Wags of the Stage
 
 EDITION DE LUXE 
 
 Wags of the Stage 
 
 by 
 
 Joseph Whitton 
 
 How now, mad wag ! — Henry IV. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA 
 
 GEORGE H. RIGBY 
 
 1902 
 
 ', » » » i i 
 
 if-* f
 
 Copyright, 1902, by Joseph Whitton. 
 
 Harper & Brother Company, Printers. 
 
 *• ♦ .' . 
 
 " » ' . . ► , 

 
 
 This Edition is limited to Hve 
 
 hundred copies, of which this is 
 
 No. Ci 
 
 '^ 

 
 PUBLISHER'S PREFACE. 
 
 While the players may he, as Hamlet says, 
 "The abstract and brief chronicles of the 
 time," yet they are something more. They 
 serve as time-killers and care-quellers for 
 humanity, to prod the tedium of our idle 
 hours, and quell the worries that may rise 
 from out our busy ones. 
 
 Many of the players in the past have been 
 accomplished wags, and the rehearsal of their 
 waggery is worthy the book which Mr. Whit- 
 ton has written. His half -century's intimacy 
 with the Stage and its people has furnished 
 him with the material, and zvhile the greater 
 part of this zvill be new to his readers, that 
 zvhich they may recognize as old will be, per- 
 haps, none the less pleasing in the new dress 
 with which he has clothed it. 
 
 G. H. R.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Author's Introduction xi 
 
 Junius Brutus Booth I 
 
 John Brougham 12 
 
 Peter Richings 19 
 
 William Rufus Blake 23 
 
 Edwin Forrest 27 
 
 William E. Burton 36 
 
 John Drew 44 
 
 William J. Florence 49 
 
 "Mr. Jones" 57 
 
 H. L. Bateman 68 
 
 Sam. Hemple 72 
 
 P. T. Barnum 80 
 
 Charles M. Barras 87 
 
 Edward A. Sothern 91 
 
 James Quin 108 
 
 Samuel Foote 121 
 
 William Wheatley and an Episode of Nicaraguan 
 
 Life 137
 
 THE AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Stage might justly be called "A 
 School for Wags." No other profession has 
 turned so many of them loose upon the 
 world, and none other has so sharpened the 
 shafts of waggery. Whether the world is 
 thankful for this, or would be better pleased 
 to ha\-e the actor drop his waggishness and 
 stick to the "sock and buskin," is a question 
 which the world itself has answered. While 
 it has hitherto remembered his triumph on 
 the stage, it has not forgotten the play of his 
 humor off of it. Each has its record in the 
 story of his life, and both are essential to its 
 completeness. 
 
 The players whose waggery is chronicled 
 in the following pages have all passed away. 
 They no longer "strut and fret their hour" 
 upon any stage — save that mysterious one 
 where they, and all the world, must play 
 their measured part. J. W.
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. 
 From the collection of James D. Slade.
 
 Junius Brutus Booth. 
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS was the father of 
 Edwin. No tragedian of his day had 
 greater fame, and none, perhaps, had greater 
 physical impediments to stand in the way of 
 its endurance. UnHke his son, he possessed 
 no graceful form to catch the eye, and — at 
 the time I saw him — no tuneful voice to cap- 
 tivate the ear. He was short of stature, 
 with a pair of unsymmetric bow-legs, and 
 spoke with a nasal twang — tolerable enough 
 in Shakspere's gravedigger, or Launcelot 
 Gobbo, but strangely out of place in Hamlet 
 or Shylock. However, in the earlier part of 
 his career there was melody, and a great deal 
 of it, in his voice, but he was unlucky 
 enough to get a broken nose, and this robbed 
 his intonations of their harmony, and left in 
 its place the twang I have mentioned. 
 
 Yet these obstacles — formidable enough 
 to block the path of ordinary genius
 
 2 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 — were swept aside by the electric force 
 and earnestness of Booth's impersonations. 
 To those who witnessed them, they were not 
 the mimic creations of an actor. They were 
 reahties; and when the audience left the 
 theatre after the fall of the curtain on his 
 Richard, they wondered why history had 
 neglected to mention that "the bloody dog" 
 was, not only crook-backed but also bandy- 
 legged and spoke through his nose. 
 
 There was, occasionally, something else 
 about his Richard that truth will pardon me 
 for mentioning. If he had the power to im- 
 bue his audience with the belief that he was 
 "Richard himself," it may not be strange 
 that he sometimes indulged in the same be- 
 lief. It has been an oft-told story, and a 
 true one, that, in one of his performances 
 of Richard at the Arch Street Theatre, in 
 Philadelphia, this belief got so much the bet- 
 ter of him in his fight with Richmond that 
 the latter, in order to save his head from the 
 shower of Booth's broadsword blows, leaped 
 over the footlights into the orchestra, and 
 then fled through the audience with the an-
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. 3 
 
 gry Richard close at his heels and hungry 
 for another whack at his brain-pan. 
 
 Though the great actor was full of eccen- 
 tricity, such a bellicose exhibition of it was 
 not frequent, and when it did occur it was 
 easy to be accounted for. He was fond of 
 "the cup" — overly fond of it, like a few 
 other eminent tragedians that had trod the 
 stage before him. This "convivial prone- 
 ness" was often the source of serious uneasi- 
 ness to the manager who had engaged him, 
 for when he had an attack of it, he lost, not 
 only the knowledge of his own identity, but 
 also his power or disposition to fulfill his en- 
 gagements. "Many a time and oft" did he 
 disappoint his manager, by neglecting to put 
 in an appearance, and compel him to close his 
 theatre with an apology to the public stating 
 that the closing was entirely owing to the 
 "severe indisposition of Mr. Booth." The 
 public swallowed the apology and their dis- 
 appointment good-naturedly, for they were 
 already used to Mr. Booth's "indispositions," 
 and looked upon them as some mysterious 
 disease peculiar to Melpomene's disciples.
 
 4 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Some fifty years or more ago, Mr. E. A. 
 Marshall was the Napoleon of American 
 theatrical managers. He was the lessee of 
 three establishments and ran them all suc- 
 cessfully. One was in New York, another 
 in Baltimore, and the third in Philadelphia — 
 the old Walnut. At the time of which I 
 speak, he had played Booth in New York 
 and Baltimore and then brought him to 
 Philadelphia for an engagement of two 
 weeks. In each of the two former cities Mr. 
 Booth had given his manager ample proof 
 of his liability to these attacks of "sudden 
 indisposition," and Marshall was determined 
 to prevent their repetition, if prevention were 
 possible — at least until the end of the en- 
 gagement. 
 
 But how to do it? He pondered over the 
 problem for some time, and the more he 
 pondered the farther away he was from the 
 solution. Should he ask Mr. Booth to oblige 
 him by signing the pledge for two weeks? 
 That was his first idea but he soon dropped 
 it. To approach the tragedian in his sober 
 moments with a request of that nature would
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. 5 
 
 be sure to bruise his dignity, and so sorely 
 that he would refuse, not only to sign the 
 pledge, but to play at all. 
 
 Suddenly a bright thought struck him. 
 Calling an attache of the theatre he said to 
 him : "Go round on the stage and tell the 
 back-doorkeeper that I wish to see him." 
 
 The back-doorkeeper's name was Cook. 
 He had been a long time in Marshall's em- 
 ploy and was a fellow of more intelligence 
 than his position deserved. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Cook, this, as you know, is 
 Mr. Booth's first night and I have an im- 
 portant task for you to do. If you attend 
 to it faithfully I will see that you are paid 
 for your trouble." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Marshall, I will try to 
 do so. What is it?" 
 
 "It is this ; after the performance to-night, 
 and as soon as Mr. Booth leaves his dressing 
 room. I want you to accompany him to his 
 hotel. Don't let him stop anywhere on the 
 way. You understand?" 
 
 "I think I do, Mr. Marshall." 
 
 "Very well. Now you need not say to
 
 O WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 him that you saw me, and that I gave you 
 these directions. In fact I want you to be 
 very careful that you don't. You are simply 
 to join him as he leaves the theatre as if it 
 were a matter of chance and let him think 
 that your offer to go with him was made 
 merely out of politeness." 
 
 "I understand you, Mr. Marshall, and will 
 attend to it." 
 
 After the performance Cook stood at the 
 back door waiting patiently until he saw the 
 tragedian leave his dressing-room and ap- 
 proach him. Then he spoke : 
 
 "Mr. Booth, if you have no objection it 
 will give me great pleasure to walk with you 
 as far as your hotel. The streets, at this 
 time of night, are filled with rowdies and I 
 will be a sort of body-guard for you." 
 
 Cook afterward told Mr. Marshall that 
 when he made his polite proposition, Mr. 
 Booth's eyes began to twinkle and look at 
 him in a very earnest way as if they were 
 getting ready to dive to the bottom of all this 
 unusual solicitude. Whether Cook was 
 right or wrong in his suspicion, the reader
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. 7 
 
 can judge for himself when he reads the 
 after-experience of the back-doorkeeper. 
 
 In reply to Cook's offer the tragedian 
 merely replied : "Thank you, Mr. Cook, you 
 are very kind, and I shall be pleased to have 
 your company." 
 
 When they reached the hotel — a third- 
 rate one which then stood at the northwest 
 corner of Ninth and Market streets, and was 
 much patronized by theatrical people — Cook 
 bade the tragedian good-night and then 
 turned to go. But Booth stopped him. 
 
 "Oh no, Mr. Cook, I can't permit you to 
 leave me in that way. Come inside a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 Both went up the steps and entered the 
 hotel, and then Cook, with some alarm, saw 
 the actor step up to the bar. If his alarm 
 arose from the thought that the tragedian 
 was about to start on one of his "periodi- 
 cals," it was needless. Booth's order was 
 simply, "Make me a big bowl of catnip tea; 
 have it as hot as you can make it and send it 
 up immediately to my room." 
 
 Greatly relieved in his mind Cook now
 
 8 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 thought that he might safely leave the trage- 
 dian in the company of his hot catnip, and 
 again started to go. 
 
 "Oh no, Mr. Cook, not yet. You must n't 
 go yet. Come to my room with me and sit 
 awhile." 
 
 The invitation was so cordially given that 
 Cook felt flattered, coming as it did from so 
 famous a source. Nor did he have the cour- 
 age to refuse, but followed the tragedian up 
 stairs to his room. What occurred when he 
 got there I will let Mr. Cook himself tell, as 
 he told it to Marshall on the following morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Marshall, we had been seated 
 in the room but a few minutes when the 
 waiter brought in the bowl of catnip tea 
 which, as I told you, Mr. Booth had order- 
 ed. It was a big bowl — so big, that I 
 thought he must have a terribly bad cold if 
 he could swallow all the stuff it contained. 
 Well, he put the bowl on the table by the side 
 of the bed, and then, thinking it time for me 
 to go, I reached for my hat and started for 
 the door. But Mr. Booth stopped me and
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. 9 
 
 took my hat from my hand, saying with a 
 smile: 'No, no, Mr. Cook; this is a very 
 disagreeable night and as you live so far 
 down town it would be very cruel in me to 
 let you venture out. You see I have a bed 
 there broad enough for six people and I in- 
 sist upon it that you stay all night' 
 
 "I told him I would; what else could I 
 do, Mr. Marshall? I did n't want to offend 
 him, and it looked very much as if I would 
 offend him if I refused." 
 
 "Well, go on; what else happened?" 
 asked Marshall. 
 
 "When I told him I would stay he said : 
 That's right. Mr. Cook; I am glad to 
 see that you have so much good sense. And 
 now I will do all in my power to make you 
 comfortable.' 
 
 "And then he began to show what he 
 meant by 'comfortable.' Opening a closet 
 he took out four thick blankets and 
 three heavy comfortables, and piled them 
 all on the bed, although the night was 
 not cold. We then got into bed, Mr. Booth 
 choosing the side near the catnip tea.
 
 10 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 " 'Now. Mr. Cook,' he said, dipping out 
 a tumblerful of the catnip and swallowing 
 it, 'this is the best stuff in the world to warm 
 up a man.' 
 
 "Then he dipped out another tumblerful 
 and handed it to me. 
 
 " 'Excuse me, Mr. Booth/ I said, 'but—' 
 
 " 'No buts, if you please, Mr. Cook, un- 
 less you wish to offend me.' 
 
 "What could I do, Mr. Marshall? I 
 did n't want to offend him so I began to sip 
 it. 
 
 " 'That's not the way to drink catnip tea,' 
 he said. 'You must swallow it down while 
 it's hot!' 
 
 "I got the tumblerful down somehow, 
 and then tried to go to sleep. It was of no 
 use. I began to feel very warm around the 
 neck, and the perspiration commenced to 
 start from the roots of my hair and travel 
 in a stream down my back. I felt that I 
 must either have fresh air or suffocate; so 
 for the purpose of getting a little I pushed 
 down the heavy covers. I thought Mr. 
 Booth was asleep, but he was n't.
 
 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH. H 
 
 " 'What do you mean, Mr. Cook ? Do 
 you want to give us both our death of cold ?' 
 Then he pulled up the covers and leaning 
 over dipped out more of the catnip which he 
 swallowed down, and again filled the 
 tumbler for me. There was no use in my 
 refusing. He was determined to get half 
 of the hot stuff into me, and I believe if 
 there had been no other way to do it, he 
 would have held my head and poured it 
 down. Now, Mr. Marshall, a quart of hot 
 catnip tea emptied into a man may be a good 
 thing to warm him up, if he needs it ; but I 
 did n't. Just look at my condition. 
 There's not a dry rag on me. However, 
 let that pass. What I want to say now is 
 this: When you are again in need of 
 somebody to watch ]\Ir. Booth, please don't 
 send for me. I am always willing to oblige 
 you in anything within reason, but am not 
 willing to take a social sweat with a tra- 
 gedian, or any other man, for the purpose of 
 keeping him sober."
 
 John Brougham. 
 
 ^'npHE genial John!" So was he 
 X named by his friends, and he had 
 a host of them, who clung to him in his 
 bright days of prosperity, and did not for- 
 sake him when the dark ones of adversity 
 threatened his closing years with poverty 
 and want. Then it was that they rallied 
 round him and gave him a solid proof of 
 their unaltered friendship. 
 
 Poor John ! I knew him, and "a fellow 
 of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy" he 
 was. His wit was exhaustless. It bubbled 
 from his lips with the liveliness of cham- 
 pagne, and flowed from his pen in a stream 
 of continuous sparkle. He excelled all 
 other burlesque writers in the flash of his 
 humor and in the apt and prolific use of the 
 jeu-d' esprit. But his forte was speechmak- 
 ing. Before the curtain or anywhere else, 
 he was never at a loss for a happy quip with
 
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 JOHN BROUGHAM. 
 From flic collection of James D. Slade.
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. I3 
 
 which to tickle the ear of his hearers and set 
 them in a roar. No embarrassing stage 
 emergency — and every actor knows that 
 such a thing will sometimes happen — could 
 ever ripple the surface of John's tranquillity, 
 or upset his presence of mind. 
 
 Indeed, he seemed rather to delight in 
 getting his foot into an "emergency" in 
 order that he might show how gracefully he 
 could step out of it. 
 
 Here is an instance: 
 
 His friends having tendered him a com- 
 plimentary benefit at Niblo's Garden, he se- 
 lected one of his own plays for the occasion. 
 He was cast for the principal character, and 
 in one of the scenes, having a long speech 
 to make which was full of sentiment and 
 pathos, he commenced to deliver it, and with 
 all the eloquence he could .muster. In the 
 very middle of it, when the audience were 
 beginning to sniffle and reach for their 
 handkerchiefs, one of his friends, with more 
 zeal than judgment, tossed over the foot- 
 lights a purse of gold that fell at his feet. 
 A look of vexation or indignation — the audi-
 
 14 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 ence harcllv knew which — shadowed his 
 face as he paused in his Hnes. Then he 
 stooped, picked up the purse, walked toward 
 the foothghts, and with face still flushed 
 with seeming chagrin and anger, he spoke: 
 
 "Ladies and Gentlemen : — I have ap- 
 peared before you on many occasions and in 
 many characters, and hitherto have received 
 nothing but kindness and consideration at 
 your hands. For this I thank you. But I 
 am at a loss to conceive what I have said or 
 done to-night to merit your disapproval or 
 to deserve this open and gross insult. How- 
 ever, before we go on with the play, I deem 
 it a duty which I owe to myself {weighing 
 the purse in his hand mid then putting it in 
 his pocket) to pocket the insult, and I 'd 
 like to see the man who '11 try it again !" 
 
 The audience, who were completely 
 jockeyed by the serious earnestness of the 
 first part of his speech, and had listened 
 breathlessly to his sham display of indigna- 
 tion, now burst into such a continued roar 
 of laughter, that it was some minutes before 
 the play could proceed.
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM. 15 
 
 Here is another incident showing that 
 John's humor was always on tap, and that 
 he never allowed the barrel to get low. He 
 was walking down Broadway with a friend 
 w^hen he stopped abruptly before a tailor's 
 establishment and remarked to his friend : 
 "Come in here a moment with me. I want 
 to see if the overcoat I ordered is done. I 
 have the money in my pocket to-day to pay 
 for it; to-morrow I may not be so fortu- 
 nate. The money may be in the pocket of 
 some other fellow." They went in and 
 John, finding his coat ready for him, tried it 
 on, saying as he did so : "Well, it is longer 
 than I ordered it; however, that may be a 
 good fault. Where is your bill ?" The clerk 
 presented the bill, the amount being seventy 
 dollars, which John paid and was walking 
 out of the store when the proprietor stopped 
 him : 
 
 "There's a mistake about that coat, Mr, 
 Brougham." 
 
 "A mistake in the length of it? Yes, I 
 see there is. It is considerably longer than 
 I wanted it."
 
 l6 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "I don't mean that, Mr. Brougham. I 
 mean that the clerk has made a mistake in 
 the price of it. The bill should have been 
 $80 instead of $70." 
 
 "Then you want $10 more? I am very 
 sorry to say that I have n't that much money 
 about me. However, I '11 tell you what you 
 may do. The coat is about that much too 
 long; suppose you cut ten dollars' worth off 
 the tail of it and call it square." 
 
 The proprietor laughed and said, "Oh, 
 never mind, Mr. Brougham. Let it pass; 
 we'll make up the $10 in some other way." 
 
 "Just as you please," said Brougham and 
 he started for the door. Before he reached 
 it a thought struck him that he had forgot- 
 ten something, and turning back he 
 whispered it in the proprietor's ear : 
 
 "In making up that $10, please don't cut 
 it off the legs of those trousers I ordered 
 yesterday." 
 
 One more of his pranks and then we have 
 done with Brougham. 
 
 He had written a farce which was about 
 to be played for the first time, and during
 
 JOHN BROUGHAM, I7 
 
 the morning's rehearsal of it, one of the 
 actors, who was cast in the part of a servant, 
 came to him with a long face saying : 
 "Mr. Brougham, I can't do this." 
 "Can't do what?" asked Brougham. 
 "Why, this business of William's which 
 you have written down here : 'Enter Wil- 
 liam holding a nightcap in his hand which 
 he hastily sivallows.' " 
 
 "Well, the sentence is a little slipshod in 
 its construction. However, it doesn't 
 mean that you are to swallow your hand, 
 but the nightcap." 
 
 "I know what it means, Mr. Brougham." 
 "Well, then, where is the difficulty?" 
 "Difficulty?" echoed the puzzled actor, 
 "Why, I never swallowed a nightcap in my 
 life; I don't know how." 
 
 "You don't know how? Then it is high 
 time you did. Your education has been 
 neglected. Step this way, please." 
 
 \\^illiam crossed the stage and Brougham 
 whispered something in his ear. The whis- 
 per was not loud enough to reach the ears of 
 the other actors, but the broad grin on Wil-
 
 l8 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Ham's face proved that the noiseless words 
 must have conveyed to his understanding all 
 the information it needed. When night 
 came and the farce was played, William 
 went through his difficult bit of stage busi- 
 ness with so much ease, the audience was in- 
 clined to believe that the swallowing of 
 nightcaps had been the occupation of his 
 life.
 
 PETER RICHINGS. 
 From the collection of Charles N. Mann.
 
 Peter Richinprs. 
 
 PETER was a great favorite with the 
 old-time playgoers of New York, as 
 well as those of Philadelphia. In the first- 
 named city he was a member of the Old 
 Park Company and afterwards of the 
 Broadway — a theatre managed by E. A. 
 Marshall. This theatre was demolished 
 long ago to give place to business houses. 
 It stood on the east side of Broadway near 
 Worth street. 
 
 Peter left New York to join the company 
 of the Walnut Street Theatre in the Quaker 
 City, and all of its play-goers of fifty years 
 ago — at least those of them who have not 
 accompanied him into the other world — 
 must remember Peter. How could they 
 forget the mercurial spirit of his Mercutio, 
 his Dazzle, his Robert Macaire, and other 
 of his comedy characters which he seemed 
 to have made especially his own? 
 3
 
 20 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 He was a wag, too, but an unintentional 
 one. That is to say, his humor was of an 
 unconscious type, oozing out at unexpected 
 moments to spht the sides of his listeners, 
 while the author of it would be at a loss to 
 discover the source of their merriment, and 
 wonder what he had said that deserved to 
 be laughed at. 
 
 As a man Richings was above reproach. 
 He was always polite — severely so, and 
 sometimes stretched his love of decorum to 
 the bounds of absurdity. He looked for 
 propriety in the conduct of all with whom 
 he came in contact, and the slightest breach 
 of it, which an ordinary straight-laced man 
 would overlook, Peter could n't nor would n't 
 tolerate. Hence some of his friends in a 
 spirit of sarcasm, had dubbed him "Punc- 
 tilio Peter." 
 
 But, with it all, he never forgot his polite- 
 ness. If anyone should chance to be rude 
 enough to puncture his "punctilio" and thus 
 call for his censure, he gave it to them in the 
 mildest manner, and always coupled it with 
 an excuse or explanation that soothed the
 
 PETER RICHINGS. 21 
 
 recipient into "taking his medicine" as 
 meekly as if Peter had conferred a favor by 
 giving it. 
 
 One night at the Wahiut Street Theatre, 
 and during the performance of Robert 
 Macaire with Peter as the hero, a young 
 couple, occupying one of the lower private 
 boxes, displayed more evidence of affection 
 than was consistent with Peter's idea of pro- 
 priety. They were not within view of the 
 audience but were plainly visible to those on 
 the stage. Every few minutes the young 
 man — evidently a newly-married one — 
 would take his eyes from the stage, lean 
 tenderly over to his companion and give her 
 a kiss. Now, kissing a pretty girl is not 
 such a dreadful thing to look at, yet Peter 
 was shocked. Not that he thought their 
 kissing was an unpardonable sin, but he con- 
 sidered it a household delicacy that would n't 
 spoil if they kept it till they got home. And 
 he resolved to tell them so. When the cur- 
 tain dropped on the first act, and without 
 waiting to change his dress or even to 
 divest his eye of Macaire's conventional
 
 22 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 black patch, he went through the entrance 
 that opened into the lobby of the theatre 
 and tapped lightly at the private-box door. 
 In a moment or two it was opened by the 
 young Benedick himself and then Peter, in 
 the most urbane tones, began to unload the 
 object of his visit : 
 
 "Pardon me, my dear sir, for thus rudely 
 interrupting you, but really sir, we can't 
 allow this sort of thing; you must try to 
 keep it till you get home. It is contrary to 
 our rules; and besides, sir — besides — we 
 don't do it ourselves!"
 
 WILLIAM RUrUS BLAKE. 
 From the collection of Charles iV. Mann.
 
 William Rufus Blake. 
 
