texas. Well I like the change. Friday 23rd. Fine day. On the 22nd, a man belonging to E Company, 5th Infantry blew his brains out, assigning as reason that he was disgusted with the Service. The officers would give him no satisfaction. And I suppose it was true, for I know them. Saturday 24th. Fine day. Played Murdock in "Worlock of the Glen." Receipts $110, expenses $100. Houses falling. Managers curtailing costs and discharging hands. Bad sign. Monday 26th. Rain in the morning. Played Count Montalban in "Honeymoon," which I did very poorly, in consequence of being out of humor before going on the stage. I hope it will never occur again.

The record goes on quite placidly for some days—accounts of disagreements in the company—Clark's growing unpopularity—the rising and falling of receipts at the theatre, and always chronicles of the weather. Then a small sensation stirs the organization by the arrival of a new leading woman, Mrs. Hart, who puts the noses of several high priestesses of the playhouse severely out of joint. Although according to Watkins she can't act very well, Mrs. Hart is evidently a charmer. She makes a hit with the officers of the garrison who applaud her madly. To the disgust of everybody else she manages to rule the policy of the theatre and play whatever parts she chooses. Watkins keeps himself out of the imbroglio, studying industriously, keeping his clothes in order as best he can, binding his paper-covered play books in cardboard, shunning the porter-and-whiskey parties and recording his daily weather reports. On Friday, February 13th (day of ill omen!) the Diarist spills venom into his entry: Hard wind from the north. Benefit of Mrs. Hart, she playing Gay Spanker in "London Assurance," or rather murdering it.

15

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME But she got all that an actress ever plays for—plenty of applause. Such is the way of the world. Let anyone but get his name up— no matter in what way—whether he is born with or without brains, the World, says he's great. Ah well! Two weeks more and I shall be rich enough to leave Texas. Wednesday 18th. Heavy wind all day. Played Lorenzo in "The Wife." Played it and damned it! Stuck on the stage. Couldn't speak a word either of the text or my own composition, though I knew every line in my part. I shall never succeed in the profession. Friends do me more injury than good.

That night he tossed on a bed of remorse and the following day's memorandum tells us: Thursday 19th. Fine day. Played Cool in "London Assurance." Had a touch of the fever and aigue. Thought I was going to be laid up, as I felt very bad. It will be hard to die just now when there is a chance for a fight. Fate grant me one good battle!

Faithful Diarist! Even in his misery he could not omit his weather report—"Fine day"! Two days later he was himself again. The following week brought another actress to dispute the supremacy of the reigning empress—one Mrs. Ewing. A very pretty row followed. Certain parts were given to her that Mrs. Hart claimed as her own, and rather than be robbed of her rights she would throw up her engagement. With a fiery valedictory she tells the managers what she thinks of them, gathers a meek and docile husband under her arm and stalks with him to their tent where they sulk in resentment—Mr. and Mrs. Achilles. She felt she could rely on the influence of the army officers to be reinstated. A few evenings later the managers capitulated and she appeared, swelling with triumph. In the interim the soldiers had called a strike and not one visited the theatre. Our Diarist exclaims

16

BARNSTORMING IN THE

'FORTIES

bitterly, "The officers had made an idol of her, making her believe that she is the greatest actress of the age." Early Texas annals give us the suggestion of what its primitive theatre was like. In 1838 Houston was the capital of the infant Republic. It was a log cabin town but it had a theatre which struggled for popularity among brothels and gambling houses. An itinerant troupe arrived to play The Hunchback. The little theatre was filled with a heterogeneous crowd, among whom the gamblers predominated. These money-laden and gun-carrying gentry proceeded to monopolize the choice front seats to the discomfort of the ladies (including the teachers and girl students of "Miss Robertson's Select Female Seminary") who were relegated to the rear. The stage manager appealed to their courtesy as gentlemen, requesting that they resign their places to the ladies. The gamblers laughed and hooted at him. The manager applied to the sheriff who, scenting trouble, summoned a company of soldiers. The military filed in and .lined up against one wall of the building while the gamblers rose and formed on the opposite side, standing with their hands on their holsters glaring across over the heads of the ladies who were escorted to the vacated places. The gentle creatures were far from comfortable. Nor was the company's leading man, a Mr. Barker, in a peaceful frame of mind. Just before the curtain rose he decided that he needed a sedative for his jittery nerves; pouring himself some laudanum, he filled his glass with an overdose. In a few minutes he doubled up in the wings and died in agony. The threatened battle never broke out. The day was saved by the arrival of Sam Houston, President of the Republic. The hero came late—he had returned from a trip through a rainstorm and, without taking time to change his clothing at the Executive Mansion, went directly to the theatre in his water-soaked buckskin suit and moccasins. Acknowl17

ONE MAN IN HIS

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edging the welcome that was roared at him, he and his aides modestly took seats at the back of the hall. The gamblers concluded to call it a draw. They packed their guns, marched out, and got their money back at the box office. Meanwhile The Hunchback was presented with a substitute in the unfortunate Mr. Barker's part of Master Walter, and no revelation of the tragedy was made until after the performance was over. President Houston took Mr. Barker's stricken widow to his home and housed her until a vessel could carry the body to Baltimore for burial. Citizens passed the hat to defray the funeral expenses, the gamblers contributing the largest purse of gold.

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II THE WARTIME THEATRE War clouds were piling up on the Rio Grande. Sections of southwestern Texas were ravaged by Mexican bandits and soldiers who burnt and slew joyfully and impartially. With what scanty troops were granted him by Congress, General Zachary Taylor checked this Mexican holiday with a dogged determination. Within three months came a declaration of the war that was to last for two years when it ended in Winfield Scott's rout of Santa Anna at Cerro Gordo and his triumphal march to Mexico City. Young Watkins' patriotic blood stirred anew. He longed to be at the front where he dramatized himself leading squadrons to death and glory. On Washington's Birthday, General Taylor came on to Corpus Christi for an inspection; the first brigade passed under the grizzled old warrior's critical eye. It must truly have been a notable occasion, but all we got out of it in the Diary is: "At 10 A. M. there was a grand review of the First Brigade of troops by General Taylor." The days passed, packed with excitement and uncertainty; if the troop stayed in camp there would be good business at the theatre—should it march to the Rio Grande, drama would cease to exist in Corpus Christi. Meanwhile interest was drawn away from the playhouse and receipts dwindled. Even the fascinating Mrs. Hart ceased to draw. Thursday 26th. Morning misty. Two companies of the 3rd and 4th Infantry left the encampment to establish a depot on the road between here and the Rio Grande, a preliminary step to the movement of the whole army.

19

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

Saturday 28th. Cloudy and cool today. An American, G. Scott, by the sentence of court martial, received fifty lashes on the back. A few months ago this man was a Corporal in I Company, Fifth Infantry, and on the discharge of the Orderly Serg't was promised promotion but the Company Commander, finding he could not make a tool of him, put a foreigner in his place. Scott, having no redress, left them, and being apprehended here, was tried and Bogged. And they call this military Justice! Wednesday, March 4th. Was to have a benefit tonight but am cheated out of it by a WOMAN. She says hers must come first. About 1 p. M. I came to the conclusion that friendship is a thing very seldom to be found. A man's only friend is himself. If he trusts the friendship of others he will lose nine times out of ten. This is the advice of one who, though young, has had some experience. Thursday 5th. Cloudy and warm. Benefit of Badger Newton. "The Broken Sword" was the first piece. Edwards who was to play Estevan, being put under arrest, I took the part twenty minutes before the curtain went up, and knew more of the piece than any of the rest. Friday 6th. About 1 P. M. Colonel Twiggs issued an order that no dragoon should play in the theatre. This caps the climax of theatrical humbug. In the afternoon the Colonel rescinded his order and the performance went off very well. And what was better, it was the largest House of the Season. A great many were turned from the doors. Receipts $294. March 7th. Very hot. Went to see if General Taylor would grant me permission to go with the Army to the Rio Grande, but he would not listen to me. He said that no citizens should go—that it was strictly a military excursion. Tended Box Office. Poor House. Sunday 8th. Sun shining—no wind stirring. Went to Denton, sutler for the Dragoons, and got permission to accompany his wagon as Clerk. I'm going to the Rio Grande in spite of General Taylor. Washed myself all over, put on clean shirt, shaved etc., etc. Dragoons move in an hour. 11 A. M. the Army commenced its movement. Each Brigade to keep one day in advance of the other. Rin-

20

THE WARTIME THEATRE gold's Company of Flying Artillery led the way. It was very imposing—the soldiers fully armed and the horses with their trappings —60 baggage wagons following each other, each wagon covered with white canvas, drawn by five mules, and the sun shining with all its spendor; it was one of the most beautiful sights I ever beheld. But it did not last long; after five or six miles, the roads were so bad that our waggon broke down. Walked to where the Dragoons encamped for the night (fourteen miles from Corpus Christi) and slept with an acquaintance. Supper, piece of pork and a biscuit. Monday 9th. Rose early—everything wet with dew. Told by one of the men that Denton had received orders to return. Just my luck! The waggon broke down because I was with it! The Mexicans will certainly fight now. Had I gone along, all would end peaceably. Reached Corpus Christi about 2 P. M.

His patriotic ardor being now completely quenched and the theatrical venture on the rocks, he packs his small belongings, bids a lasting adieu to Corpus Christi, and in two days lands back in Galveston. He seeks an engagement with one Lewis, manager of the theatre, and finds matters very unpropitious. He is given promise of a position at $10 a week, but after waiting ten days finds no evidence of the theatre's opening. His savings are growing perilously low. Practically penniless, he gets aboard the Alabama, putting his baggage in pawn for his passage, and sails for New Orleans. Arriving, he has no means of redeeming his pledge; he leaves it cheerfully with the steamer's luggage people and trusts to the Lord to return it to him through some unseen and undreamt channel. N. M. Ludlow, who was an actor and manager for thirtyeight years, and who with his partner, Sol Smith, ruled theatrical destiny in the Mississippi and Gulf cities for half that time, was at the peak of his success when Watkins re-

21

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

turned like the Prodigal Son to New Orleans. That whole region was one of primitive discomfort, transportation systems inconvenient, roads unpaved, hotels shabby, food unappetizing, and sanitation almost unknown. Some of the older planters and wealthy merchants lived in luxury, and there were many well-appointed homes for the better middle class, but governmental control was deplorable. A dozen years before, Mrs. Trollope visited the South seeking her fortune—failed to achieve it—returned to England and wrote a caustic book about American habits and conditions. The South has never forgiven her. Manners had grown somewhat more commendable in '46 but still left something to be desired. We have left young Roscius at the levee: Thursday 26th. Arrived at the landing about 6 p. M. and went up to the Theatre where I witnessed the best piece of acting I have seen for some time. Chippendale as Adam Trueman in the comedy of "Fashion," written by Mrs. Anna Cora Mowatt, who played Gertrude. I did not think much of her playing but I like her writing very much.

This Chippendale (William) was one of a notable English acting family. His most successful performances were as choleric old men in "old comedy," although he had once aspired to the rank of Shakespearean tragedian. Watkins tells us that he liked his acting better than Mrs. Mowatt's. This is understandable, the lady was not bred to the stage. She was no doubt looked upon askance by the dyed-inthe-wool troupers of the period for, as a distinguished social leader in New York, she had emerged to storm the citadel of the theatre both as actress and dramatist. Greatgranddaughter of a signer of the Declaration of Independence, the wife of a prosperous banker who married her when she was fifteen, she had lived in luxury when her hus-

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THE WARTIME

THEATRE

band suddenly went bankrupt. Joseph Ireland wrote of her that she had a "subdued earnestness of manner, a soft, musical voice, a winning witchery of enunciation and a perfect combination of beauty, grace and refinement." Edgar Allan Poe, writing of her "naturalness," said, "She looks, speaks and moves with an impulsiveness as different as can be conceived from the customary rant and cant, the hack conventionality of the stage." It was this very lack of hack conventionality that H.W. deplored. He had been reared upon it. Nature in his eyes was a goddess garbed in stage costume, colored with cosmetics, and lit by oil lamps. The truth is, this society queen was rather haughty and condescending toward her new-found associates. That our Diarist's resentment was not shared by theatre-goers generally is evident from the universal success that was accorded to her. Her play Fashion, became instantly popular. Its theme and characters were familiar ones to her, and written con amore. Not many seasons ago in New York a group of players made a great success by reviving this play as a literary and dramatic freak, provoking gales of laughter by unmercifully spoofing its scenes and emphasizing its artificial sentimentality. The following day Watkins witnessed something more interesting: Friday 27th. Went at 12 A. M. to see a negress hung. It seems her master thought more of her than he did of his wife. And when he went up country on business, the Negress saw her chance. She seized the wife, beating her and locking her up, nearly starved her and her children. She was tried, found guilty and sentenced. But she deceived her keepers and the doctors by saying she was enceinte. The lie being revealed later, she was hung pursuant to sentence. There was a large crowd around the scaffold. She died

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME very hard. Still raining. Bought some quack medicine for my cold. Wednesday, April 1st. My mother's birthday. She is now 56. I was in hopes that by this time, I should be able to contribute to her support. Perhaps by her next birthday I may manage to do something. My salary is so small, and when I do get a little money it always has to go for wardrobe. Monday 6th. Raining hard all night; all the back part of the city flooded with water. I am sick with a cold and appear to be getting worse every day. Clotted blood coming from my head through my nose. I shall take an emetic tonight, and if that does not help my case must be very bad. Wednesday 8th. Took a walk around the town which made me feel considerably better. Went to the St. Charles. Mrs. Kean played Lady Macbeth. I like her very well, but I have seen others that I like better. Mr. Kean as Macbeth, I thought was anything but a good performance. He made some points, certainly, still they were not his own but his father's, if those who have seen his father are to be believed. He labors under the disadvantage of a very bad voice. Still raining. People in the back part of the city leaving their houses in boats. Charles Kean was the son of that spectacular genius, Edmund Kean, whose vagaries and magnetic performances carried him to the most exalted place on the British stage for a dozen years—the man of whose acting Coleridge wrote that it was "like reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning," and Douglas Jerrold, that his Shylock was " a chapter of Genesis." The son was but a pale and ineffectual replica of the father; cold and formal, he stalked through his Shakespearean presentations with a catarrhal grandeur. Nevertheless he did splendid service to the English-speaking theatre, his productions in London were opulent and well ahead of their time in archeological correctness, but of course it was impossible for him to carry their panoply on a tour of American theatres. His wife, Ellen Tree, was of 24

THE WARTIME

THEATRE

the stately and overwhelming Mrs. Siddons school, much admired in its day. When Charles was a young and rising actor he appeared with his illustrious father on the occasion of Edmund Kean's farewell to the public at Covent Garden Theatre as Othello. The elder Kean was far gone in illness, haggard and bloated from his years of dissipation, and it was not long after that he died. On that memorable night he was able to go only halfway through the play. On reaching Othello's line, "Farewell: Othello's occupation's gone," he turned to his son, who was playing Iago, and gasped, " 0 , God! I'm dying. Speak to them, Charles." It is related that when Charles Kean arrived to rehearse for his week's engagement at Mobile, supported by the local stock company, one of its members, an incorrigible rogue named Salisbury who was seldom sober, slapped him cordially on the back, saying, "Welcome to the land of cotton and sunshine, sir! I suppose you will conform to our convivial Southern custom—shout at the first rehearsal?" Kean, quite unaware that "shouting" was the current barroom slang for setting up the drinks, turned a fishy eye upon his assailant and called his stage manager, Cathcart. "Jimmy," he said in his catarrhal tone, "inform this peculiar young man that if I shout at rehearsal I shall have no voice at night." Thursday 9th. News of the Army. General Taylor reached the Rio Grande without opposition. He encamped opposite Matamoras the first night, but next morning seeing the Mexican artillery pointing into his camp, he moved four miles down the river to avoid a collision. Should the Mexicans attack where he now is it will throw the blame of war on them. A great many people here censure General Taylor for not holding Matamoras. This I believe quite wrong, Taylor is a brave man and knows what he's doing. Walked all the morning until I was tired.

25

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Saturday 11th. Made up my mind to go to Louisville. I hoped to hear f r o m Galveston that the army had fought the Mexicans. Now it seems very doubtful. If I am going to get an engagement up the river, I concluded it best to start at once, so at 4 P. M. took passage on the Andrew Jackson for Cincinnati. 7 P. M. got under way. Being very tired, I went to bed 9 p. M. Passed Baton Rouge about 3 A. M.

It was a different sort of voyage up the river from the hopeful pilgrimage down stream a year and a half before. Certain roseate hues had vanished from his dream. But he roused himself sufficiently to study Othello and play whist with his fellow passengers until, after passing Natchez, it occurred to him that it was necessary to see about his fare. Wednesday 15th. Will I ever get done learning? Went to pay my passage which I had been told in New Orleans was to be $12. The clerk said it was $15. All I have left now is $3, where I would have had $6 if I had tended to my own business. I have learned some bitter lessons in my time.

How had he procured even $ 1 8 ? His last financial report was that he was forced to leave his luggage on the Galveston steamer for lack of funds. He had no engagement in New Orleans. Was that little Texas oration on the falsity of friendship a mere futile tirade, or was it the pawnshop? He plucked up sufficient courage, when the boat stopped at Memphis, to decline an offer to join a little company playing there. " I have got a bellyfull of theatricals on a small scale," he told the emissary. Ten days after leaving New Orleans the steamer landed him in Cincinnati completely bankrupt. " A f f a i r s have come to a crisis. I have no employment and no money—not a d i m e . " At Mrs. Wright's boarding house he found shelter and a landlady willing to trust him. By the end of the week

26

T H E WARTIME

THEATRE

he had procured an engagement at the National Theatre at $6 a week and set about putting his house in order. During that week he had spent his nights at the theatre watching the guest star, Edmund S. Connor, a graceful and personable actor, as Richelieu, Othello, and Macbeth, which he liked better than Kean's. This he could do without cost— theatrical usage granting house courtesy always to members of the acting profession. He now began work in earnest, playing nightly with recognized stars and learning much.

27

in THREE SOUTHWESTERN PLAYHOUSES Tuesday 5th. Rice, the original Jim Crow, commenced his engagement this evening in "Jumbo-Jum," and "The Virginia Mummy." I received my salary today, it being due. I shall consider this as a crisis in my theatrical life. T. D. Rice, whose appearance never failed to draw crowds to the theatre, was a black-face comedian who established his fame merely by singing his " J i m Crow" comic song accompanied by a grotesque dance. Meanwhile war with Mexico has been declared. Sunday 10th. Cloudy. Slight sprinkle p. M. News arrives of the capture of U. S. troops, and that the Mexicans have surrounded General Taylor. God grant it may not be so! If I thought the Army would keep the field six months, I would put for Texas sure, but I have a good situation and hate to throw it up for an uncertainty. I am afraid I will never have another chance to witness a battle. I'm between fire and water, not knowing which way to go. Friday 15th. News from Washington. The President has sent his message to Congress on Mexican affairs. House passed a resolution to raise 50,000 volunteers, appropriating $10,000 for their support. Only 14 members opposed to it—J. Q. Adams one of them. Tom Placide's engagement turning out rather poorly. "She Stoops to Conquer." Poor House. Have seen comedians I like better. Sewed buttons on coat. Windy weather today. Tuesday 19th. The war seems to be injuring business at the theatres. Played Mr. Contest in "Wedding Day," it being substituted for "Lady and Gentleman," in consequence of Mrs. Kent's feet being swelled. Thursday 21st. Cool and pleasant. Late arrival from Orleans. A battle has occurred between the Mexicans and our army; 700 Mexi-

28

THREE SOUTHWESTERN PLAYHOUSES cans killed. Loss of the Americans not stated, but there are plenty who would be glad if it were heavy—Englishmen particularly. Friday 22nd. Slight shower 9 A. M. I witnessed a deed today that made my blood run cold. I can hardly bear to write it. An Englishman named C. Blake, who arrived in this country nine months ago and married an American girl who was as near perfection as it is possible for woman to be (I don't remember ever seeing a female whom I so much admired) struck her—that, too, before strangers! She was young and thoughtless—that was her only fault—but pure in her devotion to this man for whom she had rejected a rich alliance. Yet why should I wonder at it? Englishmen are fit for nothing but to make war on the defenseless, whether as an individual or a nation. Played Waiter in "Cure for Heartache." Saturday 23rd. Shortly after the performance commenced, a fire broke out opposite the Theatre, which burned down several old wooden buildings. Logan, who was in the first piece, lived contiguous to the fire, and who had left his children in bed, left the theatre to get his children and baggage, and we had to keep the curtain down between the acts three quarters of an hour. The audience kept very still, after Connor telling them the cause of it. Had there been much of a wind, there would have been a very large fire. Received our salaries for four nights. Sunday 24th. We are leaving for Louisville where we play for three months. 8 to 11 A. M. packing up. 12 A. M. left Cincinnati on the Pike, arriving at Louisville at 11 P. M. Watkins evidently left Cincinnati with some regret. His salary was small but his habits were frugal and he had grown somewhat in artistic stature. Socially the town had been kind to him. Even the vituperative Mrs. Trollope, who had lived in Cincinnati a decade before for two years, wrote tolerantly of its people as agreeable beings. Of their theatregoing habits she was not so eulogistic. In Domestic Manners of the Americans she tells us: I never saw people who appeared to live so much without amusement as the Cincinnatians. Billiards are forbidden by law, so are

29

ONE MAN IN HIS

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cards. To sell a pack of cards in Ohio subjects the seller to a penalty of fifty dollars. They have no public balls excepting, I think, six during the Christmas holidays. They have no concerts. They have no dinner parties. They have a theatre, which is, in fact, the only public amusement in this triste little town, but they seem to care very little about it and, either from economy or distaste, it is very poorly attended. Ladies are seldom seen there and by far the greater proportion of females deem it an offense against religion to witness the representation of a play. It is in the churches and chapels of the town that ladies are to be seen in full costume; and I am tempted to believe that a stranger from the continent of Europe would be inclined on first reconnoitering the city to suppose that the places of worship were the theatres and cafés of the place.

Mrs. Trollope tells a delightful tale of an evening among Cincinnati's intellectuals in a talk about authors. When she spoke of Pope's Rape of the Lock and Byron's Don Juan a very serious gentleman, locally noted as a scholar, reprovingly told her that such topics should not be mentioned in respectable drawing rooms. "And Dryden?" she persisted. He gave her a pitying smile. "Dryden?" he replied. "Ah, yes, we only know Dryden by quotations, madam, and these found only in books that have long since had their day." "But Shakespeare, sir?" "Shakespeare, madam, is obscene, and thank God we are sufficiently advanced to have found it out! If we must have the abomination of stage plays, let them at least be marked by the refinement of the age in which we live!" May was running into hot June weather when the Cincinnati company opened at Louisville and business began drearily. For several nights the Journal records poor houses. The conventional and shopworn plays were accorded tepid receptions until, on April 30th, Augustus Addams began an 30

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engagement in his favorite characters, opening in "Virginius," and even he failed to rouse great enthusiasm. Addams was one of those brilliant but unfortunate geniuses, known only too well to the early American Theatre, of whom it was customary to say, "Ah! what an actor he would have been if only he had let drink alone!" During his brief reign he had been the darling of his public, then he quickly descended into obscurity and neglect, not having the stamina to make the weakest fight against the demon, rum. Ireland, the stage chronicler, says of him: "Possessing every physical requisite for the stage and glowing with the fire of natural genius, ordinary discretion and reasonable study were alone wanting to have insured him the highest place in the histrionic world." The poor fellow meekly took his meager cash returns and departed from Louisville. In a very few years he was dead from tuberculosis at Cincinnati. Wednesday 3rd. "Venice Preserved." Last night of Addama' engagement, it being four nights for which he receives $100. House so and so. Booth arrived in town early this morning. Commences an engagement tomorrow night. Weather quite cool.

The arrival of Junius Brutus Booth was an event anywhere. He was one of the theatre's preeminent madmen. Wherever he went tales of his erratic conduct went with him. He is generally referred to today as the "Elder Booth," father of the celebrated Edwin and his unhappy brother, John Wilkes Booth, the assassin of Abraham Lincoln. From his earliest days as an actor in London his life was a turmoil. He had risen rapidly in public favor, rousing the jealousy of the great Edmund Kean, who regarded the British stage as his own particular realm. In 1817, on a night in February, pandemonium reigned in Covent Garden Theatre. Kean partisans and those of Booth packed the auditorium ready for a colossal row, the Kean faction claiming that the 31

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

younger actor had endeavored by underhanded means to dethrone their idol. It was Booth's appearance as Richard III. From pit to gallery cries of execration were hurled at him, confusion growing worse confounded when friends rallied to his defense. The riot continued, for three nights damnation was roared upon him, "Off! Imitator of Kean! Impostor!" etc. Not a word of the play was heard above the shrieks and plaudits. The disturbance subsequently died away and Booth rose to eminence, but he was never quite himself afterwards. Three years later found him in America where he remained until his death. His appearance created considerable excitement in Louisville, for he was a remarkable actor, exciting his public to wild enthusiasm. The stories about him are legion. There is one of a night at the Bowery Theatre when he was playing King Richard and refused to die in the last act under the sword of the supposedly conquering Duke of Richmond. Round and round they fought until finally Richmond turned tail and ran out the stage door in a panic, chased up the Bowery by the maddened Booth to the amazement of the midnight pedestrians who beheld two armor-clad individuals, sword in hand and plumes astream, racing and clanking under the street lamps. Thursday 4th. Booth at rehearsal this morning and in prime order for playing—if he keeps so till evening. Played Tirrel and Oxford in "Richard III." House crowded. Booth played Richard as no one else. He was very much exhausted after the piece was over. C. Wells was to play Richmond but got drunk and Connor played it. Friday 5th. "Othello," with Connor playing Othello and Booth as Iago. He was too sober if anything, although he played it first rate. House very good. Saturday 6th. Played Gregory in "Iron Chest," Booth as Sir E. Mortimer, in his best style. It was laughable to see him catch

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hold of Wilford (Connor) and threaten him, Booth is so short that Connor could hold him out by one hand. It was as much as Booth could do to reach his shoulder. House good. Heavy rain during the night. Thunder and lightning.

Booth's engagement was prolonged through a second week. He had an extensive repertory, allowing the bill to be changed nightly and keeping the company on tiptoes with study and rehearsal. It held its prosperity to the end; the Louisvillians never lost their zest for the remarkable actor. When it closed, the town's inhabitants went back to their homes and thought no more about plays and players. The party was over. The familiar tale of "a beggarly account of empty boxes" was told once more at the box office, and the managers put up bill after bill of wornout plays and uninspired players and waited prayerfully for the next paying star. Watkins had profited by watching the player's methods and stage business—pigeon-holing them for future use. The American Theatre, during its growing-up period, was afflicted with the pains popularly supposed to attach to such process; in the lesser western and southern towns it had pioneer characteristics in setting and costuming. Scenery of certain conventional character was used for all plays; royal palaces, gothic interiors, ornate drawing rooms, prison dungeons, cottage kitchens, mountain passes, and dense forests appearing again and again as the pieces were changed. Hamlet, King Lear, Richard III, King John, Macbeth, Duke Frederick, and other monarchs seemed always to hold their receptions in the same throne room, and it was evident that Juliet, Pauline, Beatrice, and Rosalind lived in the same house and walked in the same street, whose period ranged from the Emperor Claudius to President Van Buren, and romped beneath the identical forest boughs.

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ONE MAN IN HIS

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Their costumes for the varied characters were also identical, generally home-made and supplied by each actor individually. The leading players for the most part had accumulated respectable though showy wardrobe, while the quality of that of the lesser people diminished greatly in elegance and was fearfully and wonderfully made. Watkins had vast trouble in supplying his—playing knights, princes, soldiers, clowns, and policemen, it called on his utmost ingenuity. So much of his scanty six or eight dollars a week was required for his sartorial splendor in the theatre that he found constant difficulty in providing the wherewithal to furnish his ordinary street clothes. However, during July he makes an exultant little entry, "Bought myself a summer coat for $ 4 . 5 0 . " This is followed by a sad reflection, " I am too poor yet to buy a pair of pants." The following Sunday he gave himself an unusual holiday, crossing on the ferry over into Indiana to a pleasure garden which he found " a fine resort of a warm day, frequented by attractive females," and where the only fly in his ointment was the lack of a new pair of pants. On the 18th the leading man, E. S. Connor, had his last benefit in Richelieu, and bade farewell to the company. The occasion had called for many alcoholic adieus, Watkins' naive comment being, "Him [sic] and Bacchus shook hands rather freely during the day—but he got through." Patronage at the theatre continued meagerly, and everything was in the doldrums until hope revived with the arrival of James E. Murdoch. June 22nd. Murdoch (first appearance) played Claude Melnotte in "Lady of Lyons." He played it as few others can. None that I have seen. Very good House considering the piece has been done so often—third time in three weeks. Very hot. At 4 P. M. we was [ ! ] regaled with a refreshing storm. Played Landlord and Officer.

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THREE SOUTHWESTERN PLAYHOUSES

James E. Murdoch was a somewhat incongruous figure in the "Palmy Day" Theatre—an Admirable Crichton in Bohemia. His highly respectable Philadelphia parents were horrified when he elected to smirch the family scutcheon of the Murdochs by drawing the bar sinister of the stage across it. It was all very well to give readings in Quaker social circles, even of Shakespeare's plays, or instruction to the elect in elocution, but to enroll himself with this vagabond crew? That was not done. For generations the Murdochs had maintained their dignity in the community as upright citizens. But young James had a determined jaw, an intellectual forehead, and a character that did not brook opposition. To the dismay of his friends, who saw their social structure in ruins, he made his professional début in his home town at the Arch Street Theatre in 1829 as Frederick in Lovers' Vows, and to the deepening of their chagrin he made a success! He had much in his favor—a handsome face, a lithe figure, a full-toned voice, admirable diction, and intelligence. For a dozen years his reputation grew throughout the country. He acquired a repertory of characters ranging from the light to the severe, from Claude Melnotte to Hamlet. At the end of this term, with an evident troubled conscience he abandoned the stage and devoted himself to teaching elocution to divinity students and to delivering lectures. It was no use. The poison was in his blood; in two years he was back again acting with all his might. Once, as a youthful thespian, I had the privilege of performing with this paragon. Murdoch was then well advanced in years and had been dragged from a long retirement to play Mark Antony in a dramatic festival at Cincinnati, at which a remarkable assembly of stars appeared—Lawrence Barrett, John McCullough, Mary Anderson, Nat Goodwin, and others. The player looked ages old 35

ONE MAN IN HIS

TIME

for the romantic Antony, but this was forgotten when with a voice that still held its resonance he began the familiar oration over the dead Caesar. A failing vision bothered him a bit. At the point in the speech where Antony, rousing the Roman citizens to tears and fury, uncovers the face of Caesar, ghastly and torn by the assassins' daggers, saying, " W h a t ! Weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, here is himself marred as you see with traitors," the veteran got hold of the wrong end of Caesar's toga and uncovered his feet; the actor, having kept only his upper make-up intact, had slipped into his trousers and street boots. The citizens' pathetic cries, " 0 , piteous spectacle!" " 0 , most bloody sight!" took on a distinctly new meaning. Tuesday 23rd. Murdoch in "Hamlet." I don't like it as much as his Claude Melnotte. Tries too hard to out-do Booth, and he can't. Comfortable breeze this afternoon. Played Marcellus, Player King and Second Gravedigger in "Hamlet." Wednesday 24tli. Murdoch put up "Much Ado About Nothing" and played Benedick. Fine performance but the people of Louisville don't seem to care about comedy. House so-so. Why don't the weather stay fair all the time! July 1st. Heavy shower. The volunteer infantry left on the Sultana for Matamoras. At 4 p. M. another steamer arrived from Cincinnati with a regiment of men bound for Mexico. Fourth of July, 1846. For 70 years we have struggled and been a Mighty Republic. What thoughts this day brings to Americans when they think of Jefferson, Franklin and others meeting to declare themselves free from Great Britain who would reduce them to abject slavery! But the Parent knew not the nature of the Child, that cherished its best blood and wasted its treasure for this ungrateful Mother. Now see how this collossal infant has grown—the successful rival of the Parent! Very warm. Bought a straw hat. July 7th. "Richard III." Opening night of the Charles R. Thornes,

36

JAMES E. MURDOCH

THREE SOUTHWESTERN PLAYHOUSES being their first appearance. Thorne as Richard, and very well he played it though not much encouraged by the audience which was very slim. Mrs. Thorne as Queen.

We shall hear more of these Thornes as the Journal goes on. He was one of the minor stars who later embarked in management, becoming Watkins' pet detestation —an achievement in itself. To be superlative in our Diarist's bad books is to have found distinction; he was past master in envious dislike. The Thornes had a numerous progeny, none of whom reached fame except Charles R., Jr., who became leading man of the notable company at the old Union Square Theatre in New York when The Two Orphans, A Celebrated Case, The Danicheffs, and other French translations were achieving riotous successes and where the youngest Thorne was the beau ideal of romance and good looks. Tuesday 14th. Last night of season. Having done a bad business, the manager has concluded to close for six weeks and take the company to Cincinnati. Got on board Steamer, Pike. I did not like to leave Louisville as I had become attached to it. I like the place much better than Cincinnati.

Waving his valedictory, he turns his face eastward and watches the boat churning up the Ohio to the town that the company devoutly hopes will bring better business. It was a marvel that there were any audiences at all in these sweltering river towns during the summer months. The novelty of the theatre must have been very great to have sent them to hot theatres to perspire mightily through two full-length plays and an afterpiece! Wednesday 15th. Took board at Mrs. Wright's at $2.50 per week. Went to Theatre in the evening, to see "Putnum," which was horribly murdered. The actors did not know their parts, nor the scene

37

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TIME

shifters theirs. Everything in confusion. The audience dissatisfied. I am glad of it. I don't believe in introducing horses and circus performances on the stage. Our company of Connor, Thorne, Addams, Morton, Barry, Logan, Roys, McVicker, Saunders, Valentine, Watkins, Greene, Newton; Mesdames Thorne, Kent, Wilkinson, Miss Logan, Mrs. Logan, Mrs. Addams, Newton and Warren will do things better. Monday 27th. First night of season. Poor House for the opening. Warm. Bought some silver lace, cheap. Played Officer and Murderer in "Macbeth." Connor as Macbeth. Tuesday 28th. A young man by the name of Cook, treasurer at The People's Theatre, stabbed another man by the name of Reeves, of the same Theatre, killing him instantly. Cook's wife had been told by Reeves that she was always imperfect in her parts. She told her husband of it, who demanded from Reeves an apology. Reeves told Cook to go away, he was busy, at the same time shoving him with his hand. Cook then drew a knife and stabbed, went to the Box Office, raised an alarm of fire to draw the people's attention, seized what money he could lay hold on and fled. Wednesday 29th. Hot as ever. Attended funeral of Reeves. He was an Irishman. They went to a priest to pray for him, but he would neither pray nor allow him to be buried in Catholic ground, so they got a Universalist preacher, who in his sermon took upon himself to slander members of the profession. I suppose he would have given anything to have had some actor strike him. But they had too much sense for that. What a shame that such ignorant men should be allowed to slander people of a profession who are nine times out of ten better than those who slander them. Played Murderer in "Macbeth," and Beadle in "Irish Tutor." Poor House. Thursday 6th. First night of Dan Marble who is engaged for six nights in Comedy. He was greeted by a full House. He got lots of laughs but I didn't think he was so funny. Saturday 15th. Played Mace in " F a m i l y Ties." Marble was so drunk I thought he would be unable to get through the performance. But after drinking some vinegar, he got along well enough, at least the audience couldn't perceive that he had been drinking too much.

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Wednesday 28th. Played in "Captain Kidd." Fair House considering the opposition, Welch's Circus being crammed every night. During the evening a boy had his face severely burned in the fight between the pirates and King's ship. Sunday 30th. Studied part of Othello. After supper walked around till 10 P. M. and then to bed.

Watkins was never idle, indeed there was never any chance for leisure. As he grew older he grew still more industrious. His daily records became a chronicle of reading, studying parts, thinking hard while on long walks, binding paper-covered play books in cardboard, editing them, and marking the stage business. The Cincinnati season turning out none too well, the company, always hopeful, returned down the river again through August heat to Louisville. Wednesday 2nd. Went on board the Pike. Very warm. We open Thursday at Louisville. Took board at Mrs. Moncalm's. August 5th. "Fazio." Mrs. Wilkinson as Bianca. She is a very talented woman, though sickness and, I suppose drink, have broken her voice. She is also very disagreeable. Nothing seems to please her but seeing some other actress playing her parts and playing them badly. She is very conceited, which is a great fault with too many actors and actresses. Sunday 6th. Went to the river to see the Baptists perform. They baptised a great number of females. I think I am due for better parts than I'm getting. Well—they will come someday, I suppose. Tuesday 8th. Hot, hotter, hottest. During rehearsal this morning Mr. Smith and Mrs. Wilkinson had quite a row. It appears Smith and his wife (sister to Wilkinson) had a falling out and Mrs. Wilkinson said some pretty harsh words to him and he to her. He then called her a damned prostitute. She siezed a spear and chased him out of the theatre. He returned while she was on the scene rehearsing. When she came off she rushed at him with a large screw driver exclaiming, "You son of a bitch, d i e ! " He 39

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME picked up a chair and kept her off until he could make good his retreat. How it will end I cannot tell. She is a complete nusance [sic] continually quarrelling with somebody. Smith afterwards sent her an apology in order to get her to play. Connor's last appearance prior to leaving for St. Louis. Connor is a very conceited man, but notwithstanding, quite sociable, being polite to everybody. As an actor I don't think much of him. Wednesday 9th. Welch's Circus paraded through the streets and played at night, which ruined our House. Dan Marble arrived from St. Louis. He's in better shape than when he played with us in Cincinnati. I suppose he has not spreed so much. Saturday 12th. I bought some shirting in Cincinnati and paid a woman to make it up, besides leaving her money to pay for a pair of tights I had ordered. I told her to send them to me by the mail boat on the 10th. No one on board the boat knows anything about them. The loss throws me back a great deal. The more I try to get along the less I accomplish. But I will not give up the ghost. Sunday 13th. Hot as ever. Found my shirts and tights on another ship. That woman sent them on the 9th! "Richard's himself again." Sunday 27th. Wrote off part for Mrs. Kent in "Cricket on the Hearth," then walked about town all evening. Not being acquainted with any person, I had no place to visit. I wonder if the time will ever come when I can keep the society of females. I never longed for anything so much as I do that. But without money, I cannot afford to dress as well as I would wish. But there is time for everything. Went to bed with a bad tooth.

40

IV

A GALAXY OF STARS The Journal's calamitous tale marches on to cooler nights, but drama lies moribund in the Ohio River Valley, even in Cincinnati and Louisville. The Journalist's eyes look yearningly to the South again. During the summer he has sent letters to Ludlow & Smith pleading for an engagement in New Orleans. There has been no encouragement in that quarter. No other city holds out any possibility, however; moreover it is near to the war zone and his patriotism has never been put completely to sleep, even by the anesthesia of the stage. The closing notice is posted on the call board and the season ends with Connor's benefit in King Lear. There is a shockingly poor house, which so exasperates the beneficiary that when warm applause brings him before the curtain at the end of the play, he soundly and illogically berates the audience for not being bigger. He sneers at their plaudits. "You people in Louisville don't appreciate the drama. Good acting doesn't mean anything to you. Unless I am actually starving for bread I'll never play in your city again." Watkins, regarding this as quite a silly speech, shakes the dust of Louisville from his feet and goes aboard the steamer. Sunday 25th. Left Louisville on board the Viola (or Orleans. I have just $5 in my pocket after paying my passage, and no certainty of any engagement— but I am bound for Orleans! Should nothing turn up then ho, for the war! I must either be a soldier or an actor. Tuesday 27th. Got stuck on a bar at Evansville, a flourishing little place in Indiana, and hung up there all night Wouldn't it

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be wonderful to visit this earth two centuries from now and see how it's been changed? Wednesday 28th. Beautiful day. Reached Paducah at 9 A. M. and the mouth of the Ohio at 3—and now the noble Mississippi. Friday 30th. Rain. In two days we have passed three sunken Steamers, the James Madison, the Olive Branch and the Magic. The river is filled with snags which destroy every year several hundred thousand dollars in boats and merchandise. Government could save all this by a little expense, though I don't suppose anything will be done to better these things while the Democrats are in power. I have become disgusted with both Whigs and Democrats. All they care about is to be top-notch. " D a m the country," say they, "unless we r u l e ! " I feel rather unwell this morning. T h e d a y s p a s s e d m o r e q u i c k l y than u s u a l , the water w a s h i g h a n d the Viola w a s m a k i n g a fine r u n . On O c t o b e r 2 n d t h e r e w a s a c l e a r sky with a f u l l m o o n a n d , c o n t r a r y to cust o m , the little c r a f t r a n a l l night. T h e r e w a s a p o k e r p a r t y that night a n d W a t k i n s tells u s , " I h a d but three or f o u r d o l l a r s when I sat down but I went to b e d worth $ 1 6 . " W e h a v e a stubborn s u s p i c i o n that the y o u n g c h a p l e a r n e d s o m e t h i n g a b o u t the " o l d a r m y g a m e " when he w a s a fife p l a y e r at F o r t S n e l l i n g . T h e next evening he w a s in N e w O r l e a n s w h e r e he m e t s o m e a c q u a i n t a n c e s at the N a t i o n a l T h e a t r e .

Wednesday 4th. Slept on board last night. Dressed and went up to the American Theatre. Asked Thorne if there was any chance, but received no definite answer. Hired a room and slept in it after the Theatre was out. Saturday 14th. Hot as ever. Not knowing where to go when I arrived, put up at a house on Gravier Street. The landlady, a Creole and a kept woman, agreed to board us, myself, Addams and Roys for $5 per week. She kept us on a low diet and wouldn't give us any pastry. Having some rice for dinner I asked for molasses to put on it. She told me she could not afford to give us pie and 42

A GALAXY OF STARS molasses both. She said she was being careful of our health because we were just from the North. We concluded to find a place where they were not quite so careful. Promised an engagement by Thome for "general utility" at $10 per week.

Day after day he waited for this promise to be fulfilled, and was put off with excuses. With what patience he could evoke he watched the procession of stars appearing at the rival theatres, Sol Smith, Mrs. Farren, J. W. Wallack, Sr., and their fellows. To this feast the freemasonry of the profession gives him a balcony seat from which viewpoint he judged their abilities with the superior wisdom of youth, falling completely in love with Mrs. Farren, a fascinating creature, whose ability to play both comedy and tragedy is quite bewildering, and whose Donna Olivia in A Bold Stroke for a Husband becomes the nightly vision of his subsequent dreams. Of Wallack he is somewhat intolerant. He sees him in King of the Commons and declares him a weak imitator of Macready and Anderson. "It is singular," he proclaims, "how men who might have been good actors throw away originality and turn to imitating." A night or two afterwards he sits in judgment on Wallack's Richard, and grudgingly allows it some merit. "But," he exclaims, "nobody can play it like Booth." Wallack managed to live down our critic's dispraise and become one of his generation's outstanding actors in the standard and legitimate plays. The Wallacks were a talented family. The last of the race was the debonaire Lester Wallack, the perfect-mannered stage gentleman, hero of countless comedies and polite farces at his own theatre at Thirteenth Street, and later removed to Broadway and Thirtieth Street. After a fortnight, Watkins succeeds in getting a job, apparently a little one (he doesn't tell us what he played),

43

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

and to his disgust it is on the Sabbath Day which he had been taught to keep holy. Sunday 22nd. Played for the first time in my life on Sunday. I do not like it much, though I suppose it will never be done away with as long as people support it, for the houses seem better filled on Sunday evenings than any other.

Volunteer troops from the Northern states are pouring into New Orleans and transferring to Gulf steamers for the Rio Grande, bands playing, colors flying. Watkins' mind veers like a weathercock, at one moment he is all for death and glory and the next he is sniffing the oil lamps of the theatre. A local organization gathers him up and he is once more the regimental band fifer of four years ago at Fort Snelling. Sunday 29th. Hot today. Played the fife for a volunteer company. Marched around the streets followed by two or three hundred men and boys making quite a display. The streets are filthy and water has been standing in the gutters until it becomes offensive. It causes all kinds of diseases, such as yellow fever and cholera. Tuesday, December 1st. Purchased a fife for one dollar and played for a volunteer company, for which I received $4. I have always endeavored to do nothing that would be a disgrace, but within the last three or four days my feelings have undergone a change. From now I am going to do anything to make money. When a man gets hard up, there are very few to lend him a hand.

Here and there small opportunities sprang up. One night he acquitted himself respectably by dancing in the ballet of La Sylphide. Saturday 19th. Cold in the morning. Paid $2 to have an old coat dyed as I can't afford a new one. If I could only buy a pair of heavy pants instead of the soldier's pants I'm wearing. I creep along 44

A GALAXY O F

STARS

by degrees. Played the fife for two volunteer companies and received $6. Every little helps. All I ask is that Fortune give me half a chance.

The silence of the Journal regarding its author's acting parts concerning which its early issues were somewhat voluble is broken at Christmas, on which day he was kept too busy to become either restless or despondent. Friday 25th. Christmas. Paraded with a volunteer company through the town. Theatre 7 p. M. The low comedian having kept up Christmas rather strong, I took his part, and after reading it through four times, went on and knew as much about the piece a s any person in it.

As the New Year dawns the mercurial player grows arrogant in his satisfaction. Thursday 31st, 1846. Last day of the Old Year. It leaves me in a flourishing state, not in the way of money but professionally speaking. Four months ago, I was playing small business in Louisville, servants, delivering messages, stage filler, etc. Now I a m acting respectable parts, to the mortification of others who have been on the stage for ten years, and have to put up with subordinate parts to me, and I've only been in the profession for 14 months. They growl about it, but I don't mind. Played Hiliarion in "Giselle," a pantomime part, being the first of its kind I ever played. I got along with it to my own satisfaction, and apparently to that of the audience.

