Talkin’ about public opinion, as they call it, and the power of the press, as shown in the recent givin’ up of the “Passion Play” in New York, my old friend, Ben Baker, told me a story of Mitchell, at the old Olympic, which reminds me a good deal of the way manager Abby acted the other day.
About the time Mitchell’s second season commenced, two prominent business men of the day had turned out to be defaulters to a pretty big amount. Defaulters weren’t as common then as they are now, and the two men, Price and Swartwout, made quite a sensation by their “little irregularities.” They had been “way up,” movin’ in the best circles, and all that sort of thing, and Belmont and other big bugs had done business with ‘em. Well, Mitchell, who always kept up with the times, asked Allen, the literary man of his theatre then, to get up a piece about these defaulters, so as to make the town talk about his theatre. Allen set to work, and in three or four days wrote a piece called “Bob Bangs.”
In this piece Bob Bangs, a bummer, lays down and falls asleep in Fulton Market, and has a dream. In this dream he sees “the home of the absquatulators” (or defaulters), which is in “the unknown city,” which was then bein’ talked about a good deal, bein’ a city just discovered somewheres in South America about three thousand years old, and said to be paved with gold. There all the defaulters were supposed–in the play–to get together, and there were a good many “hits” at Wall street and Wall street men.
The first night “Bob Bangs” was produced there was a terrible time. Belmont and the Wall street men were opposed to the play; they thought it was pretty hard on ‘em, and was too personal. The butchers and the firemen, and the boys generally, on the contrary, liked the idea of the piece first-class, and seemed to like the peace, too, as it went on, and cheered and stamped and encouraged the performers. The Wall street men and the fashionables, they hissed, and, of course, the more one side hissed the more the other side cheered, and between the two the whole theatre was in a row, and for a moment things looked pretty serious. But Mitchell came forward and made a bow, and then the audience was still as a mouse, for they knew somethin’ was comin’. Mitchell looked round him a moment, and then said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I see there is a diversity of opinion about this piece, and while I suppose none object to it as a play, there seems to be a great many who object to it as a vehicle for personalities. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a theatre and not a newspaper office, and personalities should have no place in it. Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you that this piece shall never be played again upon the boards of this theatre.”
The butchers and the firemen didn’t exactly like this at first, it seemed like “a back-down,” but it was “horse sense,” and pretty soon the boys saw it was, and they turned to and called Mitchell out, and liked him from that time better than ever.
Mitchell had a very prompt way with him of settlin’ things. Once, when he was playing in “The Siamese Twins” as one of the twins, some of the boys in the pit got makin’ a noise, and the officer of the house couldn’t quiet ‘em.
Mitchell stood it a while, and then, quick as lightnin’, he unbuckled himself from the actor who was the other twin, jumped from the stage into the pit, took part in the row goin’ on, shook several boys and men who were in the fray, simmered ‘em down into peace and quietness, and then, ascendin’ the stage, buckled himself to the other twin and went on with the piece.
A favorite resort of Mitchell’s when “off duty” was Charley Smith’s bar-room, in Howard street, called “The Capitol.” This was the resort of a good many of the “queer characters” of old New York. Among others “June” Stagg went there. Stagg was connected with the Custom-House and was a thorough “old rounder.” He was very odd in his habits, very noisy and rather dirty. He has been dead this many a year, but has not yet been altogether forgotten, which shows there was somethin’ in “June” Stagg after all.