 BLAKE was an actor of the old school. 
 He was a "light comedian" in his 
 younger days, and a very good one; but as 
 the years crept on they piled the flesh upon 
 him until at last he became so corpulent he 
 was forced to abandon the line of light 
 comedy and take up that of "first old men." 
 In his impersonations of these he at once 
 became a greater favorite than he had ever 
 been in those of light comedy. In certain 
 parts, notably Jesse Rural, in Old Heads 
 and Young Hearts, and Old Rapid, in A 
 Cure for the Heartache, he had few, if any, 
 equals, and his Sir Harcourt Courtley, in 
 London Assurance, was considered by com- 
 petent critics to be almost, if not quite, as 
 great a piece of acting as the Sir Harcourt 
 of Harry Placide. 
 
 Some years ago — the exact year has 
 slipped my recollection — Blake gathered a
 
 24 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 company together with the intention of play- 
 ing the old comedies in all the principal 
 cities. The company was composed of the 
 best talent he could secure — in fact each and 
 every actor and actress of the major parts 
 was an adept in his or her line, while those 
 of the minor parts were not the sticks that 
 are so often used to fill up a cast. 
 
 He reached Philadelphia with his com- 
 pany, in which city six performances were 
 given, and to wretched houses. I was 
 present at the last one, and never in my long 
 life have I seen such a "beggarly account of 
 empty boxes." At the close of the perform- 
 ance Mr. Blake stepped before the curtain, 
 uncalled for. and made a speech. It was 
 not very long, but it was a most remarkable 
 one to fall from the lips of a manager to 
 those who had honored him with their at- 
 tendance : "Ladies and Gentlemen : I am 
 delighted to say that the performance just 
 ended will be our last in your City of Broth- 
 erly Love. Before we again visit it we 
 will give its citizens time to become theatri- 
 cally enlightened, in order that they may be
 
 WILLIAM RUFUS BLAKE. 2^ 
 
 able to distinguish the difference between 
 good and bad acting. Fearing, however, 
 that this may not occur until the Crack of 
 Doom, I bid you all a long farewell." 
 
 To say that the "ladies and gentlemen" 
 present were astonished at the speech, would 
 be drawing it too mild; they were shocked; 
 and if its unadulterated impudence had n't 
 robbed them of their breath they would 
 probably have hissed the maker of it. 
 However, to let out their indignation in 
 that way might not have been wise. There 
 were more people behind the curtain than 
 in front of it, and Blake was just the man, 
 and just in the mood, to marshal his stage 
 forces and hiss the hissers out of the house. 
 
 The last time I saw Blake alive, was on 
 a hot July afternoon. He was seated at the 
 front window of his house with a cigar in 
 his mouth, a palm-leaf fan in each hand and 
 a big tumblerful of something standing on 
 the window-sill. I might have supposed it 
 to be ice-water, but there was a bunch of 
 green sprigs sticking out of the top of it that 
 killed any supposition of that kind.
 
 26 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Why, Rufus," I said, "don't you know 
 this is mid-summer ? How is it you 're not 
 out of town?" 
 
 "Out of town ? Great God, my boy, is n't 
 it hot enough here?" 
 
 He wiped the perspiration from his brow, 
 bored his nose for a moment among the 
 green sprigs, and I left him leaning back in 
 his easy chair, panting like a dog and 
 stirring up the hot summer air with his 
 palm-leafs.
 
 EDWIN FORREST. 
 From the collection of James D. Slade.
 
 Edwin Forrest. 
 
 ON the list of the world's tragedians 
 the name of Edwin Forrest stands, if 
 not at the top, at least very close to it. As 
 a man he was brusque in his manners, even 
 to surliness, and had made many enemies 
 among his profession, and more of them out 
 of it than his popularity as an actor could 
 placate. But it is as a wag that I now have 
 to deal with him, and he was apt enough in 
 that line to deserve the space and the record 
 I have given him in these pages. 
 
 The reader may think it strange that the 
 great impersonator of Lear and Macbeth 
 and Metamora should step from his high 
 pedestal, give Melpomene the cold shoulder, 
 and condescend to amuse himself in the 
 Thalian field of waggery. Yet he is not the 
 only tragedian, nor by any means the only 
 great one, that has condescended to do the 
 same thing and to do it so well that biog-
 
 28 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 raphy has made a note of it and would have 
 been neghgent if it had n't. 
 
 There have been many stories told of For- 
 rest's waggish tricks, but I have learned, 
 and from the lips of the tragedian himself, 
 that the majority of them have no founda- 
 tion for truth, save in the fertile brain of his 
 fellow-actors. 
 
 The one which I will now give is not of 
 this sort. I can vouch the truth of it, for 
 I was the treasurer of Niblo's Garden, when 
 and where it occurred, and my young assist- 
 ant was the victim at whose head, or rather 
 boots, Forrest launched the shaft of 
 his waggery. 
 
 The tragedian, during his rehearsals, was 
 exacting in many things and especially so 
 in one — he insisted upon having the silence 
 of the grave around him. He would toler- 
 ate no noise, nor sounds of any kind, save 
 such as the speeches or the business of the 
 play warranted. 
 
 One morning the rehearsal of King Lear 
 was under way and had progressed as far as 
 the fourth scene of the third act, when the
 
 EDWIN FORREST. 29 
 
 sound of squeaking boots caught the ear of 
 Forrest. The boots had passed from the 
 lobby of the theatre through the stage door 
 and were leisurely taking their way along 
 the passage back of the wings and toward 
 the rear of the stage. John McCullough 
 was the "Edgar" and had reached the mid- 
 dle of one of his mad speeches when For- 
 rest suddenly interrupted him. "Hold, one 
 moment, John, if you please. We will stop 
 the rehearsal in order to give those boots an 
 opportunity to get through with what they 
 have to say." 
 
 McCullough paused long enough to per- 
 mit the squeaking to die away in the dis- 
 tance and then took up Edgar's speech 
 where he had broken it off: "Let not the 
 creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks 
 
 betray thy ," when Forrest again 
 
 stopped him: 
 
 "D — n it man ! Those are not shoes. 
 Listen ! There they go again. I will give 
 any man a ten-dollar bill who will bring me, 
 dead or alive, the owner of those boots!" 
 However, as no man seemed anxious or will-
 
 30 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 ing to try for the reward, the muscular tra- 
 gedian told McCullough to finish his speech 
 and, when he had done so, went on with his 
 own, giving the opening line : "Why, thou 
 wert better in thy grave," with forcible 
 emphasis, and with a scowl in the direction 
 of the offending boots as if he were ready to 
 assist their owner into the portals of the 
 other world. 
 
 I heard of the incident on the following 
 morning, and turning to my assistant — who, 
 I thought, was the probable owner of the 
 boots — asked him if he had anything to 
 do with it. He admitted that the boots 
 were his and said that he had tried to soak 
 the squeak out of them, but could n't suc- 
 ceed. "Then," I said, "for heaven's sake, 
 take them off and travel in your stocking 
 feet, if you again have occasion to go behind 
 the scenes during a Forrest rehearsal." 
 
 While there is no doubt that the great 
 tragedian possessed plenty of talent, it is 
 also certain that he possessed plenty of 
 muscle to back it up, if the play required it. 
 And sometimes it did, or he thought it did.
 
 EDWIN FORREST. 3! 
 
 if we may judge by the lavish display he 
 made of it in Damon. In his impersonation 
 of this character he had tried his muscle on 
 more than one Lucullus and — so far as my 
 knowledge serves me — none of them found 
 enough delight in the experience to care for 
 its repetition. 
 
 Let me give an illustration of the manner 
 of his muscle. 
 
 In one of the New York theatres there 
 was once an actor remarkable for his 
 pygmean size, and also for his pygmean 
 ability which never carried him beyond "My 
 lord, the carriage awaits" and six dollars a 
 week. He was a devoted worshiper of 
 Forrest, and, whenever the latter played an 
 engagement at the theatre, never failed to 
 bore the manager with a request to cast him 
 in some little part where he might have a 
 chance to be on the stage with "the great 
 Forrest." During one of the tragedian's 
 engagements, the little actor — he was not 
 five feet in height — came, as usual, to the 
 manager, asking if he would n't give him a 
 part in one of Forrest's plays.
 
 32 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Give you a part! What can you do? 
 What do you want?" 
 
 "Oh, any little part, if it's only a line, 
 where I can be on in the same scene with 
 Forrest." 
 
 "Well, I don't see how I can help you. 
 The pieces for the week are nearly all cast 
 and — stay;" here a sardonic smile twitched 
 up the corners of the manager's mouth. 
 "Do you think you could get through with 
 Lucullus?" 
 
 "Lucullus?" 
 
 "Yes, Lucullus, in Damon and Pythias." 
 
 "I don't know; I never saw Damon 
 played." 
 
 "Well, I'll give you a show and cast you 
 for the part. It is short and therefore 
 there's not much to study. There is some 
 business in it, to be sure; but Forrest will 
 post you up on this and help you through 
 with it when the night comes." 
 
 The little actor was delighted, especially 
 at rehearsal when the renowned tragedian 
 seemed to take so much interest in showing 
 him what to do and how to do it.
 
 EDWIN FORREST. 33 
 
 "You must stand just at this spot and 
 speak your lines ; when you get through I 
 will seize you and put you off at first en- 
 trance." 
 
 "Is that all I will have to do?" 
 
 "Yes, that is all ; but I think you will find 
 it enough. Remember, when I take hold of 
 you, you must give yourself up entirely to 
 me." 
 
 When the night came the little actor took 
 his stand near the wings dressed in spotless 
 tights and a Roman tunic. He had gotten 
 through tolerably well with what little he 
 had to say in the first, second and third 
 acts and stood waiting for his cue to go on 
 in the fourth. When it came, he walked on 
 and everything went swimmingly until 
 Damon asked for his horse, and acted as if 
 he thought Lucullus had the animal stowed 
 away in the depths of his pocket. "Where's 
 my horse?" and the horse not being pro- 
 duced, the angry Damon believed that the 
 quickest way to get it would be to tear the 
 little actor into pieces. Pouncing upon him, 
 like a hungry tiger on a lamb, he lifted him
 
 34 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 in the air, shook him from side to side, and 
 then set him down on his feet. But it was 
 only to get a better hold. Again he seized 
 him and, turning him up, took him by the 
 heels, and with a shout, "I'll throw thee with 
 one swing into Tartarus," he whirled him 
 around in Indian-club fashion, balanced him 
 in the air a moment, and then flung him out 
 through the first entrance and into an im- 
 aginary Tartarus in front of the prompter's 
 box. 
 
 Disheveled, bruised, sore and astonished, 
 there he lay trying to recover wind enough 
 to get on his feet. One of his brother 
 actors seeing his predicament helped him up, 
 remarking: "Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, at 
 last you have had your wish. You have 
 played with Forrest." 
 
 "Played with Forrest? Not exactly," 
 said Tom. "Forrest has played with me, 
 and I don't think he'll get another chance." 
 
 Forrest, in the day of his prime, and be- 
 fore the gout got the upper hand of him, 
 was a high liver and one of the heartiest of 
 eaters. Entering a restaurant one day he
 
 EDWIN FORREST. 35 
 
 sat down at a table and called the waiter : 
 "Bring me a beefsteak." was his order, and 
 he gave it in such subterranean accents that 
 the darkey stood spellbound, rolling up his 
 eyes and showing his teeth. 
 
 "What are you grinning at? If you don't 
 go for that steak, and be quick about it, I'll 
 go for you and there'll be one less contraband 
 in the world." 
 
 The darkey left, and when he returned 
 with the order, it was "a small steak for 
 one" which he placed before the tragedian. 
 Forrest turned the steak over on the plate 
 with the fork two or three times, examining 
 it closely. Then he handed it back to the 
 waiter. "Yes," he said, "that's what I 
 want; that's beefsteak. The sample is all 
 right; tell your master to send me some!"
 
 William E. Burton. 
 
 1 PRESUME the reader knows that there 
 is such a disease as the Thespian fever; 
 but whether he does or not, I had a sharp 
 attack of it in my young days that led me — 
 as it leads all others of its victims — to join 
 an Amateur Dramatic Association. The 
 latter was the most pretentious one of its 
 day, and named the "Boothenian" in honor 
 of the elder Booth. Some of its members, 
 who "joined for the fun of it," afterwards 
 took up the profession in earnest and became 
 tolerably good actors. Whether any of 
 them are now in the land of the living, or 
 all are in the maw of "devouring Time," I 
 am not prepared to say. 
 
 The rules of the association provided that 
 there should be one performance every week 
 during the winter season and that each mem- 
 ber should be entitled to a night, choosing 
 the play and any part in it that he preferred.
 
 AVILLIAM E. BURTON. 
 From the collection of James D. Slade.
 
 WILLIAM E. BURTON, 37 
 
 There was no charge for admission to 
 these performances. The pubhc were in- 
 vited to come "without money and without 
 price" and enjoy what the Association's pro- 
 gram modestly called "a histrionic treat." 
 And they did come. Whether the "treat" 
 always satisfied the palate of the public I 
 cannot say ; but as it cost them nothing they 
 were generous enough to gulp it down with 
 all the signs of satisfaction. 
 
 "Bombastes Furioso" was a dish which 
 the Boothenians were in the habit of spread- 
 ing for the entertainment of their patrons; 
 but a tragedy of some sort — and the deeper 
 the better — was the standard delicacy. Of 
 my own attempts in the latter line I shall 
 say nothing. A half-century has passed 
 since then, and yet the bare recollection of 
 them now causes a tingling blush to mount 
 my cheek and a cold shiver to crawl up and 
 down my back-bone. 
 
 What has all this to do with the subject of 
 my chapter? Have patience, reader, and 
 you will know. 
 
 Among the members of the Association 
 
 
 fvH(
 
 38 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 was a young fellow whom we recognized as 
 Percy. What his other name was, or 
 whether he had one, I never knew, nor did I 
 have the curiosity to ask. When his name 
 appeared on the night's program, it was 
 simply "Percy." He insisted upon having 
 it so, saying "it was good enough without a 
 head before it, or a tail behind." 
 
 Percy had plenty of ambition, there was 
 no doubt about that, but it had a streak of 
 tragedy running through it which, unfortu- 
 nately, Nature could n't have noticed when 
 she shaped his legs. They were long and 
 thin, a little bit crooked, and of the same 
 diameter all the way up and down — except 
 at the knee-caps, and these stuck out like 
 sugar-bowls. 
 
 But Percy was no fool. He knew that 
 Nature had either made an oversight in the 
 shaping of his legs or else had intended him 
 for an English snipe. Yet he did n't 
 despair. Hunting up a regular stage cos- 
 tumer he ordered a pair of pads, or "shapes," 
 as they are technically called. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Costumer," he said, "I should
 
 WILLIAM E. BURTON 39 
 
 like you to be careful. I don't want a pair 
 of clumsy things that destroy all the natural 
 beauty of a fellow's leg. Just soften down 
 the curves a little." 
 
 Whether the costumer succeeded in 
 "softening down the curves" to Percy's sat- 
 isfaction, or not, I cannot say; but it was 
 evident the legs were still there, for, when- 
 ever their owner appeared before the audi- 
 ence, they were always received with a 
 round of hearty applause. Whether Percy 
 took all this applause as a tribute to his 
 genius, or gave his legs the credit for some 
 of it, is something which he never divulged. 
 
 One night, after one of our performances, 
 he called me aside and said : 
 
 "Do you know I am about to make a bold 
 stroke?" 
 
 "A bold stroke? In what direction?" 
 
 "In the direction of the stage, of course." 
 
 "And how do you purpose beginning your 
 stroke?" 
 
 "In this way; I shall call on Mr. Burton 
 to-morrow and ask him if he won't give me 
 an opening at his theatre."
 
 40 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "That is a rather bold stroke; but I wish 
 you luck. Let me know to-morrow night 
 how you succeed in it." 
 
 Burton, at that time, was the lessee and 
 manager of the Arch Street Theatre of 
 Philadelphia. When I saw Percy on the 
 following night he told me he had called on 
 Mr. Burton and — but stop; we will let 
 Percy give the story of his interview and in 
 his own words : 
 
 "Mr. Burton received me courteously, ask- 
 ing what he could do for me. I told him of 
 my determination to earn my living on the 
 stage, and that I would like him to give me 
 an opening at his theatre. He eyed me a 
 moment from head to foot and then asked 
 if I thought I had enough perseverance to 
 saw hickory wood all day long for ten cents 
 a cord. I told him I did n't think my perse- 
 verance would stand a strain of that kind. 
 
 " T suppose not,' he replied, 'and there 
 may not be much glory in being a good 
 woodsawyer; but, as you tell me it is a liv- 
 ing you are on the lookout for, I can assure 
 you that there are many actors to-day who
 
 WILLIAM E. BURTON. 4I 
 
 could earn a better living in that profession 
 than they are now doing in their own. 
 However, let me hear you read this speech 
 of Hamlet's,' and opening the book he 
 pointed to the soliloquy commencing with 
 'To be or not to be.' 
 
 "Now, I flatter myself that what I don't 
 know about the melancholy Dane nobody 
 else does. If you remember I played the 
 part not a long while ago, and though the 
 audience did n't seem to see the novelty and 
 beauty that underlaid my conception of the 
 part, that was their fault, not mine. I was 
 not responsible for their stupidity and there- 
 fore not obliged to furnish them with 
 brains." 
 
 "Of course not; but never mind that — go 
 on with your story." 
 
 "Well, I began the speech with what I 
 thought the proper emphasis and intonation, 
 and had just reached the end of 'the thou- 
 sand natural shocks that flesh is heir to,' 
 when he stopped me : 
 
 " 'That will do, young man. It is plain 
 that you have something in you, but it will
 
 42 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 take a little time and a great deal of study to 
 bring it out. How long have you been pre- 
 paring for the stage?' 
 
 " 'About one year,' I replied. 
 
 "'Only one year? Wonderful! Well, 
 though I cannot give you an opening just 
 now, I can give you a bit of good advice 
 which will cost you nothing.' 
 
 "I thanked him kindly and then he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " 'Go home and study hard. Take 
 Shakspere to bed with you. Read his Ham- 
 let carefully, and weigh the sense of 
 every line so that no hidden meaning may 
 escape you. Ponder over his words the last 
 thing at night and the first thing in the 
 morning. After breakfast take him up 
 again and digest his lines until your dinner 
 hour ; but be careful to make that meal a 
 light one; an overloaded stomach is apt to 
 muddle the cranium and interfere with the 
 free action of the brain.' 
 
 '"Is that all. Mr. Burton?' 
 
 " 'Yes, I believe that is all.' 
 
 " 'How long am I to keep up this study ?'
 
 WILLIAM E. BURTON. 
 
 43 
 
 " 'Well, let me see — I think that ten 
 years ought to be sufficient. At the end of 
 that time you will be, unless my judgment 
 is at fault, what neither Mr. Booth nor Mr. 
 Forrest has as yet succeeded in being.' 
 
 "Here he broke off his sentence and, as 
 he showed no sign of continuing it, I could 
 not help asking the question : 'What will 
 I be, Mr. Burton?' 
 
 "With a look that seemed to have a good 
 deal of pity in it, he handed me my hat and 
 replied : 
 
 " 'The worst actor the world has ever 
 seen !' "
 
 John Drew. 
 
 ALL Philadelphia theatre-goers of 
 forty-five years ago, who are still 
 alive, cannot but remember John Drew when 
 he was associated with William Wheatley 
 in the management of the Arch Street 
 Theatre. He was the father of the present 
 popular John — an actor who has fallen heir 
 to enough of his sire's genius to make him 
 one of the most distinguished stars of to- 
 day. 
 
 John, the elder, was a comedian of great 
 versatility. In light, low, or eccentric 
 comedy his impersonations all bore the 
 stamp of an artist. If a part demanded a 
 touch of pathos — as in "The Irish Emi- 
 grant" — he could give the touch with power 
 enough to sound the heart and tap the tears 
 of the audience. 
 
 In private life he was social, unassuming 
 and open-hearted. No needy actor ever
 
 JOHN DREW. 
 
 From the collection of Charles N. Mann.
 
 JOHN DREW. 45 
 
 asked his aid in vain, and needy actors, in 
 those days, were as plentiful as Fal staff's 
 blackberries. They say that every man has 
 his enemies, but I never knew that John had 
 any — unless it were his own overly-warm 
 heart. 
 
 However, it is not as a man, but as a wag 
 that I now wish to speak of him, and in this 
 character he was quite as much at home as 
 in any of his others. One night, while in 
 his dressing room at the Arch, he told me 
 the following story which will show how 
 sharp an edge he could put on a practical 
 joke w^hen he was in the vein : 
 
 Attached to one of the theatres as a 
 "dresser" was a man named Allen. When 
 the manager had an unimportant part and 
 nobody else to substitute, Allen was taken 
 from his occupation of "dresser" and put in 
 to fill up the cast. Hence the company nick- 
 named him "Dummy Allen." 
 
 Now, Dummy was afflicted with a nonde- 
 script trouble in his speech. It was not ex- 
 actly a hitch or an impediment, but a foggy, 
 cold-in-the-head sort of pronunciation that
 
 46 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 changed the form of his IM's and N's and 
 tumbled them out of his mouth in the shape 
 of B's and D's. He was also troubled with 
 another drawback; he was as deaf as a post 
 — possibly a little deafer. A speech might 
 be fired at his head w^th a Krupp gun and 
 the "post" would be more likely to hear it 
 than Dummy; therefore "cues" given in the 
 ordinary way would have brought him no 
 more information than if they had been 
 uttered on the other side of the Atlantic. 
 How then did he get over the difficulty ? In 
 a very simple manner. He kept his eye 
 fixed on the other actor's lips and when they 
 ceased to move Dummy knew it was his turn 
 to go ahead. 
 
 Of course these little drawbacks of 
 Dummy's were big enough to stand in the 
 way of his ever becoming a star of the first 
 magnitude. Still they did n't compel the 
 manager to leave him out of the cast, al- 
 though policy, and a decent regard for the 
 nerves of the audience, required that the part 
 given him should be of little or no impor- 
 tance.
 
 JOHN DREW. 47 
 
 It SO happened that John Drew was one 
 of the company in the same theatre with 
 Dummy, and in one of the plays had a scene 
 in which the latter came on as his servant. 
 The servant had but two or three lines to 
 speak and these were in answer to a speech 
 of Drew's. Dummy stood watching his 
 master's lips and waiting patiently for them 
 to get through with their work and settle 
 down. But they seemed determined not to 
 settle down. Drew's love of waggery had 
 got the better of him. After finishing his 
 speech to Dummy he turned his head aside 
 just enough to take his mouth from out the 
 range of the eyes of the audience and then 
 kept up a silent motion of his lips. An 
 absolute quiet reigned on the stage and 
 throughout the house. Dummy waited and 
 wondered and the audience waited and 
 wondered. Then a hiss from the latter 
 warned the wag that he must put an end to 
 his joke and let the play go on. 
 
 When they were both off the stage. 
 Dummy, who had n't recovered from his 
 wonder at Drew's long speech, asked him :
 
 48 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Johd, what was the batter with that 
 speech you bade? It was so dadb lawg I 
 begad to thidk you'd dever fiddish!" 
 
 It will not be out of place here to speak of 
 John's younger brother, Frank, who was a 
 member of the Arch Street Theatre Com- 
 pany under his brother's management in 
 1853. Frank is still living and still play- 
 ing, and 't would be hard to find to-day a 
 more trenchant personator of character-parts 
 than he.
 
 Wri.I.IAM J. FLORENCE. 
 From the collection of James D. Slade.
 
 William J. Florence. 
 
 IT would be difficult to find, either in the 
 profession or out of it, a more good- 
 natured fellow than was Billy Florence. 
 This was one of the traits of his character 
 that endeared him to his friends — and their 
 name was Legion. Yet, with all his good- 
 nature, he held a rooted antipathy toward 
 anything that had the savor of bulldozing. 
 How he treated the latter, when he ran up 
 against it, the following story will serve to 
 illustrate : 
 
 During one of his engagements in Phila- 
 delphia he attended a convivial gathering of 
 his fellow-professionals, and — as sometimes 
 happens at gatherings of this sort — their de- 
 votions at the festive board were not over 
 until long after midnight. So, when Billy 
 left he thought the hour an improper one to 
 return to the bosom of his family, and that 
 his more judicious course would be to pass
 
 50 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 the remainder of the night in a hotel. He 
 was well acquainted with the host of one of 
 these — the Washington House, which then 
 stood on the north side of Chestnut street 
 above Seventh. Entering the hotel he 
 asked the night-clerk to let him have a room, 
 and also to oblige him with a single-bedded 
 one that he could have to himself. 
 