The one actor who is, in Watkins' eyes, without peer among his fellows, Junius Brutus Booth, began an engagement January 9th. Others had their merits. Booth was supreme. His alcoholic tendencies still clung to him. Booth played Sir Edward Mortimer in " T h e Iron C h e s t " By riding him in a carriage all day, they kept him quite sober.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

He begins to feel his age, but still has considerable animation. Monday 11th. Very cold. Booth played King Lear very badly. The managers, wishing to keep him sober, took him out riding on the 10th. He was caught in the rain and got a severe cold. They dragged him out of his bed for the performance. With that physical and temperamental elasticity that was the endowment of these astonishing old players, the very next night Booth was himself again, and even a little more, as Iago. Watkins thereupon sounds loud alleluias. Thursday 14th. My birthday. Today I am 22 and I've learned many hard lessons. I am poor in a hard profession, without friends to assist me, entirely dependent on my own exertions. Hoping for the best I shall take whatever comes. Booth had a benefit this evening. His Brutus was one of the finest pieces of acting I ever witnessed. Sunday 31st. Fine day. Rehearsed. Received my first round of applause from an audience in playing Polyperchion in "Alexander the Great." [That applause presumably reconciled Harry to the profane practice of performing on Sunday nights.] Thursday 11th. Cold but pleasant. Rehearsal A. M. At night, not playing, I went in front to see Henry Placide as Grandfather Whitehead, which he plays beautifully. Several ladies and gents in the boxes were crying. Among the full-blooded, bohemian ne'er-do-wells that formed the rank and file in the acting profession at this date, Henry Placide's name stands out by reason of his domestic virtues and his conservatism—"a good deed in a naughty world." He was a really fine actor and though his methods were perhaps precise and calculated, it was finished and persuasive. His line was old men. They might be choleric or fussy, hard or pathetic, crabbed or benevolent, but they were Placide s old men. At the head of them all was the part that custom never could stale for the public, the patriarchal Grandfather Whitehead. Placide stood high 46

A GALAXY OF STARS in popular favor and amassed a comfortable fortune. He was one of the very few actors for whom Harry Watkins had a good word. Sunday 14th. Nothing can make me believe but what I have consumption, for I have been hacking the last five years. Bought some medicine, went home, bathed my feet in warm water, went to bed and slept well. Saturday 27tk. Quite cold. Mr. Collins, an actor belonging to American Theatrical Company, died suddenly this morning of delerium tremens. He was, as near as I can find out, about 50 years of age. Attended his funeral. Large procession. Having no minister, Sol Smith officiated. He spoke very feelingly and with more sincerity than a minister would, for the latter would undoubtedly have slandered the profession. It was doubtless war activity that caused so many stars to seek fortune in New Orleans. It was the principal communication point between Washington and the North, and the Rio Grande. Liaison officers and purchasing agents were continually streaming through. A brilliant collection of players were seen at the theatres, sometimes singly and sometimes combining in the same bill. Booth, Connor, Murdoch, Placide, James R. Anderson, an actor of versatility and force, whose following was large and enthusiastic, together with a bevy of attractive women stars. Theatre managers viewed the box-office returns with vast content. Monday 29th. Mr. Collins' wardrobe sold at auction in the theatre. It brought more than was needed to pay his funeral expenses. The surplus will purchase him a beautiful slab. J. S. Silsbee's benefit, on which occasion he was presented with a silver cup. A letter was read from the stage saying it had come from his friends and patrons in New Orleans, but who they were nobody could find out. It had no signature. It is the opinion of the company that he bought it himself.

47

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME February 3rd. Parade of the New Orleans Fire Companies. I played the fife for a hook and ladder company. Streets very muddy, in some places up to my knees, and rain drenching me to the skin. I would not have done it if I hadn't needed the money. News arrives from General Taylor. U. S. Forces, principally volunteers, have won a great victory over Santa Anna. 40,000 Mexicans killed and wounded, 700 Americans. Have given notice that I am quitting the theatre. Packed up my things. Friday 26th. Cleared off—cold again. Took my baggage on board the Andrew Jackson, bade good-bye to my acquaintances and left New Orleans at 6 p. M. with $95 in my pocket. But it was not to the wars that the minstrel boy had gone. His favorite performance was dramatizing himself on the firing line defending the colors, and it looked very lovely when he saw his sentiments inscribed in his Journal, but when the actual deed confronted him, that was something else again. There would be no audience to applaud him. The smell of oil footlights had grown too strong in his nostrils to be exchanged for gunpowder. Wanderlust had seized him and he was off for venture in the North once more. He found the Mississippi at high flood and the river farms inundated. Memphis he mentions as " a flourishing little town in the West." When he arrives at Cincinnati on March 4th, he finds that Placide is already ahead of him and playing an engagement at the National Theatre. He sees Placide as Sir Harcourt Courtly in London Assurance and derives a keen pleasure from it. March 5th. Heavy rain. Town flooded. Spent time in walking, studying and copying off parts. News was received of General Scott's victory over the Mexicans at Vera Cruz, and a salute was fired in honor of it. The town is full of actors coming from Orleans as the season has closed there. Saturday 24th. Beautiful day. Have accepted an engagement at the National to get $8 a week. That's better than being idle. Went 48

A GALAXY OF STARS

to see Anderson as Coriolanus. McCutcheon was to play some part in the piece, but got a little fuddled so it was read by the prompter. Anderson is one of the best actors living, but a brute to the people under him. April 7th. To the Atheneum to see Mrs. Mowatt as Julia in "The Hunchback." The most fashionable audience I ever saw in the city. I do not think her talent above mediocrity but she is at least a credit to the profession, for by being a member of a church, and possessing considerable literary attainment, people patronize her performances, that were never in a theatre in their lives. Heavy rain about midnight April 9th. News of a great battle between Santa Anna and General Scott. The Mexicans were nearly all killed or taken prisoners. Santa Anna made good his escape. This will forever silence the abuse that has been heaped on him by the Democratic Party who fear he will be a candidate for the Presidency. I wish I had $30 to spare, I want to purchase books and pursue a course of historical studies. I am wasting time that might be profitably spent, but I can't help it. It takes every cent to make myself look respectable on the stage. The battle referred to above was probably the historic one of Vera Cruz (March 7th to 29th, 1 8 4 7 ) , which practically ended the Mexican War and ceded Texas, New Mexico, and upper California to the United States, although peace was not signed until the following September. Thursday 27th. Was obliged to go in the Ballets of the Ravels to fill up the stage. That is "a check to proud ambition." I have to supe it now. The Ravel Family were pantomimists, dancers, and acrobats who came from France in 1831 to create in New York and throughout America a sensation that never abated for thirty years. Their popularity was so great wherever they appeared in their spectacular and ballet entertainment that 49

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

managers of rival theatres were in extremis for bills to put against it. There was a veritable Ravel craze. They were a band of thirty, the most gifted being master Gabriel who became, according to manager Ludlow, the greatest pantomimist the country had ever seen. May 6th. A comfortable Sunday. In the evening visited the Episcopal Cathedral, a very plain building. I liked the manner in which it was lighted. There was, I suppose, a full dozen of gas lights, enclosed with ground glass, drawn up in the center close to the ceiling, and by reflection, the house was made very light. Went to bed at y 2 past 10.

Watkins' amazement at this dazzling display is understandable when it is remembered that illuminating gas had been in general use but a few short years. The Diarist pursues the uneven tenor of his way for several months. The daily entry records criticism of players, generally in uncomplimentary terms, diatribes against impositions put upon him by unfeeling stage managers, bursts of patriotism, ambitious yearnings, ethical and moral reflections, and his conscientious announcements concerning the state of the weather. Stars come and go, box-office receipts rise and fall, and with them Harry Watkins' hopes and fears. His constant itch for knowledge is never allayed. Whatever book he finds he pounces upon with avidity. Despite the obvious showmanship of the Journal, this is an honest and unquenchable desire. He cannot stifle his inferiority complex about his lack of early schooling. His industry never flags. If ever he does find a moment away from seeking engagements, rehearsing, acting, digging through an incredible avalanche of parts that he must memorize, he uses it to bind paper-covered play books, to keep his stage impedimenta in order and his clothes as

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STARS

seemly as his small means will allow and such as will meet the approving eye of desirable females. Hypochondria dwells with him. Indigestions and sore throats are signposts to the tomb. To sustain his health he doses himself with patent nostrums and experiments with whatever sanitary suggestion is given him, takes long and lonely walks, going over his speeches in his play of the night. Envy of his fellow players' successes never sleeps. When he gets out of his bed in the morning his ego gets up with him and reports for duty. The season drags itself into somnolence, nevertheless the Cincinnati theatre keeps on with indifferent plays and players, occasionally coming to life with the appearance of stars like Murdoch and Anderson. Eastward the course of his empire takes its way and he writes to managers in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, applying for position. With August comes a reply from Thorne in Boston. August 2nd. Received a letter f r o m C. R . Thorne offering me an engagement in Boston at a salary of $12 per week. I shall accept it. I have never had so much satisfaction as when I gave notice to the stage manager that I was going to quit. Engaged my passage for Sandusky. Spent the morning working and packing up.

In two days he had shaken the dust of Cincinnati from his sorry shoes and had commenced his hegira to the Golden East, having gone to the theatre the night before to see the excellent Mrs. Farren playing to a poor house. Friday 6th. Settled my bills, and left Cincinnati for Springfield. Took the Stage for Bellefount, where we arrived at 5 A. M. In the Stage an old woman with a child in her arms occupied the seat with me. Whenever I would get into a doze, she'd lay her hand on my shoulder and wake me up, and my sleep was spoiled for the night. At 1 P. M. reached Sandusky, took dinner and supper,

51

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME and at 6 P. M. got on board the steamer, Albany, for Buffalo. L a k e rough. Reached Cleveland at 10 A. M. Stopped at several small towns. Monday 9th. Fine day at Buffalo. At half past five started for Albany in the cars. Passage for Albany $12. Passed through Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, several towns of minor importance, and arrived at Albany at 1: 25 P. M. Went on board the Knickerbocker, and slept on a settee all night. Wednesday 11th. Cloudy and warm. At New York 5 A. M. Put up at Lovejoy's Hotel. Took a bath and at 10 A. M. went to see my Mother. Found her well.

It is regrettable that in this picture of M a m a Watkins we are given but those eight words, "Went to see my mother. Found her well." Since his Journal was undoubtedly destined for posterity, posterity deserved better treatment. His brother George fared more generously. His Friday's item recording his good-bye to her only blurs the portrait the more. That Harry's attachment to his mother was genuine and strong is certain. He always remembered her birthday on April 1st and sent her money whenever he could. No doubt the dear lady bequeathed to her son many of her own qualities—imagination, determination, emotion, envy, and egotism, traits not wholly alien to female temperament. Unquestionably she returned the affection he gave to her, grieved for his misfortunes, rejoiced in his successes, and trembled for his safety when, in his early letters, he wrote lurid accounts of dangers that befell the regimental fife player out in the wilderness at Fort Snelling. We are sure that she cautioned him urgently about his health, instructed him how to concoct certain home-made medicines for his indigestion and "vinegar sweats" for his coughs. Thursday 12th. Visited the Chatham Theatre. Charles Howard and wife in "Naval Engagements." Do not think much of them.

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A GALAXY OF STARS But Brougham in a "Hamlet" Travesty I liked. He appears to be a very fine actor. Friday 13th. Warm and showry. Bid good-bye to Mother and at 5 p. M. started on steamer, Oregon, for Boston. Delayed by fog. Reached Stonington 5 A. M. and took the cars for Boston where I arrived at 11 A. M. Went to the Beach Street Theatre, saw Thorne, all well. I think it the handsomest Theatre I ever saw. Brought my things to a boarding house and walked about town. It is the worst city I was ever in. A stranger would get lost in it. I had to make enquiries to find my way back.

53

V BOOTH, FORREST, AND BOSTON Monday 16th. Theatre 7 P. M. Opening night. "Honeymoon," and "Simpson and Company." Full House. Everybody met with a fine reception. Champagne supper after the play. What a comfort it is not to perform more than five nights a week. So much time for study. Tuesday 17th. J. Booth, Jr., son of the Booth, made his first appearance in "New Way to Pay Old Debts." I don't think he will make half the actor his father is. Sunday 29th. Visited J. Carter. What a change a few years have made in him. We were companions for a long time. He drank very hard. I did all that lay in my power to reform him, but drink he would. Now he is one of the best temperance lecturers in the country, has a wife and is respected by everybody. September 14th. In front to see Wallack in "The Brigand." I think Wallack acts very ungentlemanly to those who have to play with him. Instead of trying to hide their faults he shows them up to the audience. He has made himself very unpopular with the actors this engagement. Thorne begins to use me badly, putting me into bad parts. September 24th. A writer in The Boston Atlas this morning said, "the young gentleman who played Malcolm deserves credit." The first notice of my playing in Boston. Perhaps I will have better treatment from Thorne now. Monday 17th. For the first time in my life I was laughed at on the stage. I was playing DeRetz in "The Surgeon of Paris." In the stress of the last scene I raised my voice so high that it broke, making a shrill cry. I shall take care that such a thing never occurs again. Booth, the theatre's particular madman, made his first Boston appearance that season in a round of his familiar characters. Although he managed to get through the opening

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week without shipwreck, by the middle of the second he had quite lost his moorings. The Journal comments on the lapse: He was very hoarse—so hoarse that it was almost impossible for the actors on the stage to hear what he said. He played wretchedly as Shylock, being not only inaudible but quite drunk. In any other man it would not be tolerated. In him it is called eccentricity.

It was during this engagement that he almost missed a performance. King Lear, in which he was at his torrential best, had been announced and there was not a vacant seat in the house. At ten minutes before the advertised curtain hour a panic spread backstage. There was no Booth. Messengers were dispatched in every direction—all his usual haunts were visited—his lodgings—the Boston hotels— saloons—door bells were rung at the homes of his friends but without result. Meanwhile the big audience at the Beach Street Theatre were growing restless. It was ten minutes past the hour, they booed the orchestra trying frantically to fill the time, and shouted "Curtain!" One pursuivant was successful at last in locating the tragedian. He was at a drinking place near Faneuil Hall surrounded by an adoring crowd of marketmen, holding them rapt while he recited scenes from Shakespeare and verses from the Bible. (He was noted for the beauty and tenderness in his reading of the Lord's Prayer.) With incredible difficulty he was got out of the saloon and into a waiting cab. All the way to the theatre he fought with his captor, who finally hammered the realization of his delinquency into his muddled brain. The company dressed for the tragedy were assembled on the stage. Thorne met Booth as he entered and endeavored to hasten him to his dressing room. Out in front was a madhouse, whistles, shrieks, and cat calls. Booth stopped.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME

"What's that row?" he demanded. Thome tried to explain and urged him to get into his King Lear robes. "It's late, Mr. Booth. We should have rung up half an hour ago." "Take your hands off me!" shouted the actor, "I'll show 'em!" He rushed to the curtain. The pandemonium was at its loudest when the angry audience saw the green curtain yanked aside at the proscenium pillars. An inflamed, maniac face and a pair of blazing eyes startled them into confused murmurs. His fist shot out at them. "Shut up!" he yelled. "You shut up out there and in ten minutes I'll give you the god-damndest King Lear you ever saw in your life!" And he did! The unruly crowd were his the moment that he spoke his first line. The celebrated Edwin Forrest, who needs little introduction to the readers of these pages, now appears in the Watkins record. To the theatre-going public, Forrest was a tragedian without a peer. To Harry Watkins he was an object of scorn. Joseph Jefferson, an eminently fair-minded critic, described him in his prime as combining "the form of an Apollo with the strength of a Hercules: his deep, musical voice was under perfect control, and in the pathetic scenes of Cade and Virginius, full of tears. As a melodramatic actor he stood ahead of all his competitors. In Shakespearean characters he was considered too robust and extravagant." Forrest was one of those unhappy men born with a temperamental astigmatism. Of humble origin and small beginnings in the theatre, he leaped at once to its highest point. He was prone to fits of rage, and woe betide the poor devil who did anything to mar his scenes! His supporting companies were kept in a perpetual tremor. To our Diarist all this greatness was "sound and fury signifying nothing." The star's King Lear, Macbeth, Richelieu, and Coriolanus he regarded as inferior to those of Booth, 56

EDWIN FORREST

BOOTH, FORREST, AND BOSTON

Anderson, and A. A. Addams. His Claude Melnotte was "the worst I ever saw." In his melodramatic plays, Watkins allows him some ability, but for two weeks while applause rang through crowded houses he stood in the wings boiling with disapproval. The only note of satisfaction he betrays is in a compliment that someone paid him for his own performance in Damon and Pythias. "An old actor said I was the best Lucullus he ever saw." The truth is there was a national pride in this purely American product. Here was a player who could match the geniuses imported from London. A patriotic thrill stirred his hearers' breasts at the reverberation of his mighty voice. It sounded a note of defiance to perfidious Albion. After a troubled life, Forrest retired from the stage to the uneasy enjoyment of the great wealth he had accumulated upon it. Monday 15th. C. T. Smith, who was to have played Marson in "The Soldier of '76" left town very suddenly, forgetting to pay his bills. I was called on to play his part at short notice. Hadn't even time to shift my street clothes. I managed to get through. This should throw me into good business. As the saying is, "It's an ill wind" etc., etc. Wednesday, December 1st. Cloudy. T. D. Rice, the original "Jim Crow," commenced with us on Monday, to play five nights. Poor "Daddy Rice!" His voice that was once all music, now entirely broke down, and where he once drew thousands, he cannot now draw fifty. Such is life.

We met this troubadour back in Cincinnati a year ago during the Diarist's engagement. He appears to be approaching the twilight of the burnt-cork gods. Monday 6th. Cleared off beautifully. At theatre 7 P. M. First night of "Mazeppa." The horse, while going up the third run, fell off

57

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME and struck on the stage, falling between 25 and 30 feet. He sustained no injury. The ladies were dreadfully frightened.

Mazeppa was one of the delights of our forefathers, an ultra-romantic play that always did a box-office business. The hero was played by a woman, and a number of comely actresses rose to fame by exhibiting their shapely limbs to the eyes of eager spectators, the most noted of whom was the glamorous Adah Isaacs Menken, the siren who entangled princes, poets, and magnates in her meshes and enslaved Alexandre Dumas, pere, in his senile days. The horse episode occurs in the play when the villainous Khan of Tartary commands, "Bring forth the fiery, untamed steed. Bind the slave on his back, and send him galloping over the burning plains of Tartary!" It usually stirred audiences to rapture to see the "steed" prance up the platforms, the heroic Mazeppa calmly enduring his punishment. Another play that roused our sires to a considerable ecstasy by its patriotic appeal was Putnam, or the Iron Son of '76, written by N. H. Bannister. It achieved the unusual distinction of a seventy-eight night run when first produced in New York in 1844—something of a record for those days. Nightly salvos of applause were bestowed upon Israel Putnam's sturdy refusal to bend his proud neck beneath the tyrant's yoke, and on the thrilling episode of his escape on horseback from the pursuing foe. During the intervening three years a little of its glory seems to have faded if we may judge by the entry of: December 12th. Last night Thorne brought out "Putnam," a finely written play with some stirring situations. It had a good house, and on its repeat tonight there was only a corporal's guard of an audience. For a man who has been connected with the Profession as long as Thorne has he knows as little about it as anyone I have

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met. He cannot direct or get up a piece. He has dressed " P u t n a m " with whatever he could pick up or borrow and given it just two rehearsals. And he wonders why his pieces don't draw. I wish I could start a travelling company. I think I could do well. Saturday 25th. Christmas. Cloudy and snowy. This is a holiday to most people, but not to the actors in this theatre. Three dramas; " S i x Degrees of Crime," "Black-Eyed S u s a n " and "Timour, the Tartar." The longest performance I ever acted in—playing six hours. Passed two hours in Fenno's barroom with Thorne, Booth and Spear afterwards—slightly fuddled.

It is rare that Harry Watkins withdraws the veil of secrecy from his misbehaviors. In that Christmas record discretion fought with vanity and lost. To have been the pot companion of three distinguished actors, including the great Booth, was too great an honor to go unchronicled. Prosperity waned steadily with Thorne. He made frantic attempts to retrieve it by piling Pelion on Ossa in the shape of programs of incredible length. They were the old stock plays, shabbily produced, but the audiences had their money's worth—six and even seven hours of straight drama. Horses were introduced in Richard III, so when crookedback Richard offered his kingdom for one he could have his pick. The skies brightened with the advent of James H. Hackett, the celebrated Falstaff, whose bulk in later life needed no padding to realize the outward appearance of Shakespeare's fat knight. Hackett was the original Rip Van Winkle on the stage. He was at the height of his popularity when he played this Boston engagement. His Falstaff both in Henry IV and The Merry Wives was unrivaled in his day. Monday 13th. Pleasant. Rehearsal. At theatre at 6 P. M. First night of Hackett, "Henry I V . " I played Prince Hal. Perfect. Monday 21st. Benefit and last performance of Mr. Hackett. Hackett possesses greater versatility than any man I ever saw, playing

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Irishmen, Scotchmen, Frenchmen, Yankees, etc. and doing them all well. He is a very good man to play with. I was glad to see his benefit so well attended. Spent the morning cutting out silver leather for a costume and embroidery for a tunic. Wednesday 23rd. Attended the funeral of my old commander, Martin Scott, to the Lowell Railroad station. He was very eccentric but good hearted and brave. He was killed by a shot from the enemy that pierced his heart. Requiescat in pace!

A week later his funeral complex found an outlet in watching the procession bearing the body of John Quincy Adams to its last resting place. He writes: "The walking being bad only the military and members of the Legislature joined in the parade"—and at the theatre that night a lament and "The Star Spangled Banner" were sung as a tribute to the illustrious departed. One night there was a somewhat bewildering performance of the old stand-by, Damon and Pythias, in which the identities of the two name parts must have been lost in the shuffle. In the first and fifth acts Damon was played by Joseph Proctor but in the second he was Pythias; Thorne played Damon in the second act and Pythias in the third; the "Elder Booth's" oldest son (J. B., Jr.) was the Damon of the third act and the Pythias in the fourth and fifth; while the beneficiary of that night, Edward Eddy, played Damon in the fourth and Pythias in the first act. A Barmecide feast! A piece called A Glance at New York had made a popular hit in that town. It met with outspoken derision by the critics but like Abie's Irish Rose of recent memory it triumphed over the jeers and drew crowds. A wretched hash of it was presented under the title of Boston As It Is, and Harry Watkins regards it to the discredit of the younger Booth that he appears in it as the tough hero. This play became the pièce de resistance of Frank S.

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Chanfrau, who, as the Bowery b'hoy Mose, the ancestor of Steve Brodie and other "tough guys," built up a large following throughout the country. There was a week when sleighing was very good and Watkins laments that "it keeps a great many people away from the theatre." This has a most familiar sound—the ever ready explanation for a drop in theatre patronage. It brings back memories of the bicycle craze as the excuse given the visiting star for half-filled houses. Football games and political rallies had fatal results on box offices. Vaudeville popularity won without a struggle over the legitimate houses. When the moving picture came into the amusement field it wrought sad damage to the acted drama, and when it became vocal the slaughter was complete, picture palaces were built and the prophets and the soothsayers cried aloud that the end had come. Lastly, the radio is established as a relentless rival to the long-suffering playhouse. And yet, mirabile dictu! the theatre lives on; the soothsayers and the prophets seek other omens for its downfall. The story is as old as the everlasting hills. Saturday 24th. Last night of the season. Benefit for Thorne. Well, the season is over. I have worked hard for ten months. I played in the first and last pieces of the season. Opened in "The Honeymoon," closed in "The Married Rake." Now for New York and some rest. Packed up, left Boston by the Fall River Route for New York.

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MORE BOSTON ACTIVITIES Monday 26th. Reached New York at 7 A. M. Took a coach to Mother's—found her well. Had a long walk. At 7 P. M. went to the Chatham, where I saw part of "New York As It Is." Can't say that I like Chanfrau as Mose. I thought he over-did it. Rained all evening. Tuesday 27th. There is a great opposition to the nomination of General Taylor as the Whig candidate for President. The Whigs have abandoned their principles and deserted Clay, Scott and Webster. I believe they would do anything to get the Government in their own hands. The Democrats have acted nobly. They could have had Taylor, but they stuck to their principles and nominated Cass. I hope they will elect him.

A change seems to have come over the Diarist's political principles. He has turned apostate. A year ago he was groaning at the corruption and dishonesty of the Democrats, who have apparently taken him into camp—where he is now making faces at the Whigs. The summer of 1848 went by on leaden wings. Idleness and boredom held him for their own. There is nothing, however, that shakes his devotion to his Journal; the entries move on, monotonous and persistent, a saga of the unimportant. He goes regularly to the theatres where his professional status grants him free admission and views the public favorites with a jaundiced eye. The Naiad Queen, a fairyballet piece (a forerunner of the "Black Crook") he found to be well produced at the Bowery, although he thought but little of its leading lady, Mary Taylor, despite her high reputation. Lester Wallack at the Chatham he describes as a "bad

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imitation of the old man" (J. W., Sr.) His Don Caesar de Bazan was the poorest Watkins ever saw, and his Robert Macaire on the following night was worse. He is truly merciless toward his fellow players. Sometimes he takes the nebulous mother along on these visits; she remains more vague than ever. We suspect that she bores him a wee bit, but he doesn't neglect her. Apparently she lives in a kind of boarding house peopled with old women who have to go to bed early. It is exasperating to come back from the theatre to find that the door has been locked at 10 o'clock, compelling him to raise an incipient insurrection to get in. The daily bulletins cover the state of his health and the number of patent nostrums he takes for his dyspepsia and his bronchitis, his opinions on the political situation, the self-inflicted long walks, reading and studying and binding play books, while his weather bureau report is never failing. Now and then he enlivens his page with accounts of funerals, pageants that give him a deep and morbid joy. The more tragic they are the greater his pleasure; he becomes emotional over one solemnizing the burial of some Mexican War officers which he saw from a street corner on Broadway. Monday 7th. Pleasant. Went to Grace Church and heard the funeral over Mr. Simpson, late manager of the Park Theatre, who died broken-hearted, having become poor through hard luck. He was unable to pay his debts, and it worried him. He had been manager of the Park for twenty-three years. Eight P. M. at Niblo's. Hackett as Falstaff, Vandenhoff as Ford. Fine House.

The approaching season sent him back to Boston again to a reluctant engagement with the unworthy Thorne. Tuesday 8th. Packed up A. M. Had my daguerreotype taken—gave it to Mother. Four p. M., good-bye to Mother and Brother George.

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Rode on a drag with my "props" to the steamer, Empire State. Five P. M. left New York again. Supped, turned in at eight P. M. August 14th. First night of the season. "Married Life" and "The Honeymoon." I broke the ice as Lynx in the first piece. The weather was very hot—after the piece everything I had on was damp with perspiration. Considering the intense heat the House was good. Our company consists of W. Marshall, C. W. Clark, C. R. Thorne, J. Anderson, Old Joe Cowell, Whiting, Spear, Watkins and others. Mrs. C. R. Thorne, Flynn, Mestayer, Woodward, etc., etc., twentynine in all. Monday 21st. Heavy fog and drizzling. Played Randall, a low comedy part in a new drama called "Tom Smart," much against my will. Mr. Spear was to have played it but, having gone into the country for a week, the part was given to me. There is nothing like trying—for expecting a failure, I made a hit. Friday 25th. Tonight I played the most contemptible part ever written, Young Novall in "The Fatal Dowry." Unless I am compelled to I will never play it again. They treat me badly here in the way of business, casting me for old men, fops, low comedy, and bad parts too. When the House is bad, Thorne is out of humor, when it is good you can always tell by his face. He is the most avaricious man I have ever been acquainted with. He works his company to death and then begrudges them their earnings. Monday 28th. Benefit of Mrs. Thorne. Whenever the business gets slack, up goes her name for a benefit. It is impossible to tell what the bill will be for two days at a time. You don't know what to study. September 12th. At theatre 7 p. M. Two pieces, "Rookwood" and "The Devil to Pay." The second was so literary that nobody knew anything about it. I intend to try my hand at dramatizing. If I could, by chance, make a hit as a dramatist, it would assist me materially. I will try. To the modern conception of the theatre with its elaborate preparation for plays, its carefully selected casts and at least three weeks spent over intensive rehearsal, the haphazard productions of a leading theatre in so important a

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city as Boston seem astounding. Every actor had a repertory of characters hidden away in his head, and every manager had the plays corresponding to those characters on his office shelves. At the last moment, when some untoward mischance prevented the giving of an announced play, a frazzled favorite like The Lady of Lyons, Damon and Pythias, The Idiot Witness, or The Honeymoon, or a selection from one of the scores of stock farces and melodramas could be instantly requisitioned. The carpenter was told what scenes to pull out from his scenery dock, the property man gave a list of his "props," the leader supplied with his incidental music cues, the actors went into their wardrobe trunks for whatever would pass muster as a costume, an announcement made to the audience and the curtain would be rung up, for "the play must go on." When, in the following record, Watkins protests against the imposition of being perfect at rehearsal, it is merely in the old tradition of, "Oh, I'll be all right at night!" Tuesday 10th. Forrest in "Othello." They treat Forrest as if he were a god. Everybody is required to be perfect at rehearsal! When standing in the wings you must not talk above your breath. He is Sir Oracle. Everything must be done as he says, right or wrong. Thome fawns on him like a spaniel. During last night's performance of "Damon and Pythias," I waited for Forrest to meet me (Lucullus) at the change of scene, but he did not come. I then went on the stage, and spoke a speech, ad lib—after a while he came rushing on, mad enough. When the scene was over, he called me into his dressing room, and told me that I had no business to go on—that it made it palpable to the audience that something was wrong behind the scenes. And that is what I got for trying to save the situation for a great actor! He kills every part in the piece but his own.

Through a premonition of imminent ill the season ran on into November, when the climax came.

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Saturday 28th. Thorne broke his engagement with his company by leasing the Theatre to Welch and Delevan for a circus for two months. Thorne is about the damnedest rascal I ever had dealings with. Richard III had a conscience, although sometimes he parted with it, but Thorne has no conscience at all. Damn him! Brougham and Burton opened the Howard Atheneum on Monday night with Macready. I am engaged at a salary of $15. At all events his employment went on—he merely shifted from one theatre to another. The opening of the Howard Atheneum was for the appearance of England's foremost tragedian, William Charles Macready. It is singular that it was timed to come on the heels of Edwin Forrest's Boston engagement. There was little love lost between the two; each regarded the achievements of the other with intense jealousy. A trait they both had in common was an ungovernable temper. Forrest's, however, was a thunder gust, violent and clamorous; Macready's was brooding, suspicious, and introspective, a chronic irascibility that filled him with continued selfreproach. The rivalry was of long standing, beginning in 1 8 2 6 when Macready came seeking American dollars and Forrest was just coming into his own. It was carried on with increasing bitterness until it culminated in the Astor Place riot in 1 8 4 9 . Monday 30th. Macready played Macbeth. The House was not very full but the prices were $1.50 for the first and second balcony. There is a prejudice against Macready because he did not treat Forrest well while the latter was in England. Some of the audience hissed, but the majority applauded. He was called out. Tuesday 31st. Macready as Hamlet to a better House. He was applauded but there was still some hissing. He causes discomfort for the company by new arrangement of scenes which he insists on. Brougham said I was imperfect—Macready made me so. Thursday 2nd. Rainy with sleet. "King Lear" to a full house. I think

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his acting in the part inferior to Booth's. They call him the greatest artist on the stage. I consider him the only one. He disposes of all the actors and actresses on the scene until he kills their parts entirely without their being aware of it. When he is on the stage he contrives to fix the whole attention of the audience on himself though the scene may belong to another actor. Friday 3rd. Not in the bill. Went in front to see Macready's performance of Werner which to my thinking is his best part. Friday, December 1st. Went to Theatre 6 p. M. and commenced dressing, when Mr. Ryan (Mr. Burton's Treasurer) closed the doors. No performance. There had been some difficulty about the rent—and the business was also bad, so Burton very wisely closed the Theatre. Well, I am out of an engagement now. Finished dramatizing "The Roman Traitor."

It would seem by the last item that Harry had started his career as a playwright. Saturday 2nd. Raining. Dinneford and Ayling open the Lyceum Theatre on Monday night. They offered me an engagement, but it is rather dubious. Saturday 16th. Unsettled weather. Went to the Lyceum with Dinneford and played. Such playing I never saw. "My Fellow Clerk," "Nature and Philosophy" and "Rendezvous." We did not know who was to play Hooker and Fag in the first piece until just before the curtain went up. Nobody knew the first word of their parts. There was no Knitbrow or Bailiff, and Mrs. Dinneford played all three women. I talked until I was hoarse, then spoke the Tag. Two songs, a dance and the three Farces were all done in one scene. Paper hung up for wings—a carpet over the top of the stage. The House was full at 12y 2 $, the audience pleased! I received the sum of two dollars for my services, and expenses paid. Monday, January 1st, 1849. 1848 has gone. It used me well for which I thank it. Now then, for 1849. My prospects are good to commence the year with—but how will it end? Saturday 13th. p. M. visited the Boston Museum for the first time. The proprietor, Mr. Kimbal, is reaping a golden harvest by his

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME skill in management. He has collected a lot of paintings, stuffed animals, birds, etc. under the name of Museum. He gives theatrical performances in what he calls the Exhibition Room, which is a theatre in every sense of the word. That is, if parquette boxes, orchestra, scenery, actors, prompter, wardrobe keepers constitute one. But it is called a Museum, and under that title, is visited by members of the church, who would not enter its walls if it was called by its right name—Theatre. Such conduct they call religion. I call it hypocrisy.

The Diarist does not mention the gruesome wax works in the upper hall of the museum exhibit. This was, in its main feature, a Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors which served as a solemn warning to those who trod "the primrose path of dalliance" and, of course, rendered this sacrosanct establishment the more tolerable to Mrs. Grundy, and permitted the clergy to enter its doors without sin. My own respected parent being "of the cloth" our family were frequent visitors at the Museum where these diabolical wax monsters shocked me into jitters, especially a series called "Three Scenes in a Drunkard's Life" which haunted my waking and sleeping hours, lurked for me in dark corners and hovered around my childish bed until I shook with fear. The theatre grew to be the popular playhouse of Boston, containing a fine group of players and presenting the best of dramatic fare. Its especial favorite was William Warren, a comedian of the rarest ability and accomplishment, also Mrs. Vincent, Boston's grand old lady, and the two "leading" people, Annie Clarke and Charles Barron. In an earlier day it possessed a comedian who was always sure of a rousing welcome, Dan Setchell. Sunday, February 14th. My birthday; my twenty-fifth year. This day, seven years gone, I was in New York—no place to lay my head or money to buy food. Now I have a wardrobe worth about $300, $150 in cash, and stand fair in my profession. "Hope for the best—

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expect the worst," that's my motto. At theatre 7 P. M. Benefit of Miss Provost, who played Young Norval. With study she will make a fine actress. Slim House. I led her out when she was called and made my first speech. Several voices cried out, "Three cheers for Harry Watkins!" I have now made a hit and must not be left out of the bill so much as I have been the past week. I wish to be before the audience every night.

His hits now multiply like rabbits, not only in acting but in the press. Monday 1st. Yesterday wrote an article for the Boston Herald in vindication of Mr. Davies who was discharged from the theatre without any cause, the manager calling him an habitual drunkard —which was false. This morning the article appears in the Herald —verbatim! Now I have made a hit in literature. Well! Well! Saturday 8th. Heavy fall of snow. Last month it was reported that immense quantities of gold had been found in California. This is now confirmed, gold said to be almost inexhaustible. Everybody has got the Gold Fever, companies are forming and starting for the gold region, some men throwing up good positions to go. It has helped business and if any actors go it makes it better for me. Friday 23rd. Bad weather. My first benefit in Boston, lost $20 by it. I worked hard for a good house but the manager (Caldwell) took advantage of me. Joseph Proctor declined to appear at my benefit on the ground that he is leaving town. I found out that he doesn't go until Monday. I'll not forget this! Letter from George, he wants money. Thank fortune it's in my power to assist him, I have longed for the time that would allow me to do so. Caldwell, refusing my terms for a new contract—$12 a week and a third benefit, I left his office saying I would not play after this week. This morning he sends word that he would sign. Hurrah! Hurrah! I have brought one manager to his senses. Sunday 4th. Splendid day. Old Zach Taylor is President of the U. S. at last. He will make a good President but he did not draw for my benefit. [A reference to a benefit night in Corpus Christi when he had hoped General Taylor would attend.]

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Friday 16th. Played Edward Middleton in "The Drunkard." Four years ago when the temperance fever was raging the piece was given at the Boston Museum for 130 nights. Mr. W. Smith, an actor who had been a hard drinking man, signed the pledge of total abstinence. This play was written for him; in fact he wrote the greater portion of his own part himself. People looked upon it as a portrait of himself. He was playing his own life. Under the circumstance, when I was cast for the part, I felt inadequate to the task assigned me. But the night came—my greatest hope was to get through respectably—applause I did not dream of—I felt nervous—I knew that many in the audience had seen the play and comparisons, I felt, would be made. I heard my cue—went on—no reception—the audience did not expect much and were determined to show it. My first speech received a little applause—my exit a little more—in every scene the applause increased as though the audience were waking from a sleep. At the end of the second act applause grew louder—in the third I had the audience with me. The first scene of the fourth act I was discovered lying in the street, a miserable wretch with the delirium tremens. The scene progressed until, through my ravings I fell upon the stage in convulsions. Then— they shouted! At the fall of the curtain, I was called out, received nine cheers and made a speech. Congratulations poured in upon me from friends and enemies. Old actors shed tears over it—but why dwell on it? In another week they may hiss me. The House was very good. The Drunkard is one of those relics of other days filled with obvious moral lessons on the evils of drink, banal sentimentalism, crass comedy, melodrama, defiant heroism, villains, sob stuff, and delirium, tremens, which moved audiences of the time to tears and thrills. A season ago it occurred to an astute manager in New York that a production of The Drunkard played honestly in its antique manner with incidental music including pizzicato movements and entrance chords, and done with considerable over-emphasis, might appeal to the risibilities of the sophisticates. With a group of 70

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c o l o r f u l actors he put the play on at an obscure theatre that h a d once been a church, served it u p with beer a n d sandwiches to the great delight of his customers and profit to himself. H i s audiences g a v e obvious and audible reactions to the terror of the scenes, wept with the heroine, g u f f a w e d at the f u n n y m a n , hissed the villain, and kept his p l a y going f o r a long season.

Saturday 17th. My body is very sore from the effect of the delirium tremens in the scenes of "The Drunkard." Wrote a letter to Mother and George. Monday 26th. Drizzling rain. Benefit of Barney Williams. He certainly deserves great credit for having brought himself up from a blackguard to some degree of respectability. But his arrogance and bombast is nauseating. In the last act of "The Irish Ambassador," instead of bis giving the cue, he walked up the stage and called out, "Why don't you come o n ? " I stood there with my book in hand and told him when he gave me the cue, I would. Monday 9th. Went to Salem for one night. The first thing that saluted my ears was a man on horseback ringing a bell and crying out, "Hear ye! Hear ye! Mechanic's Hall tonight! The celebrated tragedy of 'Virginius!' Virginius by Mr. Proctor, the great tragedian, Icilius, by the Boston favorite, Mr. H. Watkins!" I was promised $5 and had the good luck to get two. The manager was formerly an auctioneer, and I suppose that accounts for his knocking down on me. The performance was dreadful. Tuesday 24th. Warmer. Benefit of Mrs. Mestayer. I think the days of the Beach Street Museum are numbered. Salaries look dubious. Mestayer would not allow his wife to go on for the second act of "Swiss Cottage" until he received half of the House. The manager blustered but was compelled to pay up. It took me four hours to get my salary, but I got it at last. Finished dramatizing a novel entitled "Guilford; or A Trial by His Peers." This wrote finis to the B e a c h Street M u s e u m engagement. H a v i n g captured their s a l a r i e s , Watkins and the M e s t a y e r s left Boston by boat, turning trustingly to the actor's Mecca,

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New York. The hoped-for engagement not turning up, the Mestayers went sadly back to Boston again. Monday 30th. Mestayer and wife returned to Boston. He was very poorly and short of funds. I loaned him $5.

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vn VARIED ENGAGEMENTS Monday 7th. Great row at the Astor Place Opera House. A plot to drive Mr. Macready off the stage. Apples, eggs, pennies, chairs were thrown at him. He got as far as the first scene of the third act, but the tumult increasing, he was obliged to leave the Theatre. Tuesday 8th. Rainy. Studying Romeo. The papers openly charge Forrest with being the getter-up of the row against Macready. He contradicts it in a letter published in the Courier and Enquirer. Thursday 10th. A riot tonight at the Astor Place Opera House. Macready, who was driven from the stage on the 7th, appeared again, several leading men of the city having assured him protection. A large police force was in attendance. The House was filled early. The play commenced and when Macready appeared, he was greeted with applause mingled with hisses, but his friends were in the majority and the rioters were apprehended. On the outside ten thousand persons assembled, the greater portion drawn there by curiosity. The rioters commenced throwing stones at the windows, and endeavored to force the doors. After some time, two or three companies of horsemen and infantry soldiers came upon the ground, marched to the front of the House and formed a hollow square. They had hardly taken their positions when they fired upon the crowd. Everybody thought the cartridges were blank; it proved otherwise. Five persons were lying wounded and dying in one drug store. A man was brought into a barroom where I was with a musket ball through his breast above the heart. He died shortly after that. The Mayor (Woodhull) is to blame. His conduct incited the rioters to resistance to the law. The lessees of the theatre went to see him to ask if they should play. He told them to do so, and he would protect them. The military were not called out until the mob got under way. They assert that the Riot Act Was read. I was in the crowd and heard nothing of it. This

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME will generate a hatred of the aristocracy by the lower classes that will be bound to show itself.

When the tumult and the shouting of the disgraceful a f f a i r died, twenty-two were found to have been killed and thirty-six wounded. Although Watkins doubted if the Riot Act was read, all accounts agree that it was read, not only once but several times. What led up to the tragic event was the appearance of Forrest in London in 1 8 4 5 when his performances were treated harshly by the critics and hissed by a few in the audience. Forrest declared that the demonstration was instigated by Macready and his friends. He was undoubtedly wrong, but the feeling in America was that her favorite son had been badly used. At the termination of his English season he had his revenge. He went to see Macready play Hamlet and, being annoyed by some especial business Macready introduced, openly hissed him from his box. T o quote Joseph Jefferson, " T h e eagle of the American stage was in a frenzy; his plumage had been ruffled by the British lion. So giving that intolerant animal one tremendous peck, he spread his wings and sailed a w a y . " For four years the controversy waited its fatal dénouement. Monday 14th. Had a talk with Barnum, proprietor of the American Museum, about playing " T h e Drunkard" at his Museum in Philadelphia. Went to Broadway Theatre to see Forrest as Metamora. Saw Dyott for the first time. Did not think much of him. His death was so funny, it raised a laugh. Charles Mestayer died on the 12th. Sent $30 to Boston to assist in defraying expenses for his funeral. Gave an actor that was hard up $5. I should like to be rich enough to afford to give more. Danforth Marble is dead of Cholera in Louisville. Poor Dan, he lived too fast. He was a good fellow. Wednesday 16th. Went to Burton's Theatre, Burton as Toodles. I have never laughed so heartily as I did in the scene where Burton plays he is drunk. It was very funny.

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VARIED ENGAGEMENTS William E . Burton wrote a conspicuous chapter in American theatrical history both as actor and manager. Possessing the physical and temperamental traits that make the natural comic actor, he was received with rapture wherever he appeared. As a manager in New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore he had his successes and his failures. His style as a comedian was in the accepted broad and farcical school often verging on the Rabelaisian, his mere appearance causing bursts of laughter. Among his most popular parts were Captain Cuttle in a dramatization of Dickens' Dombey and Son by John Brougham, and Toodles, Micawber, and Doctor Ollapod. Notwithstanding his capacity for pathos, his audiences always saw him as the low comedian. On one occasion when he produced Masks and Faces, a P e g Woffington comedy, and played Triplet, the hungry musician, the audience howled at his pathetic moments. Finally, bursting with rage, he stepped down to the footlights and shouted, 'Go on, laugh! Funny, isn't it? Nothing to eat in the house! Wife and children starving to death! Laugh yourselves sick! I hope every one of you will starve!" Burton was a man of fine culture, having been educated for the church, was the author of a large number of plays and several books, and had edited three magazines, in one of which, The Gentleman's Magazine, he was associated with Edgar Allan Poe. His valuable library, numbering thirty thousand volumes, was sold at his death in 1860. Wednesday 23rd. This day eleven years ago, I entered the United States Army, a boy of thirteen. Since that time I have suffered illness, want, almost starvation. Now I am a man—my pathway through life seems bright, but what will the future bring forth? "Hope for the best, and expect the worst." Wrote to George A. M.

