The reappearance of Edwin Booth in New York, after his successes abroad, recalls to mind the first time he ever made his appearance in a star part in this or any other city. This event took place in New York at the old Chatham Street Theatre, and under peculiar circumstances.
Edwin was quite a pet with his great father, and picked up a great deal worth knowin’ about actin’ under his father’s care. The two used to travel around together, and Edwin kept his eyes and ears open for any “points.” After a while young Edwin could imitate “the old man” first-class, and had caught all his little ways and stage tricks.
But Edwin caught other ways from his father besides his stage ways. Among others, he caught the old man’s trick of drinkin’ freely, and father and son used to go on jamborees together.
About this time the elder [Junius] Booth took it into his queer head that it was a sin, a downright sin, to eat animal food–anything that had been part of a livin’ creature once, or had had any life-blood in it. So he wouldn’t eat any beef or mutton himself, and wouldn’t let Edwin eat any either. The two lived on eggs and vegetables and whiskey. Accordin’ to the elder Booth’s theory, what the first two of these articles of diet lacked in vital strength and nourishment was made up by the last; so the two generally got the last first, and did without the eggs and vegetables.
This was rather stimulatin’ and excitin’, but as Edwin was only eighteen years of age then, it rather told on the youngster’s constitution, and, in fact, made him downright sick for a while.
Seein’ this, his father let up on his theory a bit, and although he wouldn’t eat any meat himself, he allowed Edwin to do so, only takin’ his whiskey between meals. As for the old man, he kept on takin’ his liquor all the time.
And one time he took too much and wasn’t able to appear at the Chatham Street Theatre.
He had been announced to play his great part, the only part in which he has never been equaled since, Richard the Third. The people appreciated him in this, and the boys in the pit went wild over him, consequently the old Chatham was crowded, “standin’ room only,” and not much of that.
But, although the manager kept the orchestra tootin’ away as long as he could, Booth, the father, didn’t put in an appearance, and at last the manager made up his mind that he would have to make an apology to the audience, which was bad, and to refund the money at the box office, which was worse. The audience meanwhile got impatient, and stamped and catcalled and got obstreperous. The manager was in despair and cursed his fate and Booth heartily. Just then young Edwin came along, and the manager, lookin’ at the boy, said: “D–n your father, for he has d—-d me!” “But,” said Edwin, “I believe I can save you yet. Let me play my father’s part.”
The cool proposition nearly took the manager’s breath away, but Edwin repeated it.
“You will fail, boy,” said the manager.
“No, I will not fail,” answered the boy actor firmly.
“But you are not up in the part,” persisted the manager.
“I have seen my father in it so often that I know the lines by heart,” insisted the younger Booth.
“But you have no time to prepare yourself,” said the manager.
“I can prepare myself as I go along,” replied Edwin.
“But the audience won’t stand you,” said the manager.
“They will stand me for my father’s sake and for my own,” said the boy.
“Then, cried the manager, “for heaven’s sake get ready and go on.”
Edwin Booth “got ready” and went on.
At first the audience was mystified, then a little huffed at havin’ a substitute thrust on ‘em, even if it was a great man’s son. But at last they took to the new Richard, and before the evenin’ was over he had scored his first success as a “star.”
“The old man” was proud of the youngster’s triumph, and forthwith proposed to get drunk again to give his son another chance, which was actin’ like a self-sacrificing father certainly, but Edwin talked him earnestly out of his purpose.
And here is where Edwin Booth showed the “horse sense” which, after all, is at the bottom of his character, as it is at the bottom of the characters of all successful people. Although he had then been a star in a success–although he felt himself capable of doin’ great things–yet he quietly withdrew from his father’s company and all the chances that went with it, and started off to California, where he for five years did the line of a “utility man” at a small salary. He did this to perfect himself in all the branches of his art, so that he would know everythin’ about it thoroughly.
His second appearance in New York as Richard was made about seven or eight years after his first, and strange to say, it wasn’t so good a performance as the first. It had more art and trainin’ and all that, of course, but it hadn’t the original flavor of genius; and although Burton’s theatre was then very popular, and although Edwin Booth had every chance afforded him by the management, his Richard, at Burton’s, didn’t take make a hit like his Richard at the old Chatham.