 The clerk looked over his register, and 
 calling a servant gave him a key and di- 
 rected him to "Show the gentleman to 34." 
 Florence followed the servant up three 
 flights of stairs and then his guide stopped 
 before a room-door in which he tried his 
 key. The door, however, was not locked, 
 and when it was opened, Billy entered and 
 found himself in a double-bedded room, one 
 of the beds being already occupied. 
 
 "I thought I told the clerk to give me a 
 room to myself. However, it does n't mat- 
 ter much. Light the gas and you may go." 
 
 Billy took off his coat and vest, put his 
 watch and pocket-book under his pillow and 
 then sat down by the side of the table, 
 apparently absorbed in thought. Ten min-
 
 WILLIAM J. FLORENCE. 5I 
 
 iites passed and then his reverie was dis- 
 turbed by a gruff voice from the occupied 
 bed. 
 
 "When are you going to put out that 
 Hght?" 
 
 With the pleasantest of tones Billy re- 
 plied : "Presently, sir," and then resumed 
 his attitude of thought. 
 
 Another ten minutes, and again came the 
 voice from the other bed, and gruffer than 
 before. 
 
 "If you don't turn out that light I'll find 
 a way to make you, sir!" 
 
 Now Billy was a man of the mildest man- 
 ners, and a polite request from the grum 
 occupant of the bed would have quickly 
 accomplished what his bulldozing was not 
 destined to do. 
 
 "You'll find a way to make me? Well, 
 my friend, go ahead; I did intend to oblige 
 you by turning out the light ; but as you are 
 so crabbedly anxious about it I have changed 
 my mind and shall let it burn till morning." 
 
 The fellow jumped from his bed, while 
 Billy sat quietly at the table waiting for 
 S
 
 52 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 some pugnacious demonstration of the 
 method his gruff friend would adopt to 
 carry out his threat. However, instead of 
 showing any pugnacity he commenced dress- 
 ing himself, interspersing his toilet opera- 
 tions with churlish snarls and black 
 innuendos, all of which he hurled at the 
 head of Billy. 
 
 "I know you, sir. You 're no better than 
 you should be." 
 
 "Perhaps not," replied Billy; "but if I am 
 as good as I should be, it is more than the 
 world gives you the credit for. Did n't you 
 notice that I took the precaution of putting 
 my watch and pocketbook under my pillow ? 
 You see that I know you, too — By the way, 
 those trousers of yours fit you splendidly. 
 Might I ask who's your tailor?" 
 
 Without giving the comedian the desired 
 information, his surly companion finished 
 dressing himself and then bounced out of 
 the room, banging the door behind him with 
 a volley of sulphurous words that had no 
 more serious effect upon Billy than to twitch 
 up the corners of his mouth. Taking off
 
 WILLIAM J. FLORENCE. 53 
 
 the remainder of his clothing the actor now 
 got into bed, where he lay but a few minutes 
 when the door of his room again opened and 
 the hotel clerk entered. 
 
 "Mr. Florence, I made a mistake in giv- 
 ing you this room." 
 
 "Yes, I think you did. If I remember 
 rightly I paid you for a room which I could 
 have to myself, and instead of getting it, you 
 gave me one in company with a bear." 
 
 "I am very sorry, sir, that I made the 
 blunder ; but there is a fine, large, airy room 
 down on the second floor which you can 
 have if you — " 
 
 "No, thank you; this one suits me now 
 well enough. Besides, as my friend, the 
 bear, has taken the trouble to dress himself 
 from top to toe, don't you think it would be 
 cruel to rob him of that fine, large, airy 
 room on the second floor?" 
 
 The clerk left, leaving Billy master of the 
 situation. However, instead of crowing 
 over his victory he went to sleep and the 
 first person to meet him in the morning was 
 the host himself.
 
 54 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Hello, Billy ; is that you ? I did n't know 
 you were here over night. What room did 
 the clerk give you?" 
 
 Florence told him the number. 
 
 "Is it possible? So it was you that 
 created all that fuss last night?" 
 
 "No; if there was any fuss I think your 
 clerk was the creator of it. By the way, 
 who is my friend of the fuss?" 
 
 "Who is he? Well, I will introduce you 
 to him. He professes to be a great admirer 
 of yours." 
 
 "Admirer of mine? Well, he had a sin- 
 gular way of showing his admiration last 
 night. However, you may introduce me." 
 
 The introduction took place, and after- 
 wards Billy and his bear became acquaint- 
 ances if not friends. 
 
 There is one joke of Billy's which his fel- 
 low-actors are fond of relating and which 
 has more pathos in it than is usually found 
 in jokes. The Fifth Avenue Hotel in New 
 York was a favorite resort of the comedian 
 and in his leisure moments it was here that 
 his friends were pretty sure to find him. If
 
 WILLIAM J. FLORENCE. 55 
 
 he needed "a shave" he never took it in any 
 other barber shop than that of the Fifth Ave- 
 nue, nor from the hand of any other barber 
 than the one who had for years removed his 
 beard, when it needed removal. It was a 
 tender operation, for this same beard was 
 thick and wiry, and the actor knew by ex- 
 perience that "Fritz" was the only man who 
 could scrape it off without scraping a piece 
 of his cheek with it. 
 
 Billy had been out of town for a couple 
 of weeks, and on his return he sought the 
 Fifth Avenue and entered the barber shop. 
 He looked around for Fritz, but not seeing 
 his tonsorial favorite, he turned to another 
 knight of the razor with the inquiry: 
 "Where's Fritz?" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Florence, I thought you knew 
 all about it. Poor Fritz is dead." 
 
 "Dead?" echoed Billy, "I did n't know he 
 was sick. When did he die?" 
 
 "Day before yesterday. He is to be 
 buried to-morrow, and we are raising a sub- 
 scription for a floral wreath. Could you 
 give us a little help?"
 
 56 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "A little help? Certainly." said Flor- 
 ence; then, counting out twenty-five dollars 
 from his pocket-book, he added : "Take 
 that; and if it isn't enough you may call on 
 me for more." 
 
 "Thank you, ]\Ir. Florence; this will be 
 quite enough. And now, since you have 
 been so liberal, won't you kindly suggest an 
 appropriate motto that we can place inside 
 the wreath?" 
 
 Billy's face, which had been somewhat 
 clouded at the news of Fritz's death, now 
 brightened up. 
 
 "A motto ? Yes, I have it — 'Next !' " 
 
 And the motto was adopted. 
 
 The pathetic part of his joke lies in the 
 fact that Billy himself was the "next" to 
 answer the call and follow Fritz on his 
 journey to 
 
 "The undiscovered country from whose bourne 
 No traveler returns."
 
 "Mr. Jones." 
 
 JONES was not his name, but it will an- 
 swer my purpose. His real one I 
 withhold for charitable reasons. Time, 
 long ago, rang down the curtain on his life, 
 and I have no desire that the blazon of his 
 questionable waggery should now cause his 
 bones to blush and turn, uneasy, in their 
 narrow bed. 
 
 At the time of which I speak — the early 
 '50's — Jones was a member of the Walnut 
 Street Theatre Company of Philadelphia. 
 He was a shiftless fellow, and probably 
 adopted the profession, not that he had any 
 great love for it, but because he could get a 
 foothold in no other. He had been on the 
 stage for years, yet was still on the bottom 
 round of the histrionic ladder, where he 
 was content to remain rather than make an 
 effort to climb higher. He held the posi- 
 tion of "second walking-gentleman" and
 
 58 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 was expected to take a hand at "general 
 utility" when the business of the stage re- 
 quired it. His salary was eight dollars a 
 week — not a princely remuneration, yet so 
 long as it came with regularity his ambition 
 was satisfied. 
 
 However his ambition and his pocket 
 were two different things, and more than 
 once did the latter rebel. More than once 
 did its owner tumble into the clutches of 
 "grim Necessity" and have to call in the aid 
 of his ingenuity, to escape her sharp pinches. 
 Fortunately, he had plenty of ingenuity, and 
 none knew better how to use it. 
 
 The reader, if he be not too young, may 
 perhaps carry his recollection back to the 
 days when the paper-collar flourished in all 
 its unstarched glory. It was not a favorite 
 with the ultra-fashionables, but it was a 
 blessing for the ultra-impecunious, and a 
 blessing for which they were indebted to 
 the ingenuity of Jones. His washerwoman 
 one day disappointed him by not returning 
 his clean linen, and, to cap her cruelty, abso- 
 lutely refused to let him have a stitch of it
 
 <<•»,„ ^„,,„„ }} 
 
 MR. JONES. 59 
 
 until old accounts were liquidated. The 
 situation was desperate. He was cast in the 
 farce for that night and in it he had some 
 love-making to do. Now, he was well 
 aware that no discriminating audience 
 would tolerate an actor's making love minus 
 his shirt-collar; and he was quite as well 
 aware that an apologetic explanation of his 
 washerwoman's cruelty would not be likely 
 to mend matters. So when night came he 
 asked the property man for a sheet of fools- 
 cap, and this he cut in the shape of the latest 
 fashionable four-ply and pinned it around his 
 neck. He told me afterwards that he was 
 not without a feeling of doubt whether the 
 sharp eyes of the audience would not 
 "tumble to the fake." (This bit of slang is 
 his OAvn, not mine, and is perhaps more 
 forcible than any choice expression I could 
 have substituted.) His doubt, however, 
 was needless. 
 
 The audience swallowed the "fake" as 
 credulously as if the collar were made of the 
 best four-ply linen. Possibly, the part that 
 Jones was playing might have blinded them
 
 60 WAGS OF THE STAGE, 
 
 a little. He had a good deal to say in it 
 about his big bank account; and when he 
 was n't making love he was drawing checks 
 with all the sang-froid of a millionaire. 
 People who do this sort of thing are not in 
 the habit of wearing paper collars. 
 
 But whatever it was that enabled him to 
 pass his counterfeit, his invention turned 
 out a decided success. Never afterwards 
 did he have any fear that a washerwoman's 
 cupidity would rob him of a clean collar. 
 The secret soon leaked out, and, having no 
 patent on his invention, some enterprising 
 manufacturer took hold of it and the paper 
 collar became a standard institution. 
 
 The ingenuity of Jones, however, was not 
 always of the feasible sort. For instance, 
 a fellow-actor — as slim in purse as himself 
 — asked him if he could n't suggest a sclieme 
 that would put a little money in both their 
 pockets. 
 
 "A scheme? Yes, I'm about hatching 
 one now that will make us both rich." 
 
 "What is your scheme?" 
 
 "I'm afraid vou '11 blab."
 
 "mr. jones/'' 6i 
 
 "Blab? No, not if you take me in with 
 you; does it take much cash?" 
 
 "Not a cent; there's the beauty of it." 
 
 "Well, don't keep a fellow in suspense; 
 what is your scheme?" 
 
 "You "II join me, then?" 
 
 "Certainly; I 've been hanging on the 
 world by the eyelids long enough, and will 
 do anything that promises a square meal 
 oftener than once a month." 
 
 "Well, listen. You know, I suppose, that 
 the French can beat the world in making 
 theatrical wigs?" 
 
 "Yes. I 've heard so. What 's that to do 
 with it?" 
 
 "Everything, my dear fellow. French 
 wigs would sell in this country like hot 
 cakes. Now, what I propose is this : You 
 are to go over to Paris and buy up all the 
 stage wigs you can find. It does n't matter 
 whether they are new or second hand ; then 
 you are to — " 
 
 "Hold up, a moment, Jones; you said 
 your scheme would n't require any cash." 
 
 "Certainly, Sam, I said so."
 
 62 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Will you please tell me how a man can 
 buy wigs, or anything else, without paying 
 for them?" 
 
 "I did n't say you were not to pay for 
 them. That is another beauty in my 
 scheme. You are merely to pay for them 
 in the currency of the country, and you must 
 take over a cargo of these with you." 
 
 "A cargo of francs?" 
 
 "Sam. you are dull of comprehension. I 
 said nothing about francs ; I said the cur- 
 rency of the country — frogs' legs. Don't 
 you know that a Frenchman would rather 
 have — " 
 
 Sam turned on his heel without stopping 
 to know what "a Frenchman would rather 
 have." Nor did he wait for Jones to ex- 
 plain how he could get a "cargo of frogs' 
 legs" without paying for them. 
 
 So much for the ingenuity of Jones; and 
 now let us turn to a more vicious sample of 
 his waggery. 
 
 Among the ballet girls belonging to the 
 company was one on whom he had fixed a 
 matrimonial eye. The girl was possessed
 
 MR. JONES/^ 63 
 
 of some personal charms and his friends 
 very naturally thought that these lay at the 
 bottom of his attachment. But rumor 
 thought otherwise, and, in fact, was not 
 mealy-mouthed in saying that his attach- 
 ment was built upon charms of a very dif- 
 ferent nature. And rumor, for once, was 
 right. Jones — who was always ready to 
 patch up his impecuniosity, and never very 
 scrupulous in his manner of obtaining the 
 patches — had discovered in some way that 
 his charmer had four hundred dollars in a 
 savings-bank. He thought it was a snug 
 little sum and might be of use to him; and 
 he also thought that the quickest and most 
 honorable way to get hold of it would be to 
 marry her. And he did. A few months 
 went by, and so did the four hundred. 
 Then it suddenly dawned upon him that he 
 had made a mistake in marrying his charmer 
 so hastily and thought that the quickest, if 
 not the most honorable, way to remedy the 
 mistake would be to leave her. And he 
 did. The next morning after his desertion, 
 he surprised his friends by the following ad-
 
 64 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 vertisement which appeared in the personal 
 column of one of the daily papers : 
 
 "Whereas my wife, Lucy Jones, has left 
 my bed and board without just cause or 
 provocation, all persons are cautioned 
 against trusting her on my account, as I will 
 pay no debts of her contracting — or my own 
 either — after this date. T. Jones.'^ 
 
 Dry den observes : "We wink at wags 
 when they offend," but the offence of Jones 
 in his matrimonial scheme was a little too 
 rank for even his friends to "wink at." 
 
 Now, although Jones was but a fourth- 
 rate actor — or worse — and held an humble 
 position in the company, yet he was not a 
 man devoid of education. He was looked 
 upon by his fellow-players as a shrewd 
 theatrical critic; when he gave his opinion 
 on their acting they accepted it as sound, and 
 if their efforts received his approbation they 
 were satisfied it was deserved. They were 
 often the victims of his waggery, and he had 
 a way of bringing it in when they were not 
 looking for it. If one of them sought his 
 approbation without deserving it he would
 
 "mr. jones/' 65 
 
 be apt to get something else, and his method 
 of treating these undeserving ones was 
 pecuHar. He would lift up his victim's van- 
 ity to a giddy height and then drop it with 
 a thud that usually knocked the bottom out. 
 
 One night after the performance one of 
 the actors who, Jones thought, had a higher 
 opinion of himself than was justified, asked 
 him: 
 
 ''Well, Jones, I had a difficult part to play 
 to-night. I noticed you were standing in 
 the wings watching me. What do you 
 think of my conception of it?" 
 
 "It was extraordinary!" said Jones. 
 
 "I am glad to hear you say so, for you 
 understand its difficulty. Now, tell me can- 
 didly, did you ever see the part played as 
 well?" 
 
 "To be candid with you," said Jones, "I 
 have, in my time, often seen the part played, 
 and occasionally played worse — but d — d 
 little!" 
 
 Here is another sample of his lifting and 
 dropping process : 
 
 A new member had been added to the
 
 66 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 company and Tones was not long in finding 
 out his weak points and taking his measure 
 for a joke. There was one thing which 
 Jones could n't tolerate — vanity — and the 
 newcomer was full of it. When in the 
 green-room he would stand before its mir- 
 ror, and devote his time, between the calls, 
 to admiring the shape of his legs. Jones 
 could see nothing in them worthy of admira- 
 tion and resolved that he would tell their 
 owner so should an opportunity come. It 
 did come. His victim was standing in the 
 wings one night waiting for his cue, when 
 Jones, who was not far away, burst out with 
 a flash of admiration, seemingly intended for 
 the ear of the prompter, to whom he had 
 been talking, but quite loud enough for his 
 victim to hear : 
 
 "What a wonderful pair of legs that man 
 has ! They alone ought to make his for- 
 tune." 
 
 The owner of the legs turned round and 
 Jones walked up to him : 
 
 "I beg pardon, sir; if I am too inquisitive, 
 Mr. , you must n't think hard of
 
 MR. JONES. 67 
 
 me, but lay the blame where it belongs. No- 
 body conld look upon the shape of those 
 legs of yours without being inquisitive. 
 Pray tell me, sir, do you pad?" 
 
 With a look of pride and a smack of sat- 
 isfaction on one of the legs in question, the 
 victim replied : 
 
 "I pad? What a question! No, indeed, 
 sir; not I!" 
 
 "Well, I thought not; but—" 
 
 Here Jones paused. 
 
 "But what, sir?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing; I was merely about to re- 
 mark that — you ought to !"
 
 H. L. Bateman. 
 
 BATEMAN, in his younger days, had 
 been an actor of some ability, but later 
 in life he gave up the stage. He was 
 the father of the "Bateman Children," Kate 
 and Ellen. As child actresses they became 
 celebrated, and were such an attractive fea- 
 ture that the various managers seldom left 
 them without an engagement. Their read- 
 ing was faultless, their knowledge of stage 
 business phenomenal, and, taken altogether, 
 their acting was such that stage prophets 
 predicted the rise of twin stars, already 
 above the horizon and about to flash their 
 lustre across the theatrical firmament. 
 
 The prediction was not wrong regarding 
 one of them. When Kate had grown to 
 womanhood, her father saw that her talent 
 for the stage had grown with her, and at 
 once determined to bring her out as a star. 
 He devoted all his time and attention to the
 
 H. L. BATEMAN. 69 
 
 making and managing of her engagements 
 and no manager could have been more 
 shrewd. As a man he was good-natured and 
 easy-going; pecuHar in some of his ways, it 
 is true, yet those who knew him best and un- 
 derstood his pecuHarity had no trouble in 
 getting along smoothly in their business re- 
 lations with him. 
 
 He made an engagement for Kate to play 
 at Niblo's Garden, but not being satisfied to 
 have her make her appearance in any of the 
 old plays he determined to have a new one 
 written expressly for her. This was done — 
 Augustin Daly, then a reporter on the New 
 York Express, being the author. The title 
 of the play was "Leah, the Forsaken," and 
 it proved a great success, adding to the 
 already established fame of Kate as an ac- 
 tress, and also to her bank account as well 
 as to that of Niblo's. 
 
 I have said that Bateman was a shrewd 
 manager, and one evidence of his shrewdness 
 was that he never allowed the audience to 
 pass over his daughter's acting without ap- 
 plause, whenever she made a point that he
 
 70 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 thought deserved it. Applause is the pabu- 
 lum that nourishes the efforts of a dramatic 
 artiste, and none knew the fact better than 
 Bateman. It was his custom to seat himself 
 in the parquet as soon as the curtain rose, 
 and then, with his eye and ear fixed on Kate, 
 to start the needed plaudits when the proper 
 moment came. 
 
 I was in the parquet one night when he 
 came in and sat down two or three seats in 
 front of me. He always wore a very tall 
 stove-pipe hat, and now, without removing it, 
 he sat waiting for his daughter to make her 
 entrance. Directly behind Bateman sat a 
 gentleman who was busily dodging his head 
 from side to side in his endeavor to get a 
 glance at the stage around the edges of the 
 high hat in front of him. Finding that his 
 dodging was fruitless he leaned over and, 
 in a very mild and polite tone, said : "Won't 
 you please, sir, to take off your hat; I can 
 scarcely see anything." Bateman looked 
 round at his questioner, smiled, and quite as 
 politely replied: "Certainly, sir; with 
 pleasure."
 
 H. L. BATEMAN. 71 
 
 Now, Bateman had a very remarkable 
 head of hair — remarkable both in its quality 
 and quantity. It was wiry and stiff, of a 
 sour-crout tint and stood straight up in a 
 manner to excite wonder how it was possi- 
 ble for the stove-pipe, tall as it was, to ac- 
 commodate it. 
 
 After nodding pleasantly to his petitioner 
 behind him, and removing his hat, he ran his 
 fingers, with an upward movement, through 
 his hair, and then bent his looks attentively 
 on the stage. A few minutes passed and 
 then he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder 
 accompanied with another request from his 
 polite friend behind him : 
 
 "I am very sorry, sir, to give you so much 
 
 trouble; but will you be kind enough to put 
 
 on your hat again ? I can't see anything at 
 
 all now!" 
 
 When Bateman came in the box office 
 
 next morning, I told him of the incident I 
 
 had witnessed and asked him "Who's your 
 
 friend ?" 
 
 "I don't know who he is," he replied, "but 
 
 I do know he is mighty hard to please !"
 
 Sam. Hemple. 
 
 SAM was a Philadelphian, and, — in the 
 opinion of every Quaker City play- 
 goer of twentv-five or thirty years ago 
 — an ideal low comedian. That was not 
 only their opinion but they were sure of it. 
 "Burton? What is Burton compared with 
 our Sam ? A rush-light to the sun !" As for 
 Toodles, they said Sam's had more laughs 
 in it to the square inch than Burton's to the 
 square mile. Perhaps they were right. It 
 is rather late in the day to discuss it, so I 
 will leave Burton out of the question and 
 turn my attention to Sam alone. Although 
 his line was low comedy yet he did venture 
 to stray from it, on one or two special occa- 
 sions, and enter the solemn domain ot 
 tragedy. 
 
 Now, to look at Sam you would have to 
 look a long while to see anything tragic 
 about him. His total avoirdupois was some-
 
 SAM HEMPLE. 
 
 From the collection of Charles N. Mann.
 
 SAM IIEMPLE. 
 
 73 
 
 thing in the neighborhood of three-hundred. 
 His body was shaped hke a football and un- 
 derneath it was a pair of legs so short that 
 they seemed to have been driven in by the 
 solid three-hundred pounds of pressure 
 above. 
 
 He had played Falstaff several times and 
 when he did he had all the needed flesh with- 
 out bothering the costumer for an artificial 
 stomach of rubber and wind ; and when he 
 gave Jack's lines : "What a thing should I 
 have been when I had been swelled !" the 
 audience were satisfied that he meant what he 
 said and knew what he was talking about. 
 
 T have mentioned that it was on a special 
 occasion only that he ventured into tragedy, 
 and this would be when the time came 
 around for his benefit. He knew that his 
 friends, as well as the general public, ex- 
 pected something novel, something entirely 
 out of the ordinary rut, when "Sam Hemple" 
 took a benefit, and he was sure to give it to 
 them. 
 
 On the approach of such an event Sam 
 never forgot to give me a week's notice, ac-
 
 74 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 companied with a five-dollar package of 
 tickets, one of which I was expected to make 
 use of, and do anything I pleased with the 
 others — except to return them to him. I 
 told him one day that I thought his benefits 
 were coming rather close together. "Close 
 together?" he echoed, "Twice a year — do 
 you call that close? I tell you, my dear fel- 
 low, when a man is the owner of half-a- 
 dozen little pigs that are always clinging to 
 his coat-tail and squealing for bread and 
 butter and a pair of solar-tips, his benefits 
 can't come too close together." 
 
 There was one of these benefits that I par- 
 ticularly remember. The walls of the whole 
 city and its suburbs were thickly plastered 
 with huge posters announcing the event two 
 weeks ahead. Passers-by would stop and 
 read and stare with a grin when they came 
 to the line in big letters : "Balcony scene 
 from Romeo and Juliet, Sam Hemple, for 
 this occasion only, as Romeo." 
 
