Somehow, it has struck me forcibly of late years that there is not so much fun in and around New York as there used to be. Probably New York has got too big for fun. Certainly there is less Frolic and practical jokin’. Even the theatrical people have less fun floatin’ among .em.
Take the Tom Hamblin dinners, for instance, in old New York. Where in the New York of today could such dinners be given with such choice spirits at the table, and with such a stupendous sequel as one of ‘em had. Perhaps, after all, the sequel more than balanced the dinner, and furnishes a good reason for not havin’ any more such feasts.
At the date of the memorably merry dinner, to which I here allude, Tom Hamblin was managin’ the old Bowery Theatre in tip-top style, and the elder Booth was one of his great attractions. One night, as a special card, Othello was announced, with Hamblin for Othello, and Booth for Iago–thus makin’ the villain of the piece the best man indeed. The announcement took the town, and Hamblin, feelin’ jolly, invited Booth and all his stock company to a dinner on the stage of the old Bowery the afternoon of the night of the performance.
Hamblin got up good dinners, and the actors all gathered together on time, certain of having a good time. Jack Reeves, the comedian, came along with his round, red face, a laugh in itself. Hackett came, too, and Henry Placide, very dignified and gentlemanly, and Tom Flynn, Hamblin’s friend and Booth’s chum, and Booth himself. There were six actors, all of ‘em good and three of them great in their respective lines–about as much dramatic talent as ever sat down to a dinner together.
All were in fine spirits, and there were plenty of fine spirits in the decanters beside ‘em, and good eatin’ and drinkin’ soon told on ‘em all, and brought out the wit inside of ‘em.
When the cloth was removed Hackett rose and proposed the health of Hamblin, a toast drank, of course, with all the honors. Hamblin replied in one of his happiest after-dinner speeches, in the course of which he said that although in most lines of actin’ he was inferior to most of the company–which,by the by, was true–there was one line of character which he flattered himself he could play quite as well as anybody present, even Mr. Booth himself. Everybody, especially Booth, pricked up their ears to hear what line of character this might be in which Tom Hamblin equaled ‘em. And then Hamblin told ‘em that the line of character he referred to was that of “host.”
The other actors drew a long breath at this, greatly relieved, and it was unanimously agreed by them all that in this respect Tom Hamblin had not done himself justice. As a genial host, he not only equaled, but surpassed any of ‘em.
Tom Flynn then rose and gravely proposed the health of the unmistakable comedian Jack Reeves, who by this time got nearly maudlin on brandy and water. Jack’s health bein’ uproariously drank, Jack rose and favored the company with one of those peculiar “temperance lectures” he always delivered when he was drunk, in which his text, constantly repeated, was “down with all spiritous liquors,” which he illustrated by puttin’ all the spiritous liquors down his throat he could get hold of–a sort of practical commentary on his part in which he was conscientiously imitated by all his hearers.
Booth was then toasted, but as he was really too full by this time to make any intelligible speech, he deputed his faithful friend Flynn to make a speech for him.
Flynn, feelin’ fine, arose and made a speech, puffin’ everybody, himself included. According to Flynn’s rose-water, or rather brandy-and-water views, New York was the greatest city in the world, the Bowery Theatre the greatest theatre in New York, Tom Hamblin the greatest livin’ manager, Booth the greatest livin’ tragedian, etc.
Placide then arose, and for fun took directly the opposite side to Flynn; he pitched into everythin’ and everybody theatrical, the Bowery Theatre, Hamblin, Booth and himself included; findin’ fault in such a witty, pointed, truthful, yet genial way that everybody agreed with him as faithfully in his fault-findin’ as ten minutes before they had agreed with Flynn in his puffin’.
But by this time it got to be evenin’, and it was time to prepare for the performance of “Othello.” So Hackett and Reeves, who were not in the cast that night, went into a private box given ‘em by Hamblin, to witness the show (Jack Reeves tumblin’ asleep, however, as soon as he got in the box, much to Hackett’s disgust), while Booth, Hamblin and Flynn went behind to dress.
Flynn had been for some time quite fearful about Booth’s condition. But the great little man seemed to be “bracin’ up” and Flynn began to be hopeful that all would pass off right, spite the dinner.
