The New York amusement-goin’ world is full of memories of the “stars” and “leadin’” men and women of the stage; but who remembers the merely “useful” people of the “profession”–those hard-workin’, poorly-paid, yet absolutely necessary men and women whose lives, devoted to “utility,” have no chance for “glory?” Such men as Wright, for instance–good old Wright, from time immemorial the “prompter” at “Wallack’s”. Wright seldom has his name in the papers, yet he really deserves honorable mention more than most professionals.
When Wright began his theatrical career, the country was not “by a long way” what it is now. There was not a single railway west of Cincinnati, nor south of Mason and Dixon’s line, and travelin’ companies in the South and West had to go by boat, stage, horseback or foot. The very idea of a midnight express, or a sleepin’, dinin’ or palace car hadn’t occurred to anybody yet. It took about three times as long to go anywheres as it takes now; but, on the other hand, travelin’ was much more “sociable” than now, and actors and people generally took life more easily. So on the whole, the average of happiness was about the same.
Ludlow and Smith, “old Sol Smith,” were then the boss theatre proprietors, runnin’ a theater in St. Louis, a theater in Mobile and the St. Charles Theater in New Orleans; while old John Bates ran the national in Cincinnati and controlled what there was of the Ohio circuit. The Southern circuit was played during the winter and then the Southern company played in the spring and fall in St. Louis, and further north, thus giving the south and west theatricals “on the installment plan.” Wright was then the juvenile of Ludlow and Smith’s company; “Sandy” Welsh, a smart actor, who died in his prime, was the “comedian,” and Mrs. Farren was the leadin’ lady. As Lucrecia Borgia and Catherine de Medici, this actress was immense–a regular blood-curdler. She was the mother of Fanny Fitz Warren. Dick Russell, father of Sol Smith Russell, was the low comedy man and a prime favorite, and Mrs. Shea was a member of the organization.
This Mrs. Shea was, I believe, a member of the Kemble family, but she became principally notable from the strange and sad manner of her death. She died, as I think, no actress has died before or since. She was standin’ at the side of the stage memorizin’ her part, when suddenly, without any previous warnin’, the counterweight attached to the big drop curtain got loosened and fell direct upon the top of her head and crushed in her skull. Her death was instantaneous–more horrifyin’ to the witnesses of the calamity than to its victim. This was a “theatrical death” indeed.
Ludlow and Sol Smith were, as I have just stated, partners for some time in theatrical management. But never were the two men more unlike. “Old Saul Smith” has always been regarded by the public, and certainly regarded himself, as a fine actor. Yet among the professionals of his own time he was looked upon as a “duffer” and “gagger,” who depended much more on his personal popularity then his professional ability. His “great” roles were “The Mock Duke” and “Cold Huckleberry Puddin’,” and he gagged outrageously in both.
He gave a little “mercantile” flavor to his “gags,” which paid well, directly and indirectly. His friends among the merchants and tradesman of the places in which he played used to send him durin’ the day slips containin’ some “point” or “joke” on their business rivals, enemies or friends. Sol would work up some gags on the points or jokes hinted at in the slips, and would get ‘em off on the stage that night to the intense amusement of all parties concerned, who would go away convulsed with laughter, and ready to swear that Sol Smith was the one greatest actor livin’. No theatre would for a moment tolerate from anybody such a liberty now. Yet in the “good old times” in “the palmy days of the drama,” as they are now called, this was precisely what was done by the old actor and manager and author, “Sol Smith, with unbounded applause nightly.”
To make the matter worse, Sol would get off his “gags” about the merchant, say of Main street, St. Louis, in the costume of the Mock Duke in “The Honeymoon,” thus mixin’ up different countries and centuries in a way that was really as absurd as it was impudent. He would have been hissed off the stage to-day, but then he was made rich and famous.
Ludlow was the direct opposite of his partner, Sol Smith. He was really a good actor in genteel or light comedy, never “gagged” and catered to no personal popularity. The two managers also differed in politics. Ludlow was a red-hot Southerner, while Sol Smith was a staunch Union man. Ludlow, too, was a hard student, while Sol Smith didn’t study and wouldn’t work. Consequently, after a while the partners separated, Ludlow keepin’ and runnin’ the theatre at Mobile, where he first made and then lost cords of money, while Ben de Bar took the St. Charles Theatre off his hands.
As for old Sol, he was always shrewd, and when he heard that the festive Jem Bates, son of old John Bates and a tremendous favorite among the youngbloods of St. Louis, was goin’ to start another theatre in St. Louis, he did what very few men, especially theatrical managers, ever do–he saw the handwritin’ on the wall, saw that his reign was over–and like the smart dog in the fable, walked of his own accord down stairs when he saw preparations made to kick him out of the window.
For a while young Bates was the favorite manager of the West. He had fortune in his grasp. In fact, he made a small fortune every year. But it was the old story. He couldn’t stand prosperity. He took to wine and women. Need I tell the rest? Only the details. That he came to grief of course with certain. The only interest lies just how. And they “just how” in his case was just this:
He and his leadin’ man, George Jamison (afterwards “Consuelo” Jamison) went on all sorts of larks together, and finally, against Jamison’s advice, Bates called one evenin’ upon one of the prettiest women in St. Louis, who was the mistress of a gambler. He repeated the imprudence another night, but this second time the gambler was ready for him. He didn’t shoot Bates, but he beat him half to death, and from the effects of the beatin’ and his furious dissipation, the poor fellow went blind.
It was a tremendous calamity, but Bates never squealed. He was one of those men who could bare ill luck better than good. He had friends who volunteered to kill the gambler and drive the woman out of town. But he wouldn’t suffer either; he bore his sufferings with the dignity of a gentleman, and I have it from the authority of a man who professes to know that he died the death of a Christian. It would have been far better for him then if he had lived the life instead of dyin’ the death.
Gustavus Brooke was playin’ the “Corsican Brothers” the night Jem Bates died in his little room in the theatre not far from the stage, and the priest was administerin’ to the dyin’ actor the last rites of the Church just as the livin’ actor was swearin’ to avenge his brother’s death in the play.
This, too, was a theatrical death, and was dramatic in its contrasts. The history of the stage abounds in just such contrasts of life and death.
[Editor’s notes: One of the sources for this column appears to be: Smith, Solomon. Theatrical Management in the West and South for Thirty Years: Interspersed with Anecdotical Sketches. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1868.]