 'Twas indeed a bold undertaking for Sam. 
 However handy his football body and short 
 legs might come in for Falstaff they were
 
 SAM HEMPLE. 
 
 75 
 
 likely to prove a little in the road of Romeo. 
 But confidence is everything and Sam had 
 plenty of it. "Play Romeo? Of course I 
 can. The public really don't know what I 
 can do, and I intend to show 'em." Thus he 
 spoke to one of his friends ; and he did "show 
 'em" and also showed them some new and 
 remarkable readings of Shakspere. 
 
 We have a multitude of scholiastic indi- 
 viduals, called "Shaksperean annotators," 
 who insist that when the Bard said anything 
 which the world could n't comprehend, he 
 must have intended to say something else, 
 and the intelligent, old-time compositors 
 would n't let him. Now Sam was no scholi- 
 ast, yet probably was as able as the ablest 
 to tell the world what that "something else" 
 was. 
 
 But, "to return to our mutton." 
 When the night came and the curtain rose 
 on the balcony scene, there was a tremen- 
 ous burst of applause. Juliet stood there 
 with her gaze fixed lovingly down on her 
 Romeo, who was now bending his body, as 
 gracefully as its circumference would allow,
 
 76 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 in acknowledgment of the applause. When 
 it ceased Sam turned around and lifting his 
 eyes toward his Juliet on the balcony com- 
 menced his lines : "See, how she leans her 
 cheek upon her hand ! O that I were a glove 
 upon that hand that I might touch that 
 cheek." He stopped a moment to give 
 Juliet time to sigh and say "Ah Me!" and 
 then went on : 
 
 "She speaks ! 
 O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art 
 As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, 
 As is a winged Messenger of Heaven 
 Unto the white upturned wondering eyes 
 Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him. 
 When he bestrides the lazy-passing clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air." 
 
 Thus far all went smoothly. Then Juliet 
 begins to grow inquisitive and asks a ques- 
 tion which her Romeo is not as yet prepared 
 to answer : 
 
 "O, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?" 
 
 Sam paused, took his eyes from his Juliet, 
 and cast them inquiringly over the parquet 
 and around the tiers of boxes, as if he thought 
 it necessary to count up their contents before 
 he could satisfactorily answer her question.
 
 SAM HEMPLE. JJ 
 
 Then bringing his eyes back again to 
 Juliet he spoke : 
 
 "I'll tell thee love, but not to-night; 
 Ere set of the to-morrow's sun I'll know 
 What now is hid behind the veil 
 Of secrecy. This seems a goodly house 
 And on the boodle's count I hope to show 
 Good cause why I to-night am Romeo." 
 
 Another problem now puzzled her. How 
 was it possible for that three-hundred pounds 
 of sweetness to get "over the garden wall" ? 
 She was determined to know. 
 
 "How cam'st thou hither? Tell me and wherefore; 
 The orchard walls are high and hard to climb." 
 
 Sam was quite willing to enlighten her, 
 but could n't do it truthfully and stick to 
 the text. So he changed the latter. 
 
 " 'With Love's light wings did I o'erperch 
 
 them ;' 
 So Shakspere says; and doubtless such 
 
 a plan 
 Might do for common Romeos; but I 
 That am not shaped for perching walls 
 
 nor made 
 For sportive tricks" —
 
 78 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Here Sam struck a snag. He found he 
 was getting Romeo mixed up with Richard 
 and as he couldn't play both parts at once 
 he snapped the thread of his blank verse 
 and wound up his information in pure prose. 
 
 "Well, Miss Juliet, as I don't want to keep 
 you out all night and give you your death of 
 cold, I'll cut the matter short. Shakspere's 
 plan would never work with a Romeo of my 
 calibre. Oh no ! If I had waited for the aid 
 of Cupid's wings to lift me over that fence 
 you wouldn't have seen me here till Dooms- 
 day. I found the back gate open !" 
 
 Sam's versatility and ambition, it seems, 
 didn't end with his performance of Romeo. 
 On one occasion he said to me : "Romeo ? 
 pooh ! pooh ! Anybody can play Romeo ; 
 but Juliet, that's another matter. Charlotte 
 Cushman once said : 'The part of Juliet is 
 the most difficult one in the whole range of 
 Shakspere's female characters, and no 
 actress can grasp its underlying subtlety and 
 play the part until she has grown too old to 
 look it.' That was Charlotte's opinion, and 
 I don't dispute it; but I intend to show the
 
 SAM HEMPLE, 79 
 
 public some day, what I can do with it. I 
 may be too young to 'grasp its underlying 
 subtlety,' but you can bet your bottom dol- 
 lar, if you have one, that I will give 'em 
 more Juliet for their money than their sweet 
 philosophy ever dreampt of!"
 
 p. T. Barnum. 
 
 BARNUM says, in his book of "Forty 
 Years' Recollections," "I began the 
 world with nothing and barefooted at 
 that." If this be so — and we have no reason 
 to doubt his word — he deserves a mighty 
 deal of credit for the pluck with which he 
 battled with the world and laid it at his feet. 
 
 The showman never was an actor, al- 
 though he tells us he was once forced to 
 "black up" and go on as a substitute for one 
 of his negro minstrels that left him in the 
 lurch. Taking this into consideration, to- 
 gether with the fact of his having been long 
 and closely connected with the stage, I feel 
 justified in giving his name a place on the 
 list in its wags. 
 
 Barnum started his life as a showman in 
 1835 by exhibiting Joyce Heth, the hundred- 
 and-sixty-one-year-old negro who was de- 
 clared to have been the nurse of George
 
 p. T. BARNUM. 
 From the collection of James D. Slade.
 
 p. T. BARNUM. 8l 
 
 Washington. Whether she ever had been 
 or not made but Httle difference so long as a 
 confiding pubHc beHeved that the shriveled 
 old creature they were gazing at had dandled 
 in her arms the babe that was destined to be 
 the father of its country. 
 
 Barnum was the Prince of Showmen, and 
 also the Prince of Humbugs — if we are to 
 believe the man himself. This, however, was 
 no discredit to him, but rather the reverse. 
 A showman's chief duty, as well as his 
 policy, is to please the public and humor 
 their whims and wants. Barnum knew how 
 to do both. He had n't been long in the 
 business before he saw that they had a rav- 
 enous appetite for humbug. "That's the sort 
 of food they're hungry for, is it? Well, I'll 
 give it to 'em fresh from the griddle !" And 
 he did. He scoured the world for his hum- 
 bug, opened a museum and filled it with the 
 freaks he had gathered from every quarter 
 of the globe — freaks which the unsophisti- 
 cated public believed that Nature had been 
 guilty of. Such a belief was a cruel slander 
 on the good Dame. It is true, she has been
 
 82 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 guilty of doiiig some queer things, and, pos- 
 sibly, of making some mismatches; but I 
 don't think she ever created a mermaid bv 
 sewing the tail of a fish on the body of one of 
 her monkeys. 
 
 Outside and away from his business the 
 showman had a hobby which he took great 
 delight in riding — the Temperance cause. It 
 never had a stronger advocate than he, nor 
 one who had made more convincing speeches 
 in its favor. He could paint the evils of in- 
 temperance — "the hellish habit of rum-swig- 
 ging" he called it — in colors vigorous enough 
 to cause the moderate drinker to stick to his 
 ice-water straight, and the toper to lose all 
 appetite for his morning cocktail. 
 
 Such was the burden of his speeches, and 
 never, but once, did I have reason to doubt 
 that his honest convictions were at the bot- 
 tom of them. The story of that doubt may 
 interest the reader. 
 
 It was somewhere in the '6o's that New 
 York's theatrical managers, of whom Barn- 
 um was one, began to grow alarmed over the 
 repeated demands of their orchestras for in-
 
 p. T. BARNUM. 83 
 
 creased salaries. To fight the situation suc- 
 cessfully they decided to form a "Union," 
 which they did under the title of "The Board 
 of Associate Managers of New York." They 
 now felt strong enough to threaten their 
 greedy fiddlers that if there were any more 
 cries for increased salaries they would 
 abolish their orchestras, hire a piano, and 
 get along without fiddlers. 
 
 The Board met once a month, or oftener 
 if occasion required, in its rooms at the Met- 
 ropolitan Hotel. These rooms had been ex- 
 pressly fitted up for the convenience of the 
 managers and nothing was omitted that 
 would tend to cater to their ease and com- 
 fort. 
 
 At the far end of one room was a recess, 
 the interior of which was concealed by a pair 
 of damask curtains; not entirely concealed, 
 however, for between the folds of the drapery 
 a sideboard could be seen, with shelves that 
 glistened with a spread of cut-glass decant- 
 ers, and goblets, and tumblers; all of which 
 indicated that however timid a New York 
 manager might be in some things, he was
 
 84 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 not afraid "to put an enemy in his mouth" 
 even at the risk of being robbed of his brains. 
 
 I was present at one of the Board's meet- 
 ings, as a deputy of the manager of Niblo's 
 who was unable to attend. Barnum was also 
 there, and I was curious to know how the 
 great advocate of Temperance would look 
 upon the contents of that recess, and how he 
 would conduct himself after the Board had 
 finished its labors and was ready to take a 
 spiritual rest. 
 
 My curiosity had n't long to wait. The 
 Board hurried through its business, which 
 was not of great importance, and then all 
 the managers rose from their seats and start- 
 ed in single file for the recess. I should have 
 said all but one. Barnum stuck to his chair. 
 Perhaps, under the circumstances, he 
 thought his chair the safest place for a tem- 
 perance orator. But whatever he thought, 
 there he sat, twiddling his thumbs, but other- 
 wise as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar. 
 Then I saw Lester Wallack turn back, walk 
 toward him, and speak in a low but earnest 
 tone :
 
 p. T. BARNUM. 85 
 
 "Come, Mr. B'arnum, drop your cold- 
 water notions and join us 'for this occasion 
 only' in the frivolities of life." 
 
 Barnum said nothing in reply ; but I saw 
 a twinkle in his eye as he rose from his chair 
 and followed Lester to the sideboard around 
 which the other managers were standing. 
 Then the entertainment began. All had fill- 
 ed their glasses, except Barnum, who stood 
 looking on in silence, but with no indication 
 that he intended to make bibulous use of 
 the glass before him. 
 
 Again, with his hand grasping the neck of 
 a decanter, Lester spoke : 
 
 "You are too bashful, Mr. Barnum; allow 
 me to — " 
 
 But the showman gently pushed the de- 
 canter aside and said : 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Wallack. You know 
 my record, and I am sure you will respect 
 my intention of keeping it up. It has been 
 the boast of my life that no man has ever 
 seen a drop of anything stronger than water 
 pass my lips. Be kind enough to turn your 
 backs!"
 
 86 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 And they turned. When they turned 
 again the showman's glass was still empty, 
 and whether it had been anything else during 
 the brief time it was out of their sight, none 
 of them knew, and all of them were too con- 
 siderate to ask. 
 
 Now, I know not what the private opinion 
 of those managers may have been regarding 
 the showman's empty glass, but my own 
 conviction is that it was guiltless of any other 
 condition than emptiness. He had worn his 
 cold-water habit too long, and was too proud 
 and careful of its integrity to permit the 
 toes of conviviality to tread on the tail of it. 
 The bright twinkle which I saw in his eye 
 was never the reflection of cut glass decant- 
 ers, though it might have resulted from re- 
 flection of another sort: "This job-lot of 
 old managers to be sold !" And he sold 'em.
 
 Charles M. Barras. 
 
 ALTHOUGH Barras could hardly be 
 classed among the stage celebrities 
 of the day, yet he was by no means a 
 bad actor. Eccentric comedy was his line 
 and in this he reached a certain degree of 
 popularity, if not of fame. He was the 
 author of several dramas, but none of them 
 added either to his fame or his pocket, save 
 one — The Black Crook. While this was be- 
 ing played at Niblo's Garden and in the 
 height of its success Barras had his head- 
 quarters at the St. Nicholas Hotel. Here 
 he was besieged, day and night, by specu- 
 lating managers who were anxious to pur- 
 chase the right to play the "Crook." 
 
 One morning, about sunrise, one of these 
 ambitious managers stepped up to the hotel 
 office with the inquiry : 
 
 "Can I see Mr. Barras?" 
 
 "He is in bed now, I think."
 
 88 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Well, I must see him at once on a matter 
 of the greatest importance to him. If you 
 will be kind enough to send up for him, I 
 will wait in the parlor till he comes down." 
 
 Now Barras was not an early bird. He 
 was fond of his bed, his usual time of getting 
 out of it being about lo o'clock. To be 
 roused at sunrise and have his morning's 
 nap broken in halves was something he 
 hadn't been used to. However, when he 
 was told that a gentleman was in the parlor 
 waiting to see him on "most important busi- 
 ness," he got out of bed. 
 
 "Tell the crank I'll be down directly." 
 
 Then with an oath or two he dressed him- 
 self and with his wrath at boiling heat he 
 walked down stairs and into the parlor. 
 
 His greeting of the manager was warm. 
 
 "What the d — 1 do you mean, sir, by haul- 
 ing me out of bed at this hour? Is the hotel 
 on fire?" 
 
 "I beg pardon, Mr. Barras; I was most 
 anxious to see you on a business matter and 
 wanted to be sure of catching you in." 
 
 "Catching me in? Catching me in bed, I
 
 CHARLES M. B ARRAS. 89 
 
 suppose you mean. Well, now you have 
 caught me there, what do you want?" 
 
 "I would like to purchase the right to play 
 the Black Crook." 
 
 "Play the Black Crook? Play it where?" 
 
 "Oh, in any city; I'm not particular which 
 one." 
 
 Barras' wrath now began to cool ; not be- 
 cause he saw the chance of pocketing a 
 thousand or two, but because he was fond of 
 a joke and saw an opportunity of getting 
 one in at the expense of his early applicant. 
 
 "So you want to play the Black Crook and 
 are not particular where?" 
 
 "If you please, Mr. Barras." 
 
 "Well, let me see; your chances, I think, 
 are slim." (Here he took from his pocket 
 a paper, running his eye over it and 
 mumbling to himself its supposed contents.). 
 "New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Bos- 
 ton, San Francisco, Chicago, New Orleans, 
 St. Paul, Minneapolis, Cincinnati, Louis- 
 ville, Pittsburg, Mobile, Memphis, Rich- 
 mond, Omaha — I am very sorry, sir; every 
 city and town is — stop a moment, I am
 
 90 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 wrong. I have one left, and since you say 
 you are not particular it may be just the one 
 you're looking- for." 
 
 The manager congratulated himself that 
 his early call had shut out some other fellow, 
 and eagerly asked : 
 
 "What is the name of the city, Mr. Bar- 
 ras?" 
 
 Folding up his paper and returning it to 
 his pocket the Crook's author replied, 
 "Sitka." 
 
 The manager reached for his hat. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Barras, I believe the popula- 
 tion of Sitka now consists principally of 
 Polar bears and icebergs and I don't think 
 they would take much interest in the Black 
 Crook. I bid you good morning." 
 
 "Good morning, sir," and Barras went 
 back to his bed to mend his broken nap.
 
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 EDWARD A. SOTHERX.
 
 Edward A. Sothern. 
 
 SOTHERN had no equal as an eccentric 
 comedian; nor had he any as a wag, 
 unless it were Brougham. At one time it 
 was a matter of doubt, with the friends of 
 both, which was "the verier wag o' the two ;" 
 but the verdict was finally rendered in favor 
 of Sothern, who thenceforth was dubbed the 
 "Prince of Wags." His waggery, however, 
 differed materially from that of Brougham. 
 John's humor was polished and his jokes so 
 full of innocence that they fell upon their vic- 
 tim without bruising his feelings or ruffling 
 his self-esteem. Ned's waggery had no 
 polish nor did it need any. His jokes were 
 of the practical type — painfully practical. 
 He always had a quiver full of the sharp- 
 pointed shafts and he shot them out without 
 being particular whom or where they hit. 
 Friend or foe 't was all the same to Ned. He 
 would sell either, although if he had to choose
 
 Q2 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 between them the friend was sure to be the 
 victim. "What's the use of a friend if you're 
 not permitted to sell him ?" was his argument, 
 and all of them had cause to know that he 
 was not backward in making this friendly 
 use of them. Yet they did n't grumble. They 
 thought that a warm heart lay under all his 
 waggery; and it did — so warm, indeed, that 
 when he found that one of his jokes had 
 jarred a sensitive chord in a friendly breast, 
 his own was filled with regret and never at 
 rest until he had sent his victim a sop to 
 soothe the jar. These sops were generally in 
 the shape of a costly gift, and Billy Florence 
 is my authority for saying that they were 
 innumerable enough to rim away with Soth- 
 ern's money almost as fast as Dundreary 
 brought it in. 
 
 But, as a rule, his friends submitted meek- 
 ly to the selling, and occasionally would at- 
 tempt to retaliate by doing a little of it on 
 their own account. However, they were not 
 so apt at selling as at being sold and usually 
 came out second best. 
 
 Before we follow Sothern through the
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. 93 
 
 twists of his waggery, let us have a word or 
 two about himself as an actor and how he 
 came to choose the stage for a profession. 
 
 Sothern was born in England. The year 
 of his birth has slipped my memory but the 
 day of it he has himself told us, and in a way 
 to make it memorable. 'T came into the 
 world on the first day of April, and that may 
 account for Dundreary and his brother Sam 
 being such infernal fools !" 
 
 Sothern's love for the stage began early. 
 He was yet a boy when the desire to be an 
 actor sprouted in his breast and soon crowd- 
 ed out the growth of other aspirations. His 
 father, who looked with horror on the pro- 
 fession, pleaded with his boy and used every 
 argument to turn the current of the little fel- 
 low's ambition into another channel. He 
 wished to make a preacher of him or a law- 
 yer, but Ned was stubborn. "No, Dad," he 
 said, "1 would make a poor soul-saver and a 
 worse lawyer. I'll be an actor or nothing!" 
 So there was no other course left for "Dad" 
 save to yield his ground and let the boy have 
 his way.
 
 94 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 A few years passed and then we find him 
 a member of an Amateur Dramatic Associa- 
 tion. Of this he soon became the "bright 
 particular star" — I mean its tragic star. As 
 for comedy, he would have none of it, for he 
 thought the domains of Thalia were too 
 cramped for the spread of his genius. Mel- 
 pomene was his chosen Muse. He would 
 mount her broad shoulders and trust to her 
 to carry him up and perch him on the top- 
 round of the Thespian ladder. A strange 
 hallucination; and equally strange is it that 
 many other of the world's greatest comedians 
 started upon their career, confident that Na- 
 ture had cut them out for tragedians, and 
 — like Sothern — treading stubbornly the 
 wrong road, until the finger post of Chance 
 pointed out the right one. 
 
 It was while he was in the budding years 
 of his stage ambition that a philosophic 
 friend volunteered this advice : "You in- 
 tend to go on the stage? Well, no man can 
 get along in that profession without push, 
 and no actor can push very hard unless he 
 himself be hard-pushed. If the price of a
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. 95 
 
 dinner is always in his pocket, when he needs 
 a dinner, what's the use of his working 
 for it? No, my young friend, money is the 
 millstone that hangs around the neck of suc- 
 cess. If you are so unfortunate as to have 
 any of it, the sooner you get rid of the mill- 
 stone the better — that is, if you ever expect 
 to become a great actor." 
 
 This anomalous bit of advice was not hard 
 for Sothern to follow. It was just in his 
 line, for his nature was of that easy-going 
 sort that looks out for to-day and lets to- 
 morrow take care of itself. He had some 
 ready cash and without delay proceeded to 
 get rid of it. When his "millstone" had 
 shrunk to the size of a shilling, he thought 
 he was properly cocked and primed to start 
 on the theatrical road to fame, which he did 
 by joining a company in a little country 
 town. Here under the name of Stuart he 
 played a variety of parts, proving that he 
 possessed remarkable versatility if not ex- 
 traordinary genius. 
 
 After a few years' experience on the 
 English stage, he resolved to come to
 
 0)6 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 America, where his name was already favor- 
 ably known to oiir theatrical managers. He 
 first appeared in this country at one of the 
 Boston theatres, not as a star but as a mem- 
 ber of the company, and still retaining his 
 stage name of .Stuart. On his opening night, 
 strange to say, he failed to please the audi- 
 ence and therefore failed to please the man- 
 ager. He was not discouraged — his obsti- 
 nate perseverance, and faith in his own 
 capacity prevented anything of that kind — 
 but rather than waste his time in fighting 
 with an unpropitious beginning, he came to 
 New York and accepted an engagement at 
 Barnum's Museum. At the end of his en- 
 gagement wth Barnum, he played as a stock 
 actor in several other cities at various times 
 and finally settled down with Lester Wal- 
 lack's company. Here he dropped the name 
 of Stuart and resumed his own. He remain- 
 ed with Wallack for several seasons, and 
 then signed a contract with Laura Keene, 
 whose theatre was then on Broadway. This 
 was the break 'o day for his fame and for- 
 tune, and both came to him in this way :
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. 9/ 
 
 During rehearsal one day Miss Keene said 
 to him : "Mr. Sothern, I am about to ask 
 a favor of you; will you do it?" 
 
 ■"Certainly, Miss Keene; what is it?" 
 
 "I am in a quandary. Next week I will 
 be forced to put on a play as a stop-gap, and 
 I would like you take part in it," 
 
 "What is the play?" 
 
 "Our American Cousin; and I have no 
 other gentleman in the company than your- 
 self to cast for the part of Lord Dundreary." 
 
 "Well, Miss Keene, I have never read the 
 play but will take it home and let you know 
 to-morrow." 
 
 Now, Tom Taylor has written many good 
 plays, but "Our American Cousin" is not 
 one of them, Asa Trenchard is supposed to 
 be the chief character, while Dundreary 
 flounders through the forty or fifty insipid 
 lines which the author has given him and 
 which Sothern was not slow to see would 
 add but little to the reputation of the unlucky 
 actor whose lot it would be to speak them. 
 So he told Miss Keene he was sorry he could 
 not accept the part.
 
 98 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "But, Mr. Sothern, what am I to do? I 
 have no other piece and as I do not wish to 
 close my theatre for a week, I do hope you 
 will oblige me by consenting to play the 
 part." 
 
 Her plea was so earnest and warm that the 
 soft heart of Sothern began to melt. 
 
 "Well, Miss Keene, I will oblige you and 
 play the part, but on one condition." 
 
 "Only one condition? Name a dozen if 
 you like. ¥/hat is it?" 
 
 "To say what I like in the lines and 
 arrange them to suit myself." 
 
 "I have no objection to that. If I may 
 put your name on the bills as Dundreary, 
 you may rewrite the whole part if you 
 choose." 
 
 And he did rewrite it. He filled the vapid 
 part with life and a mass of delicious absurd- 
 ity that saved the play and laid the founda- 
 tion of his fame and fortune. 
 
 Of course, none other than the brain of a 
 wag could create a Dundreary, and we nat- 
 urally look for ebullitions of the actor's wag- 
 gery off the stage when he drops his profes-
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. QQ 
 
 sional work to indulge in it. And he often 
 did. 
 
 I have said that in the distribution of his 
 jokes he never forgot his friends. Billy 
 Florence was one of them, and a most inti- 
 mate one, therefore he was a frequent victim 
 of Ned's waggery — and, perhaps, the only 
 victim who could properly appreciate it. To 
 do this required an abundance of good 
 nature, and Billy had enough of that article 
 to meet all demands. 
 
 One night, in the box-office of Niblo's, he 
 told me how Sothern had played one of his 
 jokes upon him, but told it in such an 
 unctuous way I thought he rather liked the 
 experience and would n't have missed it for 
 the world. 
 