When Flynn was dressed he went into Hamblin’s dressing room, and there, to his surprise, he found Booth hard at work blackin’ Hamblin’s face. He had by this time made not only a Moor out of Tom, but a negro, a blackamoor, several shades darker than any negro minstel, and yet he wasn’t satisfied, and insisted upon making poor Tom blacker yet. Hamblin was protesting strongly against his unnecessarily disfigurement, but fearin’ to cross Booth, had resigned himself to the blackness of his fate.
At last he got bold enough to shove Booth off, and asked him why he did not go and dress for his own part of Iago. “Oh, yes,” said Booth, “I had forgotten I had to play to-night.”
Then, seein’ Flynn enterin’, he took hold of him and said, “Come, Flynn; I want to speak to you.”
Flynn, anxious to propitiate Booth, followed him. Booth walked on to the stage door. Flynn didn’t like this, but couldn’t help it. At the stage door Booth stopped, and in a stage whisper said to the affrightened Tom, “Now, Flynn, you must get another Iago for to-night, I’m off,” and ere Flynn could rush to interpose, he was “off” truly.
Flynn, recoverin’ himself, rushed out into the street, but Booth was non est, and all Flynn could do was to rush back to Tom Hamblin, whom he found vainly tryin’ to make himself less black than Booth had painted him, and inform him that Booth had vanished.
Hamblin made the air blue a minute, cursed his unlucky idea of givin’ a dinner that day, and then came down to hard pan and consulted as to what was to be done.
Hamblin, in desperation, proposed to Flynn that he should play Iago, but Flynn was afraid that the Bowery boys would “guy” him in the part, so he refused point blank. Finally it was agreed that Mr. John Woodhull, a reliable old actor, should “do” Iago, and that Flynn should go and make the apologies and do the announcement for Woodhull. So Flynn took his big white handkerchief with him, which was his invariable accompaniment when he “made an apology”–a sort of white flag–and made a lame sort of speech, puttin’ all the blame on Booth and making the most of Woodhull.
As luck would have it, Jack Reeves, who up till now had been asleep in the box with Hackett, woke up while Flynn was makin’ his apology, and thinkin’ he was witnessing Booth’s performance, burst out cheerin’–of course cheerin’ just at the very worst time. Thus, when Flynn said in his speech that “in the most unjustifiable manner Mr. Booth, in one of his peculiar spells, has left the theatre,” Jack gave a wild hurrah. Once again, when Flynn remarked “that those dissatisfied with this arrangement”–i.e., the substituting Mr. Woodhull for Mr. booth–”can have their money returned ‘em at the door,” Jack, as if the return of the money was of the utmost importance to him, gave another cheer and nearly drove Flynn wild.
Flynn said afterwards that the last cheer of Jack Reeves’ cost the Bowery theater three hundred dollars, for that was about the amount of money that had to be returned by the box office. “And I don’t believe,” said Flynn, “we would have had to return three dollars if it hadn’t been for the noise made by that d—-d Reeves.”
It was expensive cheerin’ for Jack Reeves, too, for Tom Hamblin never forgave him, and was never a friend to him professionally or pecuniarily any more.
After the performance was over, Flynn started out to see what had become Booth. He hunted all down the Bowery, stoppin’ at every rum hole, but didn’t come across his man till he got into a dram shop near the old Park Theatre. Here he found Booth mounted on a table and, of all things in the world, makin’ a political speech.
For just then Texas was assertin’ her independence of Mexico, and Booth had been readin’ a great deal about the war in the papers, and his sympathies havin’ been enlisted for the Lone Star State, he was now eloquently pleadin’ her cause and was enlistin’ volunteers and emigrants. All this was fine for Texas, but Booth was out just a hundred dollars by it, his one night’s performance pay, and he mortally offended Tom Hamblin, who swore that Booth should never play at the Old Bowery again.
Altogether, it was a most expensive dinner, and terribly dear fun. It cost Booth a cool hundred, Hamblin over three hundred, to say nothin’ of the cost of the dinner, and Jack Reeves his position. This was the last of Tom Hamblin’s theatrical dinners.