Just as the reappearance of Edwin Booth brought to my mind the foregoin’ incident in his life, so the recent loss of voice on the part of Joe Jefferson, and his promised return to the stage, once more reminds me of that genial favorite and of an amusin’ episode in his career.
Joe Jefferson has done well as an actor, and saved his money like a businessman, and that is almost all that can be said about him.
He is full of good nature enough, has nothin’ of the miser about him, and has a good deal of the Mrs. Toodles. He is fond of buyin’ things, though he don’t exactly need ‘em; still if they happen to suit his fancy he considers ‘em “handy to have in the house.”
He patronizes auctions and bought a panorama once; he didn’t have any use for a panorama, but it pleased his whim and he bought it cheap. He found it dear enough though before he had got through with it. He had it finished up and hired an agent and a lecturer and sent ‘em through the country with it. But it lost money at the start. Jefferson thought he would “educate” the public taste to likin’ his panorama, but havin’ dropped several thousands in his “educatin’” scheme, he let the panorama drop at last. This panorama and the producin’ “The Midsummer Night’s Dream” in first-class style to fifth rate audiences are, accordin’ to Jefferson, the only two mistakes of his life. Perhaps there are not five men in the country that can look back on only two mistakes.
Jefferson has always been fond of fishin’, shootin’, country sports and farmin’. His near friend and old chum, John Sefton, was also very fond of farmin’, and had a snug place which he called “Paradise Valley.” This farm of Sefton’s was kept in fine order, but his next neighbor was “a shiftless cuss” whose farm was neglected and whose dilapidated old barn (which immediately adjoined a stream which was Sefton’s prime delight), was Sefton’s particular aversion.
One Fine Day Jefferson came to pay Sefton a long promised visit, but came unexpectedly; so findin’ nobody at the station he wended his way afoot, and came across Sefton in a decidedly unconventional position.
He stood in the little stream with his breeches and shirt sleeves rolled up, tryin’ to keep hold of a squeakin’, kickin’ little pig, which the fine old actor was tryin’ to wash, but who would not be washed.
The actor struggled, and the pig struggled, and the pig got the best of the actor, and gruntin’ly glided from Sefton’s grasp into the stream.
Sefton presented quite a “pose” as he stood and looked at the flounderin’ pig, and Jefferson, who, as everybody knows, is somethin’ of an artist, pulled out his pencil and sketch book and transferred the scene to paper.
By this time Sefton had recognized his friend, and when Jefferson had completed the sketch, went over to look at it.
He liked it very much, all but the old barn of his shiftless neighbor, which Jefferson had put in the sketch as a “background.”
“Take that d–n barn out,” said Sefton, “that’s a good fellow.”
“But I can’t,” answered Jefferson. It will spoil the general effect of the sketch if I do. That barn is very picturesque. Its very dilapidation makes it all the more so.”
Sefton protested, but Jefferson insisted on keepin’ in the barn.
Sefton fumed in vain, but he had his revenge.
Pretty soon a newspaper was sent to Jefferson at Paradise Valley, which was found to contain a paragraph statin’ that Jefferson was in that section of the country just then, “drawin’ the worst kinds of houses,” and this paragraph was headed “The decay of a once popular favorite.”
Naturally enough Jefferson at once wrote an indignant letter to the editor denyin’ the statement, demandin’ a retraction and askin’ for the names of the parties who had furnished the calumnious intelligence.
To Jefferson’s utter surprise he received a letter from the editor (in answer to his own) giving Sefton’s name as the party who “had furnished the columnious intelligence.”
Amazed beyond measure, Jefferson took this letter at once to Sefton for an explanation, whereupon Sefton burst out laughin’.
“I can’t help, Joe,” he said, between laughs, “what the fellow says editorially, or the construction he puts upon my words, but I certainly did write him that you were was here, “drawin’ the worst houses in the world,” and that is true. For if there is a worse house in the world than that d–n barn you insisted on drawin’ in your sketch, just to spoil it, well, I don’t want to see the house. You understand, eh?”
Yes, Jefferson understood–and old man Sefton always chuckled afterwards as he told the story, to think how he “got even with Jefferson about that barn.”