 "Yesterday morning." he said, "I was 
 awakened by a loud yelping and barking of 
 dogs in the street, and directly in front of my 
 house. I jumped out of bed, raised the 
 window sash, and looking out saw a strange 
 crowd of men and boys that reached from 
 the stoop of my house to the curb on the op- 
 posite side of the street. I say a strange
 
 lOO WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 crowd, for every man and boy had a dog 
 under his arm or else was provided with a 
 basket piled up with a litter of pups. I have 
 seen not a few dog-shows in my day, but 
 never a one that could boast of a greater va- 
 riety of the canine tribe. There were pugs and 
 poodles, spaniels and collies, pointers and 
 setters, rat-terriers and skye-terriers, mon- 
 grels and full breeds — in fact, I don't think 
 there was any of the whole tribe that did n't 
 have a representative, either in a whelp or a 
 full-grown form. 
 
 "As I put my head out of the window and 
 looked over the crowd, every fellow in it 
 held up his dog with a shout: 'Here he is, 
 Mr. Florence; this is the fellow you are 
 looking for, and you can have him cheap.' 
 
 "With a puzzled head I turned round to 
 Mrs. Florence, who had also been drawn to 
 the window by the racket beneath it : 'Can 
 you imagine, my dear, the meaning of all 
 this?' 
 
 " 'The meaning? Yes, it is plain enough 
 to me; this is another of Ned Sothern's 
 jokes. And, look, there he is himself!'
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. lOI 
 
 "Yes, there he was, standing on the op- 
 posite side of the street, without a smile 
 on his face, and looking as innocent as a 
 country clown. Putting on his eye-glasses, 
 he stared at me a moment, and then turning 
 to a boy who was holding up a yellow cur 
 for my approval, I heard him ask, 'Can you 
 tell me, my lad, who lives in this house, and 
 who is that queer person who is shaking his 
 fist at us ?' 
 
 " 'Why, don't you know ? Billy Florence, 
 the actor lives there, and he advertised this 
 morning for some dogs.' 
 
 " 'Oh, I understand now,' said Sothern. 
 'He is tired of acting and is going into the 
 dog business.' 
 
 "Then with a dreamy, unrecognizing 
 glance at me through his eye-glasses, he 
 walked leisurely down the street. 
 
 "I was curious to see the advertisement 
 that had drawn such a crowd, and picking 
 up the morning's Herald found this one 
 among the wants : 
 
 " 'The advertiser is in want of a number 
 of dogs, including spitz, skye-terriers, black-
 
 102 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 and-tans, setters, collies, poodles, etc. Dog 
 dealers or others can apply at my residence 
 from seven o'clock in the morning until three 
 in the afternoon. W. J. Florence.' '' 
 
 Sothern's jokes were not always premedi- 
 tated. They would pop out sometimes when 
 they were least expected, and he would see 
 opportunities to wedge them in that would 
 be invisible to the ordinary joker. On one 
 occasion he entered a hardware store with 
 a friend, and with the original intention of 
 buying a file. As soon as the clerk approach- 
 ed, Sothern saw a chance for a joke, and he 
 couldn't resist it. 
 
 "What is it you want, sir?" asked the 
 clerk. 
 
 "I want to purchase a set of Fielding's 
 Works," said Sothern. 
 
 "Then you had better go to a bookseller: 
 this is a hardware store." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not particular about the binding; 
 if you have n't it in calf, cloth will do." 
 
 "But I tell you, sir," said the clerk, rais- 
 ing his voice^ "we don't sell books." 
 
 "Four volumes, you say? Well it does n't
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. I03 
 
 matter whether it is in four volumes or four 
 dozen. Let me have it." 
 
 Clerk (still raising his voice), "I tell you, 
 sir, this is not a bookseller's." 
 
 "No, you needn't send it home. Wrap it 
 up and I'll take it with me." 
 
 "Sir," shouted the man, "don't I tell you 
 that this is a hardware store? We don't sell 
 books." 
 
 "Oh, I don't care what you wrap it in. 
 Brown paper will do ; the sort of stuff your 
 grandmother uses to wrap up her pickles." 
 
 The clerk was now convinced that his 
 queer customer was either very hard of hear- 
 ing or a lunatic ; and, as he was rather in- 
 clined to believe that the latter was the dif- 
 ficulty, he went to the rear of the store and 
 asked his employer to come forward and help 
 him wait on a crazy man. The proprietor 
 then walked toward Sothern, and in a gentle 
 tone of voice, intended to be soothing to the 
 shaky mind of a lunatic, said : "What can 
 I do to oblige you, sir?" 
 
 "Well," replied Sothern, in an equally 
 gentle tone, "I wish to purchase a small file
 
 104 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 about six inches long ; but 3^our clerk does n't 
 seem to understand me. Have you such a 
 thing?" 
 
 "Certanly, sir," said the proprietor, and 
 handed out the file. Then he turned to the 
 clerk, with a look of pity and a side-speech : 
 "I think the crazy man is on the other side 
 of the counter." 
 
 Sothern then picked up his purchase and 
 walked out with his friend. 
 
 During the wag's engagement at Laura 
 Keene's a huge practical joke was played 
 upon the credulity of the New Yorkers, and 
 they were not a little curious to discover the 
 father of it. It was known as the "Professor 
 B'iglie Hoax," and bore all the features of 
 being the offspring of Sothern's facetious 
 brain. He denied the fatherhood, however, 
 but his friends accepted his denial with a 
 very big grain of salt. They were satisfied, 
 as everybody else was disposed to be, that 
 no other wag than Sothern could invent a 
 joke that would befool so many Gothamites. 
 It does seem rather strange that in a city 
 containing so much worldly wisdom and
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. 105 
 
 wickedness, a joke of such a character could 
 find enough innocent creduHty to feed upon. 
 But it did find it and in this way. In all the 
 daily papers, and in flaring posters, the fol- 
 lowing announcement astonished the eye of 
 the reader ; 
 
 Flight Extraordinary ! 
 
 During the past few years science has taken such 
 long and rapid strides that nothing seems to be be- 
 yond its reach. What is deemed impossible to-day, 
 becomes an accomplished fact to-morrow. We talk 
 now across the ocean, and there is a flattering pros- 
 pect that we will soon be able to fly across it, and in 
 a much shorter time than it now takes steam to 
 transport us. 
 
 The undersigned, after years of study and experi- 
 ment, has invented a means of navigating the air. 
 He uses no balloon or other gas-filled machine, but 
 wings his flight after the manner of a bird, and quite 
 as safely, and nearly as swiftly. He will give an 
 exhibition to-morrow, at ten o'clock precisely, taking 
 his flight from the top of Trinity Church steeple, 
 across to Jersey City and back. He expects to make 
 the round trip in less than three ininutes. 
 
 Prof. Cantell A. Biglie. 
 
 Curiosity not only nibbled at the bait, but 
 swallowed it, hook and all. Long before lo 
 o'clock a crowd began to gather in front of 
 the church, and when the hour arrived for 
 the professor's flight, that part of Broadway
 
 I06 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 was completely blocked by a mass of impa- 
 tient humanity, with their eyes fixed on the 
 top of Trinity's steeple, expecting every 
 moment to see him emerge and take his 
 "flight extraordinary." 
 
 But he did n't emerge. A quarter of an 
 hour elapsed, and then some fellow in the 
 crowd shouted, "The professor is coming 
 out on the other side of the steeple." But 
 as there are four sides to every steeple, the 
 crowd were in doubt which way they ought 
 to rush. Some hurried in one direction and 
 some in another, until a loud voice uttered 
 three words, which relieved them of their 
 doubt : "First of April." 
 
 It was really astonishing to find how many 
 people there were in that crowd who had 
 never heard of the professor, and did n't care 
 a continental whether he flew or not. They 
 said they were there on business, and judg- 
 ing from the way in which they hurried into 
 the various shops and brokers' offices, maybe 
 they were. Anyhow, if they had been curi- 
 ous enough to dissect the professor's signa- 
 ture at the bottom of his advertisement,
 
 EDWARD A. SOTHERN. I07 
 
 they would have learned that even a Profes- 
 sor Coji-trll-a-big-lic. 
 
 Sothern died twenty years ago, leaving 
 behind him a distinguished successor in his 
 son, Edward H., whose name and fame as a 
 star have now the world's due recognition.
 
 James Quin. 
 
 ONE of the famed actors of the English 
 stage, in the middle of the Eighteenth 
 century, was James Quin. He was the great 
 Falstaff of his day, and greater in the part 
 than had been any of his predecessors, with 
 the exception of Betterton. But Quin was 
 famous, not alone as an actor, but as a duelist, 
 an epicure and a wag. He was ever ready 
 with his sword to resent an insult, and, in 
 consequence, had three encounters — in two 
 of which his adversaries paid the penalty of 
 the insult with their lives. His epicurean- 
 ism was unquestioned. It was of the Apician 
 type, and he was such a faithful disciple of 
 the Roman gourmand that he declared he 
 would be content to follow him out of the 
 world rather than be forced to live in it on a 
 plain diet. He loved good wine, and we can 
 measure the depth of his love by what him- 
 self has told us : "Oh, that my mouth were
 
 JAMES OUIN.
 
 JAMES QUIN. 109 
 
 as large as the arch of Westminster Bridge, 
 and the river ran Burgundy." Another out- 
 burst of his bacchanalian longings we find in 
 his soliloquy over the embalmed body of 
 Duke Humphrey, while it lay in the Cathe- 
 dral of vSt. Albans : 
 
 ''Oh plague on Egypt's Arts, I say ! 
 Embalm the dead ! On senseless clay 
 
 Rich wines and spices waste ! 
 Like sturgeon, or like brawn, shall I 
 Bound in a precious pickle lie. 
 
 Which I can never taste? 
 
 "Let me embalm this flesh of mine 
 With turtle fat and Bordeaux wine 
 
 x\nd spoil the Egyptian trade ! 
 Than Humphrey's Duke more happy I — 
 Embalmed alive, old Quin shall die 
 
 A mummy ready made." 
 
 As is sometimes the case with epicures. 
 Quin was an expert cook. He knew how to 
 utilize the resources of the cuisine, and could 
 turn out a new dish with all the ingenuity of 
 a Savarin. His friends were aware of this. 
 Among them were many slaves of the table, 
 like himself, and when they heard of one of 
 his kitchen novelties they never let him rest 
 until they had wormed the recipe out of him. 
 His home was at Bath, and he often delight-
 
 I lO WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 ed the stomachs of his townsmen with one 
 of his inventions, for which he was never at 
 a loss for a name as novel as the dish. One 
 of these he called "Soup a la Siam/' the in- 
 gredients of which he pretended were sent to 
 him from the East. His friends were wild 
 in their praises of its excellence, and began, 
 as usual, to besiege him with requests for the 
 recipe. But Quin was deaf to all their en- 
 treaties. He refused to part with his secret, 
 putting off his female friends with promises, 
 while those of the other sex had to be con- 
 tent with a blunt denial. 
 
 The Bath boii-z'iz'cmts then resolved upon 
 another course to obtain their end. "If he 
 won't give us the recipe we'll worry the life 
 out of him, and give him no peace." With 
 this intent a dozen or more of the male con- 
 spirators put their heads together, and day 
 after day flooded the actor with anonymous 
 letters, the burden of which was made up of 
 praises for his "Siam." and reminders of the 
 injury he was inflicting upon humanity by 
 withholding from it the recipe. 
 
 Quin suspected the source of the letters,
 
 JAMES QUIN. Ill 
 
 and being convinced that the design of the 
 writers was to badger him, determined to 
 take his revenge. His manner of taking it 
 was worthy of the wag. He wrote to each 
 of the suspected ones, inviting them all to 
 dine with him on a certain dav, and teUingf 
 them tliat he had invented another dish 
 especially for the occasion, and which, he 
 assured them, surpassed even the "Siam" 
 in delicacy of flavor. He also promised to 
 let them have the recipe for its preparation, 
 if they desired it. 
 
 Of course, the invitation was gladly ac- 
 cepted. The day came, and when all were 
 seated at the table the new dish was brought 
 in, and Ouin opened the ceremonies with a 
 short speech : 
 
 "Gentlemen, before you begin, let me say 
 that your reputation as gourmets is so well 
 known to me that I would n't venture to set 
 before you a dish unless it were of extraor- 
 dinary excellence. I call my new invention 
 'Puree a la Calf,' and I am sure you will be 
 so pleased with it that the 'Siam' will linger 
 no longer in your recollection. As for me.
 
 1 12 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 I am sorry to say, I am a little under the 
 weather, and must confine myself for a day 
 to simpler diet. Now, gentlemen, for your 
 verdict." 
 
 The verdict was unanimous. They all 
 vowed that never had they tasted a soup so 
 deliciously seasoned, nor one that could com- 
 pare with it in the delicacy of its flavor. 
 
 "You are right, Mr. Quin. You have in- 
 deed surpassed yourself with your new in- 
 vention and made us forget the 'Siam.' 
 And now for your promise." 
 
 And each guest pulled out his tablets and 
 prepared to write down the recipe. 
 
 "My promise? What promise?" asked 
 Quin. 
 
 "Why, that you would give us the recipe." 
 
 "I don't remember making any such 
 promise." 
 
 His guests, however, were not to be put 
 off so easily. They locked the door and 
 told him plainly that they would n't leave 
 the room, nor should he, until he had re- 
 deemed his promise by giving them the 
 recipe.
 
 JAMES QUIN. 113 
 
 With some stammering and a good deal 
 of seeming reluctance, Quin finally yielded. 
 
 "Well, gentlemen, my memory may be at 
 fault, and since you insist that I made the 
 promise, I suppose I shall have to keep it 
 Here is the recipe, which I will read to you,, 
 but please don't interrupt me until I am 
 through. In the first place, take a pair of 
 old boots — the older the boots, the better will 
 be the flavor of the soup — cut off their tops 
 and soles and soak them over night in a pail 
 of warm water. In the morning take them out 
 and chop them up into fine particles, like 
 mincemeat; then throw them into a copper 
 kettle, adding the water in which they were 
 soaked, also some sage, three or four minced 
 onions, spices to suit the taste, a little salt, 
 a small piece of ham and a glass of good 
 sherry. Simmer the whole for three hours 
 and serve hot." 
 
 There was no perceptible change in the 
 countenance of Quin while reading his 
 recipe, but he had barely finished the first 
 line of it when the faces of his guests began 
 to lengthen and lose their native hue; and
 
 114 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 before he reached the end of it the ruby 
 cheeks of the bon-vivants were hidden un- 
 der ''the pale cast of thought" that they had 
 been poisoned. 
 
 "Is this one of your jokes, Mr. Quin, or 
 do you really mean to say that you invited 
 us here to dine on old boots?" 
 
 "To dine on old boots? Not entirely," 
 replied Quin, ''I invited you here to try my 
 new soup and give me your opinion of it. 
 You have done both — swallowing it liber- 
 ally, and with praises so loud that I feel 
 flattered, coming as they do from such ac- 
 complished gourmets. However, if the dish 
 has proved too rich, even for your educated 
 stomachs, don't be alarmed — there 's an 
 apothecary's shop just around the corner." 
 
 They thought the hint apropos and took 
 it. Without waiting for the remainder of 
 the dinner, they seized their hats, hurried 
 from the house and '"around the corner," 
 where, by the aid of "ipecac," or some other 
 prophylactic persuasive, they were relieved of 
 Quin's "Puree a la Calf." 
 
 It was needless for Quin to mention — •
 
 JAMES QUIN. 115 
 
 for the world would have surmised it — "I 
 am no one-bottle man, and pity him who 
 can't stow away a half-dozen without stow- 
 ing himself away under the table." Yet 
 e^■en a wine-butt has its limit, and notwith- 
 standing the capactiy of the old comedian, 
 he was not without a goodly share of under- 
 the-table experience. 
 
 As a matter of course, Quin was a "jolly 
 good fellow" in the eye of his brother- 
 actors, and therefore had a multitude of 
 friends among them. But there was one he 
 was proud to distinguish as his "bosom- 
 friend" — Samuel Foote. It seems a little 
 strange that two men who dififered so widely 
 in disposition and temperament should have 
 been drawn so closely together by the ties 
 of friendship. Quin was full of good nature 
 and good words; Foote was irascible, with 
 a tongue tipped with gall ; Quin would for- 
 get the rankest offence^, unless it amounted 
 to an insult ; Foote would coddle in his 
 bosom the most trivial one : Ouin's waggish- 
 ness ^vas of the "give-and-take" kind ; 
 
 Foote's was all give and no take; Quin 
 9
 
 I 1 6 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 could enjoy a joke, made at his expense, 
 quite as much as one of his own that some- 
 body else had to pay for ; Foote would gloat 
 over the squirmings of him who had been hit 
 by his waggery, but he objected to being a 
 target for that of other people. His sen- 
 sitiveness was so thin-skinned that to perpe- 
 trate a joke upon him was sure to bring his 
 everlasting enmity on the head of the per- 
 petrator. 
 
 Now, Ouin was well aware of Foote's 
 waspish touchiness, for he had known him 
 too long to be ignorant of it. Yet he 
 wouldn't permit a little matter of that kind, 
 nor even the big matter of bosom-friendship, 
 to stand in the way of his waggery. His ap- 
 petite for a joke was something which had to 
 be satisfied at whatever cost. 
 
 It chanced one day that he met three 
 of Foote's friends, and, with a long face full 
 of solemnity and pity, he began the conver- 
 sation : 
 
 "Poor Foote ! I feel sorry for him." 
 
 "Sorry for him? Why, what's the matter 
 now?"
 
 JAMES QUIN. 117 
 
 "His old complaint — financial trouble. 
 You remember how quickly he ran through 
 two fortunes and now, it seems, he has reach- 
 ed the end of his third. However, what I 
 am about to tell you is in strict confidence 
 and you must promise me to let it go no fur- 
 ther. You know the poor fellow's sensitive- 
 ness, and how anxious he is to cover up the 
 signs of poverty." 
 
 They gave the required promise, and Quin 
 continued : 
 
 "I called on him last Sunday morning and 
 finding him in bed asked him to get up and 
 dress himself, so that we might take a stroll 
 together. But with a heavy sigh he de- 
 clined." 
 
 "Declined? Was he sick?" 
 
 "No; he said his shirt was in the custody 
 of his washerwoman and he would have to 
 lie abed until it was washed. Very sad, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 The story may have been sad, but it was 
 too good to be hidden, even under the cloak 
 of "strict confidence." It wasn't long in 
 reaching the ears of Foote, and so deep was
 
 Il8 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 his chagrin and so roused his anger that he 
 refused to speak to Ouin for months after- 
 wards. Time, however, did bring about a 
 reconciliation, but still the recollection of the 
 joke rankled in the breast of Foote and so 
 sorely that, one day, he couldn't refrain from 
 letting out his mortification : 
 
 "Tell me now, Jemmy; how could you 
 ever have said such a ridiculous thing as 
 that?" 
 
 "As what?" asked Quin. 
 
 "Why, that I had to lie abed while having 
 my shirt washed." 
 
 "I didn't say it, my boy; how could I? 
 I didn't know you had a shirt!" 
 
 Quin's tenderness of heart, had given him 
 a distaste for angling and one of his sport- 
 ing friends asking him the reason for his 
 aversion, he replied : "Self-preservation. 
 You anglers have no mercy and are so fond 
 of variety you might take it into your head, 
 some day, to go a-Quinning; if you did, and 
 were shrewd enough to use a haunch of veni- 
 son for your bait, I sh(3ukl be sure to bite at 
 it:
 
 JAMES QUIN. 119 
 
 Then tell me how would Jemmy's carcass 
 
 look, 
 Jerked in the air and dangling on a hook?" 
 
 Quin was never great in Tragedy. His 
 attempts in that field were mediocre and 
 merely imitations of Barton Booth, the pupil 
 and successor of Betterton. It was on his 
 Falstaff that his reputation was built — a 
 reputation which Foote has warmly assured 
 us was deserved : 'T can only recommend a 
 man, who wants to see a character perfectly 
 played, to see Mr. Quin in the part of Fal- 
 staff; and if he doesn't express a desire of 
 spending an evening with that merry mortal, 
 I wouldn't spend one with him, if he would 
 pay my reckoning." 
 
 It was in this part that Quin made his last 
 appearance on the stage. The occasion was 
 a special one, being the benefit of his friend 
 and fellow-actor, Ryan. The result was 
 such a financial success, that the beneficiary 
 wrote to Quin the following year saying that 
 he intended to take another benefit and ask- 
 ing the actor if he wouldn't do him the favor 
 to appear once more in the same part. But
 
 I20 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Quin in the meantime had lost two of his 
 front teeth — a loss which interfered so seri- 
 ously with the flow of his speech that he re- 
 fused to comply with his friend's request. 
 His letter of reply to Ryan was character- 
 istic : 
 
 My Dear Friend : 
 
 There is no person on earth I would sooner serve 
 than yourself ; but, by G — d, sir ! I will whistle Fal- 
 staff for no man ! 
 
 James Quin. 
 
 From the time of his last appearance — ■ 
 March 19th, 1753 — Quin lived in retirement 
 at Bath until his death, which occurred on 
 January 21st, 1766. He was buried in the 
 Abbey Church where his tomb is topped by 
 a marble monument on which is engraved 
 the following epitaph written by Garrick : 
 
 "That tongue which set the table in a roar, 
 And charmed the public ear is heard no more ! 
 Closed are those eyes, the harbingers of wit, 
 Which spake before the tongue what Shakspere writ; 
 Ccld is that hand, which, living, was stretched forth 
 At Friendship's call, to succour modest worth. 
 Here lies James Quin — Deign, reader, to be taught, 
 What e'er thy strength of body, force of thought ; 
 Tn Nature's happiest mould, however cast, 
 To this complexion must thou come at last."
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE.
 
 Samuel Foote. 
 
 FOOTE'S name, like that of his friend 
 Quin, holds a place — though an 
 equivocal one — on the scroll of Fame. There 
 is no doubt that he left something behind 
 him for the tongue of Posterity to talk about, 
 but it was not the record of a great actor. A 
 great mimic he surely was, as well as a comic 
 dramatist possessed of an infinite stock of 
 satire and polished buffoonery. As a play- 
 wright, however, he had but little claim to 
 excellence. His so-called comedies were 
 nothing more than lamely-constructed 
 farces, without plot, and filled with witty 
 attacks upon soiled reputations, and caustic 
 hits at the vices and weaknesses of those 
 whom he picked out for his gibbeting. In 
 the flings of his satire he was no respecter of 
 persons, nor of things sacred or profane. 
 This, very naturally, made him many en- 
 emies, but it tickled the public taste and put
 
 122 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 money in his purse — something which his 
 extravagance always had use for, and some- 
 thing that it knew how to get rid of in, a 
 way to leave him periodically on his beam.- 
 ends. 
 
 He made his first appearance on the Stage 
 in 1744, but the public saw nothing in him 
 then to catch their fancy; nor was it until 
 three years after his debut that he succeeded 
 in opening their eyes. He had tried each end 
 of the Drama — Tragedy and Comedy — and 
 failed in both. Then he began to wonder 
 whether Nature ever intended him for an 
 actor : "If she did, and I am fit for neither 
 Tragedy nor Comedy, what the d — 1 am I fit 
 for?" His question was soon to be answer- 
 ed. He was cast for the part of Bayes in 
 "The Rehearsal" and his success in it left no 
 doubt in his mind what he was "fit for." 
 Garrick had previously played the same part, 
 introducing imitations of various actors, and 
 Foote was quick to profit by his example. 
 
 But the comedian was much the greater 
 mimic of the two. Besides, he interspersed 
 his imitations with satirical "gags," the sub-
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. 1 23 
 
 jects of which the audience were quick to 
 recognize. Nor did he confine his mimicry 
 in the part to the peculiarities of actors. He 
 brought in the followers of all professions 
 alike, or such of them whose deeds or mis- 
 deeds offered a mark for his ridicule. 
 