Whether best or worst, the gods were not propitious. For many weeks his entries are calamitous, one woe tread-

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ing on another's heels. One moment he deplores an inferiority complex and the next extols his superior ability to his fellow players more lucky than himself. He wants to play at the Bowery Theatre but can't screw his courage to the sticking point and ask manager Tom Hamblin for a job. He lashes himself for "the fault that lies with myself," then in his best copy-book style he writes, "Prosperity is seated at the top of a steep mountain more lofty than the earth's great hills." About this time cholera crept into the Atlantic states from the Southwest. Terrified, the managers closed their theatres. Harry houses himself with his books and for the first time becomes acquainted with Plutarch's Lives, which he finds thoroughly thrilling. He sees "terrific tableaux" and "grand dénouements" in its narrative that would be admirably adapted to some future classic play that he dreams of writing. Quite capitulating to Julius Caesar, he exclaims, "How rarely do we find in either ancient or modern history one in whom the quality of the warrior and the statesman were [sic] so strongly interwoven." The cholera scare abates, the theatres open once more, but New York continues to turn its coldest shoulder to Harry Watkins. He champs at the bit. "My impatience to get to acting is like that of a hungry man waiting for his dinner. The days seem like months." Inexorable fate drags him slowly to his one forlorn hope—Boston and the unspeakable Thome. He gets aboard the Bay State and as the steamer sails down the harbor he looks back at Castle Garden and cries, "How I long for the day when, living with my mother, I may call this, my native city, HOME!" Once at the familiar Beach Street Museum he drowns his woes in the smell of its footlights. He makes his reëntry as Tressell in Richard HI.

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Upon my entrance the first night I was greeted with a fine reception—proving that I am a favorite and, if Thome gives me a fair chance, I will be a still greater favorite before the season closes. The clouds still lowered upon his head. Boston was a false hope. The old Thorne duplicity was more evident than ever. Although he made up his mind to leave him unless he received fair treatment, he gave Thorne the manuscript of a play he had written. The weeks passed with nothing said about the play. Finally he determined to get it back. Monday 3rd. Pleasant and unpleasant. Went to Thorne about my play. He told me that he had sent it to his out-of-town house three miles outside the city. I went out there but it could not be found. I suspect that it was a plan to gain time to have it copied. Thorne is a most consummate villain! Being cast for Slender in "The Merry Wives of Windsor," I went to Thorne. "I can't play that part." "Well," said he, "suppose we put an end to the engagement." So on Saturday ends my engagement with Mr. C. R. Thorne. Fortune grant that we may never meet again. Saturday 8th. Thorne closed the Beach Street Museum, throwing a lot of actors out of employment. The greater portion of them without the means to pay one week's board. I believe there will yet come a day of retribution on this villain's head. Settled my bills, and left Boston for New York. I left with much regret. Goodbye, Boston, I love your very stones. Nothing but villainy compels me to leave thee. . . . Thursday 13th. New York. Called on C. Burke, manager of the National, to learn if he could give me an opening, but the same old answer, "Call again. I am busy now." At Niblo's the Ravel Family were playing. The House was full as it should be, as it is the only place of amusement in the city where a person can sit on a warm evening and get a draught of fresh air. It is the best ventilated house in the country, no houses contiguous to it,

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME the doors and windows thrown open to catch all the air that is stirring.

There are no vacancies in New York, everywhere he meets refusal. But his spirit is high. It is the dauntless spirit of the adventurer who was bred in that land of uncertainties, Bohemia, a country where no one ever yet knew what tomorrow would bring forth, the country that bred the deathless coterie that greet us from the pages of Dickens—Alfred Jingle, Wilkins Micawber, the majestic Vincent Crummels, Mark Tapley, Dick Swiveller, and their fellows, lads who live for the day and trust the ravens to feed them tomorrow, never looking over the boundaries of their small world, the world of Make-believe to those beyond it, but infinitely real to themselves. Their triumphs are greater than Caesar's, their overthrows like Milton's Satan. They live their parts; they are their parts. When an admirer complimented Edwin Forrest on the manner in which he played King Lear, he glared back and retorted, "Played it, sir? Played it? By God, I am King Lear!" Our Diarist followed his star, sailed on the steamer Penobscot for Philadelphia, via Cape May, took lodgings on Dock Street and applied for a position at the Arch Street Theatre. There might be an opening in six weeks. That was too far away. He scanned his funds; they were distressingly low. What matter? There is a world elsewhere. Saturday 22nd. Took cars for Baltimore where I arrived all dust. Called on Mr. Owens' manager at the Baltimore Museum. Mr. and Miss Logan were playing. He is a good comedian but I do not admire her.

Cornelius Logan was a comedian of ability who had studied for the Catholic priesthood before he became a player. As a family the Logans obtained a wide vogue. His three

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children acted; the second daughter, Olive Logan, also gained a reputation as a writer and wrote an amusing book, Before the Footlights. Watkins now becomes a human shuttlecock between Philadelphia and Baltimore. He takes the game blithely. In spite of disappointment there he surveys the Washington Monument at Baltimore, thrills with patriotism, and returns to Philadelphia by steamer. Monday 24th. Sought out Mr. Owens and delivered him a letter from his partner. It appeared to contain something concerning me, as Owens asked me to call on him at ten tomorrow. What can it be about! An engagement perhaps! To bed 11 p. M. The thoughts of playing a star engagement of six nights kept me awake until past two, building castles in the air. Tuesday 25th. Pleasant. Called on Mr. Owens as per agreement. Down tumbled the Castles that took me two long sleepless hours last night to raise! The letter from his partner told him to engage me if Mr. Murdock did not accept, which, of course, he did. Nil desperandum!

Eclipsed by the moon of Murdoch, back he goes by cars to Baltimore and confers with Owens' partner, one Mr. Ham. There has been a mix-up. The whole scheme is on the rocks. He cries with Romeo, "Then I defy you, stars!" and procures a position at the Front Street Theatre. Here things are not altogether pleasant. He is undervalued as to parts and has a wrangle with the manager. He devotes some space to the meanness of managers in general and the moral and artistic superiority of actors to those tyrants. Finally he gains his point. Saturday 13th. Such is life. I begin to feel that I have gained a position in the Profession. This evening I played Cassio, expecting nothing better than Montano. It will not be long before I shall play Iago.

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Sunday 14th. A couple of young men, having heard that my life had been a checkered one and had passed through all vicissitudes possible to man, were anxious that I should run it o'er. I devoted a couple of hours to giving them an outline of my history. They confessed themselves highly entertained and instructed. My life is indeed a useful lesson to a young man about to launch forth into the world where he may consider every man's hand raised to keep him down. Life is a race, yet with a clear eye and a reasonable share of brains we may steer our way through the world, if Fate itself does not oppose us. This is a delightful Athenian picture—Plato in the grove of Academus. Pray Heaven these were serious young men! Tuesday 16th. Received my first week's salary in Baltimore. $16. First appearance of Mrs. Farren. In two days I have been able to study three long parts—60 full lengths—and play them perfect. Hastings in "Jane Shore," Maffio in "Lucrece" and Bates in "Time Tries All." I have been so hard pushed that I forget the days of the week. Met a young man named James Metcalf, who enlisted in the U. S. Army the same time as myself. We were together at Fort Snelling. Our positions in life are widely different now. I pass for a gentleman, while he drives a beer wagon at $25 per month. Saturday 20th. Benefit of Mr. Farren—Mrs. Farren appearing in three pieces, "Adelgitha," "Captive" and "Soldier's Daughter." Her husband is working her to death and all for the sake of a few extra dollars! A man as grasping as that deserves to starve. Everyone can see it is breaking her down. Wednesday 24th. Mr. Bowes, having misunderstood regarding his salary, refused about fifteen minutes prior to raising of the curtain to play his part in "O'Flannigan and the Fairies." Upon this, Mr. Burton had him arrested and sent to the Watch House. I had to go on for the part. It was announced that I would read the part; I astonished everyone by playing it perfect. Wednesday 8th. "Lady of Lyons" with Miss Logan playing Claude 80

VARIED ENGAGEMENTS Melnotte. She had better let the breeches parts alone. They don't fit.

The playing of "breeches parts" by actresses always rouses the Journalist's ire; there was a touch of the Puritan in him. For more than a century male characters in the comedies had appealed to the covetous feminine eye; the seductiveness of the impersonation was paramount to male audiences. During the Restoration Nell Gwyn and other saucy queens at the Drury Lane swaggered in masculine garb to the delight of Charles and his court. Jordan, Woffington, and a host of comediennes and leading ladies followed suit and even took on the sable robes of tragedy, some daring souls essaying such parts as King Lear and Richard. There was a Mrs. Macready (no relation of the eminent English tragedian) who insisted on playing Shylock. Charlotte Cushman, a priestess of propriety, played Romeo to her sister Susan's Juliet in London and gave a convincing performance. Sarah Bernhardt in 1899 astonished the Parisians with her Hamlet and two years later appeared as Napoleon's son in Rostand's L'Aiglon. Sunday 12th. Left Baltimore and not sorry to do so. I am tired of this starting. Reached Philadelphia with prospects of an engagement at the Arch Street Theatre. Saw Miss Davenport as the Countess in "Love." She has been successful in New York and Boston and is greatly admired here.

This lady was Jean Davenport, the reputed original of Dickens' Infant Phenomenon in Nicholas Nickleby. To her dying day she denied the identity, but the evidence in support of the story is strong. At this time she was always accompanied by her father, who made himself a nuisance by locating himself in the audience to applaud his daughter's efforts and by hounding newspaper offices for publicity.

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In every particular he was the redoubtable Vincent Crummels. Although far past her childhood when she came to America her parents dressed her in absurdly infantile garments and put her forward at the Park Theatre, New York, as a youthful prodigy playing Little Pickle, Sir Peter Teazle, Shylock, and, save the mark! Richard III and Sir Giles Overreach! It was all in the spirit of the gorgeous Crummels Family tradition. There is nothing in Philadelphia to meet Harry's demands. Off he goes again, this time to New York. No sooner there than an offer comes summoning him back to Philadelphia and to the Arch Street Theatre, managed by William Burton. Here he repeats his former success, Edward Middleton in the glory of delirium tremens. Monday 26th. My first appearance at the Arch Street Theatre. Edward Middleton in "The Drunkard." My success proved all I could have wished for. I was greeted with cheers at the end of the first curtain. I made a short speech and three more cheers were given me. I must labor hard to keep the impression I made.

This strenuous labor was not always effective; a subsequent performance of his favorite part brought a few jeers from the ungodly. Thursday 6th. Fifth night of "The Drunkard." I wish they would discontinue it—my body is sore enough. During my delirium tremens scene, a lady in the box fell fainting from her seat. Her husband came to me afterwards and warned me not to play that part again. I have since understood that he wasn't the most sober of men. May this night's incident prove a warning. Tuesday 11th. That managerial tyrant, Emperor Burton, gave orders this morning to close the theatre for three nights. I am not surprised, against all justice he closes his theatre whenever he chooses, but should any actor violate his contract there is not

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VARIED ENGAGEMENTS enough profanity in the English language to express his rage at the terrible injustice. Friday 14th. No sun today. We reopened tonight. The bills said, "with additions to the Stock." Subtractions is the correct word. Played Richmond—Mr. Pitt as Richard III. My sword broke off at the handle during the combat but, with the courage of the stage hero, I siezed the blade and went through the fight. My hand was hurt and bleeding, but the applause bestowed upon my bravery by an appreciative public served as a salve to the injury.

As 1850 dawned the brutal Burton succumbed to bad business and shut up shop. Wednesday, January 2nd, 1850. Politely informed that Mr. Burton had sent orders to close after this evening. Here is a large company thrown out of employment in the worst season of the year, many without means to pay a week's board, while he, living in New York, is making a fortune. Well, every dog will have his day if he is resolved not to swerve from the straight road, but to o'er-leap all obstruction.

January and February ran their course, producing no engagement and giving little pleasure. He had at least one inspiring night when he saw the gifted Charlotte Cushman playing Bianca in Fazio at the Broadway Theatre. He says, "It was indeed a fine performance. She deserves all the praise that has been lavished upon her. She has more power than any person, male or female, that I have ever seen." There was a jar to his heartstrings when Barney Williams, the Irish comedian, married an old sweetheart of his, the widow of Charles Mestayer. He hated Williams with all the hate of the Watkins clan: his reflections on that gentleman's character may be recalled; the association with the Mestayers in Boston under Thorne will also be remembered. He consoles himself: "Perhaps it is for the best and I have escaped a marriage that might have proved a burden." 83

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Then with a burst of bitterness, "She can't be in love with him. It's not possible. Maria will never be happy with that brute, Williams." Conceal it how he would, she was a great loss to him. She was a fascinating creature with a joyous laugh, and no one could sing a comic song to equal her. But whether crossed in love or empty in pocket he faces his ills with his shoulders braced and his head high. He admonishes his diary on February 15th. Keep a stout heart—tomorrow may bring U3 sunshine or death—if the latter, our troubles here are ended and we yield back our life to Him who gave it, assured that He will not despoil his creation imaged from Himself. Snowed last night and rained hard all day. The pendulum swings to and fro—Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and back again. His enforced idleness is making him desperate. Sunday, March 10th. Went to hear Mr. Fay, a Universalist preacher, preach on the subject of a boiler explosion in this city last week—some 70 or 80 persons were killed. Tuesday 12th. Sleepless night. Went to Castle Garden—Mass meeting of Unionists. When General Scott made his appearance on the platform I never in my life heard such cheering. Wednesday 13th. For a long time I have suffered from indigestion and a cough that looks bad. Last night I had a hemmorhage. I have taken everything from doctor's medicines to quack stuff. Went to Dr. Cockcroft. He ordered me to be dry-cupped and charged me $2 in spite of my telling him that my finances are low. Wednesday, March 20th. Walked before breakfast. Maria told Mrs. Muzzy that I cut her in the street, that she passed close by and I turned from her. I should certainly have noticed her had I seen her. People call me proud, but it is because they do not know my real self. I can't help it, my sensative nature always imagines that my company is not acceptable. Dropped in at Win-

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VARIED ENGAGEMENTS dust's, Park Row. Wallack, Brougham, Fleming, Gilbert and a host of others were there, talking as fast as they could articulate. When they had emptied themselves of words and filled up the vacuum with beer, they fell off one by one until I was alone so, heaving a deep sigh, I started from my revery, went to a dining saloon, demolished a large beefsteak and went home at 4 P. M. no nearer an engagement than when I left in the morning. Wednesday 27th. Saw a comedy of Buckstone's called "Leapyear." John Brougham played Walker, the hero. He is a great favorite here but to me he's an indifferent actor. In the last act he has a passion speech where he makes known his love. I gave an involuntary Ha! Ha! his manner was so ridiculous. Brougham is called a talented man—this is a mistake, he is a shrewd one.

Shrewd lie was, and exceedingly busy. Brougham combined the activities of dramatist, comedian, and that most harassed and distraught person, theatre manager. As a playwright he was one of = the most prolific of his time in the field of light comedy, farce, and burlesque. His burlesque, Pocahontas, was exquisitely funny and had a great vogue. As a manager he lacked both discipline and diplomacy, and frequently got himself into hot water; as an actor, Watkins was probably just though unkind in his estimate. His greatest role was as bon vivant. No table companion and afterdinner speaker was ever more welcome or happy; no banquet was dull where Brougham sat as guest. Like Yorick, he "kept the table on a roar." Monday, April 1st. Pleasant. Mother's birthday. Telegraph from Baltimore for me to come on immediately. I had better go. I'll leave tomorrow. There is just one thing that can cure all the ills my flesh is heir to and that is an engagement. Don't despair, Mother. There are many happy days in store for us.

The Baltimore episode was one of dullness and mediocrity. The conventional plays were presented to audiences

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that must have known them backwards. Stars arrived, twinkled their brief moments on the stage, and faded. Having really nothing to say, Watkins becomes garrulous over his hopes, fears, and hypochondria. His toleration of his fellow players and his condemnation of all theatre managers continue, and his self-laudation never abates. He takes particular pleasure in recording his triumph in a patriotic address he delivered to a company of visiting firemen, New York Hook and Ladder Company No. 3 (These antebellum fire boys seem to have had a gadding complex; they were forever "visiting") wherein he stirred them to rapture by throwing his soul into the line, "The Union, our dear, our native land!" causing the theatre to "shake with tears and shouts." Fanny Wallack played the everlasting Claude Melnotte and again roused the Diarist's ire against women in "breeches parts." A. A. Addams, a wreck of other days, displayed a shadow of his former grandeur as King Lear and Hamlet to meager audiences. And once more we behold our dear old Papa "Crummels" herding his precious daughter into the limelight. She was, of course, no longer in pinafores. Time and persistent boosting had turned her into a pretty good actress. She later married into the army and, as Mrs. General Lander, lived to a ripe old age, denying that she was the original "Infant Phenomenon." Holiday Street Theatre, Baltimore: Monday 6th. Rehearsal. First night of Miss Davenport who appeared as the Countess in "Love." This young lady has been well drilled but I do not think she has genius. I cannot admire her acting. Yet she draws well and is a great favorite. It is the press that has made her so. Her father goes around among the editors and pays them to puff his daughter, and stations men in different

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parts of the house to call her out between acts and at the end of the play, until the audience, not being acquainted with the tricks of the trade, imagine her acting must be something extraordinary. Well, you're a lucky girl in having such a father. His tactics are more valuable than your merits as an actress. Monday 22nd. Wind. Unsettled. Mrs. Malinda Jones appeared as "Ion." Some persons in the front kept laughing and talking. Mrs. Jones stepped forward saying it would be impossible for her to proceed unless the policeman would keep order in the house, that the repeated annoyance disturbed her so that she could not keep her thoughts on what she was doing. The audience cheered. Quiet was restored and the play was finished. Monday 27th. First night of J. B. Booth. Opened with "Richard" to a fine house. He played very well but his strength is failing. When he came to the fight he was much exhausted, and when it was over he was entirely so. I derive more pleasure from his performances than any actor living for he is certainly the best. Tuesday 28th. The manager (honorable individual) has hit upon the right plan to get rid of me. He sent word by bis stage manager that he was obliged to curtail my salary $4. He hoped that when I considered the circumstances of his expense I would see the justice of the act. Not seeing the justice I told the worthy man that I would go. Took me all day to pack up. Thank Fortune my finances are in sufficiently healthy state to carry me through the summer.

A fiery young man, our Harry Watkins! He stayed on, however, for a benefit at another theatre. Monday 10th. Museum 7 P. M. Mrs. Lower's benefit. "Drunkard" and "Delicate Ground." I was called out after the first piece and made a short speech. "The Drunkard" went off well and I was informed by several people that they had never heard so much applause given within the walls of the Museum. After the performance went with a party of friends to have some porter and baked beans.

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The next night he dropped in at the Holiday Street Theatre, where he had been acting, to see J . A. Neafie play St. Pierre in The Wife. It was a slim house. At the close of the play Watkins stepped before the curtain, without being called for, "and thanked the audience for their kind approbation, saying he was about to make a tour and regretted being unable to appear longer before them." Presumably he had been all day writing the speech and was determined to make it, called for or not. Certainly no one asked for it. Tuesday 11th. Close and sultry. Who should I meet at the breakfast table but Frank Johnston, to whom I had loaned some money two years ago when he was hard up! This money he swore by everything swearable he would send me as soon as possible. He appeared glad to see me and insisted upon making me a present of two silk handkerchiefs, a pair of gaiters and a pair of gloves, and promises to pay the money when we meet again, but as he goes to California shortly the chances are that we shall not meet.

Through Harry Watkins' egotism shines a genuine and splendid generosity. He may be critical of his fellow players' acting and envious of their successes, but he is always ready to put his hand in his pocket when they are in need. To be sure he is careful to record these loans and gifts, but throughout the Journal such items as "gave so-and-so, who is in hard luck, $5," appear again and again. It was characteristic of the vagabond early theatre that mutual aid was always extended. Fellowship in distress was the most natural thing in the world, and Bohemia was generally a bankrupt country. The theatre has always been like that; it is like it today. Its men and women are as diverse as night and day and inconstant as the wind, but one possession they have in common, it never fails—"the greatest of these." Friday 14th. Phew! how warm. At National Theatre. Made my first appearance in my native city in "The Drunkard" for the

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benefit of Mrs. Muzzy. The house was very good for the evening. I brought them down in the "delirium tremens" and everyone said I made a hit.

The next day an expected letter arrived from D. P. Bowers, for whose wife's benefit he had appeared at Baltimore earlier in the week. Its contents quite upset him. Saturday 15th. Letter from D. P. Bowers. The good opinion I once held of this man lessened as I become better acquainted with him. To my surprise I find that he charges me with half the expenses of his advertisements, his circulars to his friends and all incidental expenses. Fortunately my share was sufficiently large to cover my indebtedness. This letter stamps him as a most villainous scoundrel.

The summer of 1850 was furiously hot. New York's population choked and sweltered and theatres were avoided; only occasionally when a chance cool evening arrived was any interest displayed in them. The majority of them closed and the town was full of unemployed actors waiting, like Mr. Micawber, for something to turn up. Gatherings of player folk could be found in favorite saloons, down on the Battery, or collecting about the stage doors of the empty theatres, seeking interviews with unsympathetic managers. In these symposia much edifying information could be gained regarding triumphs and failures, good luck and bad; kindly words often for their much-abused craftsmen but never for those tyrants, the managers; tips regarding the most likely hotels and boarding houses on the road, and warnings against certain evil ones where your trunk would be seized if you failed to settle your bill. The comedian told his hoary jokes for the thousandth time, the juvenile man boasted his latest amour, the dark tragedian discussed the merits of Edwin Forrest. These were matters of life and 89

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death. The world might move, but if it was not their world its course was of no importance. In this maelstrom of speculation Harry Watkins swirled round with the others, hoping—waiting. He had a near opportunity at the Bowery and when about to open was informed by manager Hamblin that the city authorities had requested postponement out of respect for the recent death of President Zachary Taylor. Tuesday 23rd. New drama called "The New York Fireman; or the Heiress of Bond Street," produced at the National Theatre. Its merits lay in "soft soap." Every speech was a laudation of the noble fireman. Its author's conclusion was that virtue is to be found only in a red flannel shirt. If the piece proves successful, and judging by the "hi, hi's" I suppose it will, there will be a rise in the flannel market and none but rogues will venture to wear a standing collar and a white bosom. Monday 29. Made my first appearance at the Bowery Theatre as Captain Allen in the dramatic spectacle, "The Siege of Monteray; or The Triumph of Rough and Ready." I had never played in so large a theatre but I wets informed that my speaking was quite distinct. This gives me more confidence, though at best the piece is poor trash. The Mexicans are all cowards, the Americans all bravery and the substance of all speeches is "freedom or death."

The play had a futile run. It was succeeded by a bill in which Watkins was given opportunity to put on a farce he had written, Fudge and Trudge, at whose performance he rent his garments and smote his breast because of incompetent actors. A period of idleness—a moment of hope over a prospective chance at the Broadway Theatre which was dashed later by the arrival of a full English company including the popular F. B. Conway, who was destined to find favor here

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—then again a long gaze at a profitless horizon. He becomes excessively patriotic and feels that the rights of American citizens are being invaded. This trying to supplant the indiginous flower of America with the exotic weeds of England! It seems unjust that our leading theatre should send abroad for actors, but so it will be while Englishmen conduct our affairs. I am actually driven out of my native city by Englishmen. All the leading theatres are in their hands.

All of which has a very familiar sound today—the threat to our native theatre industry. In England it is the American invasion! The Jenny Lind furor now broke out. It raged uninterruptedly until 1852 when the diva married Otto Goldschmidt in Boston and returned to England laden with the golden profit of her American tour. Wednesday 11th. The Jenny Lind excitement lessened the audiences in most of the theatres, she making her first appearance at Castle Garden. P. T. Barnum, the Prince of Humbugs, entered into a contract with her some months since. Not a day passes without some article lauding her talents until Jenny Lind is in every mouth; Jenny Lind hats, Jenny Lind coats, cigars, oysters, etc., in short everything is Jenny Lind. When she arrived on Sunday from England, thousands of people swarmed the wharf eager to glimpse the "Divine Creature." Her carriage to the hotel could hardly make its way through the dense crowds. At night she was serenaded, and by day the Irving House was besieged with men, women and children anxious to peek at her. Tickets for the first concert were sold at auction. The first seat brought $225, which was paid for by Mr. Genin on Broadway.

The elder Booth's reappearance is noteworthy, a pathetic glimpse of the veteran's decay and the rise of his illustrious son, Edwin Booth, whose future the Diarist predicts. 91

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Friday 27th. Booth has been playing an engagement at the National. It is sad to see the poor houses this great actor has drawn. He seems very much broken. Tonight, however, he played Sir Edward Mortimer in "The Iron Chest." His son, Edwin, made his first appearance as Wilford. He will make a fine actor in time should he prove studious. There was the first fine house, it being the "Old Man's" benefit. Wednesday 2nd. My first appearance at the Astor Place Opera House in a new Roman play, "Paetus Cecinna." I regret the author should have selected Mr. Buchanan to impersonate his hero. The part is worthy of a better actor. While he was making his speech a man in the audience hissed. Buchanan pointed him out and remarked that when the gentleman got through hissing, he would go on at which the actor's friends applauded. The house appeared to be packed with Buchanan's friends for there were three curtain calls, which he certainly did not deserve.

McKean Buchanan was one of those bad old actors who had a following in what the irreverent today term "the sticks." He had a penchant for the ponderous Shakespearean parts. After he had presented Hamlet in a small western town the local Hazlitt wrote, "Hamlet was given at the Opera House last night. There has long been a controversy as to the real author of the plays commonly attributed to William Shakespeare. To settle the matter we propose that the coffins of Shakespeare and Bacon be opened. Whichever of the two turned in his grave last night wrote that play!" During the performance of Richard III on a Saturday night in Boston a ribald group in Buchanan's audience got quite out of hand. Selecting the particular Boston suburb which he regarded as indicating their habitat, he yelled at them, "Ye common cry of curs! I know you. You're from Maiden." Monday 11th. J. Jefferson, low comedian, a young man and promising actor threw up his engagement because his name was

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How quaintly time has wrought its revenge! The Jefferson above mentioned was, of course, the Jefferson. We wonder if, in the Great Hereafter, the spirits of Joe Jefferson and Harry Watkins ever meet. Joseph surely carried his humor to Heaven with him. It is a coincidence that ten days later the Journal introduces the name of Jefferson's beloved half-brother, Charles Burke, the tenderest of comedians. His kinsman wrote of him, "Burke's face was plain but wonderfully expressive. The versatility of this rare actor was remarkable, his pathos being quite as striking as his comedy. He had an eye and a face that told their meaning before he spoke, a voice that seemed to come from the heart itself, penetrating but melodious; and as was said of Barton Booth, 'the blind might have seen him in his voice and the deaf have heard him in his visage!' " Thursday 21st. Pleasant. Burke too sick to play. "Ambrose Gwinnitt" substituted for the "Poor Gentleman." I fear Burke is not long for this world. A man possessing his talent has no business to die save of old age. Charlie is both a good actor and a fine fellow.

The Journal's sad prediction was quite true. Burke died soon after at the age of thirty-two. Now comes an event that caused Harry Watkins to fill many pages of the Journal with matter concerning it. He wrote a play which he christened Nature s Nobleman, the Mechanic; or the Ship's Carpenter of New York. It won a prize of $1,000, offered by H. 0 . Pardey, manager of the 93

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National Theatre, for the best American drama, and was produced by him at the National Theatre on December 2, 1 8 5 0 . He regards this as an important milestone in his life. According to the Journal the piece was generously received on its opening night. With his usual superlatives Harry Watkins writes: "The house was crowded from pit to dome, with an enthusiasm seldom heard even on a first night." He had his author's troubles with the cast, and they apparently gave rather a poor account of themselves. His leading lady, Emily Mestayer, was dissatisfied with her part and merely walked through it; a Londoner, John Dunn, played a Negro with a cockney accent; another actor hadn't the remotest idea about what his character meant: and a Mrs. Hantonville (what a beautiful stage name!) could not remember any of the real text and improvised her own. The occasion was notable for the first appearance in New York of George L. Fox, who in a few years became the most popular clown in his day and convulsed thousands by his drolleries in the pantomime of Humpty Dumpty. Sarah Crocker, who played a juvenile part, in later life as Mrs. Conway became the grandmother of the Tearle theatrical family, Godfrey, Conway, and others. The Diarist proudly records the excitement that night when the hero, Herman Gray (Watkins) points to the flag and apostrophizes it: Our Country's flag! May that traitor stand accursed who from the heavenly blue of its bright firmament would seek to blot a single star or sunder that great eternal chain forged by godlike patriots that binds them into one harmonious whole.

That was too much for one inflammable individual; he couldn't let anything like that get away. Filled with patriotism left over from the late Mexican war or with Mexican 94

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mescal, or both, he sprang to the balcony rail and proposed three cheers for the Union. The audience rose, gave the requisite number with a vim and six more for good measure, then sat down much relieved. In this amber there was one large fly, manager Pardey. ("He saw a flie within the bede Of amber cleanly buried.") The longer Watkins looked at it the larger it grew. Seeing a long life for Nature's Nobleman he induced Pardey to give him a royalty of $35 a night instead of the flat $1,000. This arrangement was carried out for a few nights, then the Perfidious One, feeling the nightly financial drain, "closed the show." It is significant of the loose mid-century business contracts that Pardey produced a play the next year at Burton's Theatre called Nature's Nobleman, and claimed the authorship. Saturday 21st. Business got so bad that Pardey was compelled to put back "Nature's Nobleman." He was so annoyed that he avoided me the entire evening although I deserved his sympathy and his gratitude. Few men would have attempted such a night's work as Herman Cray and Lord Darnley in my condition, for I was prostrated with a cold, yet had I not played, there would have been no performance.

During December indisposition held him for its own. Each morning as he rose from his bed he looked at his coated tongue in the mirror and saw there the sign manual of the death angel. To ward off his approach he took all sorts of things, hot drinks, salts, seidlitz powders, oysters soaked in pepper vinegar, gave himself vinegar and lemon sweats, hot foot-baths, etc. He says: Took a tea pot filled with hot vinegar to bed with me; then, covering my head, put the spout in my mouth and inhaled the steam until it was hard to tell which was the sourest, I or the vinegar.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME After the sweat commenced to roll, I went to sleep hoping to be better in the morning. It was all in vain; on Christmas day the dread summons came. December 25th. Snow in the evening. I have got the small pox. My face and body are covered with blotches. The disease is going the rounds and several in the theatre have it. At theatre 7 P. M. The timid ladies and gents are afraid I shall give it to them. They think it wrong for me to come near the theatre and to quiet their fears I denied having anything more than a fever. Took a lemon sweat on going to bed, and so passed my Christmas. And yet three days later he feels quite cheery. Could it have been the oysters? Saturday 28th. Some snow. Feel much better today. Performance afternoon of "Magic Well" and "Golden Axe." The manager is making an experiment of Saturday P. M. performances. I presume this man, Pardey, does not expect to pay for extra playing, but I shall certainly demand it. Except on important holidays the custom of matinées was not known when Pardey initiated the practice. Twenty years later the mid-week matinée came into vogue, rousing great protest among the actors. Monday 30th. Very cold. There was a torch light procession of firemen to welcome a company from Baltimore, the different companies with their torches and apparatus presenting a fine appearance. These visits of firemen from different communities tend to bring about a fraternity that should be encouraged. Ate too many of Mother's buckwheat cakes yesterday morning, the consequence was a severe attack of dyspepsia. The following week Engine Company No. 14 came from Philadelphia. New York roared its welcome to them. The 96

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red-shirted lads paraded Broadway with their bedizened hand-pumped engines; Pardey invited them to the National to see The New York Fireman and they had a grand time. We shudder when we picture the peril these various cities incurred while their fire laddies went visiting. They seem to have had no apprehension about their helpless deserted home towns. The season passed into March with no further serious breach between our Chronicler and the dubious Pardey, who did not long hold tenure as a New York manager. According to Ireland's Records he was "reduced by intemperance and for several years an inmate of the Philadelphia Alms House. He was found dead in the streets there in March, 1865." Now, however, he was firm in his saddle and making a fair success of the National Theatre.

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vin AUTHORSHIP AND MANAGEMENT A melodrama called The Brigands of the Isthmus was presented in March. It was a piece of poor fustian and was greeted with derision by the audience. While two ladies were on the stage, some person threw a quantity of coppers at them. At the manager's request I stepped forward and offered ten dollars reward for the man who threw them, remarking that it was an ungallant act to throw coppers at a female, but as silver was scarce he might pitch his superfluous change at me. This put the audience in good humor and allayed the excitement.

As was the case with our stage after the World War, the 1850 theatre teemed with war plays. If a manager wanted a sure-fire drama he ordered the nearest playwright to mix a concoction of gunpowder, liberty, heroism, red-coats, Mexicans, George Washington, Winfield Scott, and "Old Glory," and serve it up hot on his stage. A Revolutionary novel entitled Harry Burnham, which filled the requirements of the regulation war play, had run serially in a paper called The Island City. Pardey commissioned for the dramatization an Irishman named Pilgrim who knew but little about American history or character. The result was an effective acting drama, but it might have been about the Irish Revolt of '98. Pardey, against his will, called in his dramatist-in-ordinary, Watkins, to fix it up, and sent him to hunt the paper at Westchester where he knew a file could be obtained. Harry Watkins was furnished with a horse and wagon for the journey. He writes: 98

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My first appearance as a driver and I am proud to say I acquitted myself with credit, though the dust was so thick that often I could hardly see beyond the horse's head. We passed everything on the road. I drove thirty miles in three hours which is pretty fair for a novice. In fact I made a hit, my friends thinking me a veteran at the reins.

When he read the story Watkins chose to write an entirely new play. This was produced with success, although subsequent programs bear the name of James Pilgrim as author. It is sometimes impossible to detect who was who in the authorship of many nineteenth-century plays. Piracy was prevalent on the drama's high seas. Plays achieved success, then appeared under other titles at rival theatres; there was no effective law against plagiarism. It makes little difference whether Pilgrim or Watkins wrote Harry Burnham. Very likely both did. However, the Journal presents a few wise words on dramatic construction. Wednesday 19th. The best acting dramas have come from the pens of actors or persons directly or indirectly attached to theatres. An experienced dramatist mentally enters upon the stage with his characters, governs all their movements, exits with them and then attends to setting the next scene. During the performance of " H a r r y Burnham" I was siezed with a pain in my bowels and just before my entrance I was about to fall in a faint when I placed my hand against a door which gave way at my exact cue. I just managed to finish the scene. Excitement is a great restorative. Bought a bottle of "Blake's Aromatic Bitters" warranted to cure dyspepsia. News from Cincinnati, A. A. Addams died last week in extreme poverty. H a d his great talent been coupled with prudence he might still be living and occupying the very front rank in the Profession. It is the oft-repeated tale: too long an association with John Barlycorn.

The blight of drunkenness fell upon far too many of these mid-century stars. The social glass became a necessity

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME to carry them through long bills and tremendous exertions. Finding in alcohol a release from their inhibition and their weariness they often relied upon it for their most cherished effects on the stage. Draughty, unheated theatres, inferior hotels, and bad food in the lesser towns, devastating journeys by steamboat and insanitary cars could be forgotten when the easily procured stimulant set their veins on fire. For the poorly paid supporting actors temptation lurked on every side, and when the saloon was always next door it required a Spartan will to resist its call. April 15th. Benefit of Mr. and Mrs. F. Drew. A finger ring and breast pin were thrown to them from the boxes. Notwithstanding this supposedly flattering testimonial to their popularity, it was more than suspected that Mr. and Mrs. Frank Drew had previously visited the jewelry shop and had themselves purchased the ring and pin with more money than they cleared from the benefit. Frank Drew was the brother of the elder John Drew, father to the later player of that name who delighted our own generation as Augustin Daly's perfect light comedian and later as a Frohman star. Apropos of his uncle's bibulous habits John used humorously to refer to him as "Drank Few." Tuesday 29th. At theatre seven p. M. A serious accident occurred in "Thalaba." At the end of the spectacle a dragon descends from the clouds and seizing Abdalda, rises with him into the air. Mr. Timony, the property man who made the dragon and then entered inside to work it, had suspended it by a small sash cord, and when spoken to about it, said 'twas sufficient to hold a ton. H. Seymour, who played Abdalda, is a reckless daredevil, always attempting outrageous feats from a morbid desire to make himself notorious. While they hung at the highest altitude the

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cord broke precipitating them to the stage from a height of twenty feet, seriously injuring Timony and breaking Seymour's leg. [Envying their publicity, the Diarist heartlessly adds] It was their own culpable recklessness. The n a m e p a r t in Thalaba w a s a character whose attractiveness, l i k e that of M a z e p p a , a p p e a l e d to the "breechesp a r t " actress. P a r d e y saw a box-office v a l u e in having M r s . Thorne p l a y it a n d with short notice filched it f r o m Watkins, who h a d been a p p e a r i n g a s T h a l a b a since the first night.

Monday, May 5th. Pardey announced that after Thursday my part is to be played by Mrs. Thorne! He says that public interest necessitates having Thalaba personated by a lady. This is not the first time that this THING, Pardey, has sacrificed me to his despicable schemes for coining an extra shilling. This change, he states, " i s not meant as the slightest disrespect to Mr. Watkins." I cannot pray that such a wretch shall enjoy prosperity. Tuesday 13th. Stood three hours, suffering with dyspepsia, waiting to see the procession of the President of the United States and his Cabinet who reached the city for the opening of the new Erie Railroad. I was glad to see the enthusiasm displayed as Millard Fillmore passed along. Thursday 22nd. Mrs. Thorne has kicked up a row and thrown up her engagement. Tonight I am back in the cast once more. Miss Mestayer was highly indignant that I should consent to play Thalaba again after the imposition that had been placed upon me. True, it is galling to my feelings but I am too poor to relinquish a profitable engagement. Sunday 25th. Attended the funeral of Joseph Dunn, a good fellow and a fine actor who drank himself to death. Today I moved from 93 East Broadway where Mother and I lived for fourteen years. T h i s is the first intimation that the J o u r n a l gives concerning the l o c a l e of the Watkins domicile, a n d a s to the new h o m e , it is a b s o l u t e l y silent.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Monday, June 2nd. First night of J. R. Scott who is engaged for the rest of the season in parts I was expecting. Another piece of injustice; but I shall hold my engagement. I want all the money I can clear until the end of the season when I think I'll sail for England where I may spend a couple of months and shall hope to play there if there is the slightest chance. Tuesday 3rd. Benefit of the "Actors' Order of Friendship," a new society started in Philadelphia by a few actors two years ago. It met with considerable opposition from Managers who deemed it a conspiracy among the actors to compel them to do as they pleased. The principal members of the Profession held aloof when the society was first formed but with the organization of a lodge in this city the prejudice was done away with. The association has received large accessions to its members and is now in flourishing condition. The benefit yielded some $200.

This organization has carried on for eighty-seven years. It is purely a benevolent and protective order with no militant trend. Today it still exists, bearing out the fraternal purpose of its founders and cherishing the theatre's best traditions. A dwindling handful remain, meeting regularly in New York and caring for the assets that suffice to sustain its purposes. It takes in no new members. With the last incumbent this admirable little order will cease to exist. From June 4th to the 17th Harry Watkins labored mightily over his first benefit in his native city which took place on the last-named date. He had an interminable bill, including a new drama that he wrote for the occasion entitled, Heart of the World; or Life's Struggle in a Great City. It was filled with moral precepts, tearful episodes, evil men and good women. The company, who had struggled through a five-act tragedy and a farce before the curtain rang up on this opus, were in a state of near-collapse. Midnight struck and there were yet three acts to go, and it was gasping its

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last breath when the audience rose stiffly from their seats at a quarter past one. The day's record ends with: If those in front were not glad when the play was over, the actors certainly were delighted. Everybody was worn out, especially the author who was both mentally and physically spent. Wednesday 18th. Fine day. At theatre 7 p. M. "Winged" a rather long new part and got through with it quite perfectly.

In stage argot to "wing" a part meant to get through it without previous study, rehearsal, or definite knowledge of what it was about. You were suddenly thrown into the breach through someone's defection, read over the part, and studied it in the wings while waiting your cue; when it came you thrust the playbook into the wing framework, went on for your scene, got through it by instinct and improvision, and when you came off, grabbed up your book to see what the next was about. In many of the old pieces it made little difference what you did or said; you interpolated lines from other pieces, you were tragic, comic, or heroic as befitted your character, anything as long as you were THEATRE. At the Philadelphia Arch Street Theatre, Mrs. John Drew was playing a piece called Nine Points of the Law. The heavy man was discovered to be missing. An incorrigible veteran of many sieges named Fosburg was hastily clad in a gaudy Mexican costume while the prompter read over his lines to him in the dressing room. Utterly without knowledge of who he was or why, he was shoved on for a scene that revealed the whole plot of the play. What followed was something like this: (Enter Fosburg as the Mexican Villain. A chord from the orchestra.) Mrs. Drew. (Amazed and terrified) Who are you? 103

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Fosburg. Ah, we meet once more. Mrs. D. Can it be that you are—? Fos. You have guessed rightly. I am. Mrs. D. What brings you here? Fos. Need I tell you? Mrs. D. No, 'tis impossible! In Heaven's name, who are you? Fos. Am I so changed? Mrs. D. But what is your errand? Fos. Does your memory fail you? 'Twas not so long ago that you—that we— Mrs. D. (Struggling to put him on the right track) The will! The will! Is it because of— Fos. (Throwing himself on a chair) Right! Mrs. D. But what is your purpose? Fos. (Coolly) That I leave to your own conscience. Mrs. D. But your name, sir! Your name! Fos. (Rising and sweeping a low bow with his sombrero) Pardon, Madame, I am in disguise. I cannot reveal my identity. (Swinging his serape over his shoulder he sails off the scene.) The stricken Mrs. Drew collapses and the prompter rings down the curtain. Recalling my early days at the Walnut Street Theatre in Philadelphia, the stock company was sent for a week to present Henry VIII to the inhabitants of the Pennsylvania coal-mining towns. The performance was somewhat puzzling to these worthy burghers, the stage manager being put to his wit's end to fit the rapidly changing scene in Shakespeare's play to the limited scenery in the local theatres. We would finish one scene and wait for the confused stage hands to fumble for the next set. "Not ready!" shouts the director, "Go on, play a scene—any scene—do something!" Out trot the first and second comedians and—do something.

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Finished, they return. "Not ready yet—go on again." This time they do the two grave-digging yokels from Hamlet while the Pottsville audience turn frantically back and forth through the copies of Henry VIII which they have brought from home; by the time they have become completely bewildered the succeeding set is ready. It was an interesting performance, but things were said in those coal towns that Shakespeare never dreamt of. Friday 20th. A little warmer. Benefit of G. L. Fox, low comedian of the company and a very low one he is too, possessing very little talent and less education, but an admirable substitute for both—plenty of impudence. The theatre is badly in want of a Low Comedian.

This is a surprising criticism of our most noted native clown, George L. Fox. Whatever he may have been at the time the above was written, it would seem hardly fair to take the Watkins estimate seriously. Doubtless it was the timeless irritation that the comic actor inspired in the serious player. Privileged creatures, these low comedians, spoiling sentimental scenes and ruining tragedy. David Garrick despised them so thoroughly that he cut the Gravediggers out of Hamlet! We suspect that the frolicsome Fox trod on Harry's favorite bunion all too often. Later in life Fox came into his own as the super-clown in Humpty Dumpty, father of armies of circus zanies and forerunner of great clowns like Marcelline and Grock. He died a victim to the tools of his trade, lead poison in the clownwhite he used as his make-up. Tuesday 24th. Mr. Stockly played "Richard III." Understanding he was a reputable actor I consented to play Richmond. Stockly acted like a maniac and was laughed at by his audience. In the combat he kept fighting long after it should have ended. Fortu-

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME nately, I succeeded in disarming him, after which he caught me by the throat and it took all of my strength to push him off. The prompter, not waiting then for his death agonies, rang down the curtain. Starring novices on his stage is to be expected from this pusillanimous Pardey. Wednesday 25th. Benefit at Castle Garden for Mr. Hamblin. It turned out a complete failure and I think there was little regret among the profession. Hamblin flooded the city with bills and notices for a month proclaiming his many virtues and his liberality to American actors and authors though it is well known that he never gave an actor a hundred cents when he could get him for 99. He made fifteen to twenty thousand dollars on "Putnam" which Bannister wrote for him and for which Hamblin paid him $30, and then permitted the poor man to die in a city hospital.

This is the Diarist's manager-hatred complex. Tom Hamblin had never done any harm to him, yet in the Watkins lexicon he was Public Enemy No. 1. Thomas S. Hamblin was, in fact, rather a good fellow and well liked. For many years he managed the Bowery Theatre to the satisfaction of the melodrama-loving public, was a fairly good actor of the lurid type, although he made his forays in the Shakespearean field, and bought and produced many original plays. He was a fine-looking actor with a noble carriage and a pair of bad legs. His amatory habits were notorious and gave his playhouse a somewhat unsavory reputation. For its always incompetent company and Hamblin's philandering tendencies, it was known as the "Bowery Slaughter House." Mrs. Hamblin, a talented actress, after eight years of stormy married life renounced her allegiance, sued him for divorce and settled for $3,000, with which she started an indépendant career as manageress. Hamblin was a sufferer from asthma that sometimes rendered his performances unintelligible. His gregarious life, during which he had acquired a fair fortune, ended at fifty-five. Ireland wrote that his busi-

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ness dealings were always honorable, that "his generosity was proverbial and to many a young aspirant he gave a helping hand to fame and fortune." On July 4th, Harry writes a paean to his "great and glorious country," announces that after having worn his hair long and curling he has had it close-cropped, gives his final performance at the National as Macduff and Harry Burnham and removes his props from the theatre. The hoped-for trip to England ends in an anti-climax; he goes instead to Coney Island and Sheepshead Bay, an unpeopled region remote as the Delectable Isles in 1850, and spends a fortnight gazing longingly across the waves to the Promised Land. Bucolic life is something he has read about in books and plays, but there is no Phyllis for his Corydon. He longs to get back to city smell and noise. The nebulous mother gets on his nerves. He writes: Sent to New York for some books and clothes but of course Mother failed to send half what I wanted although I wrote stating particularly everything I required. That good old mother of mine annoys me considerably. She either will not or cannot learn anything in regard to my affairs. She calls my writings a trumpery waste of paper, (she may be right in that) and the wardrobe that has cost me so much and which I prize so highly she declares is worthless—there she is wrong. Saturday 19th. Filled a basket with blackberries, pairs [sic] and cucumber to take home to the old lady. Settled my board bill. Reached the city at three p. M. The country has not improved my health but has changed the shade of my skin and now I would make a respectable-looking mulatto. Sunday 20th. Home again after spending as much time as I could afford at Saratoga. Called on an old acquaintance from the West, J . H. McVicker. We played small parts together some five years ago. Now I am holding a leading position and he is attempting to starve it in Yankee characters.