At “The Capitol,” too, there used to hang around a man about town who, like a good many women about town nowadays, was crazy to go on the stage. He used to bore people to introduce him to actors, and then he would bore the actors to introduce him to the managers, and he would have bored the managers, too, had he ever been able to get at ‘em. Well, one day he told Charley Smith that he intended to give a supper to some of the members of Mitchell’s company, and of course Charley Smith, havin’ to furnish the supper and get paid for furnishin’ it, thought it was a very fine idea indeed. Baker, Nickerson, Billy Conover, Harry Walcott and Charley Walcott were invited, and they all came; but came by installments, as it were, one after another, as they had arranged it among ‘emselves. First Baker dropped in. While waitin’ for the rest of the company the host of the supper asked Baker to take “a hot whiskey skin,” and then, while Baker was drinkin’, and smoking a tip-top three cent cigar, the host asked Baker if he wouldn’t like to hear him recite somethin’. Baker, under the circumstances, feelin’ able to stand it, said, “All right,” and the man about town, who wanted to be an actor, commenced in a cracked, drawlin’ voice, which he evidently thought was a voice as good as Forrest’s, to recite one of Campbell’s poems, commencin’:
“A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cried, “Boatman do not tarry,
And I will give thee a silver pound,
To row me o’er the ferry,”
Just as he got through the first verse, in comes Nickerson. Then there was another hot whiskey skin, another fragrant three-cent Havana, and another commencin’ of the poem. Just as he got to the word “ferry” the second time, in drops Billy Conover. Then there was a third round of hot whiskey skins and a third three-center, and a third recitin’ of the first verse. Just as he got to “the ferry” for the third time, in walks Harry Walcott. Another whiskey and three-center, another repeatin’ of the first verse, another gettin’ to “the ferry,” and then in drops Charley Walcott.
Well, we are all here at last,” said they would-be actor, as Charley took his seat, “and now, before we sit down to supper, let me get over that ‘ferry’ at last.”
So he went through the whole piece this time, but he squeaked it out so, and he drawlled it out so, that, to save their lives, let alone their suppers, the actors couldn’t help puttin’ their handkerchiefs into their mouths to keep ‘em from laughing outright.
The man about town noticed this, and stoppin’ all of a sudden, turned to the boys point-blank, and said: “Gentlemen, you are makin’ fun of me. You think I can’t recite this. You don’t think I will ever make an actor.” Most of the actors present looked rather sheepish just then, but Ben Baker, who really liked the man who had asked ‘em to supper, and didn’t like to see him makin’ a fool of himself, said right out: “You are correct, sir. You can’t recite, and you will never make an actor.” “Damn me if I don’t believe you are right, after all,” said the man about town, who had plenty of good stuff about him, as this story proves. “I have often thought so myself. Well, gentlemen,” he continued, “you have taught me a good lesson, and I thank you for it. I pledge you my word I will abandon from this hour all idea of ever bein’ an actor, on or off the stage. And now, gentlemen, I guess we are all ready for supper.” The man who gave that supper became a big business man, and meetin’ Baker years afterwards, thanked him for tellin’ him to his face the truth that night.
What a blessing it would be to the stage and society in general if there were more would-be actors and actresses who would stand the truth like this fellow.
About this time Charles Dickens paid his first visit to New York. He was originally announced to land at Castle Garden, but there was such a crowd there to meet him that Dickens said he was afraid “he would be torn to pieces with the best intentions,” so the captain of the vessel landed him in a lumber yard at the foot of Beekman street.
Dickens was an old friend of Mitchell’s, Mitchell havin’ been a poor actor in London when Dickens was a poorer reporter. At the grand ball given at the old Park Theatre to Dickens, Mitchell and Dickens met. “Boz” was very glad to see Mitchell, and shook hands with him heartily, makin’ the lookers-on all envious of Mitchell. One of the big-bugs standing near said, half aloud, “I wonder what a great author can see in a mere actor,” but the big-bug was merely mad because Dickens had merely bowed to him when he was introduced.
“My dear Mitchell,” said Dickens, wringin’ his old friend’s hand once more, “tell me, is there anything on earth I can do for you?”
“Yes,” said Mitchell.
“What?” said Dickens.
Give me your hat,” said Mitchell, pointin’ to the hat Dickens was still holdin’ in his hand.
“Certainly,” said Dickens, thinkin’ that Mitchell wanted to keep his hat as a keepsake. “I shall send it over to you the first thing in the mornin’.”
But Mitchell had an eye to business in gettin’ this hat. You see, he was gettin’ a burlesque on “Boz,” and was gettin’ wig, eye-glass, and everythin’ up like “Boz.” So, to make the thing complete, he needed the hat.
