The other night, when the wind was whistlin’ round my little theatre and storms were ragin’ all round the coast, some actor friends of mine got talkin’ of the perils they had passed at different times in their travels by sea, and among other casualties, reference was made to the loss of Tyrone Power on the old steamer President.
And, by the by, it is not generally known that a great friend of Power and almost equally clever actor was prevented, through fear of sharin’ his fate, from comin’ over to this country; and yet this latter gentleman was himself lost at sea, like his friend.
The steamship President was one of the marine wonders of its time. It was, however, not built on a fine model for speed, although it was considered remarkably safe and staunch. It made several voyages across the Atlantic very satisfactorily and was in great demand in the passenger line. Theatrical people, of whom there were a good many travelin’ even then, liked it particularly. Braham and the Woods came over in it, I believe. Power was especially anxious to leave New York in it–refused to patronize any other vessel and expressed himself as overjoyed at his good luck in at last securin’ a passage across in this favorite vessel.
The President, with Power and 122 other men and women on board, left New York on a fine March mornin’. The actor had been besought earnestly by several of his friends not to cross in March. He was offered an engagement to play in this country till June, when the weather would have settled, but he said that the climate didn’t agree with him (and it really didn’t) and that he was sure he would never recover his health till he saw London again. So he started off, and in the highest of spirits. He had made a lot of money in this country and, unlike most English actors, had really invested some money in the country. He took a fancy to a Texas ranch and bought several thousands of acres there, intendin’ some day, he said, to return and become a landed proprietor. He also had a large sum of money with him and had sent over a considerable sum in advance of his comin’, so he had reason to feel happy and proud and grateful to his American friends, several of whom “saw him off.”
At the same time that the President started off, a fine packet ship, the Orpheus, commanded by a Captain Cole, left New York and kept the President company down the bay.
The two ships sailed close along together till night and then took different courses. The first night out was calm and pleasant and nothin’ occurred on either vessel out of the common. On the next mornin’, which dawned pleasantly, the Orpheus once more sighted the President, some distance off, and for some reason or other Captain Cole took a long, long look at the retreatin’ steamer with his glass and then, puttin’ it down, turned to his mate and said: “I wonder if we shall see that vessel again?”
They never did, for that evenin’ it began to blow hard, and before the next mornin’ there was a tremendous gale. The packet ship had all she could do to weather the storm, and as for the steamer, she was never seen or heard of again, nor anybody on board. The tempest lasted for three days and nights and was one of the most severe ever known. It strewed the Atlantic with wrecks of all kinds. The gale was so strong that the wind took the sails of the Orpheus, though they had been furled tightly to the yards, and tore ‘em into bits of ribbons.
There were two other big steamships out in this gale–the British Queen and the Halifax. Both of these escaped destruction. As for the President, she was the largest and heaviest of the three ships. So, although she was supposed to be the staunchest, she was the only one lost.
The disappearance of the President created a sad sensation on both sides of the ocean. An English Lord went down on board, as did a young couple from New York named Howell, who had loved each other for years, had been separated and reunited several times, and who finally, comfortably fixed, had got married just two hours before the President started, and had taken passage for their bridal trip. It was an awful honeymoon.
But the loss of Tyrone Power was the item uppermost in the public mind, and it created a great impression upon the mind of another favorite English actor called Elton, a great friend of Power’s, who at the time Power was lost had just made up his mind to try his luck in America. This Elton had always had a high idea of America and Americans, formin’ his opinions, of course, merely on what he had heard and read of this country, or from the Americans he had met in England, as he had never been in America himself. Elton had received a good offer to come over here, and probably would have been very successful, as he had a natural style of humor and of actin’ just suited to American audiences; besides, he was a jolly good fellow and had none of that national or personal conceit that makes some of my fellow-countrymen so confoundedly disagreeable to everybody but ‘emselves.
But as soon as he became assured as to Tyrone Power’s fate, as soon as it was universally agreed upon that he had gone down at Sea with the President, nothin’ on earth could induce Elton to go to America. They might have offered him the city of New York, and it would have been in vain. He got kind of cranky on poor Power, and kept all the time harpin’ on how poor Power must have felt when he was goin’ down. Accordin’ to Elton, Power went down into the sea thinkin’ of the lights and applause of the theatre, seein’ the footlights of the old Haymarket glarin’ at his feet and a full audience lookin’ at him and applaudin’ him. To hear Elton talk on this theme sometimes one would have thought that he must have been on board himself at the time the President went down, or that he himself was the rescued Power. Perhaps he did really think this himself at times. Anybody that gets cranky on any point carries the point to a ridiculous point.
From the time of the loss of Power on, Elton conceived an aversion to the ocean, which he had always been fond of before, and did all his travelin’, as far as possible, by land. Yet no one can escape his fate, and it was Elton’s fate to die, despite of his fears and precautions, just the same way as Power, and under remarkably similar circumstances.
Elton had been a while in Edinburgh, bringin’ out a young lady pupil of his, a Miss Angel, and doin’ very well. But he felt sick, and so wanted to get back to London as soon as possible, just like his friend Power. He had a friend, the captain of the steamship called Pegasus, which sailed between London and Edinburgh, and this friend offered him a passage on his vessel to London. Elton hated to go to by sea, but he hated still more to spend money when he could save it, so he accepted his friend’s offer, and just this once took a sea voyage. It was his last.
On the Pegasus there was among the passengers an English Lord, just as on board the President, and the Pegasus went down in a storm, just like the President. It struck a cliff, known as the Golden Rock, and all on board save six, of whom Elton was not one, perished. But, accordin’ to the account of one of the six survivors, poor Elton did not pass his last moments as he thought poor Power did, for this survivor saw as he last looked at the sinkin’ ship a clergyman who was on board, the Rev. Dr. McKenzie, kneelin’ down and sayin’ his prayers on the deck, and round him were gathered a number of passengers likewise prayin’, and among ‘em was poor Elton on his knees.
It was a good way for a man to die, and it was a strikin’ scene, a scene afterwards repeated closely when the Ville de Havre went down at sea a few years ago and two of the most fashionable young ladies of New York went down prayin’, with a lot of passengers followin’ their example. Even in ocean disasters history repeats itself.
[Editor’s notes: The President was lost in March, 1841. The Pegasus went down in 1843, and is the subject of a recent book by Jane Bowen, From Triumph to Tragedy: The Story of the Paddle Steamer Pegasus and Her People, 1835-1843.
The Ville Du Havre sank in December, 1873. Among the victims were the four daughters of Horatio and Anna Spafford of Chicago. Horatio later penned a poem that became a hymn inspired by the tragedy; and the Spaffords later moved to Jerusalem to help establish an American utopian community.]