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In his later years Harry Watkins saw this gentleman, whom he now deprecates, the prosperous manager of McVicker's Theatre in Chicago. Mary McVicker, his daughter, became the second wife of Edwin Booth. Thursday 24th. Walking p. M. Seeing a crowd going into a church to a wedding, thought I would peep at the ceremony so as to be prepared when my own time arrives—which time, I dare say, is far distant. Offered an engagement for Boston. I have refused offers in many towns so that I now may be obliged to attempt at starring. I'll screw my courage to the starring point and perhaps I'll not fail. Time is a panorama without a chart. We can never tell what the next scene will be. The Journal now concerns itself with Boston matters, hopes rising and falling, positions offered and refused, tales of parsimonious theatre managers, and acquaintances who died from consumption and drink, which he pictures as "Twin blights to all stage ambition," and early in October he accepts a post to act as stage manager for one week at the Federal Street Theatre. Putting up at the Pemberton Hotel he goes in search of his employer. Outside the theatre he sees flaming posters announcing, "Grand Reopening of Old Drury with a powerful stock company." Elated over this information he inquires for particulars and discovers that the only visible evidence of the organization consists of: Leon Iavelli, Star of the Ravel Family, and Herr Cline, the two greatest rope dancers and athletes of the age. When I came to cast my opening bill, I found that / was the only male member of the company to be found, the actors who were to have come from New York being detained in that city. The Agent telegraphed that some were "taken suddenly ill" and others "wouldn't come." Things looked desperate and I began to think what I could play with my "powerful company"—three women and m y s e l f . At length I found McVicker, the Yankee comedian, a person who had

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AUTHORSHIP AND MANAGEMENT the rheumatism in his legs but could play old men, and a young man who rather fancied himself though he had never been appreciated by the public. With these I cast "Morning Call" and "Forest Rose." This manager, whose name is Chamberlain, has embarked in the wrong business. He does not seem ever to have been behind the scenes. But he appears to be liberal. Monday, November 15th. Another actor (oh, much abused word!) arrived from New York and several deluded individuals applied for engagement, some of whom had done leading business in a barn, whilst others had spouted their hour upon the aristocratic boards of a Town Hall in a country village. One, calling himself Wilson, I cast for Blandford in "Forest Rose." He was full of acting at rehearsal but at night he became so lost in the character that he lost the words. He had to say, " I demand an explanation for all this," and he didn't say anything else. Actors scarcely opened their mouths before Wilson would shout at the top of his lungs, " I demand an explanation for all this!" Several old stagers who were accustomed to getting through a play however imperfect, were called upon to make so many "explanations" that when the curtain fell I was fearful the audience would demand an explanation too, but they retired in good order. So much for my first night's management.

Tuesday 16th. Getting no actors from New York I was obliged to send the Old Woman of my "powerful company" to play a girl of 16. I have offices enough to satisfy the most ambitious officeseeker, being stage manager, prompter, call boy, property man and stage clearer. Wishing to do all in my power for my employer and thinking "The Drunkard" would be an attraction, I hunted up Wyatt, the original Cribbs, although it took me until 5 P. M. to find him. I managed to get the bill out just in time. After I was rid of this trouble, Blandford, alias Wilson, cast for Captain Oakley in "The Wooldealer," sent word at 6 o'clock that he could not play. Not to be put out, I sent Yeomans on for the Captain whilst I played his part, Colonel Gormly.

On the 19th the hopeful band at the Federal Street Theatre looked for a rousing house because Boston was 109

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jammed with people come to the ceremonies attending the opening of a new railroad to Montreal. The presence of the President of the United States and his Cabinet, the Governor of Massachusetts, the Governor-General of Canada and a military detachment from Great Britain wrought the town up to keen excitement. Every Boston theatre was filled except the Federal Street. There Bedlam reigned—actors, rope dancers, stage hands, musicians, all demanding to be paid. Two nights before there had been an insurrection, the musicians refusing to allow the curtain to go up until they received their money. This time the heckled manager could do nothing but lay down his cards and turn over everything he had to the riotous crowd, stipulating, however, that the actors should come first. After great clamor the performance was given, the meager audience filed out, and Chamberlain's brief career as impresario was at an end. When I left the theatre, Chamberlain was surrounded by carpenters, sweepers, ballet girls, supers, all shouting for their salaries. Poor fellow, though he possessed considerable nerve yet as he stood there, hemmed in by that incensed group without a word to say for himself, he looked the picture of despair. It is not likely that he will dabble in theatricals again. That he is honest I haven't the least doubt, but the theatre is situated in an outof-the-way place and will never pay.

Gathering his possessions, Harry took the Fall River boat back to New York where all prodigal sons of the theatre return, hoping for the fatted calf that is rarely served. Watkins was luckier than his fellows. Almost immediately he received an offer of a position to manage a company booked for the South. It was an inspiring prospect. He bethought him of an old flame of his, a lovely thing named Fanny Mowbray. If she could also be engaged as a dancer his happiness would be complete. She was torn between love and oppor110

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tunity. There was a serpent in the grass, a fascinating Frenchman, M. Halle, who adored her. Harry's was a greater love than Halle's; he paid her passage to Macon, Georgia, from his own funds. Then a halt in the proceedings; the Macon manager failed to send money for the company's fares. Harry's brother George came to the rescue, sent a cheque for the necessary amount, and with no further ado the troupe departed. It was a great risk on my part, but I had pledged my word to the company and I prefer even to lose my money than my honor. Mother took my parting much to heart. God grant me success in this undertaking, if only to smooth her declining years.

Five days later, traveling by various railroads and three different steamers whose tossings laid everyone low with sea sickness, the frazzled little party tottered into Savannah. Company repeated their seasick scenes and with more effect than yesterday, the sea being considerably rougher. Arrived Savannah, and then started for Macon. Reached there at half past eleven. A nice little town but rather dusty. Put up at the Washington House. Cave a nigger 50ff to clean off the dirt that accumulated on me during the journey. Busy all day arranging the Hall for performances. One good mechanic from the North could do more than six of these lazy southerners. Tuesday 14th. The curtain rose at 8:15 on "The Drunkard." The house was very good and Watkins' Theatrical Company, as it is styled in the bills, made a favorable impression. It comprises Mr. and Mrs. J. H. McVicker, Mr. and Mrs. F. Drew, Mr. and Mrs. Cullen, Miss F. Mowbray (danseuse), Mr. J. Byrne, Mr. Whitall, R. Linden and myself, a pretty fair company. I find it rather difficult to manage the females, each being jealous of the other and insisting upon the best parts. Anyone of a reasonable wisdom may manage a man, but it would take the Old Boy himself to drive these women. Miss Mowbray's dance was almost killed by bad music.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Saturday 18th. Had an angry discussion with Drew and his wife, the most unprincipled persons I've ever known. Being a favorite with the audience, she makes exactions that a man of any spirit would not submit to, demanding I shall play pieces to suit her vanity and thinking I cannot do without them. Those whom I took the most trouble to engage are the greatest disturbers. Fanny Mowbray for instance who caused me wasted time and money, has by her conduct injured the business of the house. The steward of the hotel where we are boarding, one Mr. Hernandez, took a great fancy to Fanny and caused her room to be changed to another as her windows were too accommodating for the curiously inclined. It became town talk that Hernandez was constantly in her room. This has kept ladies from visiting the theatre. At last their conduct brought things to a head and, to save themselves from disgrace, a minister was sent for and the happy couple were made miserable by marriage. She I know to be a heartless coquette and everyone here says he is a villain and was the cause of his former wife's death. Tuesday 21st. This is the most fastidious town I ever performed in. I am opposed to offensive language on the stage, but it would be impossible to please the people of Macon without expunging all the humor in a play; they deem everything smutty that creates a laugh. Wednesday 22nd. Played Othello. The audience called for me but I did not respond. I was told that "Othello" is very displeasing to many citizens. They will not permit his being played dark so, to avoid a row, I played him nearly white. My partners, Myers, Coolidge and Rogers are not the slightest use to me. All the work is on my shoulders. McVicker unwell. Seized with a spasm after the first piece. Compelled to change the farce. Macon proving no El Dorado, the little band packed up and set off on the second stage of its pilgrimage. Harry was returning to his early barn-storming again. Vagabondia was reclaiming her errant son. Three years of ambitious climbing the uncertain steps to f a m e in the big eastern cities had

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broadened his knowledge and refined his culture, but the polish he had gained had got him but a little way toward that stardom he reached for. He was neither a failure nor a success. Perhaps there was a drop more bitterness in his cup, but hope never died; its star always rose over the next town, and that town was now Columbus, Georgia. Saturday 8th. Had I been sole manager of the company I believe the business at Macon would have been much better. Three managers are too many. Sent most of the company to Columbus by stage, three remaining to accompany me with baggage and scenery which was packed in a large wagon drawn by mules. We started on foot as the mule driver was obliged to take a by-road two or three miles out of the way in order to lay in fodder for himself and his animals. He had said nothing of this previous to starting and I remonstrated, but on his promise to overtake us I had to let him go. We walked seven miles, putting up for the night at Mr. Wetherill's. After the hard cotton mattresses I've been forced to sleep on the bed was a luxury. There was no sign of the mule driver. Sunday 9th. Up before the sun. Still no sign of the mule driver. Borrowing a horse I rode back three miles until I met him. We took dinner at Thomaston's and continued to Pleasant Hill, making twenty-seven miles since morning. Not being accustomed to horseback riding, my sitting-down place was quite badly blistered. Monday 10th. Not being in condition to play "walking gents" next day I made a contract with the hotel keeper to furnish a carriage for the rest of the journey. We put up that night with one Jenkins and were on our way by six A. M. keeping the muleteer in sight until eleven A. M., then left him to his own course whilst we drove on to Columbus, arriving at noon. Nothing done toward fitting up the Hall so off with my coat and by six o'clock the scenery was up and everyone ready except an actress whom I found quite sick with cold from driving in the stage. We played ''Lady of Lyons" in the Temperance Hall to a satisfactory house. We have made a much better start here than at Macon. The musicians did

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME not wish to be seen in public so a place was provided for them behind scenes. This reminds me of a female who compelled her daughters to wear high-necked dresses because it was vulgar to expose their bare necks, although the sensitive creature kept a house of prostitution.

At Columbus the Watkins Theatrical Company found excitement enough in the everlasting Montague-and-Capulet feud between the Drews and the McVickers. It was never safe to predict an hour before curtain time what pieces would make up the night's bill, which of the quartette would develop fever and ague or who would refuse to act unless his favorite play held first place on the program. Now the Drews were seated high, and then their house of cards would be toppled to the ground at the last moment by the refusal of a McVicker to appear in a Drew opus. Drew then started a mutiny by taunting the company as toadies to a tyrannical management. This collapsing, truce would be called. Kotzebue's gloomy old tragedy, The Stranger, was announced for presentation. Mrs. McVicker, demanding certain conditions, developed a dangerous ulcerated sore throat which could not be cured unless they were granted. Watkins tore his hair. Into this warfare came sailing the dove of peace, the seductive Fanny Mowbray, now the week-old bride of the infamous Mr. Hernandez at Macon. She looked dazzingly fair to Harry's eyes. Could the honeymoon be over so soon? She was a dancer—he would make her an actress; she should learn the lines of Pauline and play in The Lady of Lyons that night. I called a rehearsal; in twenty minutes McVicker, who had gone in to inform his wife of the change, returned saying she thought she would be able to play. She had taken a poltice from her neck and, washing with a very warm water, the soreness had seemed to

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go right away. It has become a standing joke that the sovereign cure for sore throat is a rehearsal of "The Lady of Lyons."

Although there had been a fair profit, Columbus flickered and died. Once the townspeople had satisfied their curiosity concerning these nomad play folk the spell of the drama vanished. They must move on. Montgomery, Alabama, lay ahead; they were making preparations to appear there when they discovered there was "another Richmond in the field" —Campbell's Minstrels, who were working toward the same spot. It was a question of which advance courier arrived first to secure the Hall. Coolidge of the Watkins troupe embarked on the Montgomery stage and found himself in company with Dr. Jones, agent for the Minstrels. All through the night, muffled in their overcoats, they eyed each other suspiciously, as silent as the grave. Meanwhile Watkins telegraphed to the Montgomery Hall owner to hold it in his name. After a two day's delay a reply came refusing the company the booking. They held the fort for three more nights at Columbus, during which the fair Fanny nestled herself back into Harry's affections and was given a benefit. Coolidge secured a smaller hall at Montgomery and the company started. Sunday 23rd. Rainy. Up at 8 A. M. Hired a private conveyance for the Company and at 10 A. M. left Opelika, Alabama. Reached there at five but no sign of the muleteer with our baggage. He should have arrived there hours before. Rogers started on horseback to find him and I was obliged to borrow funds to send the Company on at one A. M. Monday 24th. Gloomy, rain. miles away fast asleep under at eight A. M. the conductor sured him it would delay our

Rogers back. Found the driver ten his wagon. When the cars came in refused to take our baggage; I asopening in Montgomery but he was 115

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME adamant. Everything looked desperate until a Mr. Jones, principal agent of the road, said he would do his best to get our things in the baggage car. After much argument they allowed me to put them in and we reached Montgomery at two. Not a thing ready although Coolidge had been there four days. We had to postpone the performance. Alabama beamed more kindly upon the Argonauts than did Georgia. Everyone's spirit rose, even the cat-and-dog bickerings of the Drews and McVickers abated under the genial interest the Montgomeryites were manifesting, and f o r an instant a ray of sunlight lit the scene. Tuesday 25th. Day promising—trying to clear. A great deal to be done. Kept all hands busy. 7 P. M. opened to a fine house. Performance went well—"The Lady of Lyons" and "Spectre Bridegroom." Whenever we do have any luck we seem to tumble into it by accident. Part of my wardrobe either stolen or left in Columbus. For the past few days Linden has scarcely known a sober moment. Tonight he had an attack of delirium tremens. I was obliged to cut some parts and change others. Troubles never end. Oh, this curse of drunkenness in my profession! Monday, December 1st. Cloudy. Rehearsing. I became so exasperated I resolved to leave the Company. Had it not been for Rogers I would have done so long ago. Although it is against my interests to stay I will not act dishonorably to an honest man. I think the Watkins Theatrical Troupe will soon be numbered among the things that were. The Drews and the McVickers, like the rival houses of York and Lancaster, will not rest until one or the other is exterminated. On and on went the hot wrangle between the "rival houses." It descended to the most trivial details, not only disputed parts but who should enter first on the scene, etc., etc. The entire quartette sent in their resignations, and

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AUTHORSHIP AND MANAGEMENT Rogers, roused at last to indignation, told them to g o ; h e would close the show and leave them in Montgomery. This unexpected riposte silenced them and for a week the fires smouldered. Just as they were flaring again, Mrs. Hernandez ( w h o seems to be flitting back and forth between the Company and conjugal Macon j o y s ) appeared on the scene. Harry welcomed her with open arms. Oh, thrice blessed Fanny! The Drews looked the picture of despair; it was a clear case of checkmate for they knew we could play very well without them. Completely chop-fallen, they sought the advice of a lawyer, but having both law and justice on our side, we told them to try and see who would make most by that proceeding. They began then to think how their case stood. They were in a strange country, without money, in debt and no chance to get an engagement. At five p. M. they called on us and said they were willing to perform whatever we thought was to our interest. Yesterday they swore that they would starve rather than play any longer with the McVickers; today they are willing to play with anybody. Poverty like sickness is a great humbler. Thursday 11th. Our orchestra players, two harps, a fiddle and a claronet are Italian, not speaking a word of English, and play only by ear. When Fanny handed them the music for her dances they looked at it blankly, then at her. She pantomimed that she wanted a dance, and when they struck up an impossible tune it was evident that they were hopeless. I took my fife find played "Rory O'More," the orchestra following somehow—anyhow. I could not go in front to play, but stood in the wings where the Italians could hear me; they followed as well as they could, choosing a key several degrees from mine. I had the advantage— I made the most noise. My first appearance as an orchestra leader! Tuesday 16th. Three musicians arrived from New Orleans. I wrote for them over a month ago and when they walked into my room

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I was taken aback. Well, I am bound in honor to see they are not losers by their trip. Oh, if I could only see myself out of this scrape!

Apropos of orchestras, there is a saga of the sticks in the record of my own travels. It was in a small town that shall be nameless beyond the fact that it was in Michigan. The theatre musicians were called at two o'clock to rehearse the incidental music in the play to be given that night. Everyone came except the first violinist. We couldn't go on without him and were forced to wait. Every few minutes the leader went to the stage door, looked up at the sky and said, "Ya, I tink he come." When this sky-gazing excursion kept repeating we rather expected to see him descend from the clouds. In ten minutes a gentle shower pattered down. The leader beamed with satisfaction and exclaimed, "He come now!" "But why should he come now?" I asked. "Veil, he drives the vater-cart and ven it rains he don't have to sprinkle no more." Emulating the great tragedians who had played in Pizarro, Harry now appeared as the noble Inca, Rolla, and satisfied himself to the full. He tells us that he "made quite a hit." The wild plains and mountains of Peru were represented by whatever panoply the Montgomery Hall afforded, and the conquering Spaniards and the heroic Peruvian defenders were figments of a dream to the spectators' eyes. When Rolla called his followers to repel the invaders with his rousing cry, "Hold, recreant cowards! Forward valiant Peruvians! Defend your king!" he shouted into empty wings. The Watkins Theatrical Company had doubled itself unmercifully, two and three parts to each actor, but it couldn't be expanded into an army. There was a difficulty about the child; Cora's child had to be rescued. At the last moment the parents of the two available children in the Company

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refused point-blank to give them up. There was a long wait and the Journal's entry concludes with: "seating myself in my room I declared that the play should not go on without a child nor should the piece be changed. This settled the matter. In a few minutes McVicker's boy was dressed for Cora's child and the play went on." Thursday, December 25th. Beautiful day for Christmas. There was a champagne dinner given to which I was invited, and I was obliged to respond to the numerous toasts given. I have acquired by some means unknown to myself, a name as a speaker, and every third or fourth call was for " a sentiment from Mr. Watkins." As wine is the propeller of eloquence, I fear I indulged rather more than is my wont. Sunday 28th. Caught a severe cold. Rogers gave the company notice. They seemed willing that it should be so. For my part I rejoice at the termination of this most disastrous theatrical campaign and trust I may never again be placed in the position of striving to please everybody. Coolidge and Rogers knew nothing of management. They entered into a speculation, flattered into the belief of success from the fact that the previous season Messrs. Jefferson and Ellsler had brought a company to Macon and realized $3,000 in four weeks. But the managers in this case were both actors. Coolidge and Rogers, finding their houses not filled, went all about town asking the advice of everyone. Too many cooks etc. These small towns pay about once in three years and then only when cotton brings a good price. Wednesday 7th. Mr. Winter, one of the leading young men of the town, gave a costume ball last night. He requested the loan of my wardrobe but I was compelled to decline. I consented, however, to assist him in purchasing materials for dresses and to give directions to the tailors and milliners. Several of the dresses, which must have cost nearly $100, were afterwards presented to me by the wearers as a "slight recompense for my trouble." I was invited to the ball but I was prostrated with fatigue and only stayed a moment. Many of the citizens are anxious that I should start a

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME weekly newspaper here. If I can get a good backer, I should like to try.

It took some weeks to settle the affairs of the Harry Watkins Theatrical Company. Bills that had been reported paid proved otherwise; there were claims by the tradesmen, printers, tax collectors. In an imbroglio of evasions, charges, and counter-charges poor Harry Watkins' head spun around like a top. Nobody seemed responsible. As Watkins' name stood as the titular head, the sheriff held him responsible until Rogers, who was really a decent sort of fellow trying his best to get out of a tight squeeze, acknowledged that all contracts were in his name. Money enough was raised for the Company's salaries and fares home. We lament that the Journal gives no account of the parting scenes, the tender adieus of the McVickers and the Drews, but it needs little imagination to picture the Diarist's relief as the little coterie of thespians boarded the train, boat, stage, mule-team, or whatever vehicle it was that bore them from the scene of their late woes and triumphs, their conquests and their hours of desolation. During their sojourn in the three towns, Macon, Columbus, and Montgomery, they had toiled mightily and wrought incredible havoc upon the English-speaking drama, but at least they had brought some pleasure to these hospitable Southerners who were willing to accept little and forgive much. We daresay that with no great bitterness in their hearts they smoked the pipe of peace and jested over their misadventures. They were bred in Bohemia. To Watkins, facing the music in Montgomery, the situation was still grim. The strain lessened, however; even the sheriff was kindly, he had a merciful feeling for these wastrels. Nor is there mention of the angel of light, Fanny Mowbray, whose dainty feet tripped their way into Harry's affections. Did she go back to Hernandez, her jealous ogre in 120

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M a c o n , w h o h a d been the c a u s e of " h i s f o r m e r w i f e ' s d e a t h , " to b e h i d f r o m p r y i n g e y e s ? O r d i d she d a n c e into susceptib l e b r e a s t s e l s e w h e r e ? W h i c h e v e r w a y she d a n c e d , m a y b l e s s i n g s g o with h e r ! S h e h a d a k i n d heart. T h i s is a d r a m a t i c touch in the v a l e d i c t o r y to Montg o m e r y ; the m a n a g e r , R o g e r s , w h o s e h e a d is b l o o d y b u t u n b o w e d , d e a f to the p l e a d i n g s of h i s w i f e who is f a r w i s e r t h a n h e , a n d still h o p i n g that W a t k i n s w i l l consent to r e m a i n :

Wednesday, February 14th. My birthday. 27 years. I am getting old. The poor troupe has sunk quietly into an untimely grave, unmourned, unpitied and soon to be forgotten save by numerous creditors. Packed up. Rogers endeavored to induce me to play two weeks longer for the town is filling with strangers arriving from all parts to attend a Grand Union Convention and a special session of the Alabama Legislature. He was in despair at my refusing to play, but his wife, an amiable and most exemplary woman, begged me to go saying, " A s long as you remain, my husband will cling to this." S o I settled my bills, sent my trunk on board the steamer, Southern Belle, and parted with keen regret from Montgomery. Made no money but many friends. Left at five P. M.

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IX A YOUTHFUL ADVENTURE On the river cotton boat whose stern paddle churns him down the yellow Alabama, he finds the winter prospect barren and dreary to a "warm, romantic temperament"; he prefers to pore over comic almanacs and country newspapers that he finds abroad. Several times they run aground. Saturday, February 17th. Cold as ever. The cotton bales which we take aboard serve one good purpose, they shelter us from the cold wind and shut out the view of the desolate shore. Reached Mobile at seven p. M. Took the nearest road to the theatre. Found a poor house assembled to witness a poorer performance. Tuesday 20th. Left for New Orleans at four o'clock on the steamer, California. Wednesday 21st. Still cold. We awoke to find the steamer hard aground twenty miles from Orleans. Having nothing to read, I was induced to take a hand in a game of poker, and most profitably did I pass it. Came out $16 ahead—a windfall to a purse already in extremis. Thursday 22nd. Roused up at three A. M. to go aboard the steamer, Florida, which had come along side to take off the California's passengers, then transferred to a schooner and hauled to the landing place by means of a long rope. Sunday 25th. Everybody complains of hard times due to the checking of navigation on the upper rivers which have become frozen over. This doing nothing is very tiresome. If the weather does not moderate I'll take a steamship and leave for home. Wednesday 28th. At St. Charles Theatre to see Miss Davenport in "Romeo and Juliet." My opinion of Miss Davenport remains the same. She has been well drilled but is not over-burdened with talent.

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A YOUTHFUL ADVENTURE This is our old friend The Infant Phenomenon again, whose success the Diarist always deplores. Tuesday, March 3rd. Met H. A. Perry who insisted that I join him and Mr. H. Eytinge in a French dinner. At the end of nearly three hours we finished. Such lengthy dinners may be very well for those who have stomachs to digest them. I haven't. Packed up and took passage for Cincinnati on the steamer, Morro Castle, leaving tomorrow. H. A. Perry, mentioned above, was known to his friends as Harry Perry. He was of the early theatre's jeunesse dorée, an excellent actor and a matinée idol. He was the first husband of Agnes Perry, who later married Junius Brutus Booth, Jr., and revealed her admirable acting ability to us as Agnes Booth. Thursday 5th. Upon awaking I expected to find the boat at least fifty miles up the river but she was still tied up at Orleans. The Captain said that he was detained by a dense fog that came up suddenly. It was quite certain that the real cause of detention was the hope of getting a few more passengers. As there were no more in sight at 11 A. M., we succeeded in getting off. I can't say much in praise of the victualling department of this boat, judging from the dinner. Many passengers are from the gold regions of California. They signified their intention of returning to that country as soon as they could settle up business at their former homes. California has a great destiny in commerce and agriculture. Since I have been on board I have heard so much said about the Land of Gold that I regret not having gone there when the fever was at its height. I have no ties to bind me except George and Mother and they could join me, but I shall lay no more "plans." Friday 6th. Pleasant. The Morro Castle is about as ancient and worthless as are most castles of the present day. I should be loth to stake money on her winning in a race with a sick snail. I should die of monotony did I not have considerable writing to do. Supper no improvement on dinner.

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Thursday 12th. Pleasant. Reading and walking about the deck. The Captain asked if I was walking for a wager. If so he'd pay it himself if I would postpone it to some time when he was not trying to get some sleep, his berth being directly under my exercising track. He said I'd robbed him of his nap for the last five days and he'd be d—d if he would stand it any longer.

No, Harry could not postpone it, but would select another part of the steamer for the daily walk he must take to baffle the demon, dyspepsia, who was ever at his heels. How different this river voyage was from that first journey to New Orleans nine years ago! It was no longer the "vast and noble Mississippi," but an ugly, muddy, ice-laden flood, forever holding back this crawling floating prison whose tyrant commander would not even let him walk, and whose table menu was unspeakable. There was no milk for the morning coffee. He took advantage of an hour's wait at a wooding-up landing to walk a mile to a farmhouse and ask a stern old lady for enough to fill his bottle. The stern old lady said no. He thought of all the pathetic moments in plays he had acted in, or which he had written, and played a little scene for her. It was not for himself, he said, it was for his poor wife who was desperately ill on the steamboat down on the river bank. It would perhaps bring her back to health. He would pay her what she asked for a bit of lifesaving milk. The pathetic appeal won the old dame; she would not take his money, filled his bottle and told him to hurry back to his distressed lady. He reached the landing as the boat was about to start, and that night displayed his capture at the table to the eyes of the parsimonious Captain. As an object lesson it was a complete fiasco; the coffee remained milkless for the entire voyage. What did he expect —Delmonico fare for a $ 1 6 passage ticket? His fellow passengers, green with envy, regarded him with hatred. 124

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He looked forward to the Memphis landing to improve the steamboat's larder; at this point he reports that the steward laid in a supply of beef and bread but no milk. But Paducah ( 0 blessed spot!) produced not only milk but turkeys, chickens, and eggs, and life became more beautiful. Up the Ohio River, past Evansville and Louisville, and at last the roof lines and church spires of Cincinnati gladden his sight; sixteen days aboard the floating prison that (strange coincidence!) bore the name of MOTTO Castle. Cincinnati was but a halt in an eastern journey for Harry Watkins; it no longer held anything of profit for him. Bates, the local theatre manager, offered him a position but he had risen above these small affairs; it was Caesar or nothing, and his Rome lay over the Alleghenies. For three days he waited for a boat going to Pittsburgh, and meditated on the vanity and villainy of things in general. Louis Kossuth, who was making an American tour, soliciting aid for his native Hungary's independence, rouses Harry's ire and he goes on for several declamatory pages against him in his Journal, contrasting him with our own national heroes—Washington, Franklin, Jackson and Clay —until he grows a trifle tedious. Then we come across a surprising chapter. During the three days up the Ohio to Pittsburgh, he occupies his time in setting it down; it clears away some of the vagueness and obscurity in the Diary's earlier chapters, a throw-back in the drama of Harry Watkins, who always lived in terms of the theatre. Friday 27th. Arrived at Pittsburgh and took a walk to the Allegheny Arsenal where on the 22nd of February, 1843, I enlisted for the second time in the service of the United States; the circumstances of this enlistment formed one of the most important eras in my life. I kept no journal during that period; I now have opportunity to relate it. After my return from Texas in 1842 I was

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME taken with dysentery and chills and fever which reduced me to a mere skeleton, and in this condition I arrived in New York with very little money in my pocket. I walked the streets all night, catching an occasional half hour's nap in an armchair by the warm stove of some hospitable barroom. Night after night for two weeks in December did I traverse the streets of my native city, too proud to appeal to my friends, and thinking how foolish I had been to leave Texas; if I could but reach it again I should not only regain my health but be able to get into some kind of business. With less than $5 in pocket I began a journey of over 3,000 miles. I took the steamer for South Amboy, walked thence to Camden, crossed to Philadelphia, stayed there for three days, and then started on foot over the mountains for Pittsburgh, reaching there in thirteen days, a distance of 318 miles. This was not without great suffering, for January was raw and cold; I was thinly clad and had barely recovered from my illness. The shoes I wore blistered my feet, so that in a few days I could scarcely walk; by pouring whiskey into my shoes it considerably assuaged the soreness of my feet and also hardened them. Many persons, hearing where I was bound, thought me crazy to undertake such a journey in the condition I was in; an old farmer with whom I had passed the night told me I should die before I got through, but I trudged on. Of all those who pitied me not one offered assistance, but I was not a begger, I was only poor, and poverty is not beggary while God still leaves to man a firm heart. When I was within seven miles of Pittsburgh my strength gave way and I was obliged to succumb. One of the large Pennsylvania waggons used for conveying merchandise over the mountains happened along, and the driver told me to get in and lay down on the straw. [We call this hitch-hiking today.] On reaching Lawrenceville, two miles from Pittsburgh, the driver awoke me and I went into a tavern kept by a German; this house was a resort of the soldiers from the Allegheny Arsenal. Learning that I had formerly been a fifer in the army, someone informed Captain Harding, commander of the arsenal, who had kept a vacancy in his command, hoping to get a fifer for a small band. As no musicians were allowed to ordnance departments, the commanders of arsenals could only enlist them as mechanics or la-

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borers. Harding sent for me, I was ushered into his office by the orderly. He received me cordially and when, in answer to his enquiries, I told him of the life I had led he was astonished that at my age I had seen so much of this world's trials. He then asked me to enlist. I replied that I would rather not, but he made such fine promises that he won my consent. For a minor to enlist the parents' agreement is necessary, so I suggested writing to my Mother. He asked if I was positive that she was alive; I said I was not absolutely positive. "Very well," he said, "we'll suppose that your mother is not living; a guardian to vouch for you will be sufficient." So Mr. Patrick McGee, a secretary in the arsenal office, was chosen as guardian to Harry Watkins who now donned the blue of Uncle Sam. I succeeded in organizing a respectable band out of a bugler, clarionet player, two drummers and myself. But the relations between the Captain and the fifer losing all harmony, ended in becoming woefully discordant; I had to work all day in the shops and when the rest of the command were at leisure, I was compelled to call my band and blow away for an hour or two to the gratification of the Captain and his friends. When I complained of this the gouty Captain became enraged and thenceforth treated me shamefully, seemingly bent upon persecuting me to the utmost of his power. I was, he said, too d—d independent for a soldier. Here the Diarist leaps into the limelight and describes at great length an encounter with Captain Harding wherein he bravely confronts the tyrant commander. He stands coolly before his irate chief, who raises his cane to strike. "You damned lazy scoundrel," he shouts, "take your hands out of your pockets and go to work or I'll knock you down!" As they stand eye to eye there is a dramatic pause, then the cane is lowered. "Fortunately," the Journal states, "he did not strike; I would not have stood the disgrace of a blow but should most certainly have resented it." The whole situation is in the best Watkins manner and

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME was doubtless used in one or more of his plays. Then came escape—desertion—a flight in the dark eight miles from Pittsburgh—a stage to Cleveland—thence by steamer to Fort Mackinaw on the upper lakes. As soon as I landed went to Captain Martin Scott, commander of Company I, 5th Infantry, to which I had formerly belonged, and told him the particulars. He sent me to the guard house where I was kept nominally a prisoner for three months. Then, after much trouble, Scott effected my transfer. Harding was obdurate and demanded my return, doubtless to have the pleasure of punishing me. As I was considered the best fifer in the Regiment Scott exerted his influence at Washington and succeeded in having me transferred. I remained a year at Mackinaw, when I realized that the army was no place for me and set about getting my discharge —which, having enlisted without the consent of my Mother, who was living, I easily accomplished. As soon as this was gained I resolved upon an entrance into that profession which had been life's aim from boyhood. Mr. J . R. Scott was in New York making engagements for the Pittsburgh Theatre, salary being no particular object we soon came to terms, and a week after I commenced my theatrical career as Master Neville in 'The Love Chase." One day I paid a visit to the Arsenal to see my old comrades; Harding, who did not hear of my being there until I had gone, sent for the sentry at the gate and damned him to his heart's content for having admitted me. Despite its Munchausen flavor this odyssey has the basis of absolute truth; Watkins' two enlistments may be traced in the war records. As to its details, they form the Comedie Humaine that he was always writing. Like many another born to the stage, and many of the then current dramatists, he saw life with the eyes of the theatre but never the theatre through the lens of life. The actor is rarely like Rosalind's banished father who, in the Forest of Arden saw "tongues in trees, sermons in

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A YOUTHFUL ADVENTURE stones, books in the running brooks, and good in everyt h i n g . " H e is rather like Saturn who devours his own children. Our Diarist, having opened the door to a mysterious past, closes it a g a i n and takes us on once more, this time in reverse of his earlier trek over the mountains.

Saturday 28th. Took the cars to Philadelphia. The conductor charged me most shamefully for extra baggage. The railroad not being completed all the way we were carried twenty-four miles by stages. The journey proved to be a matter of two days as there was a landslide near Johnstown where the cars jumped the tracks at the summit of the Alleghenies. It resulted in my walking part wayj seeking food at farmhouses, finally being picked up by the passing train. Arrived Philadelphia at midnight the second day and stayed at the Union Hotel on Arch Street. Tuesday, March 2nd. Started home at two P. M. Found the old lady in first rate health, and that's some comfort. I gave her a history of my doings, then to bed. That Southern tour was a great loss to me; it's an injury even now since it is almost impossible to get anything to do.

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X EXIT THE ELDER BOOTH Sunday 7th. Called to see Miss Crocker. I should have married this young lady when there was a chance; she is everything a man could desire his wife to be, virtuous, frugal, good temper and cleanly. I think she would have consented had I solicited her hand. She is to be married to Mr. F. B. Conway of the Broadway Theatre. That she may meet with all the happiness she deserves is the wish of one who expects to die a bachelor. Friday 12th. Having read that a law was passed by Congress last September granting 160 acres of land to all who served in the army during the Indian Wars, I forwarded my discharge and affidavit to the Commissioner of Pensions; a note comes today stating my claim would be investigated. This will be a windfall if I get it. I enlisted during the Florida War. Monday 20th. Happened in at Florence's. In conversation with a dozen professionals, we discovered we were all American actors, a most singular circumstance in New York City. English actors are flocking here where engagements are tendered them immediately, while Americans are cast aside. His protracted and disastrous trials in the South had been so intense that he had almost forgotten the art of theatregoing and its attendant criticism of his fellow players. He renews this pleasant practice and finds much to comment upon. Forrest is at the Broadway Theatre; on seeing his Othello Watkins forgets his former dispraise and declares it the best Othello living. He longs to play Iago to the Illustrious One's Moor. Alas! it is in the hands of the gentleman who recently walked off with his beloved Sarah Crocker, F. B. Conway. He says, "My poor opinion of Conway's acting is more and more confirmed." Naturally!

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EXIT THE ELDER BOOTH Thursday 8th. Elected a member of the American Dramatic Fund Association. This Society has been in existence for four years and has created a fund of nearly $13,000. At first it met with opposition from members of the profession, who believed it to be a scheme gotten up by a few individuals and would be heard of no more. American actors looked upon it with suspicion because most of its officers were Englishmen; young men regarded it as a plan to create a society to support old people in their dotage. But these prejudices are dying off and the respectable portion of the profession are now joining it.

This was the original association organized for charitable purposes among the needy of the theatre; it was modeled on an English stage fund formed for a similar end. It has ceased to exist under its first title but has been succeeded by the present "Actors Fund of America," whose tremendous activities have been carried through the years largely under the supervision of Daniel Frohman, and has disbursed huge sums yearly to distress among stage workers. The vague Mrs. Watkins had now to house her errant and bankrupt son. He accepted his position with uneasy humility. Sunday 11th. A. M. Fine morning. Had a good wash—took a walk and read the papers. Mother went to church. Unfortunately I stayed at home and was obliged to entertain three old maids that came to pay her a visit. It being Sunday, I bore the punishment with Christian fortitude. Then, presto chango! P. M. raining! Two successive pleasant days would be as great a novelty as an honest politician or an actor without jealousy.

That Sunday evening brought a visitor whom he had not seen for a very long time, his brother Osmer. It is evident that an estrangement existed between them, from what cause the Diarist does not reveal, but there is a notable lack of that warm affection which he holds for his brother George. 131

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Osmer came in and passed the P. M. with me. Fortune's Wheel in its revolutions brings about some queer changes. This visit is one of them. Wednesday 14th. Met McVicker who had just arrived from the South. Took a walk with him and passed the rest of the evening at my new rendezvous, the book auction. Among things sold were autographed letters of Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin. I had no money to bid. The Journal reveals certain joining tendencies on the part of its author; all kinds of societies hold out attractions for him as steps to popularity and fortune. When he achieves Masonic dignity his satisfaction is truly great. Wednesday 21st. Raining. On Tuesday night I was proposed for membership in the Order of Masons and a committee formed to look after my ka-rac-ter. I presume they found it, as a favorable report was given. I have long desired to become a Mason as I believe that every young man should join an association of this kind. [On May 8th he writes:] 8 P. M. was initiated a member of the "Lebanon Lodge of Masons." After the ceremony came home, talked with Mother, and at 11 went to bed. Monday 10th. 7 p. M. visited the Astor Place and saw G. V. Brooke for the first time. Was not so well pleased with him as I expected to be but, nevertheless, he is a fine actor, not equal to Forrest, though, or Booth either. I was led to expect too much. His Othello was not a perfect whole but I never heard the farewell speech delivered so finely. Gustavus Vaughan Brooke came to America with a flourish of trumpets and a vast London reputation; he was a somewhat riotous actor who had won repute as Othello. His reception in New York was favorable on the whole, although qualified. The New York Albion had this to say 132

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concerning his performance: "How conies it that the London press has spoken in such rapturous terms of Mr. Brooke? Are we blind or are their critics partial? He is a good actor spoiled by mannerism and trickery—certainly not a great one." Harry Watkins, although professionally idle, never found time heavy on his hands. Climbing the Masonic ladder, he records his pride in receiving the Third Degree of Masonry, but lest his joy be too great he spends some moments hanging his harp on the willow of a lost love, the beauteous Sarah Crocker, and calls repeatedly on the fair creature. Tuesday 11th. Fine day. p. M. visited Miss Crocker, now Mrs. Conway, she having married the actor of that name, leading the company at the Broadway Theatre. I almost regret that I did not love her sufficiently to have followed the advice of many friends and, while she was free, have offered myself as partner. As I did not, I hope she has bettered herself. [Forever using his emotions for play material he concludes his requiem with:] Doubtless I shall sink into Mother Earth without ever enjoying the real comforts of life. For a man cannot meet with much happiness unless he follows the part marked out by the Creator. Monday 24th. 7 P. M. made my first appearance at Burton's Theatre for Johnston's benefit, playing Skeptic in the farce of "Founded on Facts." At the curtain I was loudly called for but did not attempt to go out until Burton told me to do so. I then made a short speech and retired. Everybody said I had made a hit. Wednesday 26th. Met Burton to talk about an engagement. He feared I lacked experience. I thought ten years' practice in the profession of an actor was experience enough, but thus it is; an actor must be old to be young. I once read that in France, when the Revolution was at its height, a resolution was proposed at the meeting of a political club which provided that all men past 40 should be guillotined as a menace to society. I thought then that a

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME man who could make such a proposition was either a madman or a fool; I am inclined now to respect him. No doubt he was a young actor who had just been told by some superannuated old bluffer that he lacked experience. Saturday 29th. Called on H. B. Phillips at the Lyceum Theatre, he is anxious that I play for his benefit. I shall do so, although there is no probability that I shall profit by the engagement, but I must keep before the public in order not to be forgotten.

Here the Journal takes us for a month's schooner cruise in Virginia waters. This was evidently a craft of the tramp variety and neither built for comfort nor supplied with table delicacies. She did a trade that ranged from exchanging Northern hardware for Southern tobacco and Virginia apples to planting oysters. There were lengthy shore sojourns at Yorktown, where the Diarist was about to burst forth on Washington and Cornwallis when his oratory was cut short by having to take the place of a sick deck hand and do ship's duty at Harrison's Rock, Point Comfort, and Norfolk. The Captain taught him to take observations of the sun, and if he did not learn to reef, hand, and steer he acquired a coat of tan that was gratifying. Even at Norfolk there were no plays or entertainments, nothing but saloons and gambling rooms whose activity was disturbing to him. He preaches a full sermon on the virtue and uplift of the theatre in contrast to the twin curses of drink and slavery that devastate the fair land of Virginia, and denounces the hypocrisy that assails it. He hears that in these Southern cities the gamblers and saloon keepers "hate to see a theatrical company come into town as it always injures their business." Lying at anchor on moonlight nights he plays his fife and writes scenarios for future plays. Perhaps he will be an honest tar in one of them. He keeps au courant with national

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events; his avidity for them is keen. There is a fervid simplicity in his tribute to Henry Clay: Friday 2nd. The Richmond paper today announces the death of Henry Clay. The country has lost one of its purest patriots and the Union its most faithful defender. Although a Whig in politics, he knew no North, no South, no East, no West; not even party trammels. The greatest fault his political enemy could impute to him was an ambition for the Presidency, which is surely a laudable desire. He never stooped to unworthy means for its accomplishment, and no more honest words ever issued from mankind's lips than came from his when he exclaimed, "I would rather be right than be President."

What benefit his health gained from a month's ocean breezes, and what the harsh schooner rations did to his dyspepsia the Journal fails to inform us. On docking he takes a stage for home and arrives at nine, just as his mother is going to bed. There followed much desultory job-seeking, interviewing managers, shop gossip among cronies, and play-going with its attendant biting criticism. He encountered J. H. McVicker, who had caused him such distress in Georgia and Alabama, but McVicker had just lost his only child on a passage up the Mississippi River and his grief softened any resentment Watkins may have retained. With a few friendly glasses all was forgotten and forgiven. His old oppressors, the Thornes (in truth they had been thorns in his flesh!) now appeared on the scene, their tyrannies at Boston not so long past as to be forgotten. Thorne had taken a brief tenancy of the Astor Place Opera House, now the New York Theatre. It is interesting to find these actor-managers going about the country picking up theatres as if they were cabbages, and astonishing to note the availability of these play houses.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME It was a battle between Watkins' pride and his necessity, and necessity won. He signed with Thorne. Friday 20th. Warm. Made an engagement with Thorne. I never expected to be under his management again, but there was no help for it. I wish to stay in New York and this was the best engagement I could make. The theatre opened on the 30th with an operatic play, The Enchantress, and the following evening: Tuesday 31st. Opened with Collona in "Evadne." Miss E. Logan as Evadne was quite successful. It is some six years since we were both members of Bates' company in Cincinnati. She has greatly improved since then. The usual changes of bill, benefits, and featured actors kept the theatre doing a semi-respectable business, and during its progress Watkins' admiration of Miss Eliza Logan cooled to the frost line. She refused to permit his playing Romeo to her Juliet, and this check to proud ambition laid his spirit low. Thursday 9th. First appearance of the Bateman children since they returned from England, the most talented children I ever saw. Kate and Ellen Bateman are said to be six and eight years of age. The younger sister has the most talent, she not only understands the part she is acting but convinces her audience as well. The opening piece was badly selected—the last act of "Richard III." Aside from the absurdity of seeing children playing tragedy, there was too much straining of the voice. They next appeared in a petite comedy entitled "The Young Couple," and here their talent appeared to great advantage. In later maturity these Bateman youngsters, of American birth, fulfilled their early promise and won commanding positions on the British and American stage. Kate, the elder, 136

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especially distinguished herself not only in her own stellar light but in supporting characters with Henry Irving, who appeared under her father's management at the Lyceum Theatre, London, and made his first great success in The Bells. During her tours in this country her most popular bill was Leah, the Forsaken. There was an occasion in the South when the Romeo to her Juliet was Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth. Monday 13th. A notice posted that the theatre closes after tomorrow night. My dealings with Thorne have been generally unfortunate, though in this instance not the slightest blame can be imputed to him. Had he not been prevented by sickness, I have no doubt he would have made this theatre a success.