 His phenomenal success as a mimic led 
 him now to abandon all thought of again 
 attempting the legitimate drama, and to de- 
 vote his talent to such parts in his own farces 
 as were fitted for it. In these he was uni- 
 formly successful; although his scurrilous 
 tongue and pen occasionally tangled him in 
 the meshes of the law. 
 
 He once undertook to lampoon George 
 Faulkner, the publisher of the Dublin Jour- 
 nal. George had lost one of his legs and was 
 forced thereafter to hobble through the 
 world on an artificial one. Foote thought 
 that no man with "one leg in the grave," 
 and "a wooden understanding," should be 
 so full of conceit and eccentricity, and there- 
 fore to give a "form and pressure" to his 
 thought he brought the printer into one of 
 his farces, "The Orators," giving him the
 
 124 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 name of Peter Paragraph, and caricaturing 
 him so heartlessly that George turned on 
 the wag and brought an action for libel. 
 The result was not entirely satisfactory to 
 the plaintiff. He discovered, as others have 
 done since his time, that "a poor man's right 
 in the law hangs like a fish in the net." 
 Foote suffered but little damage from the 
 suit, either in pocket or fame. Two months 
 afterward he again produced "The Orators" 
 at the Haymarket, introducing a new scene 
 in which he caricatured the Judge, the jury, 
 the counsel and the whole of the Court's 
 proceedings. 
 
 It was during the progress of Foote's trial 
 that Faulkner's counsel — with a brain evi- 
 dently "fuddled by the fumes of fancy" — 
 likened his client to Socrates and dubbed the 
 mimic "The British Aristophanes." The 
 comparison was hardly a happy one. Faulk- 
 ner was the plaintiff in his case, while Soc- 
 rates, in his legal trouble, was the defend- 
 ant. And even if it were true that "The 
 Clouds" of Aristophanes furnished a Court 
 of Justice with the hint, and substantially
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. 1 25 
 
 the grounds, upon which the bare-foot phi- 
 lospoher was prosecuted and deprived of his 
 life, yet all this doesn't prove that Foote de- 
 served the compliment which the flowery 
 advocate had thrust upon him. On what 
 then, did the hyperbolist base the fitness of 
 his epithet ? Did he think that the defendant 
 was a caricaturist of the Aristophanes pat- 
 tern and therefore entitled to it? If this 
 were his opinion he has given us an apt illus- 
 tration of the truth of Pope's line : "A little 
 learning is a dangerous thing." Of course 
 it is quite plain that both poets were carica- 
 turists, but it needs no Socratic subtlety in 
 a lawyer, nor in anyone else, to demonstrate 
 that they never learned their trade in the 
 same "thinking-shop." Foote at once dis- 
 claimed the epithet, saying he would not 
 point out the mistake of the learned counsel 
 but would leave it to his enemies to discover 
 the absurdity of the comparison. 
 
 Foote was no sycophant. He had but lit- 
 tle respect for Nobility, and no regard for 
 the reputation of its lords and ladies when 
 they had none for it themselves. The Duke
 
 126 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 of Norfolk, one of the wag's acquaintances, 
 was notoriously fond of the bottle and usual- 
 ly carried enough of it under his gold-laced 
 waistcoat to make his dukeship top-heavy. 
 One day he said to Foote : "I am invited to 
 a masquerade to-morrow night; can you 
 suggest some character for me to appear in 
 that would be novel?" "Certainly," replied 
 the wag — "Go sober!" 
 
 The reply was witty, and there was noth- 
 ing in it at which good-taste could take 
 offence ; but his waggery often did offend it, 
 and in the most boorish manner. He would 
 accept of a lord's hospitality and then, if the 
 dinner didn't exactly please him, he would 
 abuse both his host and his entertainment. 
 
 On one occasion he dined with Lord 
 Townshend, who had been engaged, the day 
 before, in a duel. When the dinner was 
 finished, Foote remarked : 
 
 "Your lordship might have settled with 
 your antagonist in a more deadly way." 
 
 "A more deadly way, Mr. Foote? How?" 
 
 "By inviting him to such a dinner as this 
 and poisoning him."
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. 
 
 127 
 
 Here is another sample of his insolent hu- 
 mor. He had accepted an invitation to dine 
 with a certain nobleman, but again the qual- 
 ity of the dinner didn't reach his expecta- 
 tions. On leaving- the house, he found the 
 servants ranged in line on each side of 
 the hall waiting for their customary tip. 
 "Where's the cook and butler?" he asked. 
 When they stepped forward he said to the 
 cook: 'There's a half-crown for my eat- 
 ing;" then, turning to the butler: "There are 
 five shillings for my wine; but, by G — d, 
 never in my life have I had so poor a dinner 
 for the money." 
 
 In his crabbed moods the Stage and its 
 people would become the objects of his re- 
 proach and sarcasm. He believed, or feign- 
 ed to believe, that no mental qualifications 
 were required in the make-up of an actor, 
 and that the profession itself was "the last 
 resource of ignorance, indolence and vice." 
 During his term of theatrical management 
 he once dismissed his prompter from the po- 
 sition, but still employed him at the same 
 salary, sending him on to play trifling parts.
 
 128 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 One of the company, on noticing the change, 
 said : "So, Mr. Foote, we have lost our old 
 prompter." "Yes," replied Foote, "the fel- 
 low didn't know enough for the position; he 
 couldn't read, so I made an actor of him." 
 
 The wag was not devoted to the payment 
 of his debts. He argued that it was a bad 
 habit to get into and the cause of much ot 
 the world's uneasiness; "therefore," he says, 
 "it would be good for every man to learn the 
 art of not paying his debts; it is the art of 
 living without money. It saves the trouble 
 of keeping accounts, and makes other people 
 work for our repose. It checks avarice and 
 encourages generosity — as people are com- 
 monly more liberal with the property of 
 others than with their own. In short, it 
 draws the inquiries and attentions of the 
 world on us while we live, and makes us sin- 
 cerely regretted when we die." 
 
 Among the many titled acquaintances of 
 the comedian was one Lord Kellie. His 
 lordship was a noted wine-bibber and his 
 countenance was so lighted up by the illu- 
 minating properties of Port and Burgundy,
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. 1 29 
 
 that in warmth and brightness it seemed to 
 rival the midday sun. Foote asked him to 
 d>ne with him and his lordship promised to 
 do so, but on the day appointed he met the 
 actor in a coffee-house and told him he would 
 have to break his promise as he had accepted 
 an invitation, since he gave it, which would 
 compel him to dine elsewhere. Foote was 
 displeased, and, in a tone loud enough to be 
 heard by all the occupants of the room, said : 
 "Is that so, my lord? Well, since you can- 
 not do me the honor of dining with me to- 
 day, you can oblige me in another way. As 
 you ride by my house be kind enough to look 
 over the fence and against my side wall. 
 We have had so little sun for the past fort- 
 night that my peaches are pining and will be 
 grateful for a glimpse of your lordship's 
 countenance." 
 
 This same lord was fond of playing prac- 
 tical jokes upon his friends and in a manner 
 so coarse that a certain Irish gentleman re- 
 marked to Foote: "If his lordship should 
 undertake to play one of his scurvy pranks 
 on me I would pull his nose." "Pull his
 
 130 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 nose?" echoed the wag, "safer to hire a sala- 
 mander to do that — unless you want your 
 fingers burned." 
 
 Whenever Foote had one of his impecu- 
 nious attacks he used all manner of diplo- 
 macy to keep the knowledge of it from his 
 friends. He thought that some show of 
 prosperity was needed for this, and there- 
 fore in turning over his collateral to his 
 "Uncle" he would let everything go except 
 his watch. If he was minus a shirt, what 
 mattered it? He could button up his coat, 
 pull out his gold repeater, and who then 
 would suspect that he didn't know where his 
 next meal was to come from ? While strug- 
 gling through one of these pinched periods 
 of his erratic life he chanced to meet Mack- 
 lin, who had often been the victim of his 
 jokes, but was now to have an opportunity 
 to retaliate. They entered a coffee-house 
 and, as soon as seated at one of the tables, 
 Foote pulled out his gold repeater, looked at 
 it, dangled it in his hand, and then held it up 
 to his ear. Suddenly he exclaimed : 
 "Zounds, Mack! my watch has stopped!"
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. I3I 
 
 "Never mind, Sam," said Macklin. "Have 
 a little patience — it will soon go!" 
 
 A country gentleman, with whom Foote 
 was stopping on a visit, had just buried a 
 relative (an attorney) and was complaining 
 of the expenses attending a country funeral. 
 
 "Why, sir," he said, "after the carriages, 
 the hat-bands, the scarfs, and the other et 
 ceteras are paid for, there is nothing left. 
 
 "Is it possible you bury your attorneys 
 here?" 
 
 "Bury them? Of course we do. How 
 else could we dispose of them?" 
 
 "Do as we do in London. We never bury 
 them there." 
 
 "You don't? How in the world do you 
 get rid of them?" 
 
 "Easily enough. When a lawyer dies we 
 lay him out at night in a room by himself, 
 throw open the sash, lock the door, and in 
 the morning he is gone." 
 
 "Gone? Gone where?" 
 
 "That we cannot tell. All we know is that 
 he is gone and there's a strong smell of brim- 
 stone in the room." 
 10
 
 132 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Foote once rented a house which had been 
 advertised as "completely furnished." The 
 day after he took possession his cook came 
 to him with the complaint that there was no 
 rolling-pin in the kitchen. "No rolling- 
 pin?" said Foote, "then bring me a saw and 
 I'll make you one;" which he did by sawing 
 oft" the top of a mahogany bed-post. The 
 next day there was another complaint — "no 
 coal-scuttle in the house," and to supply one 
 a drawer was taken from a curious Japanese 
 chest. Then it was discovered there was no 
 carpet on the parlor floor. "That will never 
 do," said Foote, "the boards will be ruined." 
 So to "save the boards" he covered them over 
 with a couple of new white counterpanes. 
 When the landlord came to see how his ten- 
 ant liked his residence, he was astonished at 
 the disordered state of the rooms and threat- 
 ened to sue the wag for the injury done to 
 his furniture. But Foote replied : "The 
 injury, sir, is all on my side, for I have been 
 compelled to supply things which no 'com- 
 pletely-furnished' house should be without. 
 You may sue, if you please, but if you do
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. 1 33 
 
 I'll lampoon you on the stage and we will 
 see who gets the best of it." This threat so 
 calmed the ire of the landlord that Foote 
 was never troubled with a "suit for dam- 
 ages."' 
 
 Skillful as Foote was in "the keen en- 
 counters of his wit" he was sometimes non- 
 plused by having his own weapon turned 
 upon himself. He once had a law-suit over 
 a three-year lease of the Edinburgh Theatre, 
 and the decision being against him the Scot- 
 tish agent came from Edinburgh with a bill 
 of costs which the actor had to pay, remark- 
 ing as he did so : "Well, now you have your 
 money, I presume you intend to return to 
 Edinburgh and, like all your tight-fisted 
 countrymen, you'll get there in the cheapest 
 way possible." The Scotchman put the cash 
 in his pocket and, tapping upon the latter in 
 a significant way, replied : "Aye, aye, mon ; 
 I shall travel on Foote." 
 
 After his hit in "The Rehearsal" Foote 
 opened the New Haymarket Theatre with 
 his "tea-drinking entertainments." These 
 soon became the rage of the season and the
 
 134 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 tide of the wag's ill luck was again on the 
 ebb. Quin, of course, was not unaware 
 of his success and in speaking of it said : 
 "I am glad of it. We may now look to 
 see the poor devil with a clean shirt on." 
 Such a remark was not likely to go to 
 sleep, especially as it was made to a 
 friend of Foote's. The gentleman went 
 at once to the Bedford where he found the 
 wag and told him of it. A moment later 
 Quin himself entered the coffee-house. "So, 
 Jemmy," said Foote, "you have been amus- 
 ing my friend here with another of your 
 jokes. He tells me that you said I should 
 now be able to wear clean shirts. How dare 
 you take such a liberty as that?" 
 
 "Your friend has made a mistake," re- 
 plied Quin; "I didn't say shirts; I said shirt. 
 Do you suppose I could be so ignorant as to 
 use the plural number?" 
 
 Lord Townshend was at one time Lord 
 Lieutenant of Ireland and Foote attended 
 one of his levees. Among his Excellency's 
 suite the wag was somewhat surprised to see 
 a person whom he had known to have been
 
 SAMUEL FOOTE. 
 
 135 
 
 one of the Jeremy Diddlers of London. To 
 satisfy himself that he was not mistaken in 
 his surmise he asked Lord Townshend the 
 name of the man. "That," said his lordship, 
 
 "is Mr. S , one of my gentlemen at large. 
 
 Don't you know him?" "Oh yes, I know 
 him," replied Foote; "but what your Excel- 
 lency tells me is doubly extraordinary; first, 
 that he is a gentleman; and, next, that he 
 should be at large/' 
 
 The actor once dined with a party of mer- 
 chant-tailors. The dinner passed off pleas- 
 antly, and he sat at the table until the 
 knights of the shears began to thin out and 
 more than half of them had left. Then he 
 rose and took his leave saying, with an air 
 of seriousness : "Gentlemen, I wish you 
 both good-night." "Both?" echoed one of 
 the company; "Why, Foote, that last bottle 
 must have twisted your vision. There are 
 a dozen or more of us left yet." "Oh, yes," 
 said the wag, "I know that, for I took the 
 trouble to count you. Eighteen is the num- 
 ber, and, as it takes nine tailors to make a 
 man, I wish you both good-night."
 
 136 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Foote died in Dover on the 21st of Octo- 
 ber, 1777, and, on the 27th of that month 
 was buried by torchhght in the cloisters of 
 Westminster, where he now lies, with no me- 
 morial to mark his resting place — no epitaph 
 to jog the world's remembrance of his vir- 
 tues. Whatever may have been his faults, 
 or vices, as his enemies were pleased to call 
 them, he was not the consummate rascal that 
 they thought him. He must have been pos- 
 sessed of some virtues, or he never could 
 have won the esteem and admiration of Dr. 
 Johnson : ''He was a fine fellow in his way, 
 and the world is really impoverished by his 
 sinking glories ;" so thought the doctor, and 
 his wise old head knew the literary wealth 
 of the world too well to believe that it could 
 be "really impoverished" by the "sinking 
 glories" of a scamp. At all events, the name 
 of Foote still lives. A century-and-a-half 
 has elapsed since his "glories" were in full 
 bloom, and, while the world hesitates to 
 count him among the great players and play- 
 wrights of the past, it will ever remember 
 him as the chief of its departed wags.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 From the collection of Charles N. Mann.
 
 William Wheatley. 
 
 And an Episode of Nicaraguan Life. 
 
 WHILE he lived, the Stage knew but 
 few better actors than William 
 Wheatley, and since his time it has known 
 but few so good. In "juvenile" parts he was 
 always acceptable, but "light comedy" was 
 the field better fitted for the show of his 
 ability. In such characters as "Rover," 
 "Young Rapid." "Bob Handy" in Speed the 
 Plough, "Mirabel" in the Inconstant, and the 
 "Copper Captain" in Rule a Wife and Have 
 a Wife, he had no peer — with the possible 
 exception of James E. Murdoch. The latter, 
 however, lacked the handsome face and 
 graceful form of Wheatley — potent if not 
 essential aids to the light comedian. 
 
 I became acquainted with Wheatley in 
 1849. He was then a member of the Walnut 
 Street Theatre Company of Philadelphia, 
 under the management of E. A. Marshall.
 
 138 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Actors of that time were not paid so liberally 
 for their services as are those of to-day, and 
 Wheatley had to be content with his twenty- 
 five dollars per week. This seems a paltry 
 sum when we consider that there are players 
 now of no more merit who demand their 
 three-hundred a week, and get it. 
 
 Before he became a Philadelphian he was 
 a member of the Old Park Theatre Company 
 of New York. It was on the boards of this 
 theatre that Dion Boucicault's comedy of 
 ''London Assurance" was first produced in 
 America and with a remarkable cast. Harry 
 Placide was the Sir Harcourt, Peter Rich- 
 ings the Dazzle. Charlotte Cushman the Lady 
 Gay Spanker, and William Wheatley the 
 Charles Courtley. ( Boucicault has the cred- 
 it of being the author of "London Assur- 
 ance" ; but Brougham was his collaborateur, 
 and there is every reason to believe that 
 John's brain was responsible for the greater 
 part of the comedy's humor and brilliancy.) 
 
 Nowadays — when every actor or actress 
 of any note gathers a company of his or 
 her own, pitches upon a play and stars
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 39 
 
 the country with it — 't would be a diffi- 
 cult task for the manager of any thea- 
 tre to collect an array of talent equal 
 to that of the Old Park. But, admitting 
 the possibility of gathering such a company 
 together, and that the manager's exchequer 
 were broad enough to straddle the expense, 
 there would still be another block in the road 
 of his success — I mean, if he confined his 
 company to the old-time comedies. The 
 taste of the public has changed and old-time 
 wit no longer pleases the palate of the play- 
 goer. He must have something with a 
 stronger spice in it; something dished up in 
 the style of the ''Brass Monkey" or the 
 "Texas Steer ;" and he'll have it, or turn his 
 back on the theatre that won't oblige him 
 and seek another that will. However, this is 
 a subject "to be handled with care." There 
 are plenty of preachers on the "Decadence of 
 the Drama," but their text is not well taken. 
 The Decadence of the Public Taste "would 
 be more german to the matter." 
 
 Speaking of the Old Park, here is an in- 
 teresting bit of something that happened to
 
 I40 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Wheatley while he was a member of its com- 
 pany. By dint of economy through years of 
 his stage labor he had saved a couple of thou- 
 sand dollars and was looking about him for 
 some profitable way in which to invest it. 
 Among his friends was one who professed to 
 have the knack of handling the ups-and- 
 downs of the stock market without getting 
 his fingers squeezed. "Wheatley," he said, 
 "if you have any money to invest I can give 
 5''0u a Wall Street tip by which you can quad- 
 ruple your capital in a week." This was 
 what my friend was looking for, but he was 
 a little shy of the method. He had often 
 heard that a Wall Street operation was very 
 like the operation of a mouse trap — easy to 
 enter but hard to get out of alive. 
 
 Still he had confidence in his friend and 
 asked him the nature of the "tip." "Buy 
 Harlem," was the reply, "the stock is selling 
 to-day at $64 and will surely reach par, and 
 may go beyond, before the week is out." 
 
 The temptation was too strong for Wheat- 
 ley to resist. He turned his money over to 
 his friend, who invested it in 200 shares of
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I4I 
 
 Harlem at 64, buying the stock on a margin. 
 But alas the stability of all human calcu- 
 lations, especially if they be built upon a 
 Wall Street foundation. The next morning 
 Harlem rose a point, then dropped two, and 
 continued in its downward track, and with 
 such toboggan speed that in forty-eight hours 
 the stock had lost fifteen points, leaving 
 Wheatley minus his $2000, and in debt for 
 half as much more. 
 
 Now, two thousand dollars may not be a 
 very big fortune to lose, but when it happens 
 to be all that a man has, the loser needs the 
 aid of some philosophy to reconcile him to 
 his loss. And Wheatley had a good deal of 
 the needed article. "I don't have to go far 
 from home," he said, "to discover the truth 
 of the old proverb about the 'fool and his 
 money' ; nor do I intend to cry over my 'spilt 
 milk.' " Nor did he. Never afterwards did I 
 hear him allude to the matter but once; it 
 was during the rehearsal of a play in which 
 he had to "tag the piece" — that is, to speak 
 the closing line, which read : 
 
 "I ne'er will act from reckless impulse more."
 
 I 4.2 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 He spoke the line and then, with a muffled 
 sigh, added one of his own : 
 "Nor purchase Harlem stock at sixty- four !" 
 
 In speaking- further of Wheatley I shall 
 bring in a year of his life in the wilds of 
 Nicaragua, following up his career from 
 the time he left the stage — a comparatively 
 poor man — until he returned to it to pick up 
 a plethoric fortune. This may not prove un- 
 interesting reading; at all events it will give 
 me the opportunity of unearthing some of 
 his waggery. 
 
 Our acquaintance began, as I have said, 
 in '49, and soon ripened into mutual friend- 
 ship. It was about this time that the actor 
 became disgusted with his profession. He 
 had labored in it long and hard, and rather 
 than waste more of his years and energy 
 upon labor so unremunerative, he resolved to 
 leave it. This resolution he followed up with 
 a farewell benefit, and at the close of the 
 performance he came before the curtain, 
 thanked the Philadelphians for their gener- 
 ous attendance and bade the stage farewell 
 forever.
 
 WILLIAM VVHEATLEY. I43 
 
 \^''as it to be forever ? He thought so then, 
 but, "there's a divinity that shapes our ends" 
 and sometimes shapes them without waiting 
 for our dictation or consent. 
 
 After the benefit he went to New York 
 and accepted a position in the office of his 
 brother-in-law, E. H. Miller, a prominent 
 Wall Street broker. One year of such a life 
 was quite enough for Wheatley. He was 
 entirelv out of his element, and more dis- 
 contented than a fish out of water. 
 
 Miller saw his discontent and said to him: 
 "William, it is very plain that you miss the 
 flare of the footlights and have no relish for 
 the society of bulls and bears. All this is 
 natural enough, but I have something now 
 to propose which may be more to your 
 liking." 
 
 •'Well, go on, Ned ; I am more than ready 
 to listen." 
 
 "You know, I presume, that I am a heavy 
 stockholder in the Nicaragua Transit Com- 
 pany?" 
 
 "I do— what then?" 
 
 "You also know that the Pacific end of the
 
 144 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Transit route connects with Commodore 
 Vanderbilt's steamers that run to San Fran- 
 cisco?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, my proposition is this : You have 
 some little money — enough, I think, for the 
 purpose, if you haven't I will help you out — 
 take this, go down to Central America, buy 
 or rent a ranch and raise cattle for the pur- 
 pose of supplying the Vanderbilt steamers 
 with beef. What do you think of it ?" 
 
 There was novelty in the propositon and, 
 spiced as it was with the promise of adven- 
 ture, it tickled the ennuied spirits of Wheat- 
 ley, and was destined to change the current, 
 not only of the comedian's life, but of my 
 own. 
 
 I was then living a bachelor in Philadel- 
 phia, with rooms on Chestnut Street, oppo- 
 site the old State House. On entering my 
 room, one day, I found the lid of a bandbox 
 pushed under the door and, scribbled upon 
 it, I read : 
 
 "My Dear Joe: 
 
 I have come from New York for the sole
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I45 
 
 purpose of seeing you, and on a matter of 
 great moment to both of us. Meet me at 
 the Chestnut Street Theatre to-night. Don't 
 fail. You will find me in the lower private 
 box. William Wheatley.'" 
 
 I met him in the box, and he began at once 
 to reveal the "matter of great moment." He 
 told me the burden of his interview with 
 Miller, and that he had determined to act 
 upon the latter's proposition. "And now," 
 he said, "you are the only man I care to have 
 as a partner, and if you can raise a couple 
 of thousand dollars, your fortune is made." 
 
 "Well," I replied, "I don't object to a for- 
 tune; it is a convenient thing to have. But 
 how about the febrile possibilities of a Nica- 
 raguan climate? Tropical fevers are apt 
 to be dangerously rough on the constitution 
 of a Northern man, and I would rather miss 
 a fortune than tumble into my grave in run- 
 ning to clutch it." 
 
 "Tumble into your grave ? Nonsense, my 
 boy. Have you ever read Squier's 'Notes on 
 Central America' ? If you have n't I can as- 
 sure you that Nicaragua is the garden-spot
 
 146 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 — the Paradise of the world ; which it 
 would n't be if its denizens were in the habit 
 of tumbling into their graves." 
 
 He then went into a long and fervid de- 
 scription of the country — its perpetual sum- 
 mer, its balmy skies, the soft breath of its 
 atmosphere, the luxuriant foliage, the never- 
 ending stretch of its orange groves, and va- 
 rious other adjuncts that aid in making up 
 the bliss of a Paradise. 
 
