I attended Boucicault’s recent address to the theatrical profession, and while listenin’ to his interestin’ remarks got to thinkin’ about the first Native American dramatist this country ever produced, William Dunlap, whose name is even to-day remembered respectfully by those interested in the early days of the American drama.
William Dunlap will always have a claim to be remembered as bein’ the first regular American dramatist who wrote plays for a livin’, and who actually made a sort of livin’ by writin’ ‘em.
Dunlap–I am told he was the progenitor of my old friend, Tom Dunlap, ex-commissioner of jurors–was a Jerseyman by birth, born at Perth Amboy, of middle-class, respectable parentage. He was a smart boy, and everybody thought he would turn out to be a brilliant sort of comet which leads a sort of flash-in-the-pan life, and then disappears in darkness. Instead of which he never turned out to be brilliant at all, developed slowly but surely, and instead of bein’ a comet sort of a chap, matured very gradually, but stayed and kept a shinin’ on in a mild sort of a manner all the time he lasted.
He tried his hand at everythin’ exceptin’, as his folks said, “what was useful.” He couldn’t bear the name of trade, wouldn’t even study a regular profession, but went in for music and fine arts and literature, and all that sort of fancy thing.
At last, about eighteen, he made up his mind to be a painter, and as West as the great American painter in his early days, nothing would do but Dunlap must go to Europe and see West. This was “goin’ West,” but not as Greeley would have meant it. He went to London, and as soon as he got goin’ to the theatres he got stage-struck, and determined to become an actor. He studied for the stage, and would have made his debut, had not an accident happened. Some stage hands got larkin’ one day, and got throwin’ missiles in fun at each other. One of these missiles hit Dunlap in the eye, and destroyed its sight as well as disfigured his optic. It was a severe blow to Dunlap, but he wisely concluded that there could be no show for a one-eyed actor, so he came back to America disgusted.
The love for the theatre, however, was as strong in him as ever, and although he couldn’t be an actor he could be dramatist, and he became one. He wrote a two-act drama founded on a local incident, and called it “The Modest Soldier, or; Love in New York.” He offered it to the old John Street Theatre management, Messrs. Hallam & Henry, and contrary to the usual luck of place nowadays, it was read and accepted, but it was never acted. And for a while Dunlap couldn’t imagine the reason. It was always goin’ to be produced and all that, but somehow it never was produced. Yet the reason for this was very simple, and every actor or dramatist who may read this chapter will at once understand it when I tell him. You see Henry, one of the managers of the theatre, was the leadin’ man of the theatre, too, and considered himself “the star of the evenin’.” His wife, too, was an actress in the same company, and between ‘em they thought ‘emselves entitled to all the best parts in the pieces. Now Dunlap’s piece was a tip-top affair, a first-class little drama, but the parts to be taken by Mr. and Mrs. Henry were not any stronger than several other male and female parts. There were chances in the play for the minor actors and actresses to get as much praise as the manager, and the manager’s wife. Now can’t you understand why the first piece of Dunlap’s was never performed? Dunlap himself understood the reason why after a while, and showed his Jersey horse sense. He quietly withdrew this first piece on some pretext and offered a second. This second piece was half as good as the first, but the parts in it for Mr. and Mrs. Henry were the best parts in it. There was no delay in getting this piece produced, you bet. It was read, accepted, cast and played within two weeks. It was called “The Father” and took pretty well. After that Dunlap always took care to have his actor or actress pleased with and ready to take a part or a piece before he wrote the piece or part. And from what little I know about the stage of to-day, I should advise all would-be dramatists to follow his example. Be sure of a horse before you buy a cart, or else you may have to pull the cart yourself.
For some years Dunlap kept on writin’ plays and livin’ off of ‘em; but, then he made the usual mistake of playwriters and playactors. He thought it would be a big thing to be a theatre manager. So he tried his hand at it. He experienced a thrill of delight at seeing his name placarded as “manager,” but he felt a thrill of somethin’ else, a few years after, when he became a bankrupt. All the money he had made writin’ for the theatre had been lost managin’ it. The theatre had busted him. “The old, old story.”
But he did then what has seldom or never been done by a theatre manager since, and which shows what an old-fashioned sort of a manager he must have been, to be sure. When he found he was busted, he didn’t “skip by the light of the moon,” he didn’t disappear, he didn’t put everythin’ he had in somebody else’s name, he didn’t leave his company and his creditors to shift for ‘emselves. No, the greenhorn, the old-fashioned simpleton absolutely gave up every dollar he had in the world to pay his debts, and went back to Amboy when a man, as poor as he left it when a boy, in fact, poorer. What would become of “the profession” if there were many such men and managers as old William Dunlap now?
Having had enough of the theatre for a while, he now fell back on what he had picked up about paintin’, and executed several pictures. And then he dabbled in book makin’, too, wrote a life of Cooke, the actor, and a novel bringin’ in Cooke and Cooper and other actors, called “The Water Drinker,”–a queer title for a novel about actors–and he wound up by writin’ a book on the one great love of his life, a “History of the American Theatre,” which will always be valuable, and which will grow in value every year. His friends at one time got him a political position, but politics, like business, was not to his taste, and he soon got out of it.
Then his friends came to the front again, and got up a bumper of a complimentary benefit at the old Park Theatre. All the actors and actresses in New York at that time volunteered their services, and the veteran painter, author, and dramatist realized quite a large sum for those days.
After this his friends, of whom he had plenty, and who all respected him, got him up a collection of paintin’s, which were exhibited for his benefit, and this, too, paid handsomely.
Altogether Dunlap couldn’t complain of life. He hadn’t made much money, he hadn’t written any one great everlastin’ drama or book, nor painted any one picture which was famous, but he lived in good health and honor to a ripe old age, dyin’ in New York about forty years ago, and left a record behind him of an honest, industrious life which should always make New York proud of his first successful American dramatist.
[Editor’s notes: In May, 1884, Irish actor-manager Dion Boucicault gave a talk at the Madison Square Theatre on “The Art of Acting,” taking questions from the audience. He had given a similar performance in London the year before.]
