Somebody said in my hearin’ the other day that the Lyceum Theatre (that is about to be erected on Fourth avenue, near the Academy of Design, and which is intended both as an amateur theater, and a school for theatrical amateurs), was a “new” idea. But I soon showed the speaker that he was all together mistaken. Not only have there been institutions of this kind in London, not only is there one in operation in Paris, but even in this city there was an institution of this kind over forty years ago.
True it was a very small affair, compared to the proposed Lyceum scheme, still the principle upon which it was conducted was the very same, though the details of carryin’ out the principal were very different.
In the old time there was an old actor here in New York called Wilkins. He was one of those men who are theatrical; nothing else. His father and mother were theatrical folks, he had been taken on the stage when a baby in arms, formin’ a part of a spectacle, and from the earliest he could remember anythin’, remembered only the theatre. There was nothin’ else in his life to remember. He was “dyed in the wool.”
He had no great ability as an actor, but made the most of what he had, was “utility” for a while, then became stage manager for a period, and finally subsided into, and stayed, prompter.
For many years he was identified in his small way with that great theatre, the resort of some of the finest talent the American stage has ever seen, the Old Bowery–a place with a grateful remembrance alongside of “the old Park.”
Like all regular actors, old Wilkins entertained a hearty contempt for mere amateurs, but, like many regular actors since his time, his contempt did not prevent him from profitin’ by the weaknesses of these amateurs, and takin’ their money.
Even in his day the amateur stage fever raged; in fact, the disease was more prevalent then through the rank and file than at present, only it attracted chiefly men. The stage had not become what it is now, a show place for women, and the male actor was a great above, not as now a grade below, the female. These male amateurs, while the disease lasted, would be unfit for anythin’ but mouthin’ and struttin’ and spoutin’ a la Kean, or Cooper, and so on, and while the fit was on ‘em they would work hard–work harder at amateur play-actin’ than they would at any regular trade or business, and would bleed freely–spend their money to feed their vanity, till they gave up their last dollar.
This bein’ the case, old Wilkins conceived the idea of utilizin’ this phase of male weakness and human vanity, and so started his Lyceum, although he didn’t give it that name; he simply called it Wilkins’ Dramatic Academy, sometimes Wilkins’ Private Theatre.
Wilkins, or as he was almost universally styled, “old Wilks,” had this academy or theatere of his on Hester street, in a small and unpretentious dwellin’ house, in front of which a tumble-down old street lamp bore the painted sign of “Wilkins’ Dramatic Academy.”
The academy had been originally a store, then had got down to bein’ a lodging house, and then fell one step lower still, and got to be a dramatic academy.
It was a cobwebby and dirty place. The walls were almost black with age, soot, and finger marks, the entry was narrow, and the place might have been appropriately called “Poverty Flat.”
In the entry was a narrow openin’ in the wall which, when there was an entertainment, answered the purpose of ticket-office, and at the end of the passage-way was a fair-sized room, which was both “The Dramatic Academy” in the day time and the “private theater” in the night time.
The major part of this room, looked at as a private theater, was devoted to “the pit,” but near the stage end was an elevated platform to each side, containin’ a number of chairs of all sorts and ages and degrees of availability for sittin’ purposes. These answered the purposes of “boxes.”
Suspended from the ceilin’, which was frescoed with dirt and spider webs, hung a sort of iron hoop, with two sockets in it for the insertion of candles. This was the “grand chandelier,” and was only lit up on special occasions when the amateurs had their “high jinks.”
The stage was small and low; it had neither width, nor height, nor yet depth, still it was a stage.
Men could act in it, if they knew how to act; and if they didn’t, why they could act any way, provided they paid for actin’. For in this private theatre the performers were not paid to perform, but they paid.
There was scenery, too, such as it was, consistin’ of two scenes, an interior and an exterior; but both scenes were painted on the same canvas, or rather on separate pieces of canvas laid back to back, formin’ one piece. The scenery was changed by a very simple process. It couldn’t be run off–the stage was not wide enough; it could not be run up–the stage was not high enough; but all that was necessary was to simply take hold of the scene and turn it round, exhibitin’ the other side. It was a rather clumsy process, and decidedly realistic–destroyed all illusion, though still it answered all purposes. It was the first “revolvin’ stage” on record; beat the Madison Square Theatre arrangement out of sight for simplicity. If anybody complained of the trouble and difficulty Involved in this “revolvin’ the scenery” arrangement, “Old Wilks” would be ready to prove that this very trouble was an argument in its favor. “Nothin’ like havin’ plenty of difficulties to surmount in climbing the ladder of fame,” he would say. “Trouble develops talent.”
There, in this private theatre, the high privates of the amateur army would hold their drills (or rehearsals) and give their dress parades (or theatrical performances).
The system pursued by Old Wilks was pretty nearly the same as that proposed by the Lyceum managers to-day. Persons “seekin’ admission” (to the advantages of the Dramatic Academy) were “received at any time, and after an acceptable preliminary examination were assigned for trainin’.” “Students whose natural abilities justified it were selected” by Mr. Wilkins, to appear on the stage, if they had the cheek, and the cash requisite for an appearance, and the terms though much lighter, were always like the Lyceum terms, “payable in advance.”
And it must in simple justice to “Old Wilks” be said that he was really anxious to improve his pupils, if they gave him the chance, (and the cash) and that he was as much of an enthusiast in teachin’ as Steele Mackaye, and like S. M. had his own peculiar system.
Wallach and Irving were never more proud of their theatres than old Wilkes was of his–he lived on it, and lived for it, and lived in it—are, drank and slept in it.
Up a little rickety flight of stairs was his “study,” which was entirely theatrical. The walls were papered with theatrical cuts, portraits and play bills, and every bit of furniture in it had once been a theatrical property. The lamps which lit it were stage lamps, the book case in it had belonged to the old Park, and it was filled with books, while helmets, spears, etc., were to be seen here, there and everywhere. His favorite arm chair had been used as a “throne,” and the very clothes he wore were stage costumes–more or less (generally more) worn out.
Old Wilks devoted three hours three days a week to “teachin’,” two days to “tragedy,” one day to “comedy,” and he got from fifteen dollars to fifty cents for the various parts in his repertoire. The fifty cents was in compensation for the privilege of bein’ allowed to “come on” in a piece at all, and the fifteen dollars was for an appearance in such a Shakespearean part as Hamlet or Macbeth. Then he charged fifty cents for every “rehearsal” of every part, and got some money for the “costumes” which he supplied.
Altogether “Old Wilks” made his dramatic academy and private theater pay him pretty well, considerin’. He lived a contented life; died in fairly comfortable circumstances, and was followed to his last restin’ place by such men as Hamlin and Eddy.
I wonder, after all, if the new dramatic academy and amateur theatre will pan out any better than the old one, or whether its projectors will do any more good, or have any better luck, than “Old Wilks.”
[Editor’s notes: The Lyceum Theatre, which was the first home of the Lyceum School of Acting (later renamed the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, opened in 1885. Thomas Wilkins and his “academy” are mentioned in a dissertation, Steele Mackaye, Producer and Director, written in 1953 by Wade Chester Curry of the University of Pittsburgh, using similar language found in the column above.]