 I listened to all of it, and on leaving him 
 said : "Well, William, I will think over the 
 matter and then write you my decision." 
 
 "Very good, my boy, but be speedy as pos- 
 sible, and in the making of your decision 
 don't forget the pregnant words of Brutus: 
 
 'There is a tide in the affairs of men, 
 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.' " 
 
 I thought the matter over, and the result 
 of my thinking was what might have been 
 expected. I was young, with no matrimonial 
 nor other ties to shackle me, and had a sharp 
 appetite for adventure (of which, by the 
 way, I was soon to be gratified with a 
 stomach ful.)
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I47 
 
 The next day I sold enough ground-rents 
 to realize the required $2000, and then wrote 
 Wheatley that I would join him in his un- 
 dertaking, and that he might expect me in 
 New York the following day. On my ar- 
 rival he greeted me cordially, and after con- 
 gratulating me on the wisdom of my de- 
 cision, said : *'I have secured berths for us 
 both on the Daniel Webster, and to-day 
 week we will be on our way to carve our 
 fortunes in the 'land of orange blossoms.' " 
 
 It was a balmy day in the month of Oc- 
 tober when we stood on the deck of the Web- 
 ster as she backed lazily out of her dock to 
 plow her way down the bay and out through 
 the Narrows into the broad sea, with her 
 black nose pointed toward the Paradise of 
 the World. 
 
 The Webster was a side-wheeler, and I 
 
 stood a little abaft one of her wheelhouses, 
 
 leaning over the rail. The sea was rolling 
 
 rather heavily, and as the ship rolled with 
 
 it I watched with some interest the motion 
 
 of the wheel. When the steamer would take 
 
 a larboard list the wheel would be plunged 
 II
 
 148 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 out of sight. When the list was the other 
 way it would bring the wheel again into 
 view, with its paddles whirling around en- 
 tirely clear of the water. 
 
 I had left Wheatley a few steps away, and 
 now turned to draw his attention to what 
 had so interested me. He was nowhere to 
 be seen, and again I leaned over the rail. 
 Being in the very prime of my "salad days," 
 as a matter of course, my bosom was full 
 of poetry and sentiment, and nothing is 
 more apt to stir them up and bring them out 
 than the boundless sea. I learned all this 
 as I cast my eye over its broad expanse to 
 where the waters met and kissed the em- 
 bracing sky; but I was shortly to learn a 
 little more. 
 
 My mind was wrapped "in reverie pro- 
 found." 
 
 O, what ecstatic joys await the man 
 Who lives his life upon the ocean's span ; 
 Grant me but this, O Fortune ! then no more 
 Of thee I'll ask, nor waste my life on — 
 
 My reverie was suddenly choked and my 
 poetry cut short by a strange down-side-up
 
 THE AUTHOR, IN HIS SALAD DAYS.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 149 
 
 sensation. My boots seemed to have a de- 
 sire to crawl up over my head, and it was 
 painfully evident that the sea, which had so 
 stirred up and brought out my poetry and 
 sentiment, was now stirring up and about to 
 bring out everything else that was in me. 
 My young breast had suddenly lost its love 
 for the briny deep. More liberal than 
 Shakspere's Gonzalo, who offered "a thou- 
 sand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren 
 ground," I would have bartered the whole 
 of Neptune's kingdom for a bare tubful of 
 well-balanced earth. 
 
 I had heard a little and read a great deal 
 about wal-de-nicr, and the quantity of mis- 
 ery it holds to fill the cup of mortals; yet I 
 confidently believed it would never pour any 
 of it into mine. If I am not mistaken, it is 
 characteristic of him who dallies with the 
 bosom of the ocean for the first time to have 
 the same belief and confidence in the steadi- 
 ness of his stomach. He is a lucky man if 
 his confidence be not abused. 
 
 But to return to my own case. I started 
 for my stateroom and got as far as the gang-
 
 1 50 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 way that led into the saloon below. Stretch- 
 ed between the doors of the gangway Avas a 
 cane sofa, and on one end of it I saw a man 
 seated, with his head leaning upon his hand, 
 and apparently asleep. It was my friend 
 Wheatley. A deep groan told me that he 
 was not asleep, although his eyes were shut. 
 
 ''Is that you, Joe? I wish you would be 
 kind enough to take my arm and help me 
 down these steps and into my berth. It is 
 the last favor I shall ever ask of you. I 
 am going there to die !" 
 
 Now, it is no easy undertaking for a sea- 
 sick man to be facetious, yet I could n't help 
 trying it. 
 
 "To die? Not yet, not yet. my boy. No 
 man can do that till his time comes, and 
 yours has n't arrived. I know you are on 
 your road to Paradise, but I don't think 
 you '11 have to die to get there." 
 
 He made no reply — save another groan ; 
 then, rising slowly on his feet, he linked his 
 arm in mine, and we tottered down the gang- 
 way steps and across the saloon cabin to the 
 door of our stateroom.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 151 
 
 Wheatley crawled into his berth with his 
 clothes on, but I removed mine — a bit of 
 work which the lurching of the vessel ren- 
 dered somewhat toilsome ; nor would I have 
 done it could I have foreseen the trouble I 
 was to have in getting into them again. 
 However, that was a task I had n't the 
 courage to tackle for three days — days of 
 superb misery, during which time my stom- 
 ach's needs were as modest as those of Gold- 
 smith's Hermit; it wanted "but little here 
 below." The corner of a soda biscuit would 
 answer for a meal; indeed, this was about 
 all it would hospitably entertain, and some- 
 times 't would be uncivil even to that, and 
 kick it out as an intruder. 
 
 My friend's attack was not so lasting. 
 The morning after it he was out of the state- 
 room, and, what seemed marvelous to me, 
 with a stomach steady enough to allow its 
 owner to eat his breakfast at the ship's table. 
 
 By the morning of the fourth day my own 
 stomach had ceased its topsy-turvy tricks — 
 possibly for want of capital to work on — 
 and I was able to get out of my berth. I
 
 152 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 thought a sniff of the salt air might exhila- 
 rate me, and I was anxious to be on deck 
 where I could have it. But that was out of 
 the question, unless I could get into my 
 trousers. I was still dizzy-headed, and the 
 floor of the stateroom, tilted three-fourths of 
 the time at an angle of forty-five degrees, 
 was not a promising platform for a dizzy 
 head. However, by dint of patience and the 
 propping of my body against the side of 
 the berth, I did get into them, and resolved 
 never again to get out of them until once 
 more underpinned by old Mother Earth. The 
 other parts of my toilet were comparatively 
 easy. 
 
 The remaining days of our trip were not 
 without the usual monotony of sea voyages, 
 until we were approaching the Nicaraguan 
 coast. Stretching along the latter and over- 
 hanging it like a pall, we saw a dense and 
 sharply defined cloud, and in a short half 
 hour we had left the bright sunshine behind 
 us, and were steaming our way under the 
 downpour of a tropical rain and into the 
 harbor of San Juan del Norte. This, how-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 53 
 
 ever, is no longer the accepted name of the 
 town. When John Bull took protectorate 
 possession of the Mosquito coast he changed 
 the Spanish name, and although the Cla3'ton- 
 Bulwer treaty ended his protectorate in 1850, 
 it has n't as yet squelched his chosen one of 
 Greytown. 
 
 There is nothing very picturesque, or in 
 any other way attractive, about the town; 
 at least, there was n't fifty years ago, and I 
 believe the lapse of the half century has 
 made but little change or improvement. It 
 then consisted of perhaps forty or fifty 
 houses, a few of which were frame and the 
 remainder built of cane and thatched with 
 either palm leave.", or grass, and sometimes 
 with "sacchate," the native name for corn- 
 stalks. The town contained about three 
 hundred souls, of various colors — black, 
 brown, red, yellow and white. The site it- 
 self is low and flat, and admirably fitted for 
 the raising of mosquitoes and the breeding of 
 Calentura — a pretty name for the ugliest 
 fever that ever boiled the blood and crazed 
 the brain of man.
 
 154 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 On our trip we had made the friendship 
 of Captain Baldwin of the Webster, who 
 now gave iis this pithy advice : "Gentlemen, 
 it may be three or four days, perhaps a week, 
 before the river steamer will be down to 
 take you on 5'our way. In the meantime you 
 may, if you choose, remain with me aboard 
 ship. If you take up your quarters in Grey- 
 town one night's sleep in that place might 
 saddle you with a fever, which, perhaps, 
 would take you a month to get rid of — if 
 you got rid of it at all." 
 
 We thanked him for his advice, and also 
 for his invitation, which we accepted, cling- 
 ing closely to the ship, and contenting our- 
 selves with the distant view of a town that 
 bore such an unwholesome reputation. We 
 thought it was one of those cases where "dis- 
 tance lends enchantment to the view," and 
 that Campbell might have had such a spot 
 in his mind's eye when he penned that much- 
 bequoted line. 
 
 Curiosity, however, is a pugnacious imp. 
 It has battled with discretion ever since the 
 world began, and it got so much the better
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I 55 
 
 of mine that I ventured ashore to take an 
 inside view of the place. I saw the main 
 street thickly sprinkled with the Webster's 
 passengers, and among them were a few of 
 the residents. Two tell-tale tokens enabled 
 me to distinguish them — the faces of the 
 Greytowners were saffron-colored, and their 
 clothes did n't fit them. The latter token, 
 however, puzzled me. Was it possible that 
 the town had no "Knight of the Goose," or 
 none that knew his business? Maybe so; 
 anyhow, I would soon find out. 
 
 On the side of a miserably muddy street, 
 and facing the harbor, stood a one-story 
 shanty, with a big sign on its front, read- 
 ing: "St. Charles Hotel." Crossing over, 
 I entered a narrow door and found myself 
 in the bar-room. Behind the bar stood a 
 man whom I judged to be the host himself. 
 He had fishy eyes, and an unhealthy-looking 
 complexion, from which all flesh-color had 
 vanished and given place to a strong tint of 
 gamboge. He was a Northern man, and his 
 idiomatic expressions led me to believe that 
 he had been born and brought up among the
 
 156 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 wooden nutmegs. Yet my belief was en- 
 veloped in doubt. How was it possible, I 
 thought, for a shrewd-brained Yankee to 
 leave a comfortable home, if he had one, and 
 risk his health and life in a place like Grey- 
 town ? While I was trying to solve the ques- 
 tion he snapped my thread of thought with 
 another: '* What '11 you have, stranger?" 
 "A glass of soda, if you please." 
 He emptied a bottle of the "soft stuff" into 
 a glass and I threw down a silver dollar in 
 payment. After picking up the coin and 
 ringing it three or four times on the bar, he 
 tossed it into his till, and handed me in 
 change three Canadian twenty-cent pieces. 
 It seemed to me that forty cents for a glass 
 of soda was a rather stiff price, but I was 
 yet to know that swindling was one of the 
 customs of the country, and also to know that 
 I must learn to do a little of it myself, or 
 give up all hope of a fortune in the land of 
 orange blossoms. However, swindling is an 
 art not taught at a mother's knee, and I still 
 had a glimmering recollection of the sacred 
 school.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 57 
 
 And now remembering the purpose for 
 which I entered his place, I asked : 
 
 "Have you any tailors in Grey town?" 
 
 "Only one," he replied. 
 
 "Only one? Well, what 's the matter with 
 him?" 
 
 "What's the matter with him? Nuthin. 
 Why d'ye ask me a queer question like that ?" 
 
 "Because he don't know his business. 
 The clothes of the Greytowners don't fit 
 them." 
 
 He was wiping the top of the bar with a 
 very dirty cloth, but stopped his work and, 
 giving me a quizzical look out of the corner 
 of his mackerel eye, replied : 
 
 "I reckon you 're a stranger in these 
 parts?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "One of the Webster's passengers?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "So I reckoned. Well, stranger, if you 
 stop long in these diggins I reckon your 
 clothes won't fit you, nuther." 
 
 "I think I understand you. You mean that 
 the Calentura will alter their shape?"
 
 158 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "No, I don't mean nuthin o' the sort, 
 stranger ; I mean that it '11 alter yourn, if you 
 give it a chance. The Calentury is powerful 
 cute, and when it gits among a crowd, it '11 
 pick out a stranger quicker 'n lightnin', and 
 shake the meat off his bones as clean as a 
 whis'l. And it won't take it long, nuther." 
 
 "But a man can become acclimatized, can 
 he not?" 
 
 "Climatized? Yes, I reckon he kin — if 
 he lives long enough. But strangers don't 
 have time to do that down here. When the 
 Calentury gets a good hold on 'em they pass 
 in their chips before they have a chance to do 
 any climatizing." 
 
 I thanked him for his cheerful informa- 
 tion, and, being in no hurry to "pass in my 
 chips," hastened aboard the Webster as if 
 the Calentura were already at my heels and 
 reaching to "shake the meat off my bones." 
 
 Captain Baldwin was right in surmising 
 that we would be delayed in our wait for the 
 river steamer. On the morning of our fifth 
 day in the harbor we heard her high-pressure 
 snort, and in a few minutes she crept out of
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I 59 
 
 one of the mouths of the San Juan, and 
 puffed slowly up to the side of the Webster. 
 
 We were not altogether pleased with her 
 looks. Our journey up the river was sure 
 to last some days, and as we were told that 
 it rains on that stream twenty-three hours 
 out of every twenty-four, we had a right to 
 expect that the Transit Company would 
 provide a steamer that would promise to keep 
 its passengers reasonably dry. The boat we 
 were looking at promised nothing of the sort. 
 She was a flat-bottomed craft with a paddle- 
 wheel behind, and no possible place for the 
 accommodation of passengers, except an 
 upper deck, swung with a multitude of wet 
 hammocks, and covered with an awning. 
 The latter was old and drilled with holes by 
 mildew — holes as big as marbles, through 
 which the rain was now running in streams 
 upon the hammocks beneath. 
 
 I noticed Wheatley's face lengthen, as he 
 
 remarked: "Well, the Transit Company 
 
 must have a cheek of adamant if it expects 
 
 a man to risk his precious health in a damp 
 
 tub like that." (I am not so sure that
 
 l6o WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "damp" was the adjective he used. It had 
 the sound, but it may have been one more 
 emphatic. ) 
 
 The passengers, who had been waiting in 
 Grevtown for the boat's arrival, were now 
 being conveyed from the shore in scows, 
 and the deck of the httle steamer was soon 
 crowded. Captain Baldwin advised us to 
 wait for the other boat, which was soon to 
 follow, and we did so, with the hope that it 
 might promise us more comfort. But vain 
 the iiope. The boats were as like as two 
 peas, with no visible difference, save that 
 the awning over the second one had a more 
 unwholesome look. (Perhaps "more hole- 
 some" would have better explained why the 
 hammocks were wetter.) 
 
 Still there was one consolation left us — 
 with the exception of the crew, we would 
 have nearly the sole possession of the boat. 
 
 We got aboard with our luggage, bade 
 Baldwin a friendly good-bye, and then, 
 with a wheezy snort, the little steamer back- 
 ed off from the side of the Webster and, 
 turning about, paddled her way around Al-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. l6l 
 
 ligator Point and pushed her slow snout into 
 one of the mouths of the San Juan. I judged 
 her normal speed to be about that of an old- 
 time canal boat — say, five miles an hour — ■ 
 but, as she would have to struggle against 
 the current of the river, the average speed 
 of which is within a mile as much, it took but 
 little figuring to tell us that our river trip 
 of one hundred and nineteen miles would 
 consume an equal number of hours — suppos- 
 ing there would be no detention on the way 
 to add to the number. This supposition, 
 however, proved to be a little too airy. 
 
 Our experience on the San Juan, and that 
 of a year's residence in Nicaragua, will 
 give the reader a fair idea of the many de- 
 lights and not-a-few miseries a Northern 
 man may expect if he has a fad for naviga- 
 ting tropical rivers, or a fancy for an equa- 
 torial home. To me the delights were ques- 
 tionable, and in the scales of my comfort 
 were far outweighed by the miseries. Even 
 the enthusiasm of my friend Wheatley un- 
 derwent a magical change, and long before 
 the year had expired he had ceased to talk
 
 l62 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 about orange groves. His eye had become 
 so tired of their beauty, and his palate so 
 surfeited with their fruit that, at dinner one 
 day, he told me he was willing to barter all 
 the gastronomic delicacies, as well as the 
 other pleasures of his Paradise, for a single 
 slice of a Jersey watermelon, or a sniff at a 
 peck of her peaches. 
 
 But I am getting ahead of my story, and 
 will go back a little to give the reader a 
 short description of the San Juan, mingling 
 it with a few incidents that overtook us be- 
 fore we reached our destination, which was 
 still one hundred and sixty-five miles away. 
 
 The San Juan with its windings is one 
 hundred and nineteen miles long, and its fall 
 from Lake Nicaragua about one hundred 
 and ten feet. Each side of the river, for a 
 distance of twenty miles up from Greytown. 
 is lined with foliage that reaches up from 
 the water's edge to form a wall of green, 
 impenetrable to the eye, and apparently to 
 anything else. Between these the river runs, 
 twisting its course in every direction of the 
 compass, and boxing the thirty-two points
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 163 
 
 with the rapidity of an old salt. Day and 
 night the clouds hang over it, pouring out 
 their contents with little, if any. intermis- 
 sion. 
 
 Our first night on the river T shall never 
 forget. The mosquitoes, possibly fearing 
 that I might, bored the recollection into me, 
 and raised a lump as big as a hen's egg at 
 every bore. The San Juan mosquito is sui 
 generis. He is three times the size of our 
 Jersey breed, three times as multitudinous, 
 and more than three times as hungry. He 
 is full of diplomacy and caution, as well as 
 agility. He never sings to let you know he 's 
 coming, and if he be interrupted in his meal 
 by one of your smacks he will dodge it with 
 the skill of a prize-fighter, and then get in 
 his work on a fresh spot. As a dodger he 
 is probably the most accomplished of all the 
 Cnlex tribe. It is n't strange, then, that, 
 with his aid and that of the rain and the 
 hole-drilled awning, I should recollect my 
 first night on the San Juan. 'T would be 
 strange, indeed, should I forget it. 
 
 The day broke with the rain still falling 
 12
 
 164 *VAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 in torrents. 1 asked Wheatley, who was sit- 
 ting up in his hammock with an umbrella 
 over his head : "Does Squiers in describ- 
 ing your Paradise tell you that the sun never 
 shines upon it?" 
 
 "Have a little patience, my boy; the sun 
 will shine bright enough before we reach 
 our destination," 
 
 "And hot enough, I suppose — Hello! 
 there 's one of the Saurian residents of our 
 Eden !" and T pointed to an eight-foot alli- 
 gator that waddled quickly down the river's 
 bank and then plunged into the water. 
 
 "Yes, I saw him. Do you know, Joe, that 
 these creatures have more sense and pru- 
 dence than some of the human species?" 
 
 "No, I don't know it. When did you find 
 that out?" 
 
 "Only a moment ago. Did n't you notice 
 what haste that big fellow made to reach 
 the river and get in out of the wet? There 
 are some two-legged creatures that don't 
 know enough to do that." 
 
 "So I have heard. Would you now sug- 
 gest that we follow his example?"
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 165 
 
 "I would gladly jump overboard, my boy, 
 if I were sure the mosquitoes would n't jump 
 after me. Confound the pests ! I never slept 
 a wink all night, while you were snoozing and 
 snoring away in your soaked hammock as 
 happily as if you were in your comfortable 
 bed at home." 
 
 My friend was mistaken. If I did drop 
 into an occasional doze, 't was only to dream 
 of my "comfortable bed at home," and then 
 to wake and wonder how I ever could have 
 been the jackass to leave it. 
 
 The little steamer was now puffing her 
 slow and tortuous way up the river. On each 
 side of her the dense foliage stretched its 
 interminable length, alive with chattering 
 monkeys and screeching parrots, and draped 
 with trailing vines that hung festooned, 
 drabbling their ends in the rush of the cur- 
 rent below. To the Northern man such a 
 scene is full of novelty, and, if the rain could 
 be forgotten, abundance of beauty. But the 
 novelty soon wears off; and the beauty — 
 well, there may be too much of every good 
 as well as beautiful thing. No man wants
 
 1 66 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 his eye forever filled with the green of foli- 
 age, nor his ear with the screech of parrots 
 and the chatter of monkeys. Eye and ear 
 alike soon grow weary of monotony, and 
 nowhere on earth can they find more of it 
 than on the San Juan River. 
 
 After passing through the Machuca 
 Rapids, and two more days of rain and as 
 many nights of mosquito misery, we reach- 
 ed a landing a little way below the Castillo 
 Rapids. These are thirty-seven miles from 
 the lake, and rush over the ledges of rock 
 with a fall of eight feet in about thirty. 
 They are much too formidable for a steamer 
 to climb ; therefore the passengers with their 
 baggage were transferred around them to 
 another steamer, the "Director," which lay 
 waiting for them at a landing above, and on 
 which they were to be carried up the river to 
 the lake. 
 
 We were detained at the Castillo for some 
 hours and, if the weather had permitted, 
 would have visited the "Castillo Viejo" — 
 an ancient fort or castle from which the 
 Rapids take their name. The gray walls of
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 67 
 
 the fort frown dismally down from their 
 perch on a hill, the sides of which reach 
 nearly to the river's edge, and are covered 
 with a rank growth of verdure, matted and 
 tangled together with tropical vines. 
 
 It was during our detention at the Cas- 
 tillo that we encountered another interesting 
 resident of the world's Paradise, and one 
 that is worthy of mention — the "jigger." 
 The natives have another name, or rather 
 two names, for it, the "Nigua" and the 
 "Chigo." As I have said, it first made our 
 acquaintance at the Rapids, and without 
 waiting for an introduction. It has a habit 
 of introducing itself, and does it through 
 the leather of one's boots; but how it gets 
 through, no one as yet has been able to find 
 out. It is insignificant in size, a mere speck 
 to the naked eye, but not so insignificant in 
 its operations. As soon as it comes in con- 
 tact with the foot it begins to bore into the 
 ball of it, or under the toe-nails, its appe- 
 tite having a seeming preference for the big- 
 toe. There is nothing painful in the opera- 
 tion of its boring; it does it so gently that
 
 1 68 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 the victim is unconscious of its presence 
 until it has finished its contemplated home, 
 and laid in it a sack of eggs — the sack be- 
 ing about the size of a small pea. It is now 
 high time for the victim to wake up and stir 
 himself. Unless the sack is taken out at 
 once, the eggs will hatch and he is likely to 
 have a sorry foot; so sorry, indeed, that he 
 may have to part with that portion of his 
 anatomy, or else with his life. 
 
 The natives are very expert at discover- 
 ing and removing the little sack, which they 
 do by clipping the flesh from above it with 
 a sharp knife, and then lifting it out with 
 the point of a needle. They charge a half- 
 dime for their surgical services; a modest 
 fee, and neither Wheatley nor myself be- 
 grudged it to the Greaser who so deftly and 
 so quickly freed our foot from the danger- 
 ous little insect. 
 
 Thenceforth and during our entire year's 
 stay in Nicaragua, our "jigger" watchful- 
 ness never flagged, for there was not a day 
 that our i:)edals were not turned bottom-up 
 for the scrutiny of a sharp-eyed native.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 169 
 
 There is a diversity of opinion regarding 
 the origin of the Castillo Rapids. Some 
 authorities maintain that they are a natural 
 obstruction to the channel, while others 
 claim they are artificial, their many rocks 
 having been placed in the river by the orig- 
 inal natives to prevent marauders from 
 getting any further into "the bowels of their 
 land." They are situated at a bend of the 
 San Juan, and, from the fort above, an un- 
 interrupted view of the river can be had be- 
 fore it reaches the Rapids and after it leaves 
 them. 
 