But the New York Theatre was destined to give one last gasp. Chanfrau takes over the lease, opening almost immediately, and rides it to its finish. Monday 27th. Pleasant. First night of Chanfrau's management. "King Lear" and "The Toodles." James Stark played Lear and played it well. He has the wherewithal to hold himself up, having acquired a fortune in California when the gold mania was at its height. Stark had the field to himself and became manager of the first theatre in San Francisco, which was filled nightly, the tickets selling from $3 to $5.

On this occasion Watkins played Edgar. His services should have been well requited, for Edgar is the leading part after King Lear. However, salaries in the palmy days were poor pittances at best, nor was management commonly a profitable investment. Professor Odell tells us that from 1849 to 1852 Tom Hamblin's profit at his popular Bowery Theatre was about $100 a week. Stark's appearances at the New York Theatre under the Chanfrau management lasted but a week. He failed to reflect his golden Californian fame 137

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in the East. On October 2nd the New York Theatre that had known so many evil days as the Astor Place Opera House, and had seen a mob shot down at its doors, ended its eventful history, and Watkins was again out of work. The magnanimous Stark took his defeat cheerfully and spread a champagne and oyster supper on the closing night to which Harry tells us that he was invited by "Mistress Stark." Monday 4th. Rainy day. At theatre A. M. Salaries were paid for five nights' performances. At Bowery Theatre 8 P. M. It was not pleasant to see this house crowded where the manager and entire company are foreigners, and to think that the New York Theatre where all the company, with but one exception were native Americans, had to be closed for lack of patronage!

The honest tradesman certainly had his just dues in the 1850 play titles; his nobility shone in the Ship's Carpenter, The Fireman, The Mechanic, The Engineer—all "of New York," and there now appears The Machinist of New York written by one Signor Canito, a monkey actor. This specialist proposed that Watkins open the New York Theatre for a week, produce the masterpiece, play the leading supporting part and be free from all financial responsibility. Harry Watkins could not see himself playing second to a hairy ape and was deaf to the Signor's entreaties. "But see," continued the monkey man, "I'll take the theatre and bring 'The Machinist' out, you shall have the leading part and be manager besides." Here was a chance for glory, but I declined the honor, though it might gain me the friendship of every machinist in the city.

Accepting an offer to play a week at Philadelphia he appeared at a minor theatre there in his old play, The Ship's Carpenter. The town was crowded with counter-attractions, among them the seductive Lola Montez, the Irish-born siren 138

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who had brought prime ministers, diplomats, and kings to her feet, and in whose meshes Liszt became so hopelessly entangled that the distracted Abbé only retained his sanity by constantly running into hiding. At the end of her sensational career the bewitching hussy, according to Ireland's Records, "died of paralysis in New York, a repentant and humble Christian, January 17th, 1861, aged 43 years." At our Journal's date the artful Lola had induced an unknown dramatist to put her into a play in propria persona (if such a scandalous lady could by any stretch of the imagination be called a proper person) and present her as devastating European courts and enslaving monarchs. The piece was brazenly called Lola Montez in Bavaria and its cast represented actually living people, including the senile old King of Bavaria. The Diarist dropped in at the Chestnut Street to see her in this play and was adamant to her charms: "Her acting," he says, "was as bad as I expected to find it." Whatever the secret of her witchery was, it failed to cross the footlights; she was a poor actress and an indifferent dancer. If there was one actor on the American stage whose success was gall and wormwood to him, it was Frank S. Chanfrau. Every now and then the Journal blazes out a broadside against him. He saw him play Gilbert in The Idiot Witness and found that while Gilbert was supposed to play the fool, Chanfrau made him a fool indeed. "This man has one talent, imitation—and that a monkey has." That he may leave a record of his own prowess in this same character, he tells the Journal two nights later that he went over to Newark to appear in The Idiot Witness for a benefit and was "enthusiastically called before the curtain and given three cheers." These little victories solaced his soul, wounded by the injustice of a prejudiced world; they vindicated his right to a place in the sun. The approbation of that Newark gathering was as the triumphs of a Cushman 139

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or a Forrest; its memory bridged an unemployed period which ended in carrying him over again to Philadelphia for a month at the Chestnut Street Theatre. Friday 15th. Cold and misty. Reading, walking and binding play books. A lie strikes deep. It strikes the very foundation of the social edifice and destroys all confidence between man and man. 'Tis virtue's poison and villainy finds in it a best friend. There is no wretch so lost to shame but that the blush-veins in his cheeks may tingle at the name of Liar.

The meaning of the foregoing is somewhat vague; it may refer to family affairs, but more probably it was a burning thought set down for future use—play material. A profitable engagement in Philadelphia restored his spirits which had been lowered by dwindling funds that reached zero before the first salary day. Sunday 21st. Spent the morning writing an address calling on the members of the profession to subscribe for a stone to be placed in Washington Monument and laying down my reasons for their so doing. If there is one spark of patriotism in their breasts that will fan into flames when the stone is embeded in the Monument their honor will be great indeed. I've no doubt the proposition will be received with great favor. If this succeeds I shall consider myself amply rewarded in the satisfaction of knowing that I was the originator. My intellect being rather dull today, put myself under the medical directions of an Irish woman whom I really believe will cure me of the dyspepsia.

This Washington Monument matter engrossed Harry for a long period. Hiring a horse and buggy he drove to the homes of actors to solicit their subscriptions. Meetings were called, money collected, speeches made, and long articles written over his name which he had the gratification of see-

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ing printed in the daily press. Besides stirring his patriotism it was publicity and that was glory enough, although the result of this enthusiasm is dubious. Is there an Actors' Stone in the Washington Monument at the Capital? Friday 19th. Raining and snowing. Not in the piece, so went to the Arch Street to see Wallack, Jr. as Lear which he played as well as he could under the circumstances, the actors all being imperfect. I was struck with the remark of a man whom I asked how he liked Wallack. "Well," said he, "I'm not much of a judge, but I should think he was a damned fine actor for he played this piece all by himself."

A serene quality pervades the record for an appreciable time, notwithstanding his distress at having $30 stolen from his pocketbook in his dressing room. It describes the début of Miss Kimberly, an elocutionist to whose Juliet he played Romeo, and the death of the elder Booth on a Mississippi steamboat going up to Cincinnati. To Watkins he was the greatest of .them all. This grand old actor passed away far from any member of his family and quite alone save for the presence of a stranger who caught his last words, "Pray! pray! pray!" The death of Booth caused profound sorrow throughout the theatre world. At New Orleans, manager Ludlow directed that all actors should wear mourning bands, on their arms for a period in token of the loss to the stage. For such as he retirement could never be thought of, habit and necessity kept them at their work to the end, and often found them murmuring with their final breath speeches from parts they had loved and made their own. They were monarchs in their small domains, often they were dethroned but they never abdicated. They died fighting loss of prestige, inroads of disease, and failing powers. They wrote their names in water, and younger, untired mariners sailed over their obliterated signatures. 141

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Saturday 11th. Tonight concluded my engagement and I am again out of employment. The Fates conspired against me just as I was to have opened with Mrs. Mowatt. The project was broken off and I was obliged to appear in farces which gave me no opportunity. "Hope for the best, expect the worst."

Seeing how badly things were going with his younger brother, the parental George urges him to give up the fight. The whole game is based on hazard and preference, and its winnings, at best, are pitifully small. Why not take a business position that will yield a steady income? But where— how? George is ready to find it. No, he cannot become a plodder, his years of soldiering, acting, and nomad adventure have completely unfitted him for that and undermined his powers of concentration. Thursday 23rd. Once more at home. Another series of such luck as I had in Philadelphia would use me up effectually. Cannot tell what to do with this offer from George; God knows what is for the best! I should accept but my heart and soul are on the stage. I feel certain I have talent to fill an enviable position; all I need is a stroke of good luck. Sometimes I wish the grave would decide for me. I shall write to George asking his advice and I shall be governed by his answer.

After this struggle with himself he goes out with Mother and purchases a chicken and a pumpkin pie for their Christmas dinner, and braces himself for one more tilt with fate by finishing a two-act farce based on his own dyspeptic condition, which he later called Laugh and Grow Fat. This he offered to manager Burton, saying that he wanted no remuneration whatever if Burton would produce it. Saturday, December 25th. Christmas. Though this was not a merry Christmas for me—I have a presentiment that the next will find Harry Watkins more comfortably situated. Hope!

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EXIT THE ELDER BOOTH Blessed Hope! The ministering angel to all the sorrows of life. Wednesday 29th. Burton told me he intended merely to glance over my piece but, after the first scene he became so interested that he read the whole play through, sitting up till two A. M. He was flattering, indeed, about'its merits and felt confident that it could be made a success if I would reduce its two acts to one. He was well aware, he said, how painful to an author's feelings it is to be asked to cut his play, and that the erasure of such and such a scene seems like its murder. I have followed his advice, my two acts are now one; I have marred my own flesh and blood and disfigured my child, but after putting the fragments together I saw that the play was improved. He has promised to produce it on the 10th inst.

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XI TRIALS OF A MANAGER The American theatre of the mid-century was a curious institution; it had neither purpose, organization, nor prosperity, but its glamour constantly led hopeful investors to embark as managers; raw, uninspired, and unfit men and women to enlist as actors; and anybody who could filch a story from the current New York Ledger or the fiction periodicals and put it into play form became a playwright. The most fertile source of play material was plagiarism. No law gave proprietary rights to authors, their stories appeared either serially or in book form, and if they possessed dramatic possibilities they were immediately seized for stage use. In his own country Charles Dickens had the sad experience of seeing his popular novels produced in play form before they had reached their final issue in Household, Words. Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, The Old Curiosity Shop, and Pickwick were plays before they became bound books. Even worse was the downright theft of original plays; they would be seen under a certain title at one theatre and with a totally different name at another. It is not to be inferred by the foregoing that the American theatre was entirely devoid of originality, genius, artistry, or conscience. Despite its amorphous character it frequently expressed the genius of its age. Great acting was not unknown a century ago, imaginative producers offered attractions to their public that were lavish and praiseworthy, the actor-manager was a credit to his day. From year to year the stage was restocked by arrivals from London, while native talent from crude beginnings grew into artistic shape 144

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and seemliness. Many original plays were written whose value none can truly dispute; this was especially true of comedy based on American character. These pieces make quaint reading today, they were obvious and unreal but they reflected the spirit of the times. Tragic themes and dramas of the sterner sort, stilted and verbose though they were, were treated in the best tradition by Bird, Conrad, John Howard Payne, Epes Sargent, and others. It should be remembered that the theatre had to struggle mightily against Puritan prejudice, which was most firmly entrenched in the lesser cities where drama was crudely served. In these towns Mrs. Grundy drew aside her skirts and put her smelling salts to her nose to ward off the scent of these malodorous creatures—actors. Sunday 9th. Fine day. Thomas S. Hamblin, for twenty years manager of the Bowery Theatre, died at ten o'clock last evening of brain fever, or rather delirium tremens. As a star he had little to recommend him beyond his personal appearance which was truly noble. As a man he was haughty and overbearing—"Sir Oracle" when he opened his lips, and woe betide the poor dog who dared to bark. Hamblin was a libertine as regards women and quite notorious for his intrigues. His wife was granted a divorce allowing her to marry again but denying the privilege to him.

The Diarist is now in his element, he relieves his mind about Hamblin, whom he loathed, principally because he wouldn't engage him for his company, and finds opportunity to take the Hamblin case as subject for a long sermon on divorce law and its evil consequences. There was a good itinerant preacher spoiled in Harry Watkins, his evangelistic tendencies spill freely into his pages with a rhapsodic ring worthy of Billy Sunday. Toward the beauteous Mrs. Hamblin, portrayer of Ham-

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let, Romeo, Claude Melnotte and other male characters, as well as the romantic heroines, the Journal's entry is quite bitter. He says, "As regards Mrs. Shaw" [she was supposed to have married Hamblin at his divorce from his first wife] "there seems to be but little sympathy. She is a depraved and heartless woman and led Hamblin a dreadful life; there is no doubt that her conduct shortened his days. She had to be kept from the room as the sight of her threw him into convulsions. It is said that half an hour before he died she brought a minister and would have had the marriage ceremony performed had not Hamblin's friends interfered." We must take the Journal's account for what it is worth, it undoubtedly came largely from questionable report. Wedded or no, the charmer inherited the Hamblin fortune and remained Mrs. Hamblin to the end of her days. Now we return to Burton and the little farce that Watkins looked upon to establish his fame as a dramatist: Monday 10th. At Burton's Theatre seven P. M. Played Whimsical Eaton in my dyspeptic farce produced under the title "Laugh and Grow Fat." It was as successful as I could expect. There were two or three little drawbacks; Johnstone, who was cast for Dumps, caused considerable annoyance by being imperfect, requiring me to prompt him all through the scenes we had together. The house was crowded. Wednesday 12th. Hamblin's body taken to Greenwood for interrment; one of the largest assemblages I ever beheld. The corpse looked finely as it lay in the coffin. The doctor remarked " i f Hamblin had not abused what God made so well he would have lived a hundred years instead of fifty-two." My piece went off much better than it did the first night. It is now in good playing order. Friday 14th. Today concludes the twenty-eighth year of my life. This year did not treat me well, but perhaps it laid the foundation for many happy years to come. Viewed from my present

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Dropping in at Burton's on New Year's Eve he had the honor of being presented to his first American poet. To be sure it was one of our minor bards, Fitz-Greene Halleck, whose somewhat painful statue, with an evident sore throat, adorns the Mall in Central Park, but the Diarist was deeply impressed; he gathered honeyed wisdom from his lips concerning the superiority of monarchic government over a democracy, and even allowed that kings were better than presidents. Days passed with desultory engagements—one in Newark with Wyatt's Traveling Company, who "dressed well and knew their lines but who couldn't act very much"—testimonials, benefits, and other unrequited jobs, offers from out of town, etc., when he suddenly found himself associate manager of a little theatre across the river in Williamsburgh, the Odeon, with the necessity for organizing a company instanter. The Odeon had been a pleasure resort for the neighboring Long Islanders where concerts, dances, and boxing matches were given. The lessee, Kemp, was inspired with the notion of wooing the inhabitants from their custom of traveling to Manhattan for their dramatic entertainment. The situation scarcely warranted the endeavor, but it was a brave attempt. Even in those days New York's bright gas lights were too dazzling to be resisted by the Brooklyn moths when they could fly over in a few minutes on the ferry to the enchanted town. Friday, February 25th. Things looked badly last night but there was no time to give way to despair, I had promised to open on Monday and on Monday I was determined to open. By midnight I found a man and his wife worth having, engaged them and then got to the Herald office just in time to insert an advertisement

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for "Ladies and gentlemen of acknowledged talent." This morning I was surprised to find I had engaged twelve people. On Monday morning he awoke betimes and hurried to look at the sky—it was discouragingly leaden. Monday 28th. Raining. Of course it would on our opening night! Two men disappointed me and I changed the casts of the play. At eight P. M. we hoisted the curtain on "The Idiot Witness" and the performance concluded with "The Rough Diamond." Apparently it passed off to the satisfaction of the spectators. Merrifield being drunk March 5th, I went on for his part in "Slasher and Crasher." If his wife were not my sole reliance Mr. Merrifield would receive his walking papers. This first week has been one of great anxiety. I found it impossible to play anything but farces without exposing the weakness of my company. Monday 7th brought out "The Drunkard." Was not prepared to see such a full house. Audience worked up to wild enthusiasm and called me before the curtain. On Friday 11th Mrs. Merrifield, who was to play Pauline in "The Lady of Lyons," sent word at the last moment she was too sick to appear. I had nothing to substitute. Kemp, my partner, started for New York to hunt up Mrs. Warwick who was playing at the Broadway but happened to be out of the bill for the evening. I held the curtain and ordered the farce to be played first, two or three songs were introduced, there was still no sign of Kemp with Mrs. Warwick. I put Miss Louise Moreton, who had understudied many of the parts, on for the first act, and then Kemp arrived with Mrs. Warwick. During my theatrical career "The Lady of Lyons" has had the most singular effect upon two of my leading actresses. Last winter in the South the sight of a substitute cured a lady of sore throat, and now Mrs. Merrifield has made a quick recovery. Monday 21st. Localized "The New York Fireman" and this evening produced it under the title of "The Williamsburgh Fireman." A good house and the piece made a hit. The Merrifields leave me after this week. I shall find it difficult to replace her, but shall not miss him. 148

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This pair were typical thespians, never rising to great prominence—he the genial comic with his bag of conventional tricks, and his wife a comely actress who could be relied on to play nearly every kind of part with efficiency. She was always welcomed by her audiences, but the bibulous Jerry Merrifield must have been a most uncertain quantity. Monday 28th. Pleasant day at least. A. M. over to York, p. M. at Theatre. Brought out my play, "The Ship's Carpenter" under a new title, "Our Country's Sinews." It was never acted so badly nor so well gotten up. I introduced a marine view with vessels sailing across the scene; among which was the Ericson Caloric Ship, so I may safely claim the honor of being ñrst to put that species of craft on the stage. A much better house than I had anticipated. Saturday, April 9th. My benefit and gratifying to say, to a large audience. I presented "The Lottery Ticket," "Maid of Croissy" and "Austerlitz." Miss Henry with a dance, and "Laugh and Grow Fat" for the first time here, and all winding up with a Panorama. Tuesday 12th. For the first time in my professional career I had a row with an actor ending in blows. Warwick, knowing I could not supply his place very easily, has acted as he pleased. At the performance of "Laugh and Grow Fat" last night he gagged and came very near killing my play. I was compelled to speak to him tonight loud enough for the audience to hear. When the curtain fell he squared himself for a fight and down went Mr. Warwick. At that he kept quiet and I let him alone. I regretted that so disgraceful a thing should occur inside the Theatre I was managing, but I could not suffer such em insult to pass with impunity and for the future, I intend to take less from my enemies than I have hitherto done. Wednesday 13th. A fine day—everything beautiful but the business. Concluded to close the Theatre after the coming week. I'm tired of working without remuneration, as I have been doing since opening this place. On the first of May there will be a

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Steadily downward dropped the attendance at the Odeon, but with dogged persistence Harry Watkins carried on, compromising his actors' pay by giving them benefits and pushing his wits to their end by endeavoring to break the dull routine of worn-out plays with newer material. It was the labor of Sisyphus. Seeking an opening elsewhere he made a hurried trip to Albany for conference with a local theatre proprietor. Arriving back at Williamsburgh he found his theatre dark and deserted. When the doors had opened that evening four persons came to the box office, and the Watkins regime at the Odeon was temporarily at an end. There was one cheerful evening before this demise. A local celebrity was given a rousing testimonial by his friends at which an amateur named Smith played a leading part in Rob Roy. Being extremely nervous, this gentleman made something of a mess of things. However there was a Smith faction in front; he was called out and made a speech blaming the management for insufficient preparation and the actors for not knowing their lines. Then Watkins came out and without mincing words corrected the agitated Mr. Smith. This aroused some protest among Mr. Smith's friends. Later the calumet of peace was smoked at a supper generously furnished by the beneficiary, Mr. Theall (possibly a Brooklyn politician). The evening ended with a champagne supper over which I was chosen to preside. Smith apologized for his speech before the curtain, saying he did not mean what the audience thought. I accepted his apology and, after finishing two baskets of champagne, we parted at three A. M. on the best of terms.

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What is this, two baskets of champagne? That should have been a test for a weak stomach! A l l through this Williamsburgh period not once does the Journal mention dyspepsia. With the mountain of labor on his shoulders the toiling slave had probably no time to think about it. And truly Watkins* labor at the Odeon was well-nigh incredible. From his opening until hot weather closed the season he presented, according to Professor Odell's summary, close upon one hundred, plays! It may be imagined from the words of the Journal how these pieces were given—some of them thrown on with neither warning nor announcement at sudden defections and collapses in the company. Night after night the actors arrived at the theatre not knowing what piece would be played. Their heads were crowded storehouses of characters they had acted times without number; they had but to reach into these rubbish lofts, pull out the needful lumber, then on with the play. Much was always extempore, like the Commedia del VArte. Certain old troupers could even vamp Shakespeare and audiences be little the wiser, provided their manner were majestic and their voices full of sound and fury. The Albany venture was but a flash in the pan. Connor, the manager of the Greenstreet Theatre, had, in the words of the Journal, "assembled a company of boys, novices and drunkards" and these ruthless Albany wreckers proceeded to make sad havoc of the old Watkins masterpiece, now called Our Country's Sinews. He fulfilled his week's contract and took the night boat back to New York as poor as he came—poorer—somebody in Albany stole his hat! Monday 9th. Had the pleasure of seeing John Gilbert defeated as trustee for the Dramatic Fund at its annual meeting. I was elected one of the directors. This will repay him for his treatment of those who started the Dramatic Washington Monument Association.

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John Gilbert wrinkled his rather pudgy but aristocratic nose and pursed his copious lips contemptuously at these innovations; he belonged to the Upper Ten, the old-line conservatives. His choleric old men, Sir Peter Teazle, Sir Anthony Absolute, Lord Ogleby and their fellows, were destined to become classics in the history of Wallack's Theatre where he reigned supreme for twenty-six years. It may have been economy that prompted his refusal to donate his dollar to the Watkins marble block in the Washington Monument. Whatever his pay envelope contained at that time is unrecorded, but when Wallack engaged him in 1862 he received $35 a week, by which we may gather an idea of palmy-day actors' salaries. Undismayed by misadventure, on May 16th Watkins reopened the Williamsburgh Odeon, proud in new decorations and scenery, with the never-failing Lady of Lyons and a cast that included a very lovely lady, Lizzie Weston, who was climbing up into the limelight and breaking several hearts in her progress, besides the Mrs. Merrifield who has been mentioned as having made a quick recovery from one of those Lady-of-Lyons illnesses, and whose chief drawback seems to have been the possession of an oft-drunken spouse. Tuesday 7th. Had a long article published in the Williamsburgh Times written in answer to several articles by a Methodist clergyman ignorantly abusing the stage. I'm getting rather tired of this profession and should not be surprised if I divorced myself from it and led a political life.

Sheer exhibitionism! No one would have been more greatly surprised than the Diarist himself. These day dreams were his actor's self-glorification. He might as well have said that he would not have been surprised had he found himself President of the United States. Not for worlds would he have abandoned his adventurous bohemian life, yet he 152

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was always flying kites that veered with the shifting winds. A moment's depression—or was it dyspepsia?—gave place to elation. A month later he is lifted to rapture on the night of his benefit. Saturday, July 2nd. My benefit night. During the evening a beautiful sword was presented to me on the stage, subscribed for by many personal and dramatic friends, which bore the inscription, "Presented by his dramatic admirers to Mr. H. Watkins as a tribute to his character as a man, his talent as an actor, and the first theatrical manager in the city of Williamsburgh, Long Island." The sword was delivered by Mr. Sparks, the sheriff of the County. He made a very appropriate speech; I responded in effective if not eloquent terms. After the presentation, a bouquet was thrown to me with a handsome gold watch seal attached. This evening was certainly a flattering one for me. Performance passed off finely.

And thus ended his régime as manager for Mr. Kemp, lessee of the Williamsburgh Odeon. If Kemp had not been particularly liberal in payment for his services, he had at least been kindly and had invited Harry frequently to his home, an opportunity that was eagerly accepted, for the gentleman had two charming daughters upon whom the Watkins eye dwelt longingly but speculatively. It was high time that he should wed, but could he afford it? Marriage to him was something akin to a theatrical contract. Moreover he was not going to risk the humiliation of a refusal—it would be like failing in a performance. Then there was Mother; he was really a decent sort of fellow. Once or twice he took the old lady across on the ferry to look over Exhibits A. and B.—the Kemp girls, but—"accompanied Mother to Williamsburg to visit the Misses Kemp; passed a few hours very agreeably and returned home in time for bed at eleven"—doesn't give the slightest hint of the Nebulous

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One's attitude toward this pair of Loreleis. Again and again his unresisting feet turned Kemp-wards. Once he met there a Mrs. Forbes whose husband was anxious to engage Harry to play in Providence for $15 a week. She too had glamour; he reports her "an excellent talker and first rate company to while away the tedious time with. She proposed my taking the Odeon for a week and giving her an appearance as Julia in T h e Hunchback' but my funds are low and actors are scarce." At this the intriguing Mrs. Forbes at once lost interest in Mr. Harry Watkins. The summer of 1853 was even more savage in its heat than last year. New York was an inferno. Our metropolis had small resemblance to the city of today; although pigs and geese had been banished from City Hall Park, their former foraging ground, through the protests of an indignant citizenry, and pavements had been laid down in lower New York, northward the streets were bogs in rainy weather and dust depositories when heat baked them. Windy days raised dust storms that choked pedestrians and blinded their eyes. Theatres opened their doors to beggarly houses but still hopefully carried on. Sweating actors went to and fro among managerial headquarters seeking employment. Harry Watkins, who remarked that it was "glorious weather for ice cream and soda water vendors," found his only chance for public appearances lay in unpaid benefits. One of these he engineered at Castle Garden, a huge affair to raise money for the Dramatic Fund, enlisted such stars as Charles Burke, A. H. Davenport, Lizzie Weston, Laura Keene, Madam Ponisi, later the grande dame of the celebrated Wallack's Theatre company, Barney Williams and others, with an orchestra led by the baton of the temperamental Max Maretzek, pioneer of organized Italian opera in New York, the whole winding up with a dazzling fireworks display for the edification of 2,300 thoroughly broiled spectators. The bill 154

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ran on until half an hour after midnight, and the Impresario was glad to get to bed to find what rest the heat permitted, "about as tired as a human being ought to be." Looking backward from these crime-laden days of ours we are wont to regard the mid fifties as a halcyon era of innocence and sweet peace when graft and gunmen were unknown, people rode in buggies, and the watchman's rattle brought terror to the heart of the evildoer. Listen to the entry of August 13th: Went with George to Williamsburgh and visited the Odeon, now a resort for summer amusement. Coming home our boat was run into and considerably damaged. All over the country there is great recklessness manifested on steamboats and railroads; scarcely a day passes without some dreadful accident which might have been avoided had there been the slightest caution on the part of those in command. Laws are made to shield us from the desperado's knife and pistol, from being quacked to death or humbugged out of existence, but ignored with such impunity that crimes seem legalized—license is unrestrained. Ah well, if the surplus population must be got rid of this, I suppose, is the most effective means of accomplishing that end.

In restless search for new emotions the Diarist enters the field of psychical research as an aggressive skeptic, a sort of 1850Houdini. Saturday 27th. Having heard about the wonderful things done by spiritual mediums, I determined to witness some of the miracles, therefore with a couple of friends I visited the mediumistic circle of Mrs. W. Hamblin, daughter-in-law of the late T. S. Hamblin. There are, it appears, two kinds of mediums, Rappers and Table Movers. Mrs. Hamblin is of the latter class. The lady took her seat at a table and, when the spirit announced its presence, the table careened on two legs and, by running over the alphabet, we learned that the spirit of the defunct Hamblin was ready to

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answer any questions. To think that the spirit of Tom Hamblin should now be found moving old tables to gratify the pleasure of those with whom while living he would not have exchanged two words! I asked to hold communion with a boyhood friend, Jo Gilbert, knowing that none but himself could answer my questions. It required a great deal of coaxing to induce Hamblin's spirit to hunt up Jo's and bring it to us, and when it became evident that we should get no information at all, someone suggested that Hamblin had all the time been trying to fool us. From this it would appear that there is no more reliance to be placed in spirits than in mortals. Mrs. Hamblin being called from the room, I thought I would myself try to be a medium, so placing my hands on the table I went through the same evolutions as the lady, with this difference: I did it without spiritual aid. The persons with me were firm believers in spiritualism, but the fact that this lady charges one dollar admission to her circles failed to make me believe that the Great Spirit would permit his little spirits to exhibit themselves at so much per head. This rapping and table-moving is driving weak minded persons to the Lunatic Asylum. Osmer appears on the scene. He has been rather contemptuous of his younger brother, and their relations have been far from cordial. Harry Watkins regards his patronage with some scorn when he reflects that it is his own rise to eminence that causes the fraternal interest. Osmer takes him for a long Sunday walk down town where at Taylor's Saloon they stopped and "partook of some ice cream," which was either Osmer's generous way of burying the hatchet or symbolic of the coolness existing between them. Quite different was his attachment to his brother George; genuine affection ruled there. George was some kind of traveling salesman whose enterprise prospered, his business keeping him continually from New York. Here and there the Diarist drops his pretentious and self-conscious manner and a simple warmth creeps into his record:

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TRIALS OF A MANAGER Tuesday, September 7th. Sweltering weather. Saw George off to Savanah on the steamer Alabama. I watched her passage down the bay and then started home with a heavy heart.

But the summer has gone without an offer from any New York theatre, his hopes for an important metropolitan position are fading. Well, there is the West—the gypsy trail again; that means the cramped and uncongenial life of the small town in exchange for this whirling modern Babylon. He swallows his pride and calls on Charles Parsloe, who combines acting with business as a theatrical agent. Yes, Parsloe can place him without doubt. Bates, the manager at Louisville, wants a good juvenile actor. "Tell him I'll go for $25 a week and a third benefit," says Harry Watkins. The message was sent; for several days negotiations hung fire, and between regrets at having consented and anxiety to secure the position his brain was a riot. Thursday 8th. Walking about town turning over this Bates proposal in my mind. On my way home I stopped at Parsloe's office. He handed me a message just received from Bates saying "Engage Watkins as low as you can and send him immediately." Went home to inform Mother. She was glad but could not bear being left alone. 'Tis a hard fate but you must bow to the decree. Ah, well, life is a race and an unfair one too, there being a great deal of what sportsmen call jockeying.

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XII MATRIMONY Saturday 10th. Left New York yesterday for Cincinnati at six A. M. Reached Dunkirk at nine p. M. and changed cars, breakfasting this morning at Cleveland at five o'clock and at eight started for Cincinnati, arriving here at five. Blessings on the man who will invent a plan to keep dust out of the cars! I could not have been much filthier had I been used as a broom to sweep the streets. Put up at the Woodruff House and after an hour with the barber and the bathtub was restored to my proper self. Called on Bates and was surprised to learn he wished to use me at Louisville instead of Cincinnati. Sunday 11th. Took steamer, Ben Franklin, to Louisville. Was obliged to sleep on a cot in the cabin. Monday 12th. Reached Louisville. Was roused at five A. M. Took a walk about town until eight. At the lodgings of E. L. Tilton, stage manager, we started in search of a boarding house. A good boarding house in Louisville would be a novelty—the best hotel is nothing to boast about. Tuesday 13th. Opened with "Robert Shelly." The house was not very good, as might be expected in Louisville, which is one of the worst theatrical towns in the country. Wednesday 14th. Played Gilbert in "The Idiot Witness." G. W. Howard, playing Arnaud, came near making a really tragic end of it. In the fall after stabbing himself, he allowed his head to strike first and it was very near broken by the concussion; it was some time before Howard was restored to consciousness. W. Brydges, an actor who has been vainly trying to procure an engagement at this theatre committed suicide last night by cutting his throat. His habitual drunkenness had destroyed all confidence in him. I remember Brydges as a respectable man and always perfect in his parts. Another victim of that relentless murderer, RUM. Our company is altogether too small to play a full piece

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MATRIMONY with anything like credit. There are but five men capable of sustaining responsible parts, for the rest, they are good enough for what heaven intended them, but they were not meant for actors. The ladies, however, are superior to the gentlemen. What a different tone the Diary now takes on! N o longer the feuilletoniste, the commentator on human frailty, but the trouper meeting the ups and downs of the road, his mind engrossed on a single theme, the small jealousies, triumphs, and disasters of the provincial theatre. N e w York, the Mecca o f all actors, where he dreamed of mounting to supremacy, h a d been an ignis fatuus lighting him to defeat, and now f o r a while at least he was back where he started six years before. Still he had advanced and w a s better p a i d ; he consoled himself with this. Wednesday 21st. A. M. air quite coolish. Received my first week's salary. When I previously performed in this city my salary was $6 a week. Quite a change to $25. The increase is entirely satisfactory. Posted letter to Mother. Friday 23rd. Pleasant. I don't think that my stay with Bates will be long unless he keeps to his engagement better than he has done since my sojourn at Louisville. "Lady of Lyons" up for Monday, Tilton casting himself for Claude, though it belongs to me. I am not disposed to play the crab in my profession. A Mrs. M'Cready opened here as Pauline. She did not make a favorable impression. Tuesday 27th. Walking, writing and studying. Played Francis in "The Stranger." Wrote to Bates asking if he could separate Tilton and myself, and that it would prove beneficial to his interests. Tilton seems to be afraid to let me act for fear of having some of the wind taken out of his sails. Saturday, October 1st. John Sefton was put in jail for threatening the life of Fitzgerald who joined the company last week. Sefton, being drunk, threw a pitcher at Fitzgerald's head and then went after him with a carving fork. He was prevented from doing fatal

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damage and everybody thought the affair would drop, but Sefton came to the theatre this morning to renew the difficulty. Fitzgerald, fearing his threats, had him arrested. Sefton is a very disagreeable man. At theatre seven p. M. In playing the part of Strafado an unpleasant accident occurred. The pantaloons that I wore, being rather tight, bursted in the seat. I thought the audience seemed unusually delighted and vainly attributed their mirth to my good acting. I never discovered the matter until I came off the stage. I shall take good care the thing does not occur again! The Western impresario, Bates, managed a theatre circuit that included Cincinnati, Louisville, and St. Louis, and shifted his companies from one city to another. The Louisville contingent was now sent to St. Louis, leaving Watkins behind to reinforce an arriving company from Cincinnati and freed from the tyranny of the casting director, Tilton, who had appropriated his pet parts. This afforded him no small measure of satisfaction, yet as he went to the levee to see his acting mates off on the steamer Sam Gratz for St. Louis, there was a pang of regret that he could not join them and conquer this new world in Mississippi; he had kept his eye on that town for some years. Notwithstanding his relief at ridding himself of Tyrant Tilton, he viewed the oncoming slave-driver, Sarzedas, the Cincinnati stage director, with some apprehension as he was a man generally disliked. Was he leaping out of the frying pan? October 8th. The company from Cincinnati arrived and I reported to Sarzedas. I have little faith in him, however I shall put up with a great deal before breaking my engagement; the amount in my fund is too small to stand on dignity. Sent money to Mother and my dues to the Dramatic Fund. Also one third of a week's salary to Parsloe for making this engagement. This I regard as plain robbery! When this engagement is terminated I shall eschew

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all tragedy and combine light and eccentric comedy or take entirely to low comedy. This will be to my ultimate advantage for however opinion has differed of my quality as a tragedian, it has been universal regarding my talent as a comedian. Whatever his successes in romantic characters may have been, he had always looked askance at popular comedians convulsing audiences with their antics, particularly in his own sentimental scenes. There was that irritating spot in Romeo and Juliet when the Nurse comes on to announce the rendezvous for the lovers where, in the midst of Romeo's passionate outpourings, Peter, the servant, goes up to the back flats and catches flies from the church steeple painted in perspective a block away. Ah! if only he could be the universal genius to reap his reward in both fields, like David Garrick! Friday 14th. Passed the day at the.Fairgrounds. Immense assemblage of people. Among the fine horses was the celebrated racing stallion, Grey Eagle, nineteen years old but lively as ever, who took the premiere. At theatre seven P. M. "Lucile" was to have been the play but Mr. Mortimer, who was up for St. Cyr, being too ill, "Black-Eyed Susan" was substituted. I played William. Piece went off very well to a good house. Saturday 15th. Pleasant. Rehearsing, writing and studying. At theatre seven P. M. My play, "Heart of the World" presented and received better than anything yet given. Best house of the week. The reception was a great surprise to me. An old resident informed me that such applause had rarely been heard in the Louisville Theatre. My appearance before the curtain was enthusiastically received in spite of inferior rendering of one-half the parts. I am trying my hand at poetry, some forty lines for the Washington Monument. I showed the appeal to the editor of the Times and he is to publish it. Monday 31st. "Heart of the World" was well received. Not having played for nearly two weeks and with much spouting to do, 161

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME I was terribly hoarse. If I let another night pass without playing I shall die of ennui. Wednesday, November 2nd, 1853. Went to hear Lucy Stone lecture on Women's Rights. She made a very good argument. I believe that there are many pursuits now filled by men for which women are as well if not better adapted; females would make excellent physicians, they are better fitted for the sickroom, also female clerks, printers, etc. But to extend woman's sphere as far as Miss Stone desires, would be the worst possible thing that could befall her sex. She would receive the same treatment that man bestows upon his fellow man and that is sad enough, heaven knows! No, woman, keep as you are! You rule the world now, did you but know it! Miss Stone was attired in a bloomer costume, has rather a handsome face, a passable figure, and looked as though she ought to make an excellent wife. Take your time, Miss Lucy, and talk no more about "rights." Sent $60 to Mother to pay her rent. Sunday 13th. Settled my bills and started for Cincinnati. Arrived Monday morning, went to the Merchant's Hotel, cleaned up and went to rehearsal. At theatre seven p. M. Played Don Caesar de Bazan better than I ever did and made a favorable impression. Am endeavoring to write a short poem on "The Union of the States." Thursday 17th. Foggy. Studying, writing. The Bateman children are playing an engagement here. They are very clever, but I do not admire what seems to me too much like what it is—child's play. Thursday 24th. My landlord invited me to witness a great horse race across the river in Covington, a trotting match in sulkeys for a thousand dollars a side. Flora Temple, the winner, is considered the fastest horse in the country. Sunday 29th. This morning heard E. H. Chapin preach. To state the pleasure I derived from hearing him would be impossible. He lectures rather than sermonizes, and takes his auditors through life's voyage into eternity, the Bible his compass and heaven his haven.

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Monday 30th. First appearance of Hackett. He opened with Falstaff in "Henry I V " which part he plays better than any actor of the present day. I played Hotspur for the first time, and made quite a hit. My voice held out though I feared constantly it would break, not having used it for nearly two weeks. I do not have enough acting to keep me in order.

The Journal settles down to its familiar recording of visits by the traveling stars, Hackett, the Bateman children, Murdoch, and others, whose advent alone brought prosperity to the provincial theatres. It did not so much matter how able the local stock companies were, drama unadorned by the Master-player had ceased to draw houses. In spite of the so-called evils of the starring system it was the star who bore the talisman. He might be indifferently, even wretchedly aided by the supporting players; their inefficiency was overlooked. It still prevails, this one-man or onewoman power. After the local stock companies gradually went out of existence in the 1880's, stars engaged their supporting players for a full season of forty or fifty weeks and traveled as an organization equipped with costumes, scenery, and paraphernalia. It is not the province of this book to dwell upon the changes our later years have wrought upon conditions in the theatre, they are too familiar to need comment. The talking picture has brought cheap amusement to the lesser cities, and the spoken drama of yesteryear is silent. This is the story of Harry Watkins and his day when the press agent, Hollywood, ballyhoo, columnists, and sensational radio broadcasters were unknown. Monday 5th. Out of the bill again—worse luck! p. M. went to Melodian Hall to see "Uncle Tom's Cabin" performed by a travelling company organized by Mr. Marsh, whom I knew at the National Theatre in New York. He has made a small fortune with the piece.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Now something is stirring in our Diarist's bosom. For a long time his amative emotions have lain fallow or suppressed whenever they showed signs of sprouting. All this time the "little blind bow-boy" has been lurking around the corner merely waiting the chance for a good shot at him, and it came, straight at the mark, when he looked upon the girl playing Eliza with the Uncle Tommers over at the Melodian. Sunday 11th. After dinner two or three ladies of Marsh's company expressed the desire to see the water-works. I could not do less than offer my services, and we had a very pleasant time of it. One of the party, Miss Melissa, was about as pretty a girl as one would wish to see. Were it not for her family connections [the cautious Harry scents a mother-in-law!] I should be tempted to court her a little and, if she should prove herself worthy, offer her an engagement for life. I am determined there shall be no one to interfere with my Mother, and two sets of parents seldom agree. Tuesday 13th. Had $20 or $30 extracted from my pocketbook while on the stage. I can suspect no one; the robbery was evidently done by some person who knew where I kept my money. Serves me right! I should have known better than to take money with me to the theatre. I paid dearly for a lesson at Philadelphia. Wednesday 14th. Deposited the rest of my money in a bank where it will not only be safe but draw interest. Letter from George in which he mourned over his bachelor life. I am in hopes that my fate will not be like his. B y this we see that the Watkins family's mating season is on! One of the many dramatizations of Uncle Tom's Cabin was produced and to Harry Watkins' disgust (for he hated both the play and his part, George Harris) was so successful that it ran for over a month. Sunday, December 25th. Christmas day. Crossed over to Kentucky and visited the Newport barracks. The soldiers' quarters and

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MATRIMONY squads of recruits all seemed quite natural—the same old monotonous routine of a soldier's life. Passed an agreeable evening in the society of females. The dyspepsia knocks things out of my head, or else keeps things from getting into it. My poor poem is stuck for want of matter. Saturday, February 14th. My birthday. I have just reached the twenty-ninth milestone on my road of life. In retrospect through my mind's eye I see but little cause for repentance or regret. Confound "Uncle T o m ! " It is to be played another week. In the evening went to church with a young lady.

And still he toys with the idea of marriage. Slowly, slowly he is being led to the altar, which he ungallantly hints is a sacrificial one, lured by the soft and siren voice of the irresistible Harriet Melissa Secor. The bright-eyed little Delilah is sharpening her shears for the locks of her Sampson —or so he would have us believe. Thursday 19th. Rainy. Reading, writing, or rather trying to, Miss Melissa Secor being in my room for a couple of hours. There was no writing while she was there, as I have taken quite a liking for her, which liking, if I am not very careful, will turn into love. It requires all my self-command to prevent such an issue, much desired, I have cause to think, by the young lady. [Harry! Harry!!]

The Diarist has a set of little vendettas which he cherishes and which creep into his record; one is against D. P. Bowers, whose wife's fame quite eclipses his own, and who, as manager, treated Harry Watkins rather badly some seasons before at Baltimore. His name is always a red rag to a bull for our Pepys. He learns that Bowers is claiming the paternity of his pet scheme for the Actors' Block in the Washington Monument and writes a denunciatory letter about the matter to the editor of the Philadelphia Item. Another actor who rouses his resentment is that gifted comedian, William J .

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Florence. The Florences began a Cincinnati engagement on the 2 3 r d and Watkins sees no virtue in them. His dislike dates back to an early love in Boston, Mrs. Charles Mestayer, who was beyond his reach but not his adoration. The lady afterward became Mrs. Barney Williams, her sister married Florence, and with a single gesture Harry illogically swept the tribes of the Williamses and the Florences into the dust pan. Thursday 2nd. Sudden change—some snow. At theatre 6 p. M. Played in the first piece, dressed and went to a ball given by the Merry Bachelor Association by special invitation from the president. Miss Secor accompanied me and we had an agreeable time. Friday 3rd. At theatre seven P. M. and while there made up my mind to marry. Nine P. M. went over to the Melodian and accompanied Miss Secor home. Sat down and talked a while, proposed marriage. Offer accepted and time appointed. To bed early but did not sleep well. Saturday 4th. Reading and walking, p. M. went to the Probate Court and procured a marriage license. A few days since I should have as soon applied for a license to kill as one to marry. Sent word to the Reverend Mr. Quinby of the Universalist Church that his services would be required tomorrow to join together "two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one." Sunday 5th. Today Heaven put on its prettiest smile for the union about to be consummated. At nine A. M. I repaired to the Melodian Hall, my affianced bride followed in company with Mrs. Germon and Mrs. Douglas. Mr. Quinby arrived and soon fulfilled his heaven-ordained duty, making H. Watkins and Harriet M. Secor man and wife. A happy omen attended the wedding; a handsome dog met us on the street and, following to the Hall, laid down during the cermony looking as serious as any one present. When the marriage was concluded the dog joined the minister and friends in congratulating us. Standing on his hind legs and placing his forepaws against my body, he expressed his joy at what had taken place. Then he repeated the performance

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with the bride, ran off and no more was seen of him. At ten A. M. we took a stage and went out into the country to a farm house, invited by the proprietor, Mr. Saunders, to pass the day—and most delightfully did the hours glide on, fresh air, fresh milk, fresh butter, the whole world fresh! Retired early to bed. Monday 6th. Another beautiful day. Our married life has had a very pleasant beginning. May it continue until death parts lis, with no regret for the day I became a Benedick! Returned to town A. M. Received the congratulations of my acquaintances. Saturday 18th. Out of the bill all this week. Learned of C. F. Adams' death of dropsy and inflamation of the liver. Nature had blessed him with a fine person, good voice, good features, good sense and great talent. Adams was one of the most nervous men I ever encountered. I have known him to be so affected by stagefright as to be taken with a violent fit of vomiting just previous to entering upon the stage. Monday 26th. Raining. Mr. P. Richings and Caroline, his adopted daughter, commenced an engagement, opening in "Child of the Regiment" and "Roland for an Oliver" to a fair house. Richings is of the old school, nevertheless he is astonishing for his age, considering that at 60 he plays light comedy without the discrepancy of his years being manifest to the audience. In action his movements are as buoyant as ever. His daughter appeared as Madeleine and Maria. She is a very pretty singer and will in time under the instruction of so good a tutor make a fair actress, but I do not think a great one.