Well, Dickens sent the hat, and when he found out what it was wanted for he sent over his overcoat, too, so that the make-up of Horncastle as “Boz” was complete. In fact, Horncastle looked so much like “Boz” in his stage rig that one night General George P. Morris and Fitz Greene Halleck had quite a talk with Horncastle, for Dickens. It wasn’t until Halleck asked somethin’ about Mrs. Dickens that Horncastle “let the cat out of the bag.” Once an interviewer wanted to see “Boz” and “Boz” asked Horncastle to take his place. Horncastle received the reporter in the green-room, and answered all his questions so politely that the newspaper man went and wrote a two-column article about “A Confidential Chat with Charles Dickens.”
William Cullen Bryant, General Watson Webb and Major Noah (who had that row with the first Bennett) used to be with Dickens a great deal. But he used to prefer the green-room of the old Olympic to any place in New York. He stopped at the old Carlton House, Leonard street and Broadway, which was near the theatre, and Mrs. Dickens used to visit, every day almost, Mrs. Mitchell. Mrs. Dickens was very fond of dogs, and Mrs. Mitchell gave her a pup, some of the descendants of which were still with Dickens when he made his farewell visit to this country but a few years since.
There was, at the time Dickens first visited New York, a good deal of feelin’ between the companies at the old Park and the Olympic theatres on the account of the extra chance at a public splurge which the Park company had at the ball given to Dickens at the Park Theatre. This ball was really a grand affair, and it was one of the finest balls ever given in New York. It won’t lose any by being compared to most of the balls given now. Tickets were five dollars, but speculators got hold of many and sold them for a good deal more. The regulations were very particular. Every man had to be on his very best behavior, and had to give the names of the ladies he took with him. No fancy costumes were allowed except in the tableaux. Among the committee were General George P. Morris, Philip Hone, Henry Brevoort, Dr. Valentine Mott, A. M. Cozzens, Prosper M. Wetmore, Col. “Charlie” Stetson, of the Astor; Dr. Francis; Clinch, who has lately died; W. H. Appleton, Simeon Draper, Marshall O. Roberts, and men of that class. Downing, the celebrated caterer of those days, furnished the supper, and furnished 35,000 oysters, etc., for the supper over 300 people were employed gettin’ the ball up, and it is calculated that over $80,000 were spent on it altogether. Over $1,000 were spent in floral decorations.
Phil Hone, Duncan Bell, Philip Schuyler, Ogden Hoffman and other big bugs worked harder for the ball than they did for a livin’, and, in short, old New York turned itself inside out for the occasion. What a jam there was! There were over three thousand people present, and there wasn’t even “standin’ room only.” People couldn’t stand; they were squeezed. Dancin’ was out of the question. All a fellow had to do was to look and perspire. They say that Dickens, to his dyin’ day, never could tell whether he danced that night, or what he danced, or with whom, all was so crowded and confused. Haggerty, the auctioneer, lost his wife in the crowd and couldn’t find her for over an hour. It was the biggest jam ever held in the “old Park.” The great feature of the Dickens ball were the Dickens tableaux, being livin’ pictures illustratin’ passages in Boz’s writin’s. Bellamy, John Fisher, Povey, Clarke, Andrews, Miss King, Mrs. Bedford, Mrs. Jackson and other professionals took part in ‘em and were loudly applauded.
Dickens himself was soon “played out” and was sent to his hotel in a carriage, fagged out before midnight. He didn’t go out of doors for several days after, not till they gave the big dinner at the City Hotel, where Washington Irving sat at the head of the table, and when Rev. Dr. Bellows said a very short grace over a very long bill of fare.
But everybody didn’t fall down and worship Dickens after all. General James Watson Webb came out in a card and said that the New Yorkers were overdoin’ this Dickens matter, as I think they were, and that his name had been used by the ball committee without his authority, and Mr. Francis P. Blair wrote a bitter article in his paper, denouncing Dickens’s writin’s as low and immoral, and said he was as demoralizin’ as Fanny Ellsler, which was doin’ Dickens great injustice, and Fanny, too.
The day Dickens left New York, Mitchell called on him and bade him good-bye. Dickens embraced him and said that the only really pleasant hours he had ever had in New York he had passed at his theatre. He hoped, he said, to see Mitchell once more in old England, but he never did. Mitchell always intended to go back to England, but he died in America.