Again and again one finds his old trouper's name in the casts of New York plays, particularly at that historic institution, the Park Theatre; a blithe and debonair comedian, he was always welcome to his audiences. He devoted his life to the training of his adopted Caroline, whose voice and comeliness gave promise of a golden future, and together they started out to seek fortune in the provincial towns. Persistence and patience developed the talented girl, and the Richingses found fame and a fine livelihood. The vet167

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eran bravely faced the perils of the road and refused to grow old until Caroline made a name that presently stood at the head of her own light opera company; then his name drops from the records—his work was done. Washington's Birthday was always the occasion when the Watkins patriotic fervor reached its annual boiling point. Wednesday, February 22nd, 1854. Washington's Birthday! To think there are wretches at work to destroy the Union, that Union which he was so instrumental in effecting! By invitation to a Merchant's Banquet at the Madison House. I offered a toast which drew a very fine speech from the British Consul; "Our country's flag—-may it never cease to wave over the United States, and may the wretch stand for aye accursed who, from the heavenly blue of its bright firmament would seek to block a single star or sunder the chain that binds them into one harmonious whole." Wrote a long letter to my wife's father informing him that his daughter was truly and lawfully wedded to H. Watkins. Tuesday 7th. A company under I. Rogers opened the Lyceum Theatre with a production of "Uncle Tom's Cabin." My wife played her old part of Eliza. I am confident that in a few years I shall make her one of the best juvenile actresses in the country.

This is the third time in two months that Cincinnati has been treated to the joys and sorrows of Uncle Tom and Little Eva. This extraordinary play has run its course from 1852 until the present day—over eighty years—and has been performed more times than any piece ever given on the American stage. Innumerable versions have been fashioned from Mrs. Stowe's story, and the dear lady never received a cent for their inspiration. Not a village in the country but has had its street parade of Tommers—the sable slave, the angel child riding in her pony cart decked with flowers and throw-

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ing kisses to the gaping spectators, the comical Marks on his donkey, Topsy convulsing the crowd by her antics, the strangely docile bloodhounds and the entire cast led by the gaily uniformed band heading for the "opry-house" on Main Street or a tent on the vacant lot outside the town. It is the grand American classic. Saturday 11th. An amusing incident occurred in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" at the Lyceum last night. H. Chapman's daughter, a child of three years, was to personate Little Eva, having been for some time under the instruction of her grandmother, Mrs. Drake, who had taken great trouble to drill the child. The first night went well enough with Little Eva until the last scene in which Uncle Tom, St. Clair and Eva ascend to heaven on a cloud. When the time arrived, Blanche, who had been allowed to sleep for an hour, being suddenly awakened, refused to finish her part, declaring that "She wouldn't go to heaven on a board," and neither threats nor entreaties could change her determination. To the audience, unaware as to what was to have been done, Blanche's refusal did not mar the effect of the play. But the next night, Blanche, who still seemed to have a horror of the ascension which she knew would take place after her death scene, resolved not to yield up the ghost. To the surprise of both audience and actors, in response to St. Clair's interrogation of what she saw, instead of " I see bright angels," the dying Eva shouted with lungs that spoke of anything but consumption, " I want to see my grandmother!" "Hush," says Uncle Tom in an undertone. "She's going to heaven," says St. Clair. " N o , I ain't," says Eva. " I don't want to go to heaven without my Grandma!" Never was scene of mourning received like this. The prompter, a young man green in the business, had been ordered not to ring down until Eva was entirely dead. The audience were convulsed and yelled with laughter in which the relatives of gentle Eva

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME would have been obliged to join had it not been for the friendly bedclothes in which they buried their sorrowful faces. At this crisis some intelligent person rang the curtain bell and down it came on the second and last appearance of the WORLD'S WONDER, LITTLE BLANCHE CHAPMAN.

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xni INSURRECTION Monday 20th. First appearance of Julia Dean. Receipts were over $900. She is a great favorite in this city. Here she was fostered and here her theatrical career began. I am not one of her most enthusiastic admirers. Her personal appearance has done more to promote her success than any talent she possesses. "The Hunchback" was the opening play.

Gentle Julia Dean! We wish the Diarist had told us more. An appealing delicacy looks out from the grey eyes in a portrait by a San Francisco photographer; in the perfect oval of that face is set a shapely Hibernian nose and a generous, sensitive mouth carrying just the shadow of a smile. Long after she had regrettably left the New York stage to marry Doctor Hayne the memory of her Juliet, her Julia, Bianca, Pauline, and Parthenia lingered like a fragrance in the mind of many an old timer who had succumbed to the charm of her personality. Laurence Hutton, describing her Julia in The Hunchback, said: "We have never seen her equal; her light, graceful figure and beautiful face won for her, in the first act, the sympathy and interest that her genius and fire enabled her to maintain until the final curtain." In all the cities of her travels from coast to coast to California, she counted her conquests over applauding audiences—over all but Harry Watkins. Would it were possible to stop the flight of time at this point in Julia Dean's career! She lost ground after her marriage; something evaporated from that fascination that held her audiences. It was not failure in her art or her method, they remained true as ever and her delicate beauty as fresh. She even wrote a play, Mary of Mantua. It was not 171

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a bad play but it roused no stir. Now the elusive spark glowed less brilliantly, as if wearied of its own radiance. Although she returned repeatedly to New York, it was to appear in less distinguished engagements, sometimes merely as one of a cast instead of the star at the head of her company. Stage history is rich in stories like Julia Dean's. Lovely and gifted girls have won their way to success, ruled for a term and have seen their laurels fade. Matilda Heron and Clara Morris were the most talked-of actresses on the stage until other, newer faces attracted the public's homage. Ada Rehan and Rose Coughlan, rival leading women of the two leading theatres in New York, Daly's and Wallack's on the extinction of those companies, found their attraction gone when they essayed stardom. Happy the actress who leaves the scene at the peak of her popularity. Death took Adelaide Neilson at just the right moment. Mary Anderson—wise girl!—read the portents and, having achieved her most popular and artistic triumph as both Hermione and Perdita in A Winter's Tale, retired leaving thousands lamenting that they should see her no more. Better that they should leave thus at their glory's height than know the fate of poor Fanny Janauschek buried in a pauper's grave after long years of triumph. The Journal plods on through a mass of petty details that seem vastly important to its writer. Matrimonial joys do not interfere with long disquisitions on honor, patriotism, justice, and the tyranny of all managers, Bates in particular, who directs that he go to Louisville for the benefit he had been promised for the more prosperous town of Cincinnati. His resentment against Bates's factotum, Sarzedas, continually bubbles up—he finds him a pestiferous being, forever breaking his word and casting him for inferior parts that check his soaring ambition.

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Saturday 18th. Pleasant though colder. J. Adams as Richard III, for which he is absolutely unfitted. I played Richmond. At the end of the play there was a loud call for me. After I had responded to their plaudits Sarzedas, the stage manager, told me that I had no right to do so without his permission as it was Mr. Bates's orders that no stock actor should appear before the curtain. Now I know what Sarzedas is! I shall get even with him.

Bates owes much to him and yet he sends him to Louisville. Some day he will tell Bates what he thinks of him, that "the man who misleads the person whom he contracts, and takes advantage of a quibble is no less a scoundrel than a professed cheat. Caesar felt no sword so keenly as the one that Brutus held." Truly it's a sad world! He bows to fate, packs up his traps and, with his still-charming Harriet under his arm, takes passage on the steamer to Louisville, where "my friends prophesy and my enemies hope my benefit will prove a poor one." His fears proved groundless. After a friendly opening with a curtain speech, he found "The year's at the spring—God's in his Heaven—All's right with the world." He presented his benefit bill consisting of four pieces and cleared the unlooked-for sum of $100. April 1st, 1854. A perfect April Fool's Day. Rain and snow. Mother's birthday—sixty-four years old. May she see twenty more and all sunshine! Settled my benefit bills and find myself in pocket over $100, the best benefit given to a stock actor in this city for many years. All the papers of this city, which seldom notice the theatre, have given flattering criticism upon my performances. I have made an excellent impression here, the result of appearing in pieces fitted to me.

It would appear that dramatic criticism, featured today over the country, with high-salaried writers for critics, was a very small matter in this dawn of drama in the West. From 173

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME a replenished pocketbook, although his assets were still negligible, he presented his bride with a few tokens of his affection. Tuesday 4th. Bought Harriet a lot of female fixings, a parasol, dress, and other thingamies. I never thought to buy such things. Packed up, settled up and took passage on steamer, Telegraph, for Cincinnati. Back at Cincinnati he finds that his Louisville success has wrought a much more respectful attitude on the part of Bates as well as his henchman, Sarzedas, who comes to Watkins almost contritely to say that "he had been obliged to do many things which he now regretted," that he could have all the leading business and play no part that he objected to. From this retraction Harry sucked infinite consolation. April 17th. Snowing. Letter from Mother announces the death of James's child, Fanny. I never thought that death in any of my brothers' families [James's or Osmer's] would draw a tear to my eyes, believing their conduct had alienated all my brotherly affection, but on reading of little Fanny's loss, it required every effort to restrain the flood-gates of my sorrow. She was a child in years, a woman in conversation. Performed Ingomar at Mrs. Mowatt's benefit and got through with applause. It is a pleasure to play with her; a kinder, more agreeable lady I never met with. House crowded throughout with Cincinnati's wealth and fashion. Rumor has it that she is to marry Mr. Ritchie, editor of the Richmond Inquirer, and leave the stage. Until the Cincinnati season's closing the Journal concerns itself with routine matters of no great importance for our readers. There is, however, a little note of domesticity, a touch of wifely wisdom that it is a pleasure to record. Harriet may not have been the most accomplished actress in the

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INSURRECTION world, but the little lady had sense. Seeing the strenuous over-acting with which her husband had belabored Edward Middleton in The Drunkard, she suggested that he slow up a bit, not do it all himself but give something for his audience to do—they could understand without having it kicked into them. It is only three lines in the Journal but it reveals Harriet. "Don't work so hard, H a r r y , " we can hear her say. Thursday 25th. Very warm. Rehearsing, reading, at theatre seven p. M. Played "The Drunkard" and following my wife's advice played it without ranting. Did not get nearly so much applause, but pleased the audience better. I shall try the quiet style for a short time and see how it takes. The Commercial, Cincinnati's leading paper, speaking of my impersonation in the morning's issue, declared it to be "the finest piece of acting seen upon the National's boards since the departure of Mr. Anderson. All Mr. Watkins requires is to study and to wait."

And this is what Mr. Watkins proceeded to do. All his life he waited, the good Lord knows how unwillingly, how rebelliously. The Commercial?s critic had peered f a r into the future, a future filled with mirages, f a i r prospects that led the seeker on and on through long hours of self-deception to castles on the ever-retreating horizon. By boat and dirty railway cars the couple traveled eastward to Cleveland, Buffalo, Albany, and New York, their first real wedding journey. He reports dining at Syracuse with " a n appetite like a famished lion. Capital dinner. I was gratified that the morning's breakfast had had time to vacate the stomach. I should have regretted that so excellent an entertainment should have mixed with so much baser matter." On J u n e 7th they breakfasted happily with Mother, who looked over her daughter-in-law with grudging approval. The bride exhibited her mate for her own parents' inspection and they pronounced him good. 175

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Sunday 11th. Took a walk with Hetty. Called to see her parents. Like her father. He seemed a good hard working man, but his wife is too frivolous for the mother of half a dozen children.

Then by ferry to Williamsburgh with his Hetty that he might say to the Kemp girls, I could not love thee, dears, so much Loved I not Harriet more.

This triumphal journey had a humiliating anticlimax; going home he was caught in a rainstorm with a new silk hat. There is a quaint suggestion of old New York in the following small entry: Sunday 18th. Took a walk with Harriet down to the Battery. It is not the fashionable resort that it was. 'Tis now too far down town.

Through another summer's New York heat he waited for something to turn up; it was devastating. It was a languid patriot that stood at the curb to watch the Fourth of July procession, and there is little enthusiasm in the Diary's customary holiday homily. The day had its single consolation in a visit to Williamsburgh, a salt-water bath and an evening with the Kemp girls which, he informs us, "passed very agreeably." July baked and sizzled to its close. There were proposals and counter proposals, nothing came of them. The one opportunity he had to appear before a New York audience was at a benefit given to a Mr. Waters. Just who Mr. Waters was, and where the benefit was given, a patient search does not disclose. The Diary describes it as a grand affair lasting from half past seven until past two, but it gives no clue to what the packed audience suffered those seven torrid hours. The playbill contains some wellknown metropolitan names and Harry played the leading part in a farce. Toward the end of the month a proposition

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reached him to take charge of the Troy Museum, run the stage and play the leads. It wasn't a dazzling offer but the Watkins exchequer was beginning to droop and he hadn't made even a dent in the Big City; an engagement here seemed as imminent as a snowstorm in Samoa. The owner of this playhouse lived at Stockbridge, Massachusetts, and, concluding that more could be said in half an hour than by a week's correspondence, with his usual rash haste Harry "took the cars" to the gentleman's home for a conference. When he came away he carried an agreement signed by both parties by which he received one-third of the theatre's nightly net receipts. Then to Troy to inspect his future domain. To reach there he was driven eight miles in a buggy to the state line, where he caught a train from Boston. It was a repellant establishment that he viewed next day, and its charms were not enhanced when the last season's account books were shown to him. He took the day boat down the river, returning to his Harriet with doubt in his mind, a severe cold and a sore throat. It looked as though his season's harvest would be one of Dead Sea fruit. He was promptly put to bed by his anxious spouse with his neck swathed in a wet rag, and in the morning woke to receive a letter from the West. Bates agreed to grant his own terms, $30 a week and a benefit, Harry Watkins to function as stage director and play the leading juveniles. Here was a dilemma; he had just signed a legal agreement with Mr. Boardman to take charge at his Museum in Troy, now this unexpected yielding on Bates's part—Bates on whom he had vowed retaliation. Everything had turned upside down. How often he had preached probity, honor and the sacredness of contracts! Ah! but that was for other people. The shoe was on the other foot; he must eat his words. Out West, he would have the glorious satisfaction 177

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME of ruling over others—no Sarzedas to lash him, but the Simon Legree cracking his own slave whip and casting actors how he pleased. Like Launcelot Gobbo running from Shylock's tyranny he sits down to argue it out with his conscience. August 9th. I am greatly perplexed. I have made an arrangement with one man while another supposes me engaged to him. How decide?If I break with Bates it will bar me from the whole western country. At Troy, on the other hand, I should have to labor hard, with no resources and, in the end, the result might be—nil. With Bates I shall be in first class theatres and have a certainty, besides I shall be given managerial authority which will be incalculably valuable. Bates's is the better engagement—I gave notice to Boardman. Circumstances compel me to be governed by policy at the expense of feeling. " F e e l i n g " — i s that the right word, H a r r y ? O, fie! Tuesday 15th. Letter from Bates. Wants low comedian and scene painter. The former are so scarce I have a great mind to go into low comedy myself. He also gives me a list of the people he has engaged in the East. Engaged a scene-painter, Mr. Whytal. He travelled with me through the South three years ago. P. M. took a ride with George on the Sixth Avenue cars to 28th Street—then walked back with a view to seeing the uptown [sic] improvements. The new Opera House in 14th Street which is to be under the direction of Max Maretzek will be a grand affair. It is pretty far north but the city is growing up in that direction. After supper visited the National, paying my twenty-five cents like any other outsider. I do not much like patronizing Pardy. Quite in his element as impresario he went about engaging people; by August 30th he was ready. It was not a startling galaxy that he had assembled; he looked them over with a critical eye such as Falstaff might have bestowed upon his recruits, but felt a glow of satisfaction that they 178

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were his to command. There was a great ado about getting away, the company's railway fares were held up until cash arrived at the last moment from the West, and in the waiting interval one recruit wandered off and never did come back; a little irritation at Harriet, who required many unnecessary articles for her journey including "enough shoes to last her for a year," finally the familiar trek by cars and steamboat to Buffalo, Cleveland, and Cincinnati. Wednesday 30th. Sweltering. Up at four and one-half A. M. Took leave of Mother and George, at six A. M. left by the New York Central Railroad for the Great West. Among the passengers was a murderer under sentence of imprisonment for life, and another with the delirium tremens—delightful travelling companions. Reached Cincinnati at seven p. M. completely covered with dust. Then followed the mishaps of an unlucky Friday. Although his daily weather chronicle grows flat and unprofitable he rises to the dramatic possibilities in that day's events with zest. Friday, September 1st. There is not much use in noting the weather; it merely changes from hot to hotter. There has been a railroad communication opened between this city and Louisville since I was last here and owing to the low stage of water in the Ohio, I wished to take this route, but was persuaded to go by the boats— assured that we would be "sure to get through in time." At eight p. M. left by the Fort Pitt for Louisville. Turned in at ten—soon fast asleep but was awakened shortly after by the boat running on a bar. What was to be done! If I remained on board it was certain that the Louisville Theatre could not open on the fourth. Ascertaining that the cars stopped at Lawrenceburgh, sixteen miles distant, I demanded to be set ashore and started with all speed for the town. But oh! such a journey! First the Miami River which I swam across hoping to find a better route to the railroad on the other side but was deceived and forced to go three hundred yards

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME through a bottom covered in six-foot-high cane brushes with the dew drenching me to the skin. At last I reached the track, and here I was compelled to travel two miles on a trestle at an elevation of from thirty to fifty feet with but a single plank to walk on, and sometimes nothing but the rail itself. I dare not look right or left for fear of growing dizzy. The thought that the cars might come and run me down did not add to my comfort. I reached the depot in a deplorable condition. Everybody I met looked at me with distrust. I was obliged to explain matters to prevent being arrested as a suspicious character. Soon the cars arrived and I reached Louisville at two P. M., hurried to the Theatre, made out a bill and, by coaxing the printer to do a little extra work, had the satisfaction of knowing that my exertions had been successful. Seven p. M. took the first mouthful of food I had tasted for twenty-four hours. At eleven P. M., after watching for the Fort Pitt, I went to bed at the Owens House, completely tired out. Sunday 3rd. Awakened at seven p. M. by a knocking at my room and someone saying the boat had arrived and my wife wanted to see me. Went to the levee and there she lay—the boat on which I should have arrived twenty-four hours before. All of the company reached here today on three different boats. Monday 4th. Commenced my regime as manager for John Bates— anticipate a hard time. Rehearsal A. M. Opened with "Love's Sacrifice" and "The Spectre Bridegroom." The house was not good, the weather being too hot for the people to turn out, besides we had the strongest attraction against us we could contend with, Welch and Delevan's Circus. I do not expect we shall do much business for a month. The company, some of whom are better than I had expected and others worse, consist of J. G. Hanley, H. Thompson, N. Johnson, A. Bradley, Van Horn, Wentworth and wife, A. Conner and wife, T. Hind, Lannegan, Hildreth (prompter), H. Watkins and wife, Mrs. Hind, Mrs. J. Reid and Mrs. A. C. Carman. Performance seemed to give satisfaction. Monday 11th. Weather back again. Brought out "The Courier of Lyons." Don't think it made much of a hit. Though composed of pretty good material, the company is the slowest one I ever saw,

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INSURRECTION the leading people seem determined to make the most of every word by holding on to it as long as possible, with no spirit or speed to vitalize their lines. This minute correctness is very tedious to me and to the audience—it's better fitted to the pulpit than the stage.

The clouds gather—bickerings in the company—as he had fought against the authority of Sarzedas, the actors now rebel against his tyranny, jealous of their prerogatives. He had inherited the crown and with it its uneasiness. Thursday 14th. Last night of the "Courier." It won't draw. Rehearsing A. M. Had a row with Mr. Hanley about business. He has altogether too high an opinion of his abilities—thinking himself the compeer of Forrest. He told me he had no desire for my favorite parts as they were not in his line, as for instance, Giles in "The Miller's Maid" because of the Yorkshire dialect. It is palpable that Hanley is resolved I shall have nothing good if he can claim it as leading man. Therefore I shall hold him strictly to his engagement and make him play all the leading parts. He refused to play ''The Golden Farmer" and others of the same stamp, basing his refusal on the ground that J. R. Scott would not play them. There is a wide difference between J. R. Scott and J. G. Hanley! As long as he is under my management I shall hold him to the letter of his bond. Wednesday 20th. At theatre seven p. M. I never saw the minor parts in "Othello" played so poorly as they were tonight, particularly by the representatives of Roderigo and Cassio, both of whom are know-nothings. Cassio really robbed my Iago of that which "made me poor indeed—my good name." Sometimes he called me I-I-go, then I-A-go. Thursday 21st. Another row with Hanley about position; when he cooled down I stated the only terms to which we could agree—by giving me a fair share of the leading melo-dramatic parts, he could have the legitimate field for himself. Probably we shall get along better now that he finds I am resolute. Produced a three act comedy which I did at the New York National Theatre, characters and in-

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cidents being written by myself. I localized it to this place. Called on Mrs. Maywood, formerly one of the best "old women" on the stage, but now retired. Bought some very fine costumes from her for my wife, which were not only a good fit but a great bargain— indeed a little windfall. It was a troubled reign that this Louisville ruler was having; he could get no obedience from his subjects. His chief disturber, the militant Hanley, posted off to the overlord, Bates, at Cincinnati to lodge complaint against the little satrap in Kentucky, whereat Watkins denounces him as a "scoundrel and a liar" and says that he will get even with him. He has been so upset over all this turmoil that he has neglected his weather reports and the doings at the theatre where we later find that the Kentucky Fair has opened and has drawn patronage away from the performances. Not until October 6th does he mention that Mr. and Mrs. William J. Florence have been filling a week that turned out prosperously. Perhaps it is this turn of the tide that causes him to give approval to this worthy pair that formerly were in his index expurgatorius. Friday, October 6th. Benefit of the Florences. Fine house. They are much improved in their acting and are on the highroad to Fortune. May they gain it—as they seem a deserving couple. Wednesday 11th. Rain. Bates writes that the company must defray their own travelling expenses to St. Louis. This being a violation of their contract, I determined to put people on their guard. The same thing occurred last season. Every member refuses to go unless their passages are paid. Believing this to be all the doing of Sarzedas who made the engagement, I shall go up to Cincinnati and have a talk with the old man. Friday 13th. Cloudy. Took the cars to Cincinnati. Met Bates. Told him of the company's refusal to pay their own fares. The old man flew into a rage—-swore he would close the theatre and send me East to procure a new company. But when I told him that Mr.

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With this victory accomplished he returned by steamer to Louisville in greater serenity of mind. Not only had he gained his point to protect his actors but he had effected a change in his leading man, substituting Mr. R. Johnston, a more peaceable player, for the obnoxious Hanley. By shrewd stratagem this maneuver was kept from Sarzedas's knowledge. The tawny Ohio River never looked so beautiful as it bore the satisfied Watkins down stream, holding a love feast with Mr. Johnston, who agreed not to stand in his way. Monday 11th. Reached Louisville early A. M. A pleasant trip. At theatre seven P. M. Played Jack Sheppard for the first time, a part generally played by a woman, which is truly an absurdity, for no woman could go through what Sheppard did escaping from jails, etc. The piece went well and I was called before the curtain. This drama does not tend to elevate public morals but if it does no real harm, managers can hardly be blamed for presenting it. I shall fix up this drama for myself.

For several weeks Ben DeBar and his wife had been appearing at Louisville in a round of popular pieces. DeBar was known and liked, his wife, Mlle. Vallée, was a dancer. He was then building up a career in the middle West that, after the Civil War, became successful. His bestremembered character was Falstaff, which he played for many years, having acquired the physical bulk that fitted the part. Later he settled down as theatre manager in St. Louis, and retired on his well-won laurels. The starring season had begun, bringing better houses to the theatre. The next important actor to appear was Davenport. A gentle regret shrouds the name of Edward Loomis

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Davenport—a regret that with his splendid achievements, those achievements were not greater still. Coming from good New England stock he had devotion and capacity for the stage, voice, presence, and a fine, sensitive intelligence. From his beginnings he was received with favor and soon rose to an acknowledged position. When Anna Cora Mowatt repeated her American triumphs in England, he accompanied her as leading man and on his return, after several years, began his stardom. Yet he never quite reached the position to which his genius was entitled. His Romeo and Claude Melnotte placed him in the front rank of youthful players and these, in turn, gave way to a poetic and beautiful Hamlet. Later in A New Way to Pay Old Debts his Sir Giles Overreach was pronounced the finest in his day. On the other hand, he could play comedy, sing a song, and dance a hornpipe. His William in Black-Eyed Susan was a jovial sailor who was always hailed with delight. But this accomplished player died with bitterness in his heart because he had not been appreciated. Lesser actors drew crowds, while in the shadow of thwarted ambition he ate the sour bread of neglect. In the eighteen-seventies he came back from a waning popularity and rose again to favor with a noble impersonation— Brutus in the celebrated production of Julius Caesar by the Davenport, Barrett, and Bangs company. But it was a swan song. He was one of the theatre's strange paradoxes—an actor who missed great success by being too versatile! Tuesday 24th. Cleared off. At theatre seven P. M. First night of E. L. Davenport. His opening part was Hamlet which he played smoothly and nicely, but in no way entitling him to be classed as a star. Fair house. Wednesday 25th. Pleasant. Rehearsing A. M. Writing and studying P. M. Davenport played Othello well. House much better. "Laugh and Grow Fat" must have drawn many, the entire audience stopped to see it, something unusual when a star is playing.

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INSURRECTION Thursday 26th. Pleasant. Davenport played Rolla as well as I ever saw it played by anyone—it was a beautiful performance and his William in "Black-Eyed Susan" caught the house. Thursday 2nd. Pleasant. Got the company on board the light draught steamer, Express. A little emeute occurred before we left. On account of the number of female passengers it was necessary for some of them to occupy state rooms in the gentlemen's cabin. One of the company, Mrs. Carman, rushed at me with flaming eyes, demanding to know why she, an unprotected female, should be assigned a room outside the ladies' cabin. I endeavored to reason with her, telling her that one-third of the gentlemen's cabin was occupied by ladies. It was all to no purpose, she was determined to kick up a row and did it. She and Mrs. Reid, who was assigned to the same room with her, attempted a coup de main, picking up their bandboxes and valises they started on shore, expecting, of course, that I would go and beg them to come back. I knew my people too well for that. At twelve M. the boat started and they were on board. Nothing more of note occurred than landing the passengers an hour down the river, compelling them to walk a mile while the boat got over a bad bar. Passed the day playing social whist. Poor feeding on this boat. Down the Ohio to Cairo then up the Mississippi at a fivemile-an-hour pace to St. Louis, the city of his desires, over five days from Louisville. St. Louis proved disappointing; the company opened poorly and continued to diminishing receipts. He had no fault to find with his company; refreshed by a change of scene they gave a good account of themselves. Moreover he now had opportunity to produce his own plays, pieces he had composed, original or lifted from older ones and relocalized under other titles. He records favorable receptions for them and adds, "Too bad to play to such houses, but there is no way to bring them up with the means at my command. It is a dreadful season for theatricals." One night he presented a drama he had revamped called

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Rebels and Tories. The sparce audience received it with so much enthusiasm that the actors grew nervous over it, astounded at such a phenomenon, and still the box-office treasurer stared at his ticket rack and waited vainly f o r customers. But if drama slumbered f o r the public it was alive and spirited " b a c k s t a g e " with Watkins standing in the limelight. Thursday 23rd. Heavy rain. H a d quite a row at rehearsal this morning. On Tuesday I discharged a ballet woman, Mrs. Conner, f o r using insulting language towards me at rehearsal. I thought the matter dropped when I learned that the men, Van Horn, Wentworth and others were holding an indignation meeting, threatening to make the case their own. I called the company to the stage and stated that if any desired satisfaction they were at liberty to pitch in, that I waived my manager's position and stood before them a s H a r r y Watkins. None of them took up the offer except the lady, who rushed down at me frantically f r o m R.3.E. armed with a rawhide. I saw her in time to catch the blow on my left arm, while with the right I clinched the weapon, wrenched it f r o m her hand, took out my knife and cut it to pieces with perfect sang froid. Her allies never stirred to her assistance. The Amazon retreated f r o m the field and the ten-minute war ended.

What a pity there was no audience to applaud that situat i o n ! — o u r Dramatist never wrote a better. Beyond doubt the a f f a i r happened as described—even to the lady rushing on from R.3.E. (Right Third Entrance). All desire, all emotion, all life, for him was T H E A T R E . It was the beginning and the end. This St. Louis season was no better than Louisville. He had built lofty hopes on the town, a new world to conquer, now he wondered why he had ever wanted to come. Stock company presentations were expected to be unprofitable, but the starlit attractions were doing only a little better. The

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talented Davenport played a woeful engagement. He had a hectic night in Pizarro; the Journal says it was "butchered." Thursday 7th. Pleasant. Tonight two women played Elvira in "Pizarro." The first, Mrs. Knight, taken sick after the first act. Mrs. Boyle had to finish the part, and she finished it! Then Cora's Child yelled all through the piece, neither threats nor entreaties could quiet it. Every time the brat went on the stage force was required to keep him there. In the scene where Cora leaves her child asleep, at the moment she made her exit, he bolted off at the opposite entrance where he received a hearty shaking from his legitimate parent and howled his lungs out. Tragedy fled. The curtain descended on shouts of laughter and poor Davenport's smothered imprecations. Sunday 10th. Called on Davenport and lady to bid them adieu. They leave tomorrow for Boston. [Can we imagine their relief.]

The Watkins regime was still beset with trouble. Mr. Johnstone, whom he had taken great pains to exchange for the belligerent Hanley, his Louisville enemy, although a more willing member, was too frail a reed to lean upon; he frequently collapsed and became speechless at crucial moments, compelling Harry Watkins to go on for his parts. Mrs. Knight had difficulty in memorizing her lines, making readjustments of casts a continual necessity. Grumblings and smothered conspiracy flared into open revolt at oppression and fancied injustice on the part of the management. The especial trouble-makers sent a letter to Bates at Cincinnati demanding Watkins's removal. Bates's reply was an order to Watkins to discharge all the company and reorganize for Louisville. That night a notice was posted in the green room giving the company its congé one week from date, signed HARRY WATKINS. And thus the right triumphed.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Monday 18th. Heavy snow fall. Went in a buggy to find the family of Mr. Thomas Day with whom I had campaigned in Texas in '42 as fellow members of a volunteer company called "The Bear Hunters." After its disbandment we returned to the States, penniless, and worked our passage up the river. On the voyage I was stricken with a disease termed the "water fever," which reduced me to extremis. Arriving at St. Louis young Day hastened to tell his parents that a comrade who had shared danger and starvation with him was lying desperately ill on the steamer. His mother ordered me brought to their house and the Good Samaritan lady nursed me back to health until I sufficiently recovered to journey to New York. I had never forgotten their hospitality and promised, should I ever return to St. Louis, to visit them. Thirteen years have made such changes in me that the dear old lady did not know me when I called her by name. She was overjoyed and said she had been wondering if I were still alive. At theatre Miss Kimberly in a piece called "Camille," a translation from the French. It was successful in Paris, but requires a talent of a higher order than Miss Kimberly's. I played St. Frivole. Last night of the season. Bates writes that he is pleased with my conduct.

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XIV PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS Down the river again to Cairo and up the Ohio to Louisville —seven long days. Harriet had not been well on the trip. Harry laid her illness to the bad food on the wretched river boat and dosed her with his favorite remedies. The poor child needed something more than that—it had been more than a year since that Sunday when they left Cincinnati to go hand in hand out to Mr. Saunders's farmhouse to spend the day, drinking fresh milk, watching the birds, the bees, the flowers, and their first night as husband and wife. Depositing her at Mrs. Biggert's boarding house, he told her to be of good cheer and took the train to see his chief at Cincinnati. The old man received him with a comfortable warmth and told him that never would he have more to do with those persons who had treated him so shamefully. "Go on to New York and engage new people," Bates said. " I would be glad to do so," Watkins answered, "but there's my wife—she's going to have a baby." "All right, get whoever you can here or in Louisville. If you don't find the right ones telegraph to New York for them." It was a speedy transaction. In three days he had selected his Louisville company, rehearsed them, got up his production, and opened the theatre to the public. He must have picked his actors out of the air. It seems incredible. However, there was Miss Kimberly, uninspired though dauntless, with a repertory of plays. She had come on from St. Louis with the Watkinses. She would have no difficulty in opening the season as Camille. This celebrated play, adapted from the younger Dumas's

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La Dame aux Camélias, had been presented a year previously in New York for the first time by Jean Davenport, who made her own version. The ubiquitous playwrights immediately pounced upon it and Camilles spread over the land. What Miss Kimberly's version was like and just how convincing these Louisville players, caught up in the alarm of fear, were as Dumas's cocottes and Parisian fashionables may be left to our imagination. Tuesday, January 2nd, 1855. The New Year has set in splendidly. I hope it will act better than the old one. The company opened in "Camille" to a fine house. After the piece was over there was a loud call for me. This does not look as though I had become unpopular. Monday 15th. At theatre. Brought out "The Lawyer's Secret; or False and True Blood." This was the first play I ever wrote. The house was poor but it played very well. Sunday 21st. Heavy thunder showers. Some snow. Writing nearly all day. Wife got sick yesterday. It is not likely that she will be better until there is an increase in the family. She had spasms this p. M. brought on, I think, by morphine that was administered to alleviate her pains.

Poor little Harriet ! Facing her torment practically alone in a shabby boarding house with an occasional glimpse of her husband dashing about in pursuit of a hundred things, striving vainly to achieve the impossible. The bravery of it! She will be like other mothers whose babies first saw the light in like surroundings in the old nomad theatrical world. Perhaps her infant will be laid in a basket on a dressingroom shelf or a wardrobe trunk while its mother plays a scene and then suckles it between acts. The First Old Woman, who dresses with her, will keep an eye on it. "Watch baby while I'm on, won't you, Mrs. Jenniwine?" "Certainly, dear!" She remembers when she had her first baby. 190

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Sometimes at rehearsal her child may be fretful, she will pick it up and carry it while she reads her lines. For of such is the Kingdom of Thespis. Saturday 27th. Snowing in the evening. Bates telegraphs for me to take my benefit right away. This is rather sudden. I am not prepared to do the work necessary to get it up, and it is too early in the season to make it profitable. The little time I get to myself I must give to Harriet who cannot now be in any of the plays. Well, the old man's orders are imperative. At theatre all day writing.

These literary labors could be nothing else than ransacking his stock of play books, rearranging and polishing old pieces, writing out the parts in them for his actors. It is amazing to think the man had time even for sleep. A Miss Makeah, a novice who had attracted some attention in New York, was brought to Louisville. She proved to have physical and personal attractions. Her Julia and Parthenia, however, failed to reveal much else. The best thing the Diarist can say about her is "she seems an excellent woman." Her only exhibition of divine fire was not of her own creation, it was a conflagration that destroyed the Gait House and all the unfortunate lady's street and stage costumes. Miss Makeah afterwards was married to George Vandenhoff, a scholarly Briton who made a place for himself in America as an impressive though somewhat heavy-footed romantic actor with a penchant for Hamlet and the tragic parts. As a dramatic reader he was at his best, as an actor he was rather dull. The gentleman wrote his autobiography, a small volume devoted to much self-praise and laudatory press notices. Wednesday 7th. Raining. Rehearsal A. M. After dinner assisted wife in sewing canvas for scenery. [Courageous little soul! Scenery

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canvas is very heavy stuff. Far better had your needle been employed on your baby's layette.] I am going to make one more attempt with a travelling company, starting under better auspices than before and with the benefit of dearly-bought experience. While H a r r y is issuing his Canute-like c o m m a n d s to stay the oncoming waves of disaster at the N a t i o n a l , Harriet M e l i s s a in a shabby bedroom at a L o u i s v i l l e theatrical b o a r d i n g house is battling against overwhelming pain. She i s bringing into the world an heir to the H o u s e of Watkins.

Saturday 17th. Rehearsal. Writing and studying. At theatre 7 P. M. Mrs. Mowatt's "Fashion" to a fair house. Home after performance, found wife sick and momentarily growing worse. Started for the doctor at midnight—back home again, waited an hour—matters coming to a climax—came near using emphatic language—after him again. This time met him on the road. Made the old gentleman hurry up. Sunday 18th, Cold and cloudy. After three hours of fearful agony Harriet was relieved by the advent of her first-born. When the doctor told me that it was a "feller" I rejoiced; its sex will spare it the pangs of maternity. I wanted children, but now I have no desire for another, nor to see any woman suffer as my wife suffered this morning. The child weighed eleven pounds. A "buster," they said. I hope he will not bust me. For beginners, we have not done so badly. I named it after my best friend—George Washington Watkins. If it makes as good a man as he, I shall be satisfied. At four A. M. I laid down to get a little of "sore labor's bath." Up at nine, dressed and went to a Masonic funeral. P. M. tried to study but was too tired. Wrote to George and Mother apprising them of their new relative. Nobly done, Harriet! Y o u r theatre instinct functioned perfectly. A true trouper, you chose the one f r e e d a y at y o u r d i s p o s a l to bring George Washington Watkins into the world —Sunday. 192

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While the Watkins heir was being born we once more find the Richings, Peter and Caroline, holding forth at the theatre. The old aristocrat of the stage did not make himself at all agreeable to the company or its director. The old school bred a number of these ancient orchids, always seeing themselves in large type, forever guarding the dignity and the sanctity of their persons, living in the characters they played, and going to bed wearing their crowns and their royal robes. Of such was Peter Richings. To him these Louisville players and their leader, Harry Watkins, were canaille. Monday 19th. Pleasant. At theatre seven p. M. " O l d Heads and Young Hearts." Played Littleton Coke for the first time, a very long part which I had little chance to study. Managed to get through respectably. Mother and child doing well. Tuesday 20th. Drama of "Washington" drew a fair house. Richings's make-up for Washington is remarkable—a perfect reproduction of the original. Wednesday 21st. I find that Richings has treated me shabbily. I have done all in my power to make his engagement comfortable with all the resources at my command. I even went on the stage as a supernumerary, doing a soldier in "Don Caesar" and one of the druids in " N o r m a . " Now I learn that he has abused me behind my back. He is another of the Sir Oracles who expect everybody to be silent when they speak. He keeps continually dinning in our ears the immense respect and courtesy due from us to him, as " a n old actor, s i r . " Should fate decree that we never meet again there will be no regret on my part.

Having recorded the arrival of Harry's first-born, little George Washington Watkins ceases to dominate the Journal's pages. They return to purely professional affairs which now concern the perturbation of the Cincinnati overlord, Bates, regarding the bad business at Louisville, and whose 193

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persistence in keeping his three theatres going like a juggler rotating his balls in the air might be marveled at until one sees in it a dominant trait in human nature, the urge to gamble. Theatre speculation is as uncertain as horse racing, roulette, or the stock market, but to some adventurous souls infinitely more fascinating. Here is no hazard of unintelligent horseflesh or the accidents of the race track, the click of the marble in the numbered roulette wheel or the rise and fall of security values. There is always the chance that the untried play may make its producer a millionaire or that a newly discovered actor or actress may turn an uncertain night into a wild occasion of hysterical joy. He will be hailed as a man of genius, and the newspapers and magazines will print articles about him. He has played upon the emotions of the great public and gambled in human beings. Charles Frohman, for a time the little czar of the theatrical world, once said to the Purveyor of these pages, "If I knew that every play I produced was going to be a success, I'd quit the business." No such uncertainty inspired Bates. He knew that the attractions in his three theatres would very likely prove failures. In Louisville and St. Louis they were almost sure to be, in Cincinnati they had a chance. Cincinnati was not in those days the pork-packers' paradise that it later became, but it was a prosperous and money-spending community of 100,000 inhabitants. The nightly and weekly box-office reports that were sent from Louisville were pretty bad reading. He wrote to Watkins to close his season, discharge his actors, and shut up shop. Harry Watkins came back with the statement that Bates's actors were engaged for nine months and that the reason he was losing money was that his prices for admission were above those at any other theatre in the country and repelled patronage.

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PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS Monday 26th. Coldest day of the season. First night of the Bateman Children who are playing a farewell engagement over the country. Having amassed sufficient fortune to make their lives comfortable, they are leaving the stage. All in good time, they are getting too old to be called "precocious children." Good house. March 5th. Rain. Quite a row in front. Three men were annoying the audience by loud talking, and when requested by the officer in attendance to desist, one of the party told him to go to h—1, that they had paid their money and had a right to do as they d—d pleased. A fight ensued in which a number joined in and the belligerents came off second best. If ever they visit a theatre again the probability is they will learn that in a place of amusement people pay their money to be amused and not to amuse themselves. "Young America" will not draw any more. This is certainly the worst theatre town in the United States. The piece opened to excellent business, then dropped to nothing. Monday 12th. A. M. blowy. Anderson opened to a full house and was heartily applauded for his fine Hamlet. About nine o'clock the heaviest hail storm I ever remember came down on the tin roof with a noise like a cannonade. The audience, thinking it was tumbling down, rushed en masse for the door in a panic. Mr. Melius and I jumped on the seats and by shouting and violent gesticulation calmed their fears. Having restored order after fifteen minutes' interruption to the performance, the play went on. Several people received injuries. Sunday 25th. Rude, blustering March. Passed a pleasant p. M. dining with Anderson, a very sociable and kindly man. He is one of the finest actors on the American stage, yet his engagements are not successful because the Press is not on his side. He lacks someone to manage his affairs and manufacture public opinion for him. Unpuffed talent won't pay nowadays. An actor, however exalted his genius, requires a Gabriel to blow his horn. His last night in "Richard I I I " made a great hit. When I saw Anderson off on the steamer he expressed himself as being grateful for my courtesy to him during his engagement. Took a walk with wife. Youngster is growing finely—hope I shall be able to raise him.

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James R. Anderson was an example of the veering of Fortune's weather vane. He came over seas as so many illustrious tragedians had come before him since George Frederick Cooke and Edmund Kean, to seek the elusive jade in America, and for a brief hour he had a thrilling flirtation with her. He had much in his favor, personal charm, intelligence and—unlike his predecessors, Cooke, Kean, and Booth —sobriety. He had been a proselyte of the great Macready in London and had been encouraged by his master. The New York commentators wrote columns in his praise, society opened its arms to him. His gracious manners brought him favor everywhere in and out of the theatre, while on the stage his Hamlet, Othello, Claude Melnotte, and Richard were hailed as "something new and strange." Then the wind changed. Cold blasts came down from the North—his laurels withered. The critics suddenly discovered him to be but a copyist of Macready, merely reproducing his mentor's stage effects. Anderson fled to the provincial theatres where Macready was unknown and Shakespeare could draw full houses. Even unpropitious Louisville was not wholly without profit. The Journal records an improved second week in which he was assisted by a Mrs. Gladstane, a Louisville favorite sent down by Bates from Cincinnati to strengthen the cast. Anderson was followed by another and much less scintillating Shakespearean star, one J. B. Roberts, a typical old timer, whose light was shed upon sparse and unresponsive audiences. Watkins had one satisfaction; on Roberts's alternating nights he produced a new play by Boucicault in which he made a hit (he was always making hits!), The Willow Copse, a domestic drama that lived through many seasons' popularity.

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Monday 2nd. I appear to have quite a hit in "The Willow Copse." I shall leave myself out of the bill for the rest of Roberts's engagement as there is not much pleasure in playing with him to bad houses. It is a burning shame that such an apology for an actor should be allowed to hold position as a star. [The Palmy Days produced a lamentable number of bad actors.] The ensuing memoranda in the Journal relate to Harry Watkins's customary managerial trials, bad houses, insubordination, trying weather, and his peculiar horror, drunkenness. Under these handicaps he dives into his play chest, fishes out old comedies and melodramas, rewrites and renames them, gives an occasional glance at George Washington Watkins, who is beginning to show a few signs of intelligence, and criticizes his actors' negligible talents. In renaming Aline, the piece he produced on the 13th of April, we detect the mid-century taste in titles. It was the age of the family album, horse-hair furniture, the marble-top parlor table, the corner "what-not," wax flowers, and the ringletted steel-engraving lady. Friday 13th. Produced a piece called "Aline; or the Rose of Killarney," which I changed to the better title of "The Rose of Penrith; or the Mother's Prayer," in order to make the hero a Yorkshire man instead of an Irishman. The change was certainly to its advantage. It was well received. Monday 16th. Slight sprinkling early A. M. First night of Mrs. Hayne, late Julia Dean. Her star has rapidly declined since her marriage. Her beauty and her single blessedness were her chief attractions, her real talent being small. But she need not complain, her fortune is sufficient to insure her independence for the remainder of her life. She married the son of ex-Senator Hayne of South Carolina, lately deceased. She now intends retiring from the stage. Fine house.

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The charming lady did not, in truth, give up the stage for ten years; playbills as late as 1 8 6 7 contain her name. She was twice married, and died in childbed at the house of her father-in-law, Dr. Cooper, in 1 8 6 8 . Tuesday 24th. Pleasant. Bates speaks of having me to come to Cincinnati in place of Sarzedas. I should like this infinitely. I have no particular desire to stop in this city and will not if anything more eligible offers. A stage manager's labor is lost on Louisville. Here the public care only for stars, no matter how good the stock company or the pieces may be. Gentle Julia having played her round of parts and delighted her audiences, gave place to James E. Murdoch, who at that time seems to have been something of a chronic invalid, a condition not to be marveled at when one thinks of the rigors of travel, insanitary theatres, shabby hotels, and terrible cookery. Tuesday, May 1st. Murdoch opened last night in "Hamlet." Tonight he was too sick to play; substituted "William Tell" for "Richelieu" to a bad house. Murdoch should give up playing. He is rich enough. He can't finish an engagement without disappointing an audience. For many years he has suffered with the most severe constipation of the bowels, which so affects his brain that often he becomes unconscious of what he is doing, committing, when the fit is on him, some strange antics. May 4th. At theatre seven P. M. Played Graves in "Money" for the first time and made quite a hit. My unlooked for success on this occasion will be of incalculable benefit to me with other and more difficult comedy parts which hitherto I have lacked the confidence to play. Murdoch played Evelyn well. Saturday, May 5th. Tonight after the house was emptied and all the actors gone except myself and a watchman, a fire started in the prompt entrance. Shortly the whole left prosceneum was ablaze. Luckily there were plenty of buckets on hand and a good cistern 198

PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS in the yard. The alarm was given but realizing the " m e s s " the average fireman would make, I locked the door, keeping it shut until the fire was extinguished. It is to my credit that I kept my head and made a "success of my p a r t " as a fireman. Wednesday 9th. First night of " D e Soto; or the Hero of the Mississ i p p i , " a tragedy written by a Baltimorian, George H. Miles. Fine house. The play acts very well and contains some lines of brilliant writing. Our country is rich in subjects of this nature, and American playwrights should show more enterprise in seeking them out.

The Louisville season gasped out its final breath. Despite the drawbacks of household expenditures, bills for doctors, costumes, Harriet's necessities, occasional remittances to Mother, and the requirements of George Washington Watkins, who was growing apace, Harry had saved money. He "took the cars" to Cincinnati for a conference with Bates and was offered reengagement at the old terms, with Cincinnati as a possibility. It was a great temptation, Bates had dealt fairly with him and he could look forward to a regular salary day, but he felt he was marking time here in the West. Destiny was calling him to the East, or, if it was not, he might find the way to make Destiny vocal. There was but one town in the country on which every actor's heart was set—New York. He closed his ears to Bates's offer, fought with his reason against probable defeat in New York, set his jaw and began the now familiar journey. Why shouldn't hp be a success? Who could have better equipment for it than he? He had all the requisites, intelligence, adaptability to every kind of part, personality, and determination; he was not only a seasoned actor but a skilled stage manager and producer, a strict disciplinarian and, by the grace of God and several hundred adaptable old play books, a dramatist. He telegraphed to Harriet to put his house in order—he had already settled his Louisville debts—and join him at

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once in Cincinnati. Perhaps it was rather unfair to throw on his bride's shoulders the responsibility of the boat trip up the river, burdened by their child and their domestic and theatrical wardrobe trunks, but time pressed. In two days the united family was on its way by railway cars and lake steamers, young George Washington outspoken in his objections to them all. It was fiendishly hot. Through the open car windows dust swirled in perpetual clouds, coagulating to an emulsion on their sweating faces, making the angel child an abhorrent thing, whose food had disagreed with him, causing a violent upheaval and complete destruction of morale. Milk procurable at the dirty railway lunch counters was wholly insanitary. At the journey's end they hastened to Mother and baths and clean diapers. Early the next morning Watkins was making his rounds among the managers, looking for a metropolitan opening, and found little to encourage him. It was late—companies were already made up and the desirable positions filled. A few days of fruitless inquiry convinced him that opportunities would lie otherwhere than in the New York theatres, against whose stone walls he could not breach an opening. Very well, if he can make no headway why not try his own fortunes as a star? Were it not for its cruel irony it would be amusing to think how small a talent sufficed to float some stars he had supported. All he needed was some good bookings and a little press agentry. He toyed with the idea, held consultation with Brother George and the dramatic agent, Parsloe, and after a week's flare concluded that the risk would be too great. But still he lived up to his motto, "Hope for the best, expect the worst." Not a word of hopelessness creeps into the Journal's pages; boredom there is but no despair. Rough as was his pathway, he never sat down and cried about it. His optimism is phenomenal. 200

PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS Monday, September 1st. Pleasant. At present my life is so monotonous that there is hardly any use of making daily records. I pass the time with George accompanying him in his search for vendibles for his travelling stock. Monday 8th. Pleasant. Spent the A. M. searching for a "house to hire." My youngster is so noisy and troublesome that I'm fearful he may annoy other people. I shall find a suitable place to let Harriet keep house while I am away. At the solicitations of some friends, yet against my better judgment. I applied by letter to Mr. J. Wallack, Sr. for an engagement. He did not even condescend to answer. It is some consolation to know that he treated Charles Burke, one of the best comedians this country ever produced, in the same manner. Burke wrote to Wallack, offering to play a month for nothing, but no notice was taken of the letter. This is only accountable by the strong prejudice Mr. Wallack entertains against American actors.

However indefensible this Wallack anglomania may have been, it persisted through the years to the end at Wallack's Theatre. In its heyday under the younger Wallack (Lester) the company was always preponderantly British. One has only to recall the names of Harry Montague, Harry Becket, Charles and Rose Coughlan, Osmund Tearle, and Kyrle Bellew to realize its complexion. September 8th. In the evening went to Burton's Theatre, late the Metropolitan. This was the first night of his season. The opening pieces were "The Rivals" and "Loan of a Lover." In the first Mr. Mark Smith made his first appearance in New York playing Sir Anthony. He created a favorable impression, in fact, made his "Mark."

Mark Smith was the son of old Sol Smith of Ludlow & Smith, who opened up the theatrical region in the South at New Orleans where Harry Watkins saw his first real per-

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formance. This Smith, although a young man, chose a line of "old men" and established himself as a successful competitor for honors in these characters with Henry Placide. September 10th. Mr. E. Eddy intends opening Burton's Old Theatre in Chambers Street on Monday next. Eddy is another individual who constantly boasts of his Americanism and is as constantly false to his principles. I was the first to make application for the light comedy, but before twenty-four hours he had engaged an Englishman, after all his talk about fostering American talent. I long for an opportunity of giving him my opinion in regard to this affair. Several other bright prospects having proved futile, the Diarist washes his hands clean from stage contamination and devotes pages to politics and the cause of his country, devoutly hoping that in the imminent presidential campaign Millard Fillmore will be the people's choice. His patriotism burns furiously. If only it were he who could mount the rostrum and, like Mark Antony, stir the populace to revolt! His opportunity came and gave our Patriot that moment he had waited for. It also reveals to us the kind of speeches he wrote for his plays. This Union Square outburst occupies four closely written pages in the Journal. Here are the high lights: Tuesday, October 21st. In the evening was present at a mass meeting of the American Party held in Union Square; an assemblage numbering near twenty thousand persons. At an early hour I took up a position on the main stand, determined to speak if opportunity offered. Stuart of Virginia, Secretary of the Interior during Fillmore's administration, spoke first. Then David Brown of Philadelphia, one of the best criminal lawyers and stump speakers in the country. At his conclusion, the presiding officer, Mr. Warner, asked him to continue. Brown declared he had talked himself out. There was a lengthy pause. The crowd below were fast becoming impatient when I stepped forward and, giving my name to Warner,

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PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS he introduced me to the people as "Mr. Watkins of New York," and called for "three cheers for Young America." These given with a good will I commenced my speech which ran nearly as follows: Friends and fellow countrymen: This meeting suddenly finds itself hard up for a speaker, but on election day our foes will find that we are not hard up for voters. I see the opposition papers call the American Party the "dead man's party." If this be true, then am I asleep and indulging in a most pleasant dream. But if I am, as I believe I am, wide awake, then is this the day of Judgement, the universal resurrection of the dead! . . . Brethren, he who now addresses you has nothing to gain by this election save that which we all share in common—the success of the whole country. Therefore, you may know that it is his heart and not his pocketbook that speaks. When I came here, I little expected that this honor to address you would be given to me who stand before you an entire stranger to you all. But you I do know. I know you as Americans—Americans at heart—Americans in blood and on the Fourth of November you will be Americans in action. Oh! that I could appeal to you, my countrymen, with the eloquence of a Daniel Webster or a Henry Clay, that in a voice of thunder my words might sink deep into the heart of every American here and as he lays his head upon the pillow on Election night bring to him the consciousness that he has done his duty to himself, his duty to posterity, his duty to the Union, one and indivisible. Let no man shirk his responsibility. The platform we stand on is that which was constructed at Philadelphia in 1787. The coach we ride in is drawn by a full-blooded American team—Fillmore and Donnelson! . . . Behold that statue of your country's Father (alluding to the bronze equestrian statue of Washington which was facing me as I spoke). He sits firmly upon his granite pedestal, but still firmer in the hearts of his countrymen! Look up to him for council as did your forefathers in times that tried men's souls. He will give it you as he gave it to your heroic sires who fought for liberty in '76. . . . Will you respond in this exhortation, my brethren? (Several shouted, "We will! We will!") Aye, will you? Then shout with me the words of inspiration until the Heavens shall echo them

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME back again—WE WILL! (The request was enthusiastically responded to.) . . . But three nights ago this ground upon which we stand was desecrated by a party whose success would ring the death knell of the Union. In their hands gleamed the torch of the incendiary to set the nation in a blaze. As that noble figure looked down at them a frown gathered upon his brow, his finger pointed then as now (the figure of Washington is thus represented), and his words were, "Silence, you alienators! Hence to your homes! What! dissolve the Union? Let me look upon the traitor's face who would lead the way!"

He gives a lengthy recital about the enthusiasm that was evoked by his oratory, how he played upon the mob's emotions, as Mark Antony did with the Roman populace, how everyone howled, "No, no! Go on! Go on!" when he offered to stop, of the excited Southerner who forced his way through the crowd to grasp his hand and exclaim, "By God, sir, that was the most patriotic speech I ever heard!" and his complete loss of voice when he arrived home to recount his triumph to Harriet. But there is one item in this date's entry that we cannot pass by: he refers to his speech as "containing much that I had written during my recent trip to Europe" What trip to Europe? The Journal is completely silent on the subject. W e were puzzled by a strange hiatus between his summer's departure from Louisville and the early activities in New York and his resumption in the Fall of 1 8 5 6 . This brief sentence tells us much but not enough. Did he hope for an opening in London? Did he leave Harriet behind to care for the infant Watkins or take them both with him? Did the Journal become a tedious bore during the interval or were the events so momentous that they could not be recorded? We shall never know. Not a vestige of evidence can we discover to inform us, and those who could have given it are dead. 204

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The next night he had volunteered his services for a benefit tendered to Mrs. Eddy at the Chambers Street Theatre and had played his part with a voice like a foghorn. He had sacrificed his larynx on the altar of politics. With his characteristic tendency for doing the wrong thing, Harry had picked the losing horse. On November 4th James Buchanan, whom he had lashed as traitor and incendiary, was elected to the country's highest office, and Millard Fillmore, the choice of the American or "Know-Nothing" party went down to defeat, scoring only eight electoral votes to Buchanan's 174, buried under the avalanche of Watkins's oratory. Defiant of ill fortune, after a few scattering engagements, he accepted an engagement in Baltimore. Friday 28th. Started for Baltimore. I left home in rather bad spirits —Bub somewhat ill. Cold weather for travelling. Reached Baltimore four A. M. Put up at Barnum's Hotel. Went immediately to bed which had too great a paucity of covering and was not what one expects in a first class hotel. After breakfast went to the Museum where I found the company conversing mournfully in groups, wearing singularly elongated faces. Those with whom I was acquainted extended a lugubrious welcome. I realized that this depression of the actors' naturally buoyant spirits could come from but one cause—the manager had neglected the Romans' S.P.Q.R. a s defined theatrically. [This cryptic line needs explanation; it refers to an ancient theatrical jest. At a performance of Julius Caesar one of the minor actors, noticing the inscription on the banner he was carrying, which all know was the proclamation of Rome's proud democracy, asked his companion, "What the hell does S.P.Q.R. m e a n ? " " S a l a r i e s Paid Quite Regularly," was the reply. "Not in this theatre!" exclaimed the actor.] Finding this to be true I was prompted to take the back track home, but Leman, the stage manager, persuaded me to stay. We cast "The Drunkard," made out a bill and went into rehearsal. Sunday 30th. Called on an old acquaintance, D. P. McPhail. When I became acquainted with this gentleman he was first lieutenant

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME in command of Company I, Fifth U. S. Infantry, at Fort Snelling, Iowa (since Minnesota) Territory. When I was assigned to this company in 1839 as fifer boy, he had shown the greatest kindness to me. There could not be a worse school in which to rear a youth than the army of the U. S. Two-thirds of those in the service are foreigners, generally of the lowest and most ignorant class. The few Americans to be met with are men who have led dissipated lives and incapacitated themselves for any respectable business, taking up the army as a last resource. The average age of those boys entering the service as drummers and fifers is about twelve years. At this period the impressions made upon the youthful mind are seldom effaced. As the twig is bent the tree's inclined. I never acquired the use of tobacco in any shape, but I was in danger of becoming a devotee at the shrine of Bacchus. To drink seemed so manly. All my comrades drank and I drank to keep them company. The dangers and difficulties which the old soldiers risked to satisfy their insane craving for strong liquor is well-nigh incredible. Smuggling liquor into camp is termed "Running the Mail." Among the "Mail runners," I held chief position. It was sport to me. How often have I scaled the walls of old Fort Snelling and, in company with one or two others, travelled through deep snow to an old log hut on the left bank of the river five miles above the Fort. No weather, cold or stormy, could keep back our Mail once we had resolved to run it through. The hut where we procured the liquor was kept by a Canadian Frenchman who realized a fortune from his traffic with the soldiers and Indians. The stuff he sold was the most villainous "fire-water" that ever man had courage to swallow, a compound of turpentine and alcohol requiring a copper lined throat and a stomach of gutta percha. For this deadly compound, which couldn't have cost more than ten cents, the villain charged from three to five dollars a gallon. To obtain it the soldiers would overdraw their Government allowance of clothing and sell it for anything they could get. The punishment for those caught "Running the Mail" would have done credit to the Inquisition. One form was condemning a man to carry ten sixpound balls packed in his knapsack and strapped upon his back,

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PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS for fifteen days and nights every alternate two hours. The cause of good discipline would be better subserved by the adoption of a different line of policy To tell the tale of this Baltimore engagement as the Journal recounts it would be to recapitulate the episodes of other encounters with fate. It is all very, very familiar ground. The setting is different, the details are the same— bad management, unpaid salaries for the actors while the musicians strike for their pay, hopes that are blighted and weather reports veering from "fair and warmer" to "squalls, sleet and snow." We are not even told who the company were. It matters little—"to fortune and to fame unknown" they were typical troupers such as have always hung about the theatre and always will. There is one variant in the routine record—"Bub" was taken sick in New York. Wednesday 3rd. Pleasant. Letter from Harriet informing me that Bub is dangerously ill. The news causes me infinite grief though I strive to look on the hopeful side. I was for hastening home at once, but the lowness of my purse forbids. Pray Heaven the child's danger is exaggerated! Wrote Harriet to telegraph me if he grows worse. In spite of all the disadvantages I have been under, I succeeded tonight in giving satisfaction to the audience and was honored with a call before the curtain. Sunday 7th. Last night when I went to the Museum to prepare for the play I found the doors locked—the Gas Company had cut off the gas and darkness reigned in this dirty temple of Thespis. The company gathered about the door to discuss their grievances and then, actor-like when the worst comes to the worst, laughed and joked over their misfortunes. Went back to Hotel and retired for the night. This morning settled my bills and at eight o'clock started homeward. I found Bub fast recovering from his illness. It must have been severe to have so changed his appearance. As I entered the room he was lying in his cradle, but the instant he

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saw me he raised up and clasped me about the neck with his face pressed to mine. He was livelier today than he had been since my departure. H i s b i r t h d a y on the 14th b r i n g s a c l o u d of u n e a s y foreb o d i n g s . D o l l a r b y d o l l a r his m o n e y is v a n i s h i n g . V i s i t i n g p l a y s a t other t h e a t r e s o n l y m a k e s h i m e n v i o u s of the succ e s s f u l l y e m p l o y e d p l a y e r s . T h e r e were a f e w j o y o u s moments at a s u p p e r g i v e n b y W i l l i a m W h e a t l e y a f t e r p e r f o r m a n c e o f King

a

Lear at the B o w e r y T h e a t r e . T h e p l a y

he d i s m i s s e s with, " I f a n y m a n but S h a k e s p e a r e h a d written this p l a y it w o u l d h a v e been s h e l v e d l o n g a g o . " B u t the supper warmed his heart. Passed a most pleasant evening, or rather night, for we did not separate until five o'clock the next morning. John Brougham, E. L. Davenport and "Daddy Rice" were of the party, also Ned Wilkins, the New York Herald dramatic critic. Brougham is a most companionable bon vivani, full of buoyant spirits, sings a fair song, tells a good story and is quick and happy at repartee. I do not think him sincere as a man—he is rather a man of the world—one who sides with all parties and carefully avoids giving offense to even those he dislikes. Monday 19th. Papers announce Matilda Heron's arrival in town. She was to have opened this evening for three weeks at Wallack's Theatre, but it was deemed advisable to postpone her appearance for a few evenings so that she might fully recover from the fatigue incurred by the tedious journey from New Orleans. Tuesday 20th. Called on Miss Heron. She appeared glad to see me and I passed several hours with her quite agreeably. A heavy fall of snow had impeded travel on the Western railroads; it was with the utmost difficulty that she was enabled to reach this city at all, leaving her baggage at Cairo to be forwarded by express. This not arriving in time, she was compelled to procure an entire new set of dresses for her opening part, which she did at a cost of $500. I loaned her a large lot of stage jewels and thus saved her quite an item.

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Enter Matilda Heron! This extraordinarily endowed lady, two nights later at Wallaek's, achieved a success beyond compare. Five years before she had played a round of parts ranging from Lady Macbeth to Pauline, at the Bowery Theatre with Edward Eddy. Not having stirred her audiences on that occasion to the response she felt her due, she took herself off to the provincial towns to gather money and reputation. There she developed her broadly colored style that gave full play to a genius that could not be confined by any rule or convention. She created her own method—if method she ever consciously had—copying no model but allowing every fevered impulse to carry her through scenes to hectic climaxes of magnetic power. On the night of January 22nd this emotional human dynamo appeared in her own translation of La Dame aux Camelias before a dazzled audience at Wallaek's Theatre and swept them out of their orchestra seats. The town had never known anything comparable to it. The only Camille that had hitherto roused any interest was Jean Davenport, an eminently respectable and somewhat virginal demi-mondaine. Here was something outrageously daring—a seemingly uncontrolled display of flaming elation. Wallaek's audiences, over whom propriety always ruled, had not been used to assaults like that. It was not to be resisted. They surrendered unconditionally and Matilda Heron took them into camp. The newspaper critics quite forgot their judicial calm and abandoned themselves to rapture. The Tribune reviewer wrote: "From the moment she entered as Camille she filled the stage. She exuded the electricity of genius. All the teaching, all the preaching and the swearing, all the flogging cannot elevate the commonplace gift into that ineffable something called Genius. . . . Miss Heron had nothing to do at first but to enter, cough, eat a lozenge and say a few words to a bore of a nobleman, but there was about her a 209

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halo of individuality which convinced everyone present able to distinguish gauds from glories that the palpitating actuality of perceptive genius was before them. . . . The first act curtain down, Miss Heron was shouted for until she appeared before it. So with the second and so with the last." Here the reviewer relaxes a little and goes into more restrained details; here and there he takes small exceptions, but allows that "Her depth of expression sometimes surpasses Rachel in feminine intensity of love." He endorses her physical charms, which include "a bust full and capable of holding the palpitations of a big heart. . . . The house rose at the end in tumultuous applause. . . . Miss Heron may be pronounced a great artist." The Herald said, "Miss Heron is justly entitled to rank as a great tragedienne." Odell quotes the New York Tribune in its criticism of Charlotte Cushman, who came back after a five years' absence. The reviewer contrasts the two artists and notes their dissimilarity. "Cushman," he says, "is an artist of intellect . . . physically overpowering and terrible. Miss Heron an extraordinary and eccentric genius blinding judgment by the blaze of her passion." To this laudatory chorus Harry Watkins lends his voice. True, it does not ring with fervor, for he uncharitably says he will never be a great admirer of the lady's abilities, but that is Watkins. The only person he ever wholly admired was Junius Brutus Booth. Thursday 22nd. Cold. At seven P. M. went to Wallack's. First appearance in New York of Miss Matilda Heron. She opened in "Camille." There was an excellent house, and she achieved a greater success than was ever accomplished by any actor or actress that has preceeded her. From the moment she came on her triumph was evident. She was called before the curtain after the first, second, fourth and fifth acts. Although I am not, nor ever shall be, a great admirer of the lady's abilities, I felt confident that

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PARENTHOOD AND POLITICS she would make a great impression because her acting, so entirely different from anything previously seen here, would win the commendation of a Public surfeited with sameness and lack of originality manifested by all those artists now before it. Matilda Heron just hit the time.

Harry must have felt a proprietorship in this phenomenon, whether he approved of her acting or not. Had he not seen her traveling about the country, a success, but without the stamp of New York approval? Had he not decked her with his own personal stage jewelry to adorn her Camille? The Camille infection now grew acute; the play became as well known as Uncle Tom's Cabin or The Lady of Lyons. Every big and little emotional actress showed how much better she could play the part than Matilda Heron. The play was taken up by the burlesque writers. Fat comedians writhed in tubercular death agonies and choked on cough lozenges as the consumptive heroine. Burnt-cork Camilles appeared with the Christy Minstrels. At Wallack's Miss Heron's vogue continued without abatement. Her Camille was alternated now and then with other parts, one being in her own version of Legouve's Medea. When in April she said good-bye to New York, she had played Camille forty-six times and had given Wallack's Theatre the greatest prosperity it had known to that date. This gifted lady's private life was almost as erratic and emotional as her dramatic portrayals. Born in that country that has produced so many dramatic geniuses, Ireland, she was brought to America at a tender age and in her entire career she was borne on the stream of every impulse, knowing no restraint. At forty-seven she was dead, leaving behind her a burning memory and a lamenting audience. Almost her last request was that her funeral ceremony should take place at "The Little Church Around the Corner." She passed away

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wretchedly, poor, prematurely old, with the once-sparkling intellect dimmed and gone astray. Her last words were, "Poor Tilly never did any harm to anyone." Tilly was a pet name she sometimes gave herself. Matilda Heron married Wallack's orchestra leader, Robert Stoepel. Their child, Bijou Heron, became the wife of that accomplished actor-manager, Henry Miller, and mother of his son Gilbert, the international play producer.

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THE EMINENT MR. BURTON Our Diarist now takes his fate into his own hands. He defies his stars and goes into theatre management. For several years he had kept a small but growing fund in Brother George's hands. It is only when we realize his habit of careful abstemiousness that we can account for the miracle that he ever saved a penny. He has had object lessons enough, however, Heaven knows! in the sad examples of his age, the human wreckage strewn upon the shores of Bohemia. (Shakespeare says that Bohemia had a strand.) He draws on George. Among his acquaintances there is one man whom he can trust, a fine actor and a man of honor. To him he unfolds his plans. The Chambers Street Theatre can be had for a nominal rental. They can lease it, engage a company, produce their own plays and have the world at their feet. Eureka! It shall be done! A propitious date for the opening shall be Washington's Birthday. Monday, February 23rd. Washington's Birthday observed. Last week E. L. Davenport and myself entered into partnership to manage the Chambers Street Theatre, and this evening opened it as the American Theatre to a house not so well filled as we anticipated, yet to a fair attendance. The bill consisted of an "Allegorical Tableau," appropriate to the national holiday. Mrs. E. L. Davenport appeared as the Goddess of Liberty and recited Drake's "Ode to the American Flag." Then the company sang the "Star Spangled Banner," after which the scene changed and "Washington Crowned the Goddess of Liberty." "Faint Heart Ne'er Won Fair Lady" followed, a dance by Ernestine and Annie Henrarde, the performance concluding with "Our Country's Sinews," Mr. Davenport as

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Herman Gray and myself as June, the "nigger." I never beheld a more enthusiastic audience. At the conclusion of "Our Country's Sinews" Davenport and myself were called before the curtain. We made taking speeches and were much applauded. Our opening was certainly flattering and augers well for the season's success.

The Davenport family were well represented in this bill, not only by Mrs. Davenport, an accomplished actress whom, as Fanny Vining, E. L. Davenport had married in England, but their eldest daughter, Fanny. It is stated that this was the first step in the long career of Fanny Davenport, who became Augustin Daly's popular leading lady and afterwards made a fortune from the Sardou plays. Little Fanny made her début that night and swelled the chorus of "The Star Spangled Banner" with her child's soprano. Harry Watkins had achieved his ambition for greatness ; his Excelsior banner floated above the American Theatre. At last he was manager of a New York playhouse, and his copartner was one of the country's best actors. He proudly surveyed the heavy-typed posters at his theatre's portals telling the passer-by that DAVENPORT and WATKINS were presenting a repertory of standard and American pieces with a capable company. Shall we reveal the saga of that régime? Would it not be better to let it sink into the silence of unrecorded things? It was an honorable endeavor that the heroic band put forth. Every worthwhile play that could be made available and every effort of local, untried dramatists that showed possibilities were brought out. The company's esprit du corps was exceptional. Davenport acted his favorite parts and Watkins directed and wrote. What more could mortal do? For several bills Mrs. Watkins's name appears opposite a minor character as "Miss Melissa." If we glance back to this Journal's beginnings down in Texas 214

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we will find in its earliest entries one melodramatic expletive, "Thwarted!" It referred to the weather, but it might be applied to his insatiable ambition. For more than a month they lived on hope and found it scanty fare. . . . On March 31st they pronounced the valedictory. The fourth week being over we put our hands into our empty pockets and called a meeting to place the state of affairs before the company. Without a single dissension every attaché of the establishment told us they were willing to go without salary for they felt assured that if money came in they would be paid, and they had implicit confidence in our integrity. In all my theatrical experience I never before saw so much sympathy between managers and actors; as I told Davenport, we must have reached a dramatic millennium. After paying off our liabilities we found that our loss for the five weeks amounted to about five hundred dollars, a larger sum than either of us can spare.

Notwithstanding that nearly all the work in the establishment falls on his shoulders, a strange elation pervades the entire episode, and although he often exclaims with Hamlet, "The time is out of joint. 0 cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!" through it all there gleaim an expectancy that the time is arriving when it will be. It is the actor's acceptance of the fortune of war. Defeat means only revival for a new attempt. Draw near to a group of these humble thespians during the off season on New York's hot pavements today and listen to their talk. Not one exhibits an inferiority complex. If the fates have been against them, as they always seem to be, tomorrow they will again turn a smiling face, their arms laden with reward. They are telling about the hits they have made. . . . "It wasn't my fault that the show closed, it was the rotten management." . . . "Look at Soand-so! Ain't he the lucky dog, falling into that piece? A 215

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season's sellout on Broadway. What I could do with that part! Oh, boy! It was just built for me, and they would have signed me up if they had known I was disengaged." Some of these optimists haven't the wherewithal to pay their room rent. What matter? The ravens will feed them. For a full month Harry neglects his daily entry. He spares himself (and us) many doleful reflections. He takes stock of himself meantime and, while late April's skies are clearing, the moralist gives his conclusions: An even temperament should call forth eternal gratitude from those with whom Nature has dealt so kindly; a man thus endowed, although he may never know the high-wrought feelings of an enthusiast, is spared those despondent views that depress the extremist's spirit. I have endeavored to restrain my natural proclivity to run into the extremes of joy and sorrow, and have been in a great measure successful, but the task is not an easy one. There has seldom been a medium to my fortunes, they have ever been all smiles or all frowns. This evening went to the Academy of Music to listen to a discourse delivered by the Reverend Mr. Bellows on "Theatrical Amusements and Their Relation to Society."

The worthy's discourse afforded the Diarist infinite consolation. He was that rara avis, a clerical upholder of the stage and its works. Moreover, the fifty-cent admissions all went to the Dramatic Association's fund. Fate was frowning her dourest when quite unexpectedly one day she smiled. It was only a little smile, one that by no means slaked his thirst for glory, but it was gratefully refreshing. Ever since his unfruitful but grandiloquent Union Square speech he had sought another opportunity for platform oratory. He was pleased when he received an offer for a position as a lecturer. It was to introduce a panorama illustrating Dr. Elisha Kent Kane's search for the lost Sir John Franklin Polar Expedition from which

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the intrepid young explorer returned in 1855. Not only was he to deliver the lecture but to write it. At first he endeavored to coach a survivor of the expedition, one Morton, a thick-brogued Irishman to make the address. This proved a miracle beyond Harry's powers. He, himself, became the orator of the evening and informs us that he "seemed to make a hit." We can imagine the dramatic power of that presentation—arctic night, desolation, starvation, dogs, bears, and ice floes, death and the "open Polar Sea." The whole was quite in his province. The exhibition was shown in Philadelphia (Dr. Kane's home), prospered for a week, then moved on to Baltimore and died. Somebody had blundered, but it wasn't Watkins. And so back to Harriet with a pleasant little profit from the enterprise in his pocket with which to tide him over the summer. The summer dullness was enlivened by a conflagration which occupies a lurid page in the Journal and shows our Diarist at his best as descriptive writer and stage manager, and little Harriet in a most charming light as a resourceful heroine. Friday, July 1st. On Wednesday night I came near being a ruined man. Shortly after midnight I was awakened by the cry of " F i r e ! " Imagine my feeling as I sprang from my bed to see a glare of light through my window and hear the woodwork crackling under the devouring flames. It was in a stable that adjoined the house in which we lived. I cried to Harriet to keep cool. Admirably obeying my injunction, she snatched some dresses hanging on the wall, wrapped up Georgie in them and, in her night clothes, ran to my Mother's house. Leaving him in Mother's charge she returned and rendered valuable service, acting well throughout the whole affair. Considering that she has been enciente for six months, it's wonderful that she escaped all injurious effects from the excitement of that awful night. The first thing I seized upon was the trunk containing my Journal, deeming that the important

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME thing for preservation. My wardrobe, though valuable, could be replaced, but the destruction of my Journal would be an irreparable loss. Dragging trunks and baskets into the street, I appropriated an Irish groceryman's wagon standing next door and filled it with our effects. The Irishman wanted to know " b y whose lave I tuk it." I answered, " I n the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental C o n g r e s s ! " "Whut the divil," said he, " h a s Congress to do wid my w a g o n ? " Someone told him that "he'd better hush u p , " advice which he considered it prudent to accept. The firemen succeeded in arresting the flames without further injury to my premises than a loss of not more than $25. It is a miracle that anything was saved. Three firehorses were burned to death, their cries were terrible.

It sounds like a perfection production. Not an essential is omitted by the Director; even the introduction of the Irish comedian to feed the leading man his effective lines. The whole composition is beautifully balanced—the startling dramatic opening, the masterful hero, the pathetic heroine bearing her living child from the flames, while the unborn one stirs within her womb, the moment of "comedy relief," the dear old Mother motif and the rescue of the priceless Journal (the Journal that should go down to posterity), with the antiphonal cries of dying fire horses brought in for "off-stage" effect. We should have done the memory of Harry Watkins a cruel injustice had we omitted this chapter. On J u l y 13th he made an engagement with his particular pet hate, Edward Eddy, to play important business at the Bowery Theatre. He entered into the agreement against his better judgment. He distrusted E d d y — h e always had distrusted him. But opportunity was opportunity. Saturday 18th. Rehearsal at Bowery Theatre A. M. At theatre seven P. M. The opening b i l l : "Richard I I I , " "Object of Interest," and " Y o u r Life's in D a n g e r . " I played Richmond and John Strong.

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After "Richard" Eddy was called out and then myself. I was greeted with six cheers and a "Tiger." I made a telling speech which won me three more cheers. The performance gave great satisfaction. Weather rather warm for acting; the combat in "Richard" started the perspiration streaming down until my dress was as wet as if I had been drenched with a bucket of water. His apprehensions concerning Eddy were realized. Just another breaker of his word, a slave-driver without probity or honor. Poor Harry was tossed about among a welter of insignificant parts. His feelings were hurt and his pride humbled. "Had he secretly planned to injure me," he says, "by scheming ruin to my professional advancement, he could not have found a surer course." Saturday 26th. Called on C. R. Thorne this P. M. He talks of going to England and if he can secure a theatre to suit him, go into management there. Should he do so, he wishes to have me with him. Saturday, August 1st. Beautiful day. Thorne left for Europe on the steamer, Vanderbilt. Yesterday at twelve o'clock he gave me a note securing me free passage on the same vessel with a promise to send me back whenever I wished to return. He was much disappointed at my not accompanying him, as from my having been there before, he believed that I would be of great use to him. I came home to talk it over with my wife, although I little expected that she would willingly consent to my departure, her confinement being so near at hand. As I expected, she would not listen to it. If there had been any certainty of my being able to effect an engagement in London, I should not have hesitated a moment, for undoubtedly I could make a favorable impression. My feelings were anything but pleasant on seeing the vessel sail without me. I love my wife and child but they are a great drawback to me. [Does Harriet ever see your Journal, Harry? Remember what good Master Francis Bacon said, "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune: for they are impediments to great enterprises either of virtue or of mischief."] 219

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On returning to the theatre he found himself cast for so humiliating a part in The Three Guardsmen that he forthwith sat down and penned his resignation from the rolls of the Bowery Theatre. He did not tell Mr. Eddy precisely what he thought of him in that missive, or the manager would have been amazed to learn that he was a "scoundrel," a "villain," and a "liar," and informed that "A snake can only shed its skin; its nature remains ever the same." "And thus," he says, "ends my connection with this man of dishonor whom I regret ever having had any dealings with." He was free once more. The rumblings of the thunder died away but one sable cloud hung over the very next opportunity that opened— Burton, the man who had repeatedly snubbed him and who, with lamentable disloyalty to his country, engaged English actors for his company. Another name in his black book! Should he accept this offer that came to him? Forty dollars a week and the principal low comedy in Philadelphia were too overwhelming an argument against refusal. The engagement was immediate. He swallowed his pride. He hears that Burton has spoken well of him. This is a slight sop to his vanity but it does not alter his convictions. "This is all very well," he says, "but no reliance can be placed on Burton's friendship—it is too fickle and only to be retained at the sacrifice of every manly feeling, and on such terms I would not purchase the friendship of mortal man." August 27th. Having sought an engagement with Burton on several occasions, I had felt that from political or national prejudice, he held some private feeling against me. Today this opinion was confirmed. His first words to me were, "such a hot American as you wouldn't engage with a bloody Englishman, would ye?" I answered, "How can I help myself? The bloody Englishmen have got possession of our best theatres and I must either engage with them or lie idle which I cannot afford." [Then with infinite toler-

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THE EMINENT MR. BURTON ance he adds,] "I have no particular prejudices against men of talent no matter where they come from. All I want is an equal chance." I shall now have opportunity of ascertaining if there is anything really good in Burton, a thing much doubted by those who have had dealings with him. If entire devotion to his interests, so far as my duty lies, and close application to business can gain his favor, it shall be no fault of mine if we do not continue harmonius until the termination of my engagement. Sunday, August 30th. Dined with Mother and George and at six P. M. started for Philadelphia with Harriet and Bub. Harriet being enciente, I was desirous that she should remain in New York where she would have the assistance of both my Mother and her own, but she pleaded so strongly that I could not deny her. Sunday 6th. Our first week has been a very successful one. Burton begins to learn that my Americanism does not blind me to the merits of any man, wherever his birthplace, or to the faults of my own countrymen. Sunday 13th. Another successful week. Life can have but little enjoyment for Burton and so he confesses. In business he looks upon every man as a scoundrel, while at home he knows no such thing as domestic comfort. He seems to be fond of his children, but his wife keeps him in hot water. I have heard from friends that Burton speaks of me in highest terms.

This seems to be "praise from Sir Hubert Stanley." Prosperity continues in Philadelphia. Harry Watkins's serenity of mind is disturbed only by the avalanche of his duties. Burton, compelled to go to New York to greet Charlotte Cushman, who is arriving from England by the steamer Persia, leaves him in charge of the National Theatre. The Florences enter on a not too profitable engagement and uncork the vials of the customary Watkins disdain. September 20th. It is not a very pleasant reflection that this man, Florence, without a shadow of talent should receive as much in five nights as it takes me nearly eight weeks to earn. That which he performs is merely a pastime, whereas I have barely the leisure

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for eating and sleeping, the whole of my time is occupied at the theatre. At eight A. M. I go to the Box Office and count the tickets taken on the previous night, [Burton requested me to do this that he might have a check-up on the Treasurer of whom he is suspicious] after this, rehearse, make out bills and cast a new play. This occupies me till past three P. M. Then to dinner. Preparing notices for the newspaper fills the time till dusk and the entire evening is passed in attending to the performance. As I am obliged to play in the majority of pieces, I have little opportunity for study. Winging my parts is about all I am able to do. Monday 21st. Received a letter from John N. Genin, wishing to know if I would accept an engagment as stage manager in the city of New York. I answered that I certainly would if I could leave Mr. Burton with honor. Miss Kimberly opened this evening in " L o v e . " Mr. T. E. Mills from the London theatres made his appearance as Huon. Evidently he has belonged to some blood and thunder theatre where he was obliged to shout until his lungs broke down, this with gin drinking has left him but little voice and that little huskey and unpleasant. When Burton sent him as leading man, he wished me to inform him whether Mr. Mills would answer the purpose. I answered, "Dear S i r : It is an arithmetical fact that ten mills make one cent. But ten thousand Mills such as you send me would not be worth a d—d cent." I do not know how Burton received this but it was certainly to the point. We also produced "The Life of a Woman," founded on Hogarth's "Harlot's Progress." It drew better house than the "legitimate" would have done, yet the attendance was small. P r o s p e r i t y w a n e s at the N a t i o n a l with B u r t o n ' s withd r a w a l f r o m a p p e a r i n g . H i s c o m p a n y , with a n d without s t a r s , k e e p on but cannot l u r e the P h i l a d e l p h i a n s to the t h e a t r e in g r e a t n u m b e r s . M u r d o c h b e g i n s a f o r t n i g h t ' s eng a g e m e n t in h i s native city a n d r e a l i z e s the o l d a d a g e a b o u t the p r o p h e t a n d his country. H e w a n t s to cancel h i s contract b u t B u r t o n will not a l l o w it. P h i l a d e l p h i a w a s not the only city w h e r e p a r a l y s i s w a s a s s a i l i n g the d r a m a ; a country-

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wide money panic had affected all business. The Journal tells us that "It is feared that we shall experience the hardest times ever known. Banks and merchants are failing by the wholesale." Although realizing that he is still tied by contract to Burton, Harry looks about for another engagement. He feels his edifice tottering and seeks an egress before the crash. A chance is offering in New York. P. T. Barnum wants somebody at his Museum to manage the dramatic end of the place. Barnum, like other managers, was feeling the pinch of the depression. He had ceased for several months to present plays and was relying on his freaks and sensations to fill his exhibition halls. They would not fill. Barnum reached out for a life preserver in the drama. An emissary came from New York in an endeavor to settle the matter. Once again Harry is on the horns of a dilemma, as he was between Bates and Boardman in the Cincinnati-Troy decision. "Budge, says the fiend; budge not, says my conscience." October 5. I am compelled either to accept or refuse this offer, as Mr. Greenwood arrived from New York last night to get my final answer. After consulting with Mr. Murdoch and several other friends I acted upon their advice and accepted Greenwood's offer. No doubt it will cause a breach between myself and Burton that can never be healed, but my engagement with him is of an exceedingly uncertain tenure and may be brought to a conclusion at any moment, leaving me in a very uncomfortable position. [What about leaving Mr. Burton in an uncomfortable position, Mr. Watkins?] Tuesday 6th. I have been so busy these past few weeks as hardly to be able to note a most important event—the birth of Harry Clay Watkins at six p. M. September 23rd. I was at the theatre when Dr. Godard stepped into my dressing room and announced that my wife had made another addition to our family. Well, I

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME hope I shall be able to provide bread for this extra mouth and for all the extra ones it may please the Lord to bestow upon me. Harriet suffered much more with this child than with George. I regret that he had to be born in Philadelphia, but thank Heaven! he is an American! A note from Baltimore, where the company was sent the following week, terminates the Burton engagement chapter. Wednesday, October 14th. Election day. There being a great deal of rioting, it was deemed advisable not to give a performance this evening. Had we played it would have been to an empty house. Scarcely a man dared to venture into the streets, as the chances were about equal as to his returning home by his own assistance or being brought on a shutter.

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XVI THE GREAT SHOWMAN At this point there has been, at some time, a violent assault committed upon the Journal's pages. Several have been torn out and what remains defaced by a resentful-looking ink scratching. What was it? Domestic upheaval, managerial harangues, brainstorms—dyspepsia? (We have heard very little of that lately.) Whatever the hurricane that caused the havoc, we know from various sources that he secured the desired position at Barnum's Museum as controller of its dramatic destinies. For two months, however, the Journal lowers its curtain, and does not ring it up until December 21st. It shows Harry Watkins active at that date at his post in New York, writing and producing. It tells about a melodrama called The Poor of New York that had been successfully produced at Wallack's. Its authorship was announced anonymously as by "The * * * * Club." The Diarist does a little Sherlock Holmes work and discovers that this mystic club is a single human being, the fruitful Mr. Dion Boucicault, who is turning out plays like a modern automobile factory, and that The Poor of New York is merely an alteration from an earlier piece, Crime and Its Victims, which had achieved popular runs in New York and London and had been taken in turn from a French piece called Fraud. The play became a huge money-maker for Wallack, who rather apologetically put it forth at his aristocratic comedy theatre, realizing its tawdry character, but seeing also its popular "punch." Odell calls this play important "because it was among the first of those local melodramas of crime, poverty and riches which so long held the stage and screen." Its popularity lasted for years after it had 225

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ceased its run at Wallack's, being played by every stock and traveling company under the title of The Streets of New York. To this category belong later popular favorites like After Dark and Under the Gaslight. Theodore Kramer and Owen Davis produced thrillers by the dozen: From Rags to Riches, Bertha, the Sewing Machine Girl, Why Girls Leave Home, No Mother to Guide Her, The Queen of the Opium Ring, etc., etc. In these plays all bankers are villains and all workingmen honest; lawyers are always scoundrels and innocent heroes are sent to prison on false evidence, heroines are always crystal pure, little milliners and farm girls are lured into traps by designing knaves, butlers, butchers' boys, and the entire serving class all intensely comic, sailors always rollicking, while grocers, policemen, and tradespeople generally might be classified as varied or doubtful. In Why Girls Leave Home there is a startling climax to the third act. The rich villain, having secured access to the persecuted heroine's bedroom, locks the door and endeavors to capture the ill-fated child. There is a go-as-you-please chase about the apartment with bureaus, tables, and chairs acting as hurdles until at the finish the girl makes a wild vault over an open folding bed. The poisonous pursuer leaps after her, lands in the middle of the bed and the accommodating deus-ex-machina promptly shuts up smothering his curses. Curtain! A more modern inheritor of these sure-fire dramas was Charles Klein's The Lion and the Mouse, which had a phenomenal rim at the Hudson Theatre in New York and which may not have slipped from today's memory. If Harry Watkins will excuse us for a moment we will take a brief glance at the salary list at this high-class house, as it gives an idea of what prominent stock actors earned in 226

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1857. Lester Wallack, then playing under the name of "Mr. Lester," received the highest weekly amount, $100 because he was his father's son, leading man, and stage manager; William Rufus Blake, unrivaled as certain stormy old gentlemen in the old comedies, came next at $80. The charming leading actress, Mrs. John Hoey, $55, the scholarly George Holland (whose funeral in later years at the Church of the Transfiguration caused its renaming as "The Little Church Around the Corner," and is today our particular actor's church) $40. The leading juvenile man, the handsome A. H. Davenport (not to be confused with the eminent E. L.) received only $25. The sums dwindle through the various members until we find that a lively little lady who became an admired comedienne, Miss Josie Orton, was paid a mere pittance, $6! It must be remembered that actors had to furnish most of their own costumes, hats, swords, canes, wigs, make-up, etc., out of these salaries. We have kept Mr. Watkins waiting, we apologize—Wallack's Theatre concerns his affairs only so far as it gives him opportunity to rechristen an old play called Early Closing and present it at Barnum's Museum under the title of The Rich of New York as a small satire on the reigning success of the town. We come presently to a significant episode in Harry Watkins' life—he wrote and produced his most important play. The fortunes of Barnum's Museum had been ebbing and flowing—ebbing principally. The financial panic was not abating. Barnum decided definitely to close his house. Watkins had faced many emergencies—he felt he could meet this. He told his employer that if he would give him two weeks he could write a play that would draw the public to the theatre in spite of the panic. Barnum reluctantly gave his consent to the experiment. 227

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Monday 28th. On Christmas eve we produced "Valentine and Orson," the version brought out by me in Cincinnati. It drew excellent houses during the week. January 4th, 1858. Business with "Valentine and Orson" so good as to warrant its performance for another week. Trying to think what would be likely to draw the best, I determined to dramatize one of the New York Ledger stories. The Ledger is a family paper having the largest circulation of any paper in this country. Its last story is on a national subject entitled " T h e Pioneer Patriot; or the Maid of the War Path." Commenced yesterday to construct a drama from the story. If it does not draw it will be apt to bring our theatrical season to a close. Monday 18th. "Valentine and Orson," last week. Having partially completed my drama, "The Pioneer Patriot," I put it in rehearsal on Friday and tonight give the first performance. The endings of several scenes I did not finish until this morning. I have certainly constructed an effective piece and the actors believe it will succeed. The only thing that remains is to get the public to come and see it. Tuesday 19th. A good audience present last night to witness the first representation of "The Pioneer" which really achieved a brilliant success. I played a negro, Jocko, a capital acting part, of serio-comic nature, and made a double hit—as dramatist and actor. Philip Lancey, the hero, was played so badly that the whole weight of the play came on my shoulders.

Watkins had made good his boast to Barnum, the play made an instant success. Before the week was out it was necessary to open a second box office to accommodate the demand for tickets at the rush hour. Wednesday 20th. This morning's notices of "The Pioneer" all speak in highest approval. The Tribune declares it "the most effective drama produced in New York this season." Afternoon performance today, and hundreds turned away. Monday 25th. "Pioneer Patriot" all last week to splendid houses. Managers and actors have suddenly thrown off their gloomy looks

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and are smiling, the managers anticipating a reimbursed treasury and the actors seeing their reduced salaries raised again. Monday, February 1st. Another week of "The Pioneer" to increased business. Everything has been fortunate since we opened with this piece. Even the weather, which before was very bad, has been good. Monday 8th. Fine houses for "The Pioneer" last week. Nobody expected that money could ever be made at the Museum again— too far out of the way, etc. But people are thinking differently now. Barnum, who had quite neglected the place, is full of enthusiasm. Washington's Birthday. This is the sixth and last week of "The Pioneer" for the present. I am working myself to death here. When I was writing this play Barnum told me it would be impossible for me to get it up in two weeks; now, having done it, he wishes me to perform a more incredible task, construct a five act play in eight days! I've consented to undertake it! The story to be dramatized is "The Bride of an Evening," written by Mrs. Southworth, who is about the best among the female writers in this country, but it would be much easier to write an original play than to construct one from her story. Mr. Robert Bonner, proprietor of the Ledger, kindly furnished me with proof sheets before the story was finished in publication. The New York Ledger was the weekly joy in many a household. Its serial stories were eagerly devoured by thousands of readers. Chief among its contributors was Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, whose industry and story-telling ability were unfailing. Novels fluttered from her busy pen like petals from flowers in a wind-swept garden and were as highly colored and scented. They proved a gold mine to The Ledger s owner, Robert Bonner, and were seized upon by avid playwrights as they regularly appeared in his paper. With exuberant impulse our dramatist dashed into his eight-day labor of Hercules with a determination that ignored every difficulty. Each day he ticks off a line in the

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME Journal that tells his progress in transforming The Bride of an Evening into an acting drama, the treadmill labor that turned night into day, affording no time for relaxation and scarcely for food. He began his work on February 28th, Sunday; on Saturday, working like a beaver, he had two copyists at work writing out the parts, and by the next evening he had written " F i n i s " and won his Marathon. Sunday 7th. Wrote all the morning. In the afternoon had a meeting with the company to hear the piece read as far as I had written. They all thought "The Bride of an Evening" would be a great success. At half-past nine, I wrote the tag, and gave a whoop! hurrah! To write a five act play in eight days is something to boast of—provided the play is good for anything. I fear, however, that I shall pay for it in loss of health. During the whole time I have not taken a moment's exercise and the last two days I suffered a great deal of pain. To bed at ten P. M. with a mind somewhat relieved. The play was cast, rehearsed, and three nights thereafter presented at Barnum's Museum. Whatever that piece lacked in quality was atoned for in quantity. It played nearly four hours. Harry got busy with his pruning knife. Friday 19th. Mrs. Southworth arrived last night from Virginia to witness the performance of "The Bride of an Evening." This morning I called on her at the residence of Mr. Horace Day and had three hours' very agreeable talk with her. She is highly pleased with my dramatization of her story, and was anxious that I should put some of her other works in a dramatic form. In appearance Mrs. Southworth is not very prepossessing—indeed she is what would be termed a homely woman. She has a careworn look, sallow complexion, prominent nose and dull blue eyes. Her age, I should judge, is the wrong side of forty-five. I should take her to be a woman of strong nerve and not easily governed.

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The Bride of an Evening made a favorable impression and achieved a five-weeks' run. The Pioneer Patriot had been previously played forty-seven times. Friday 26. Evening set apart as a benefit to Mrs. Southworth, the management paying her one hundred dollars for the use of her name. After the performance I was called before the curtain and made a lengthy speech on the American drama. Mrs. Southworth, who was in a private box, was then called upon. She arose and made a short speech, but it was inaudible six feet from where she stood. She paid me a very high compliment [Could not the man assume a gallantry, though he had it not?]

Here, once more, a holocaust descends upon the Journal and plays havoc with two pages. A Stygian blackness shrouds the entries, making it impossible to decipher them. They resemble those blacked-out columns in foreign papers that had gone through the censor's hands during the World War. It must be kept in mind that this diary was intended by its author for publication after his death as the life of a notable actor, his struggles, his triumphs, his aspirations, and his philosophy. A later revision had brought certain records to his eye that would best be omitted. Probably they are of a domestic character. For a long time there is no reference to the charming Melissa and her children. In the light of what occurred several years later we hazard the guess that a tempest had burst over the House of Watkins. When he resumes, his two masterpieces have had their day of glory, unimportant stars who do not draw are filling profitless weeks at Barnum's, and dullness reigns again. The "Great Showman" thereupon commands his dramatist to make further inroads on the current stories in The Ledger. The worm turns. His labors have created a renewed profit at the Museum but he hasn't been paid for them. The world is filled with injustice.

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Saturday 15th. Barnum called me into his office on Thursday and desired me to dramatize the last new Ledger story. I told him that I would if he paid me for it. This rather astonished Barnum, who thought he had a good thing in me, getting the work of three men for the salary of one. As the play had to be written in one week, he proposed to leave me out of the bill for that week, and to consider my labor as author equivalent for not acting. I would not listen to this: as author I should have had more labor to perform in one week than in a month of acting. Barnum, finding me determined, offered me $25 extra for my trouble. His liberality, however, instead of developing my gratitude, excited my indignation, and I gave the "Great Showman" my opinion of his offer. I told him I would find a playwright who would do the work at his price. The result was I hunted up Mr. J . F. Poole, who agreed to furnish the play for $40. I suppose by this act I have converted my kind hearted employers into enemies. It was an evil day when I put my pen to paper. Before I produced " T h e Pioneer Patriot," Barnum and Greenwood pronounced me the best stage manager and actor they had ever had, now there is no limit to their requirements. Not satisfied when I have shown them the mine from which gold can be dug, they want me to dig it out for them. The finish will be that this season will end my connection with them. Well, so be it!

It was with infinite satisfaction that Harry Watkins stood apart to see Mr. Poole's $ 4 0 play make a complete fiasco. Wednesday 19th. Mr. Poole's dramatization of "Rosalind Hubert" is a failure and could hardly have been otherwise, for both language and scenes are one mass of incongruities, bearing no relation to one another. Barnum thinks $40 is full value for a dramatist's labors. He may think differently if he lives long enough— as yet he is ignorant of the difference between muscle and brains. Monday 28th. This has been the worst theatrical season ever known. Ours is the only establishment in town that has realized a profit, and this entirely due to the production of dramatized "Sensation Stories." Had it not been for my "Pioneer Patriot"

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T H E GREAT SHOWMAN and "Bride of an Evening," the management would have had to record a loss. A little triumphant flare occurred before the season's close. He received his stipulated benefit, for which he wrote and produced a dramatized novel called Jessie Wharton, the Traitor's Daughter; or, the Boy Martyrs of the War of 1812 (a truly impressive title!) and played to a house of

$300.

Saturday, July 10th, 1858. Last night of the season. Played "Forest of Bondy" and "Nature and Philosophy" to a poor house. Now for an idle time. Wrote last week to Mrs. C. Howard to learn if she would join me in a starring tour through the States. Received a favorable answer from her today and in compliance with her wish, wrote her the full particulars.

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xvn THE ENGLISH INVASION London, England. June 11, 1860. After a lapse of two years I again resume my Journal. Those two years have wrought more changes in my fortunes than any previous two years in my ever changing life. It will be impossible to give more than a brief outline of the happenings in these years. Time depicts, for each man, a panorama of his life as it bears him from the cradle to the coffin. Mine has been drawn and colored with so heavy a hand that I can, in retrospect, glance at every incident in my chequered fate. My panorama has certainly no fault of monotony to condemn it. I can see many a part which to dwell upon would cause hot tears to flow, yet there are spots of sunshine here and there. Having made arrangements to travel as a "Star" in conjunction with Mrs. Howard, I joined her at Baltimore to play six nights at the Front Street Theatre which opened for the summer of 1858 under the commonwealth system. Our engagement was more successful than anybody anticipated, our income was considerably more than our outlay, and gave us confidence for the campaign, but commencing so late in the season placed us under a disadvantage, compelling us to take engagements wherever and whenever we could get them. We next played at Montreal under J. B. Buckland's management commencing September 13th. Unfortunately we could only play there six nights, having made a prior engagement to open at Buffalo Sept. 21st. Mrs. Howard, being an established favorite in Montreal, we did very well, so well, indeed, that Buckland was anxious to have us break our Buffalo contract and continue on, but caution counselled us not to violate contracts at the outset of our starring tour. We welcome Harry Watkins's return to his task, his absence has cost us much valuable information. He atones for

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his truancy by the foregoing summary, although it is somewhat surprising to find him inditing it in the land of the hated Briton. It is not surprising, however, to find Mrs. Charles Howard entering upon the scene, for her appearance was forestalled in the Journal's final entry in 1858. We might have been told a great deal more concerning her had our Diarist been as frank with her as he was in relation to other personal matters. Not once before does her name appear, yet he was the director of Barnum's Museum Company and she was his leading lady. Their business association was necessarily constant, and her performances were surely worth talking about; she had talent, charm, and magnetic appeal. She was in her thirtieth year when she played at the Museum, and delightful in her blonde beauty. Why is the Diary silent? Why is all this perfection ignored? Perhaps if those torn and blacked-out pages could speak they would tell. She was six years old when she was brought to America from Liverpool by her father, John Shaw, a noted violinist and musical director. She and her two sisters went on the stage in their early teens; one, Josephine, who possessed her full share of the family beauty and talent, was held in high esteem for many years as leading woman at Wallack's Theatre—Mrs. John Hoey. She was always a striking figure on Wallack's stage, but it was as much a genius for dress as a talent for acting that established her as a favorite. Her husband's wealth made this a possibility. From Mrs. Hoey dates a revolution in modern stage costuming. Little Rosina Shaw (this is our Mrs. Charles Howard) made her first appearance as an actress at the Philadelphia Arch Street Theatre under Burton. She used to tell a tale of playing in The Heart of Midlothian with Charlotte Cushman. Because of her yellow hair and Scotch appearance she was cast for the part of Effie Deans. In this character she had 235

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to cross a bridge and utter a terrified scream. Such a feeble and ghost-like cry came from her lips that the audience laughed. Miss Cushman was furious, as this was in one of her own most telling scenes, and determined that there should be a real shriek the next night. When the cue was given Miss Shaw astonished everyone by a heart-rending yell. The remorseless Charlotte had jabbed her in the arm with a sharp darning needle! This heroic treatment proved effective; inoculated with something of the Cushman genius from the darning needle jab, her professional advancement thereafter was rapid. Engagements were continuous and profitable, especially in 1850 at New Orleans, where she rose into tremendous favor, had her portrait painted by a noted artist, and married Charles Howard, a fairly good comedian. This gentleman died the year that Mrs. Howard and Watkins began their starring tour. We hazard a guess at the reason for the Journal's devastated pages. Whether or no our surmise is right, Harriet Melissa and Harry Watkins were divorced, and he gave another "hostage to fortune"—Rosina Shaw Howard—a pact that was kept until the end of his days. Is it unfair to the Diarist to say that he looked upon this union with an appraising eye? Here was no Melissa Secor, no household kitten to become an incumbrance and a child-breeder. Rosina Watkins was a glamorous, intuitive actress, possessing every attribute for success. She had the qualities which he lacked, adaptability and impulse for the stage. Harry Watkins never had an inspiration that he did not put under the microscope of his inhibition. He was all labored analysis, she all unspeculative instinct, her conquests were matters of ease, his painful toil. Facing broken contracts, tangled in the toils of swindling managers, the happy pair carried their traveling Garden of Eden toward the setting sun as far as Dubuque, sometimes 236

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picking up stray actors on their way in order to give minor entertainment in the smaller places, and producing their plays with stock-company support in the larger ones, making their expenses and a little over. There were two engagements in Chicago, one being at McVicker's Theatre, managed by Harry's old associate, J. H. McVicker. This brought back memories of his traveling venture in Macon, Columbus, and Montgomery, Alabama, with the "Watkins Theatrical Company" and the perpetual York and Lancaster warfare between the McVickers and the Frank Drews. Despite drawbacks and disaster the winter brought sufficient profit to pay their steamer passage to London. During its progress the Journal refers always to the lady as "Mrs. H." Thereafter she becomes "Rose" and "Mrs. W." To a Philadelphia interviewer who visited the Edwin Forrest Home, where she spent the twilight of her years, she said that she and Harry Watkins married when they were together at Barnum's Museum. On May 5th, 1860 we left for England on Steamship, City of Baltimore, Captain Petrie. The voyage was rather a pleasant one but the Captain, instead of attending to his duties, occupied his time in making love to two married women on the boat who were on the way to meet their dear husbands. While the worthy Captain Lothario was worshipping at the shrine of Venus we found ourselves nearing the Irish coast fully one hundred miles from our course. Fortunately the sea was mild and the heavy fog prevailing during the night cleared just in time for our danger to be averted, otherwise the result might have been lamentable for we were on the most dangerous part of the coast, the rocks being visible at less than two miles. May 17th. Arrived at Liverpool early this morning. Put up at the George Hotel, Lime Street. I felt very well after the voyage but Rose was much fatigued. After breakfasting I hunted up her relatives. Found that Mr. J. 0 . Marples, who had married one of

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME her nieces, kept his residence at Queen's Terrace, Seacombe, on the opposite side of the Mersey. Took a note from Rose to her sister who was very glad to hear of her arrival. As it was imperative that I should go immediately to London in quest of an opening, we made an arrangement for Rose to board with her sister and her niece during my absence. May 19th. Called on Benjamin Webster, manager of the Adelphi. I read him "The Pioneer Patriot" which I had altered and rechristened "The Pioneers of America," changing the action from our Revolution War to 1755 when France and England were struggling for supremacy on the western continent and Englishmen and Americans fought under the same banner. Webster expressed himself pleased with the play but could make no positive arrangement with me until his return from Paris. Put another iron in the fire by writing to Madame Celeste, manageress of the Lyceum Theatre, requesting an interview. The following morning I was invited to call upon her. The result was an agreement to open at the Lyceum on October 7th with "The Hidden Hand," to play one month at a salary of £ 10 per week; the arrangement to be extended if mutually satisfactory. Having brought his mission to what seemed a successful issue, he returned to Rose and her family at Seacombe to show them what Yankee push and determination can do, and to settle down to a belated second honeymoon by the Mersey. The pleasant English summer days passed on into August—he began to grow restive, he could not gaze forever on the muddy Mersey—this listless life must end—he was becoming rusty—he must act once more. He called on Copeland, who managed the Theatre Royal across the river, and put the case before him. Why not give The Pioneers a Liverpool trial? Copeland, whom Watkins described as a "typical John Bull, whose opinions were infallible and to dissent from them sheer presumption and absurdity," saw an opportunity in this eager Yankee. Yes, he could open at the Royal in two weeks under terms that would be but little

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risk to Copeland and little profit to Watkins. These settled, Copeland would like to read the play. After reading it he politely informed me that it was trash and as I was afterwards informed, told the company in the Green Room that it was execrable and he greatly regretted having given his consent to produce it. After this autocratic opinion of the managerial demigod, the lamentable failure of the "new American actor" was a foregone conclusion in the minds of the company who went through rehearsal in a listless and rather slighting manner. August 14th. Assured of my failure Copeland gave almost no publicity to my opening. Although, with the exception of Mr. Marples there was not a single person in the house who had ever seen me before, on my first entrance there was a very good call. At the end of the second act there was a still better call, while at the termination of the play, so great was the enthusiasm of the audience I was summoned twice before the curtain. The next evening Copeland made another statement in the Green Room— that my performance of Jocko was the greatest piece of negro acting he had ever seen, and yet this brute had not the manliness to give me one word of encouragement although I was a stranger in a strange land.

The Pioneers enjoyed a fortnight's fair prosperity. Its success inspired Rose to add her efforts to the enterprise, and the pair made a later joint appearance in The Belle's Stratagem and Grist to the Mill, but the weather was bad and Rose, her native sparkle and buoyancy dimmed by a recent illness, was not herself. They were both waiting the open sesame—London. Meanwhile Madame Celeste's plans for the London opening had undergone a change. She had a new play written for the Lyceum by England's foremost dramatist, Tom Taylor. Watkins was to be in the cast as a Yankee naval commander. Up in town Taylor read his play, as he went on H.W.'s in239

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dignation mounted. The part was the usual English caricature—the stage American. At first I thought this an intended slur upon my countrymen but I was a guest at Taylor's house, it wasn't possible that he would take the opportunity to offer insult to a stranger. I knew it was the English conception that all Americans speak with a nasal twang, but here was an educated man of letters portraying the commander of the Merrimack, the finest steam frigate in the United States service, as an impertinent down-east old-fashioned stage Yankee! I wondered what Taylor would have thought had our positions been reversed—had I been reading to him a play with Lord Nelson as a character and presented him as conversing in broad Yorkshire dialect. There was no retreat—the play was produced with Harry Watkins as the Josh Whitcomb captain and, to his great satisfaction, met with a failure. To Rose, the opening performance was a nightmare. Mrs. Watkins sat in the pit with the dramatic author, J. R. Planche and his sister. All around them were the usual first nighters, and the press gang. On my appearing, the audience extended me a satisfactory reception, but after my first exclamation, Mrs. W. had to listen to such pleasant expressions as: "Oh, oh, oh! Here's more of that d—d Yankee twang! We had plenty of that with Mrs. Barney Williams and Mrs. Florence. Carn't those blarsted Americans talk any way but through their noses!" Like choice expressions were heard all through the first act, after which they appeared to become reconciled to my twang and allowed that the "chap could act but he's enough to give one the catarrh." The usual troubles began. Celeste was arbitrary about The Pioneers. "It is all very well for America, Mr. Watkins, but for our English audiences it should be made into a twoact play." What! deform his own flesh and blood? Cut off its legs and arms and present the wretched fragment as his?

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To placate the Liverpool manager he had already compressed the play into three acts-—but two? No, he couldn't do that! His first impulse was to pack up and go home, over there they would accept even five-act plays from his pen. There was no driving these British! Well, escape was impossible—Abraham prepared to sacrifice Isaac, but the angel of the Lord appeared just at the climactic moment in the person of Mrs. Watkins. While the outraged author was facing the inevitable it was arranged that Rose should, in the interim, appear as Francine in a petite comedy, Grist to the Mill—one of her favorite parts. The winds blew fair once more. The papers next morning after the début of Rose Watkins were more than favorable. John Oxenbury, the London Times critic, outdid himself in praise; his review is quite worthy our Diarist's finest euphuism. Here are a few flowers from the chaplet of his laudation: Rose (Howard) Watkins, at the present moment the black domino of the London stage, is the gifted lady now playing an engagement at the Lyceum. Unknown to Londoners but well known as the idol of the New Orleans audiences she came to England untrumpeted and unheralded and was content to steal on the London public as coyly and unobtrusively as any novice. To watch the sudden delighted surprise of those who saw her for the first time unaware that the débutante was the finest comedienne of American raising that has appeared on the English stage was an instructive psychological spectacle. Before fifteen minutes had elapsed she had won the hearts of her audience. Of all American actresses we have ever seen she is the most essentially European in her style—nothing angular or spasmodic and no effort in her acting. She never plays for points but is superbly equable from rise to the fall of the curtain. Hers is the highest art—ars est celare artem.

This is praise indeed! The Journal remarks, "This notice from the pen of so distinguished a critic was certainly as

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flattering as any artist could deserve." There were numerous curtain calls and hearty congratulations from the company. Planché, the author of the little piece, rushed back from his seat in the pit to embrace Rose and tell her that she was better than Madame Vestris, the original in the part. These words were not at all pleasing to manageress Celeste, whose charms were not as fresh as they once were. Successes in her theatre had their box-office value but were not so welcome when gained by a younger, lovelier actress. Nor was the tension eased when Planché proposed that Celeste produce his new comedy with Rose Watkins as the heroine. After angrily pacing up and down for some length the lady ordered a rehearsal called in the morning for The Pioneers and bade everyone good night. Rose's reign was glorious but brief; in a week's time Harry's mutilated brain-child was offered for immolation at the Lyceum. October 22nd. First night in London of "The Pioneers of America." In compressing the drama to two acts, I retained all the telling situations. The cast was a tolerable one, but the play was not produced as well as it might have been, moreover it was preceded by the five act comedy of the "Love Chase." Although it was after ten o'clock when "The Pioneers" began, the audience remained to the end and were very enthusiastic in their applause. The press reviews of the following day were extremely favorable. The Times, in quite a lengthy notice, said "Mr. H. Watkins's impersonation of Jocko is well worth seeing. It is one of the most decided and attractive specialties ever presented to a London public. The character requires a rare combination of talents for its successful portrayal, being at times pathetic, comic and pantomimic. Few actors could be found capable of sustaining this unique creation." The Leader's critic wrote: "The nucleus of the play is one Jocko, a gentleman of color, whom great Mother Nature made up in a hurry and sent into the world in a sad state of disarrange-

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ment, yet endowed with unusual physical and mental vigor. This Jocko, performs exploits compared with which Quasimodo and all the wonderful dwarf creations ever known are mere bagatelles. We doubt if there is another actor besides Mr. Watkins on the British or American stage possessing the versatility or histrionic power to undertake the character with any degree of success." The company were confident that "The Pioneers" could be relied upon as a drawing card, but Celeste would not have it so. In two weeks the play was withdrawn, and our engagement at the Lyceum terminated. Celeste sought solely her own ambitious gratification and she did so at her own expense. It was a pity that so clever a woman and undoubtedly one of the best stage directors in England should have been blind to her own interests.

It was more in sorrow than in anger that the pair parted from Madame Celeste. She had been H.W.'s most natural point of approach in London because he had known her in America, where she had become a familiar figure in the orbit of her frequent tours. She had won an international reputation by her unusual ability as a pantomimist, dancer, and comedienne, but now she was paying the penalty that the years impose upon so many lovely ladies in the theatre and who find that age can "wither and custom stale their infinite variety." Rose and Harry Watkins made no further London appearances. They had achieved some publicity, however, that had value in the provinces. They did not return home for three years. A wise choice kept them in England; the Civil War had broken out in America. Except in New York the theatre was making a beggarly livelihood throughout the country; war excitement had far more thrills than the most sensational drama could present. The South and the West were dead theatrically. In the North only the most trivial entertainment, circuses, negro minstrels, burlesques, farces, ballet, and

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME variety shows could divert audiences oppressed by apprehension and gloom for a single hour. A few opportunists took advantage of victories at the front to present timely plays turned out overnight by prolific playwrights with titles like Sesesh, Bull Run, The Capture of Fort Donaldson, and Mabel, the Child of the Battlefield. George L . Fox brought out a burlesque at the Bowery Theatre called How to Avoid Drafting. These ventures met with little encouragement. It is an old axiom that war plays too close to the events that they mimic do not succeed. The mellowness and the vista of time are needful for their welcome. It was twenty years after Lee's surrender that a manager would even read a drama based on the Civil War. Then Held by the Enemy and Shenandoah were successful. The immediacy of military drama on the heels of the World W a r completely exploded this old theory.

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xvm "AND THEN IS HEARD NO MORE" It was the summer of 1863 before Watkins and his bride sailed for New York. By that time Vicksburg and Gettysburg had brought more hope to Northern breasts. The theatres were looking up. The resourceful H.W. brought back a piece of property that made a greater sensation than any mere play had created for some time. It was a ghost trick for which he had secured the American rights. He presented it (of all places!) at the fashionable Wallack's Theatre, then recently moved uptown to Thirteenth Street and Broadway. War and summer heat had closed this theatre when in August it was made available for the entrance of Pepper's Ghost. As a vehicle for Watkins's specter he revived his old Barnum's Museum drama, The Bride of an Evening, and renamed it True to the Last. In this tawdry piece the illusion became part of the dramatis personae. The filmy wraith of a murdered girl, a skeleton, and a miser with a slashed throat glided through the scenes to the delightful shivers of crowded audiences experiencing a new and uncanny sensation. The trick was produced by reflecting a moving figure from beneath the stage through an open trap to a large transparent glass plate on the darkened scene by the aid of of mirrors and lights. The characters in the play grasped at the apparition and found their fingers clutching thin air, they walked through the ghastly thing. It appeared without warning, ushered in by shrieks and groans, pizzicato "sneak music" by the orchestra, and wails from the property man's wind machine. The engagement ran nearly two months and made a small fortune for Watkins and his backers. 245

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Like sheep behind the bell-wether the New York managers trailed after True to the Last with ghost dramas. Old wornout plays were resuscitated; werewolves, grinning skeletons, and hideous visions stalked across nearly every stage in the town. Negro minstrels parodied the craze with blackfaced ghosts. One enterprising genius proposed making a sensational revival of Hamlet and Macbeth with Hamlet's father and Banquo served up a la Pepper, but no eminent tragedian could be found who would lend himself to the scheme. Harry Watkins's unholy importation proved to be a Pandora's Box that released a spook epidemic. In these ghostly memorials we have left the Journal long behind. It is three years since he ended his fifteen years' recording. At the conclusion of his Lyceum Theatre experience with Madame Celeste he encountered Dion Boucicault in London who had come hot haste from New York, where he had won a signal success with his Irish drama, The Colleen Baum, fearful lest the play be pirated and produced in England to his own great loss. He had an important object to gain by playing his drama as soon as possible in London. By the law of copyright, plays first produced in a foreign country are denied protection in England, and Bouccicault was fearful of being forestalled by some enterprising manager. "The Colleen Bawn" is the best drama he had yet constructed, and its success in England was as pronounced as it was in the U. S. Provincial managers attempted to produce it without Bouccicault's permission, but by threats and injunctions he fought them off until he had reaped its profits. He managed his game shrewdly and, although the copyright law was not on his side, fully deserved the pecuniary gains of his play. Posterity may acknowledge the injustice to the dead and erect a monument over his remains but for whose good? Certainly not the dead. To kings and beggars all graves are alike. The dramatist

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AND THEN IS HEARD NO MORE will never obtain justice until legislation makes stealing a play a misdemeanor.

With a brief homily on the art of play writing and a tribute to the master dramatist, William Shakespeare, the Diarist writes "Finis" to the record that he began at Galveston, Texas, in 1845. New York in that year was, as it is today, the center of dramatic activity. For nearly half a century well-managed theatres had presented plays acted by players of artistic ability. The Park Theatre, the Olympic, Burton's, the Broadway, find the Bowery all possessed excellent records. Noted stars had received orations within their walls, George Frederick Cooke, Edmund Kean, the elder Booth, Macready, Forrest, Fanny Kemble, Charlotte Cushman, and scores of others. The Wallacks, the Placides, and die Matthewses had entrenched themselves in public favor, and a young comedian named Joseph Jefferson was just coming into his own. To list the names of those who made history in these houses would be to assemble the aristocracy of the British and American stage. Throughout his provincial life it was to this Mecca, this magic city where in dreams he saw himself strutting his brief hour in glory, that young Harry Watkins turned his eager eyes. His was the pace of the plodder, green with envy of the successful ones, who was destined to know the bitterness of Milton's lament, "They also serve who only stand and wait." The star to which he hitched his wagon was an erratic and unruly nag, it bumped him over rough places and often ditched him, but he toiled on absorbing everything he could lay his hands on, particularly all that related to the theatre. His education was chiefly of his own making, got from the verse of Shakespeare and the ultra-romantic passages in the current drama. Life to him became a play—an exaggerated and bombastic play. 247

ONE MAN IN HIS TIME His fellow player, Frank C. Bangs, writing of him in 1898 said: "He was a man of superior intelligence, naturally studious, making himself acquainted with the best he could find in literature and seeking cultivated associates. I rarely talked with him without learning about some new book he had read or ideas concerning a play he was working on. He led a sober and useful life, devoted to his family. The death of his idolized son was a blow from which he never fully recovered. He sleeps now beside this beloved boy in the Actor's Fund lot in Greenwood Cemetery." But Harry Watkins's activities by no means ceased with the ending of his Journal, they became more intense than ever. The mill of his play writing never ceased to grind, his industry as actor, producer, and manager continued until five months before he died. He dramatized popular stories, adapted old plays, and wrote original ones to an incredible number. His more successful pieces were Irish dramas. In one of them, Trodden Down; or Under Two Flags, Rose and Harry Watkins toured the country for many years with their company in the minor theatres, also playing an occasional transient engagement at various New York houses until their retirement in 1884. Harry's death occurred in February, 1894. The funeral at his West Twenty-third Street home was attended by many prominent actors and journalists, among them John Ellsler, Clara Fisher Maeder, John Jack, F. F. Mackay, Col. T. Allston Brown, and William Winter, the New York Tribune critic. It was Rose who brought the chief success to his enterprise. Advancing years never robbed her of her graciousness, her sparkle, or her joyous charm. She outlived her husband by ten years, after being received as a guest at the Edwin Forrest Home. There was one child born of the second marriage, an admirable little comedienne, Amy Lee, with whom she 248

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IS HEARD NO MORE

made her very last appearance at the Cirard Street Theatre in The Little Rebel in 1898. Harry Watkins was a child of his day. His horizon was bounded solely by the theatre's limits; within that area his activity was unflagging and his ambition ever burning. The Journal is a remarkable record; its entries are not only a proclamation of his own superiority but, paradoxically, a disbelief in himself. There was an ever pressing necessity to record his calls before the curtain, his success as a playwright, the continual hits he made, the applause and cheers he received, his curtain speeches, the inborn pigheadedness and stupidity of managers in general and, above all, the inferiority of every other actor to Harry Watkins. These he must see fairly and meticulously written out when his faith in himself became weak-kneed. Even after his Journal ceased his self-advertising continued. In a letter to one Mr. Wilson written three years before his death he reviewed his triumph in The Drunkard. " I first appeared in this play in Boston at the Beach Street Museum. I played the hero very much against my will and achieved what the Press and Old Stagers pronounced one of the greatest dramatic successes ever known." The Journal was his protective armor. Even his political speeches and his patriotism, while devoutly believed in (he was never a hypocrite) were a fulcrum to his amour pro pre. He was the ideal strolling trouper. B o m to occupy the secondary bench beneath the seats of the mighty, whom he hated, and destined always to miss the pot of gold which he pursued to the rainbow's end with unquenchable optimism, he never achieved the realization of his corroding ambition. . . . a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more.

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ONE MAN IN HIS TIME On an inserted page in a prompt copy of Othello, interleaved for stage directions, sewn together in black thread and bound in thin cardboard, he wrote the following: This book belonged to the Post Library at Fort Snelling, Minnesota, (then Iowa Territory). I joined the Fifth Infantry in 1838. (Company I) The library was an excellent one and I was its best patron. It contained a large number of plays from which we selected all we needed for representation in the Post theatre. The company was made up from the soldiers stationed there. I played the principal female characters. We gave performance every fortnight. Major Plympton commanded the Post. His daughter loaned me her dresses. I was there three years, 1838 to 1841. The officers of my company, Captain Martin Scott, First Lieutenant, W. W. Chapman, Second Lieutenant, D. H. McPhail. Scott was killed at Molina del Rey, Mexico, 1847. McPhail died in Brooklyn, Long Island, 1883. Chapman is now (1886) a retired Brigadier General, living at Green Bay. He and myself are all that remain of old Company I. From this book I studied Iago to play with Forrest as Othello —studied Othello to play with Junius Brutus Booth, the elder, as Iago. I have played every part in "Othello" excepting only Brabantio, and including Desdemona and Emilia. Harry Watkins.

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ENVOI An hour away from Paris at Pont-aux-Dames is the former estate of the comedian, Constant Coquelin. Dying he bequeathed it as a refuge for the ancient, impoverished actors who had been his confreres. There they are dreaming away their final days in comfort, re-living their hours of triumph, lords and ladies of the theatre. Coquelin is buried there beneath the trees whose boughs overhang his bust as Mascarille. On the pedestal's shaft is an inscription by Edmond Rostand: "Here he lies surrounded by the old comedians who guard him." They keep that guard with vast dignity, those kings and duchesses, barons and ballerinas! They are of a generation that is passing away in France, that with us has quite vanished. I first knew the Edwin Forrest Home some thirty-odd years ago; it was then located at Holmesburg near Philadelphia. Here a group similar to their French fellow players kept guard in the rambling early Victorian mansion that Forrest had devised to them. They represented the last survivors of the grand old school whose trumpet tongues had not become completely mute when I as a youth first set foot upon the stage. They reeked with the aroma of the theatre, preserving its character and its attitude toward life. Veterans all, they maintained their olympian aspect on and off the stage. Their reminiscences were delightful. One sunny spring day—it was Shakespeare's birthday— I sat in the shade of a great elm out at Holmesburg talking to old John Jack, campaigner in many a hard-fought battle on both sides of the world. "You played a lot with Forrest, Mr. Jack," I said. "Tell me, was he the ferocious bear that he is said to have been?"

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John Jack turned his Falstaffian bulk in his big easy chair. "Not if you attended to your business." "But he lost his temper now and then, didn't he?" "Often.—I remember one time when he controlled it. It was in Boston in '49 at the Beach Street Theatre under Thome's management. We were rehearsing Metamora and the people were pretty messy, stumbling through their lines. Forrest was sitting down under the gas bracket at the prompter's table, trying not to tell them what he thought about them. In the middle of the first act our juvenile man, Harry Watkins, should have come on the scene and he was not there. As it wasn't an important part the prompter offered to read the lines. "Forrest held up his hand. "There was a terrible pause. He settled back and pulled out his watch. " 'We'll wait!' he said. For five minutes you could have heard a pin drop. The company stood about without even a whisper. Forrest sat there scowling at his watch. Then Watkins rushed in through the stage door white as a sheet and panting. He began to stutter an apology. Forrest stopped him with just one word: 'Sir!' For another half minute he continued to stare at his watch. Finally he took in Watkins from his shoes up to his head. 'Sir,' he said, measuring off his words and waving his hand around at the company, 'You have taken from these ladies and gentlemen that which almighty God in all his omnipotence could not restore to them—their time!' Those last two words sounded as if he were playing King Lear. "Then, very quietly, 'We will now go on with the rehearsal.' He snapped his watch shut as if it were an alligator snapping a nigger baby—and we went on." One has but to look at the photograph of the palmy-day players to capture the spirit of their time; stately and ro252

ENVOI

mantic in their posture, exhibitionism is stamped all over them. Their trade has etched its ineffaceable stigmata deep into their faces, the comedian's eye emits humor from a nest of upturning wrinkles, the juvenile man crowns his Greek profile with flowing hyperion curls, the tragedian's countenance is draped in woe, fat old gentlemen beam benignly and heavy men glower from beneath their beetling brows, little soubrettes twinkle roguishly from their counterfeit presentments, and lovely ringleted leading ladies pose their hour-glass figures and corseted splendor against curtained backgrounds and photograph-studio columns. Hail and farewell to them! The Old Guard who died with harness on their backs, and never surrendered.

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INDEX Actor's Order of Friendship, 102 Adams, J. 28, 60 Addams, A. A., 30, 38, 86, 99 Adelgitha, 80 Alexander the Great, 46 Ambrose Gwinett, 9, 93 American Museum, 74 Anderson, James R., 3, 47, 49, 64, 195 Anderson, Mary, 35, 172 Annals of the New York Stage, viii Apprentice, The, 12 Arch Street Theatre, 35, 81, 103 Astor Place Opera House (Riot), 73, 92, 135 Baltimore Museum, 78 Barker, Mr., 17 Barn urn's Museum, 225 Barnum, P. T., 91, 223 Barrett, Lawrence, 35 Barron, Charles, 68 Bateman Sisters, 136, 162, 195 Bates, John, 157, 199 Beach Street Museum, 71, 76 Belle's Stratagem, The, 239 Black-Eyed Susan, 59, 184 Blake, W. R., 227 Blandford, Mrs., 109 Bold Stroke for a Husband, A, 43 Booth, Edwin, 31, 91 Booth, John Wilkes, 31 Booth, Junius Brutus, 31, 45, 47, 54, 91, 141 Booth, J. B., Jr., 54 Boston As It Is, 60 Boston Museum, 67, 70 Boucicault, Dion, 246 Bowery Theatre, 32, 62, 90, 106 Bride of an Evening, 230 Brigand, The, 54 Brigands of the Isthmus, The, 98 Broad Street Theatre, x Broadway Theatre, 130

Brougham, John, 53, 66, 74, 85 Brooke, Custavus V., 132 Brown, T. Alston, viii Buchanan, McKean, 92 Burke, Charles, 93 Burton's Theatre, 133 Burton, William E., 66, 74, 82, 133, 143, 220 California Gold Rush, 69 CamiUe, 190, 209 Captain Kidd, 39 Captive, The, 80 Castle Garden, 84, 91, 106 Celebrated Case, A, 37 Celeste, Madame, 239 Chanfrau, Frank S., 61 Chapman, Blanche, 169 Chatham Theatre, 52 Chippendale, William, 22 Clarke, Annie, 68 Clark, Manager, 8, 10, 13, 15 Clay, Henry, 135 Cook, Mrs., 9 Connor, Edmund S., 27, 29, 32, 34, 38, 41, 47 Conway, F. B., 90 Conway, Mrs., 94, 130 Coquelin, Constant, 251 Courier of Lyons, 180 Cowell, Sidney, ix-zii Cushman, Charlotte, 83, 210, 235 Damon and Pythias, 57, 60 Danicheffs, The, 37 Davenport, A. H., 227 Davenport, E. L., 183, 213 Davenport, Jean, 81, 86, 122 Dead Shot, The, 14 Dean, Julia, 171, 197 DeBar, Ben, 183 Devil to Pay, The, 64 DeSoto, 199 Dombey and Son, 75

INDEX Domestic Manners of the Americans, yiii, 29 Dramatic Fund, 131 Drew, Mr. and Mrs. Frank, 100, 112 Drew, Mrs. John, 103 Drew, John, 100 Drunkard, The, 70, 82, 88, 111 Dunn, Joseph, 101 Eddy, Edward, 60, 202, 218 Edwin Forrest Home, ix, xi, 251 Elveraon, Mrs. James, ix Ewing, Mrs., 16 Family Ties, 38 Farren, Mrs., 43, 51, 80 Fashion, 22, 192 Fatal Dowry, The, 64 Fazio, 39, 83 Federal Street Theatre, 108 Fillmore, Millard, 101 Fire Companies, 96 Florence, Mr. and Mrs., 166, 182 Forrest, Edwin, 56, 65, 73, 252 Fort Snelling, vii, 42, 44, 52, 206, 250 Fosburg, H., 103 Founded on Fact, 133 Fox, George L., 94, 105 Fudge and Trudge, 90 Gilbert, John, 151 Girard Avenue Theatre, x Giselle, 45 Glance at New York, A, 60 Golden Axe, The, 96 Goodwin, Nat, 35 Grandfather Whitehead, 46 Greenstreet Theatre, 151 Grist to the Mill, 239 Guilford, 71 Hackett, James H., 59, 63, 163 Halleck, Fitz-Greene, 146 Hamblin, Mrs., 106, 145 Hamblin, Thomas S., 106, 145 Hamlet, 12, 36, 66, 92, 105 Hanley, J. G., 181 Harry Burnham, 98

Hart, Mrs., 15, 19 Heart of the World, 102, 161 Henry IV, 59 Henry VIII, 104 Heron, Matilda, 208 Hoey, Mrs. John, xi, 227, 235 Holland, George, 227 Honeymoon, The, 7, 15, 54, 61, 64 Houston, Sam, 17 Howard Atheneum, 66 Howard, Mr. and Mrs. Charles, 53 Humpty Dumpty, 105 Hunchback, The, 17, 171 Idiot Witness, The, 8, 14, 148 Ireland, Joseph N., viii, 23 Irish Ambassador, The, 71 Irish Tutor, The, 8, 14, 38 Iron Chest, The, 32, 45, 92 Jack Cade, 56 Jack, John, 248, 251-52 Jane Shore, 80 Jefferson, Joseph, 3, 56, 74, 92 Kean, Mr. and Mrs. Charles, 24 Kean, Edmund, 24, 31 Kemp Family, 148, 153 Kent, Mrs., 40 Kimberly, Miss, 186, 222 King Lear, 41, 55, 66 King of the Commons, The, 43 Lady and Gentleman, 28 Lady of Lyons, The, 1, 80, 148 Leah, the Forsaken, 137 Leap Year, 85 Lee, Amy, vii, ix-xi Lind, Jenny, 91 Logan, Cornelius, 29, 78 Logan, Eliza, 136 Logan, Olive, 78 London Assurance, 16, 48 Louisville Theatre, 179 Love, 81, 86 Lucrece, 80 Ludlow, N. M., viii, 3, 21 Lyceum Theatre (London), 231 Lyceum Theatre (New York), 67

INDEX Macbeth, 38, 66 Machinist of New York, The, 138 Macready, W. C., 66, 73 Magic Veil, The, 96 Makeali, Miss, 191 Marble. Dan, 38, 40, 74 Maretzek, Max, 178 Married Life, 64 Married Rake, The, 61 Mary of Mantua, 171 Masks and Faces, 75 Mazeppa, 57 McCullough, John, 35 McVicker, J. H., 38, 107, 114 Menken, Adah Isaacs, 58 Menifield, Mr. and Mrs., 148 Mestayer, Mr. and Mrs., 64, 71, 74, 83 Mestayer, Emily, 94, 101 Mexican War, 1 Montez, Lola, 138 Mowatt, Anna Cora, 22, 49 Mowbray, Fanny, 110, 114 Much Ado about Nothing, 36 Murdoch, J. E., 34, 47, 79, 198, 222 My Fellow Clerk, 67 Naiad Queen, The, 62 Nan, the Good-for-Nothing, x National Theatre (New Orleans), 27, 42, 47 National Theatre (New York), 89, 92, 94, 97 Nature and Philosophy, 67 Nature's Nobleman, 93, 95 Newton, Mrs., 9 New Way to Pay Old Debts, A, 54, 184 New York Fireman, The, 90, 97, 148 Niblo's Garden, 77 Nine Points of the Law, 103 Odell, George C. D., viii (yFlannigan and the Fairies, 80 Orton, Josie, 227 Othello, 32, 65, 112, 130, 132 Our Country's Sinews, 151 Owens, John E., 79

Paetus Cecinna, 92 Pardey, H. O., 93, 95, 97, 101 Park Theatre, 63 Pepper's Ghost, 245 Perfection, 11 Perry, Harry, 123 Pilgrim, Mr., 98 Pioneer Patriot, 228 Pizarro, 118 Placide, Henry, 46 Placide, Thomas, 28 Poe, Edgar Allan, 23, 75 Poole, J. F., 232 Poor Gentleman, The, 93 Poor of New York, The, 225 Proctor, Joseph, 69, 71 Putnam, 37, 58 Ravel Family, The, 49, 77 Rice, T. D., 28, 57 Richard III, 12, 76, 92, 105 Richelieu, 34 Richings, Peter and Caroline, 167, 193 Roberts, J. B., 196 Roman Traitor, The, 67 Rough Diamond, The, 148 Santa Anna, General, 19, 49 Sarzedas, Mr., 160 Secor, Harriet M., xii, 164 Setchell, Dan, 68 Seymour, H., 100 Scott, J. R., 102 Scott, Martin, 60 Scott, Winfield, 19, 49, 84 She Stoops to Conquer, 28 Ship's Carpenter, The, 138 Siege of Monterey, The, 90 Simpson and Company, 54 Simpson, Manager, 63 Smith, Mark, 201 Smith, Sol, viii, 4, 21, 43, 47 Smith, W„ 70 Six Degrees of Crime, 59 Soldier's Daughter, The, 80 Soldier of '76, The, 57 Southworth, Mrs., 231 Spectre Bridegroom, The, 7

INDEX Stark, James, 137 St. Charles Theatre, 2, 24 Swiss Cottage, 71 Taylor, Mary, 62 Taylor, Tom, 239 Taylor, Zachary, 19, 25, 28, 48, 62, 69 Thalaba, 100 Therese, 8 Thome, Mr. and Mrs. Charles R., 36, 38, 51, 54, 58, 61, 63, 77, 101, 219 Thorne, Charles R., Jr., 37 Time Tries All, 80 Timour the Tartar, 59 Tom Smart, 64 Trodden Down, 248 Trollope, Mrs. Frances, 22, 29 Troy Museum, 177 Turning the Tables, 14 Two Orphans, The, 37 Uncle Tom's Cabin, 163 Valentine and Orson, 228 Vandenhoff, George, 63, 191 Vincent, Mrs., 68 Virginia Mummy, The, 28 Virginius, 56, 71 Wallack, Fanny, 86 Wallack, J. W., Sr., 43, 54, 141, 201 Wallack, Lester, 43, 62, 227 Wallack's Theatre, 43, 245 Walnut Street Theatre, 104

Warlock of the Glen, 15 Warren, William, 68 Washington, 193 Watkins, Harry, (Early days) 1-7, (Texas experiences) 8-22, (Plays and players in the Southwest) 22-33, (Cincinnati and Louisville) 33-50, (Boston productions) 5360, (New York) 61-63, (Further Boston engagements) 63-66, (First playwriting) 67, (New York) 77-81, (Arch Street Theatre) 8285, (Baltimore) 85-88, (Nature's Nobleman) 93, (Writes Harry Burnham) 99, (Benefit Bill) 102, (Actors' strike) 110, (Travels in South) 116, (Youthful adventure) 126, (Becomes Mason) 133, (Washington Monument) 140, 152, (Manages Odeon) 148, (Western engagements) 157, (Lucy Stone) 162, (Marriage) 166, (Louisville adventure) 179, (First child) 192, (Political speech) 203, (Dr. Kane lecture) 216, (English engagement) 237 Watkins, Rose (Shaw Howard), xixii, 233, 241 Webster, Benjamin, 238 Wedding Day, 28 Welch's Circus, 39 Weston, Lizzie, 152 Wife, The, 16 Wilkinson, Mrs., 39 Williams, Barney, 71, 83 Williamsburgh Odeon, 147 Willow Copse, The, 196

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