 Our delay at the place was tedious, but 
 the end of it came at last, to find us aboard 
 the "Director," and once more on our way 
 up the river. A few miles above the Cas- 
 tillo there are other rapids called the "Toro." 
 These, however, are easy to navigate — so 
 easy, indeed, that we would have been igno- 
 rant 01 their existence if the captain of the 
 "Director" had not enlightened us. 
 
 The river now began to widen, and the 
 foliage at either side to lose enough of its 
 density to give us a glimpse at the country
 
 170 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 beyond. Miles of swamp were there — the 
 home of Malaria and Death that hovered 
 over it waiting patiently for the white man 
 reckless enough to come within reach of 
 their clutches. 
 
 On the afternoon of the next day we ar- 
 rived at San Carlos. This is a place of 
 twenty or thirty cane huts, and two or three 
 habitations of more pretension. It is situ- 
 ated on the borders of Lake Nicaragua, at 
 the point where the river leaves it to start 
 on its way to the Atlantic. After a little 
 more of the delay characteristic of the coun- 
 try, we were transferred to the deck of the 
 "Central America," a steamer 180 feet long, 
 and commodious and swift in comparison 
 with the other two in which we had been 
 traveling. She was a new boat, built by 
 Commodore Vanderbilt in New York in 
 seven weeks, and towed to Nicaragua by 
 the Daniel Webster a short time before our 
 trip. The Commodore himself came with 
 her for the purpose of superintending the 
 work of getting her over the Castillo Rapids 
 — a task which his engineers had told him
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY I7I 
 
 was impossible to accomplish. But the 
 Commodore was used to battHng with im- 
 possibilities. He was not the man to shrink 
 from carrying out his ends, however imprac- 
 ticable they might appear to other people. 
 With the aid of ropes and windlasses the 
 steamer was pulled over the rapids, but not 
 without having a hole staved through her 
 bottom. This, however, was soon remedied, 
 and in a few days she was ready for her lake 
 traffic. 
 
 Ceuiral American travelers, when tliey 
 speak of Lake Nicaragua, are loud in 
 their praises of its beauty, and sometimes at 
 a loss for adjectives to do it justice. One 
 of them ecstatically declares : "Lake Nica- 
 ragua is the queen — the beautiful queen of 
 all the earth's lakes; and a man might well 
 afford a trip around the world for the sake 
 of a sail on her bosom." 
 
 Well, we were now on her bosom, with her 
 emerald arms around us, and the dome of a 
 tropical sky above our head and mirrored 
 in the sheen beneath. Beauty, indeed, and 
 plenty of it. The sun, that had so long
 
 1/2 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 hidden his face from us, had swept the 
 clouds from his path. His day's journey 
 was nearly at an end, and he was now reach- 
 ing for his couch of crimson and gold to 
 "turn in" for the night. One lingering look 
 — a good-night kiss, as it were — he threw 
 upon the lake's fair breast, then dropped 
 upon his pillow. And now the gorgeous 
 hues of heaven changed. Robbed of his 
 pencil's touch, their royal purple paled to 
 pink, then faint and fainter grew to vanish 
 in the sober gray of eve. Timidly the stars 
 began to peep, first, one by one, then boldly 
 by the hundreds, till the whole firmament, 
 from zenith to horizon, was lighted with 
 the celestial lamps, all blazing with a lustre 
 quite unnatural and unknown to him who 
 lives beneath a Northern sky. 
 
 Yet, novel and beautiful as the sight was, 
 our ability to appreciate it was sadly weak- 
 ened by our river experience. The lack of 
 sleep was prosy enough to smother all of 
 our romanticism, and until we could swal- 
 low a dose or two of Nature's "sweet re- 
 storer" we were in no humor to yield to the
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 73 
 
 fascination of her "queen of lakes," or spend 
 our ecstasies on the beauty of her stars. 
 
 However, it is said that everything comes 
 to him who has the patience to wait for it. 
 We had left the mosquitoes behind us, and 
 before us we saw the prospect of an undis- 
 turbed sleep ; therefore, turning our back 
 upon the glittering stars, we tumbled into 
 our berths, while the plash of the steamer's 
 paddles and the throb of her engine kept up 
 a lullaby that hushed the recollection of our 
 troubles and soothed us into forgetfulness. 
 
 \Mien we awoke the sun was up and the 
 steamer at anchor. She lay about two hun- 
 dred yards from the shore and in front of 
 our destined home — Virgin Bay, or "La 
 Veerhin," as it is euphoniously pronounced 
 by the natives. There was no wharf at 
 which the steamer could land, and the lake 
 being too shoal to allow her nearer approach 
 we were taken ashore in a scow. 
 
 Our first glimpse at Paradise was not en- 
 trancing. Near the water's edge stood the 
 Transit Company's office — a one-storied, 
 tile-roofed structure, and the only one that
 
 174 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 could boast of that kind of covering. The 
 others were thatched huts and canvas tents. 
 There were about twenty of the former, the 
 homes of half-naked and dirty-looking 
 Greasers, where they spend their days in 
 eking out a something "that bears the name 
 of Life." The tents, of which there were 
 five or six, all wore upon their front a hotel 
 sign ; and to these unpromising hostelries 
 the passengers were to look for their enter- 
 tainment, or go without. 
 
 We spent the morning in the office of the 
 company, whose agent, a Mr. Doyle, Wheat- 
 ley had known in New York. At noon I 
 suggested that we take a stroll, for the pur- 
 pose of looking around us to see what the 
 prospect was for entering upon our cattle 
 enterprise. 
 
 The day was clear. Not a cloud in all the 
 sky hindered the noonday sun while he shot 
 his fierce rays perpendicularly down upon 
 our straw hats and cast their circular 
 shadows around our feet. One look at my 
 friend's face was quite enough to convince 
 me that his high opinion of Paradise and
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 175 
 
 faith in cattle enterprises were on the wane. 
 "Well, William," I said, "here we are in 
 your land of orange blossoms; and now 
 we 're here, how do you intend to carve out 
 that fortune of ours ? Is your cattle scheme 
 to be the carving knife?" 
 
 A shade of disappointment darkened hi? 
 handsome face. 
 
 "My dear fellow," he replied, "I am not 
 easily discouraged, and always look at the 
 bright side of a thing, if it has one. But, 
 from what T have seen of the country, from 
 the time we landed at Greytown until we 
 reached this outskirt of civilization, I don't 
 think Miller's scheme has a bright side — un- 
 less its utopianism can be called bright. 
 Where are the cattle to come from? And if 
 we had them, what is there here upon which 
 to feed and fatten them? There are plenty 
 of trees and a plenty of foliage, but I have 
 yet to see the first blade of anything that 
 looks like grass." 
 
 I quite agreed with him on the imprac- 
 ticability of the scheme, and told him so. 
 "But," I said, "if you give it up what do
 
 176 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 you purpose doing ? Would you go back to 
 the States?" 
 
 "To be laughed at? No. We must 
 cudgel our brain and stir up something else 
 —Hello! What's this?" 
 
 On one side of the road stood a large tent, 
 about twenty feet wide and a hundred or 
 more in depth. It was the sign on the front 
 that caught Wheatley's eye and drew forth 
 his exclamation. The letters, which were a 
 foot long, had been cut from red flannel and 
 sewed on to tell the passer-by that the im- 
 posing edifice he was looking at was the 
 "American Hotel." 
 
 The tent was divided into two parts, the 
 front one being a bar-room which was now 
 crowded with the passengers that had land- 
 ed in the morning from the Webster. 
 
 VVheatley looked in the door a moment, 
 and then said to me : "Suppose we go in 
 and have a chat with this landlord. He 
 seems to be doing a thriving business." 
 
 We entered, but the fellow was so busy 
 behind the bar that we had to wait for a lull 
 in the thirst of his customers. A half hour
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I77 
 
 passed, then the lull came, and we walked 
 over to the bar, ordering "lemonade for 
 two." Wheatley then began to question the 
 host: 
 
 "Do you often have such a crowd as this 
 on your hands?" 
 
 "Always on steamer days, and very often 
 a much bigger crowd — so big that we can't 
 accommodate them." 
 
 "How long have you been in this busi- 
 ness ?" 
 
 "About three months ; but I am going to 
 give it up." 
 
 "Give it up ? What for ? Does n't it pay 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, it pays well enough. But — " here 
 he pointed to a very sick-looking man lying 
 in a hammock at the side of the tent — "my 
 partner there is down with the Calentura, 
 and thinks he will die if he stays here. So 
 I'm going to sell out and take him back tc 
 the States." 
 
 Wheatley stopped his questioning, and. 
 taking me aside, said : "I have it, Joe ! Sup- 
 pose we go into the hotel business?"
 
 178 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 I was taken a little aback at the idea of a 
 light comedian running a hotel in such a 
 country, and replied : "You 're not seri- 
 ous?" 
 
 "Never in my life more so, my boy. We '11 
 have another talk with this fellow to find out 
 what he wants for his hotel, and if he is not 
 too extravagant in his ideas, we will close 
 with him at once." 
 
 Then, turning to the landlord, he said : 
 
 "You want to sell out?" 
 
 "Yes, and I '11 sell at a sacrifice." 
 
 "What do you call 'a sacrifice' ?" 
 
 "Twenty-two hundred dollars for the 
 tent, good-will, stock and fixtures." 
 
 "And the ground on which the tent 
 stands? I suppose that is included." 
 
 "No. We hold the ground on a yearly 
 lease of sixty dollars, payable monthly." 
 
 After some consultation we told him to 
 make out an inventory of his stock and 
 fixtures, and we would give him an answer 
 in the morning. 
 
 It being now dinner time we asked him if 
 he could accommodate us with the meal.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 79 
 
 "Certainly," he said, "walk right back. Din- 
 ner will be ready in a few minutes." 
 
 The rear apartment of his tent was hung 
 at the sides with hammocks, and between 
 them a long dining-table was spread. Pay- 
 ing one dollar each to the man who stood on 
 guard at the door, we entered and took our 
 seats at the table. 
 
 Now, there is one epicurean delicacy with 
 which Nicaragua abounds, and which I 
 hitherto omitted to mention — beans. From 
 the time we left the harbor of Greytown and 
 all the way up the river we had them for 
 breakfast, dinner and supper. "What a 
 Paradise for a Boston man," I thought, and 
 as I knew my friend had no Boston appetite 
 for beans, I made the thought loud enough 
 to catch his ear. 
 
 But "beans" is not their Nicaraguan 
 
 name. He who hankers after them must 
 
 ask for "frejolis." However, if his palate 
 
 should have the disposition of mine, he will 
 
 get over his hankering before he has been 
 
 long in the country. 
 
 But to return to our dinner. The table. 
 13
 
 l8o WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 which was spread without a cloth of any 
 kind, was about fifty feet long, and down the 
 middle of it, at regular intervals of two feet, 
 stood huge bowls piled up with baked beans. 
 The remainder of the menu was made up of 
 fried ham, strings of jerked beef, and fried 
 plantains. It seemed to me that if the pas- 
 sengers were always hungry enough to pay 
 a dollar for a dinner of this description, we 
 ought to make a pile of money out of our 
 hotel speculation, if we went into it. Wheat- 
 ley was of the same opinion ; and on the fol- 
 lowing morning, when the landlord showed 
 us his inventory, we paid him his twenty- 
 two hundred dollars, and the next day took 
 possession. 
 
 A very important thing now was to secure 
 a good cook, and by the merest chance we 
 got one. He was a Mahonese, and had been 
 in the employ of Uncle Sam for years as a 
 chef on one of his warships. He knew his 
 business, and expected to be paid for his 
 knowledge at the rate of one hundred dol- 
 lars a month. We agreed to his terms, as 
 he would take no less, and delay was dan-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. l8l 
 
 gerous. The former cook had already left 
 for San Juan del Sud, on his way to San 
 Francisco, and we must fill the gap at once 
 or drive the passengers that were now with 
 us to seek another hotel. 
 
 It was three days before word reached us 
 from the Pacific side that the steamer had 
 arrived to take the passengers on their way. 
 During this time we had about one hundred 
 of them, each paying us $4.00 a day — that 
 is, $3.00 for their meals and $1.00 for their 
 sleeping accommodations, which might be 
 in a hammock, or on the floor; and not a 
 board floor, either. Beds and board floors 
 were luxuries of civilization as yet unknown 
 in Virgin Bay. The hammocks sometimes 
 would be at a premium, and it was not an 
 unusual thing to hear one of the floor- 
 occupants dickering for a change of berths 
 with his more fortunate companion who was 
 swinging comfortably a few feet above his 
 head. Their dickerings sometimes amused 
 me, and here is a specimen of them which 
 may, perhaps, hold some amusement for the 
 reader.
 
 1 82 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Tom, I '11 give you two dollars to swap 
 berths." 
 
 "No, you won't." 
 
 "Two and a half?" 
 
 "Not if the Court knows herself." 
 
 "Then, what '11 you take?" 
 
 "Well, I don't feel like taking' anything 
 just now. Go to sleep and don't bother me. 
 Maybe I '11 oblige you and take something — 
 in the morning." 
 
 Our hopes were now in full feather. We 
 were convinced that we had taken the right 
 road to fortune, and our propitious start 
 flattered us that the journey would be a short 
 and pleasant one. But the course of tropical 
 hotel keeping, like that of true love, does n't 
 always run smooth. Here is an instance 
 where it ran a little the other way. Out in 
 the lake, and directly opposite to Virgin 
 Bay, is an island from which two extinct 
 volcanoes rear their bare summits 4000 feet 
 into the air. One is named Ometepec and the 
 other Madeira — stop a moment. I have 
 stated that Ometepec is an extinct volcano, 
 but that is not exactly true. Volcanoes are
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 83 
 
 as fickle as maidens of sixteen. They may be 
 in an amiable mood to-day, but there 's no 
 telling what humor may take possession of 
 them to-morrow. For centuries previous to 
 our visit Ometepec had been called a "dead 
 volcano," and, when we saw it, to all appear- 
 ance it was as dead as the proverbial mack- 
 erel. And thus it slept in corpse-like quiet 
 for thirty years more, or until June 19, 1883. 
 Then it suddenly awoke, and for seven days 
 and nights kept up a belch of fire, accom- 
 panied with rumblings and earthquakes. 
 When the belching ceased, desolation reign- 
 ed. The whole population of the island had 
 fled to the mainland, and the fertile slopes 
 of the mountain, which had been under cul- 
 tivation for hundreds of years, were buried 
 in mud, lava, ashes, and rocks — the scoria- 
 ceous vomit of a volcanic stomach. 
 
 There is a moral to all this: "Put not 
 your trust in princes," nor in dead volcanoes. 
 
 And now to take up the thread of my 
 story. Ometepec and Madeira are united at 
 their bases, and cover the island, which is 
 twenty- four miles in circumference. Through
 
 184 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 the gap between the two the trade-winds 
 sweep on their way to the Pacific, and their 
 sweep, which is continual, has sometimes 
 a velocity that is a little cyclonic. On the 
 sixth day after we had taken possession of 
 the hotel they ripped the roof from over us 
 and left the establishment bare-headed. 
 
 This was a reverse severe enough to de- 
 stroy whatever faith we may have had in 
 canvas roofs; and to avoid its repetition we 
 resolved to replace the blow-away with a 
 covering of thatch. To do this we were 
 forced to rely upon the labor of the natives, 
 and native labor was hard to get. A 
 Greaser is never in a hurry to go to work, 
 and won't, so long as he has a half-dime in 
 his pocket to buy a glass of "Aguardiente." 
 The reader, probably, has never had an op- 
 portunity to try this brain-befuddler. It is 
 the liquor of the country, and will tangle up 
 the legs of an imbibing neophyte in a much 
 shorter time than either Jersey's apple- 
 jack or her celebrated "lightning." 
 
 We tried to tempt the Greasers with the 
 promise of a dollar a day for their work, but
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 85 
 
 their laziness would n't listen. They would 
 pull out a half-dime and hold it up to our 
 view with the exclamation : "Manana" — 
 that is to say : "To-morrow, when this is 
 gone !" 
 
 If their labor was hard to get, it was quite 
 as hard to hold when we had it. Each man 
 insisted upon having his pay when his day's 
 work was done; if he got it, we wouldn't 
 see him again for a week ; and if he did n't 
 get it, he would leave us altogether. 
 
 Under such a difficulty it was n't strange 
 that our roof made but slow progress — so 
 slow that a full month had expired before 
 its three-thousand square feet of thatching 
 was finished, and we were once more under 
 shelter. 
 
 I have spoken of the jigger and the mos- 
 quito, together with their insinuating ways, 
 but the reader must not imagine that they 
 were the only borers into our anatomy and 
 comfort. There were millions of venomous 
 ants that marched in armies, determined to 
 take possession of our house and person; 
 myriads of fleas, possessed of a like determi-
 
 1 86 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 nation ; countless scorpions that took up their 
 nightly quarters in our boots, to give our toes 
 an early surprise in the morning; hairy ta- 
 rantulas, hiding in bunches of plantains and 
 bananas, with their fiery eyes watching for 
 our fingers to come within reach of their 
 spring; green snakes, with danger in their 
 fangs, nestling in the thatch above our head, 
 to drop upon us in our sleeping moments; 
 and last, but not least, that mighty mite of 
 vermin, named by entomologic science pedi- 
 ciiliis tahcscenthiin, but better known to the 
 world at large as the louse. In the North, 
 where civilization and soap and water have 
 their sway, this little gray-backed creature 
 is supposed to seek no other human com- 
 panionship save that of him with bathless 
 propensity ; but in the Paradise of the world 
 it has no preference. 
 
 The reader may think I am prejudiced 
 against the "land of orange blossoms," and 
 exaggerating its discomforts. If that be his 
 opinion I will not attempt to undeceive him. 
 I am merely giving him what I learned from 
 that "school-marm of fools," Experience.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 8/ 
 
 She is a costly, but thorough teacher, and 
 perhaps he would rather learn the truth di- 
 rect from her, than take it at second-hand 
 from one of her scholars. 
 
 And now to give one of my adventures 
 of which, as I have said, I had more than I 
 wanted. Among the trappings we had 
 brought from the States was a large tent, 
 20x40 feet in size. This we had erected on 
 the lot adjoining our hotel, and fitted it up 
 with berths. "Now," said Wheatley, "I 
 am going to try to be comfortable. We have 
 lived long enough upon the ground in the 
 company of fleas and jiggers and I intend to 
 have a board floor to this tent, if there be 
 any such things as boards in the land of 
 Nicaragua." 
 
 "If there be? 'If is a little word, but 
 Touchstone says there's much virtue in it — 
 Where do you expect to find your boards ?" 
 
 "Listen and I will tell you. I have had a 
 talk with the Captain of the Central America 
 on this board question and he tells me we 
 will have no difficulty in obtaining all we 
 want in Granada. He also tells me that his
 
 l88 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Steamer will make a trip there in a few days, 
 but advises me not to wait for that, for the 
 natives of Granada, he says, are as shrewd 
 as Yankees and when they see the steamer 
 coming, they presume we are after purchases 
 of some sort, and push up the price of every- 
 thing fifty per cent. He says the better way 
 would be to go up myself on horseback, or 
 send somebody, two or three days before the 
 steamer arrives there ; then to buy our boards 
 and whatever else we may need, and he will 
 bring them down for us." 
 I saw what was coming. 
 ''Well. William," I said, "don't beat about 
 the bush, but come to the point. As you are 
 not anxious for a seventy-mile horseback 
 ride through a Nicaraguan wilderness, I am 
 to be the somebody to take your place?" 
 "That is it, precisely. You don't object?" 
 "Object? No; quite the contrary. Al- 
 though I have never in my life been on the 
 back of a horse, and may reach Granada with 
 a broken neck, yet I am rather delighted at 
 the chance of seeing a little more of the coun- 
 try than I see here."
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 189 
 
 Then I called Eusebio — one of our native 
 servants — and told him to hire a couple of 
 horses, one for himself and the other for me. 
 "But, be very careful," I said, "in the choice 
 of mine. I want no circus horse — no shyer 
 and prancer, but a staid, old plodder that 
 knows how to get over the ground without 
 pitching its rider into the mud." 
 
 He brought the horses, and about three 
 o'clock in the afternoon we mounted into 
 the saddles. Being my first appearance in 
 the character of a horseman and my first 
 attempt at "mounting the saddle" I was not 
 astonished to hear a titter among the native 
 spectators. Well, perhaps, they had reasons 
 for their tittering; if they had, they were 
 soon to have more of them. 
 
 "Which way, Senor?" asked Eusebio. 
 
 "To Granada," I replied, and he turned 
 his horse's head toward the path that led up 
 the lake. 
 
 I tried to guide my horse in the same direc- 
 tion. He took one step forward and then 
 began to go round in a circle. When I at- 
 tempted to stop his gyrations by pulling the
 
 190 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 opposite rein, it had no effect except to make 
 him gyrate the other way ; or else, to lessen 
 the scope of his circle, and revolve as if on 
 a pivot. All of which was highly entertain- 
 ing to the natives for the "Merry-go- round" 
 was then a novelty as yet unknown to the 
 world. 
 
 I beckoned to Eusebio who was now some 
 distance ahead, looking over his shoulder 
 to see why his master was not following him. 
 When he came up, I asked him : "What's 
 the matter with this animal, Eusebio? I told 
 you I didn't want a circus horse." 
 
 He laughed and with a few words cleared 
 up the trouble. In training the Nicara- 
 guan horse, as well as the mule, he is taught 
 to obey the rein, not by pulling on it, but by 
 laying it gently over either side of his neck. 
 To turn him to the right, the left rein is laid 
 over the left side; to turn him to the left, 
 the right rein is laid over the right side. I^ 
 either rein should be pulled he will com- 
 mence his revolutions and keep them up so 
 long as the pulling lasts. 
 
 After this little lesson I had no trouble
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I9I 
 
 with my horse, and felt as though I owed 
 him an apology for my stupidity. 
 
 Our way along the lake was not such a 
 one as could be traveled by a horse with 
 any sort of a vehicle behind him. It was a 
 mere trail that wound its course between 
 the trees and among the tangled shrubbery. 
 When these became too thick, the trail would 
 emerge from the edge of the forest, follow 
 the lake beach for a hundred or more yards 
 and then bury itself again in the depths of 
 the wood. Thus, alternately in the shade 
 and sunshine, we jogged along, and so 
 pleasantly that I began to think I had been 
 hasty, and, perhaps, unjust in my opinion 
 that there were no charms in a tropical life 
 for a Northern man. I say I began to think 
 so, but the thought had barely budded when 
 my hat struck an overhanging limb. I look- 
 ed up and almost at the same instant I felt 
 a sharp pain in my upper lip. Putting my 
 hand quickly to my mouth I took hold of a 
 black ant that had his fangs fixed so firmly 
 in my lip he preferred to part with his head 
 rather than let go. He was a full three-
 
 192 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 fourths of an inch long, without his head, 
 which would have added an eighth of an 
 inch more. The tree from which he fell was 
 of the thorn variety, the thorns being from 
 three to four inches in length; at the base 
 of each was a small hole and each hole was 
 the entrance to the house of one of these 
 ants. I was fortunate in not shaking out 
 any more of them. 
 
 But to return to my lip. It began to swell 
 and with such rapidity that, in a quarter of 
 an hour, it felt like a boxing-glove under 
 my nose. 
 
 Eusebio recommended a mud poultice — 
 not an agreeable thing to plaster over a 
 man's mouth. However the pain was too 
 severe to allow any squeamishness on my 
 part ; so Eusebio got off his horse and going 
 to the edge of the lake brought therefrom 
 a handful of mud which he plastered over 
 my mouth and lip, tying my handkerchief 
 around to keep it in place. The relief was 
 almost instantaneous. By the time we reach- 
 ed Rivas all pain was banished and my lip 
 had resumed its normal size and shape.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 93 
 
 The sun was still an hour high when we 
 stopped in front of the hotel in Rivas, but 
 I resolved to go no further that night. I was 
 wearied by my novel exercise ; besides, there 
 was no other accommodation ahead of us 
 nearer than Nyndime, a little village some 
 fifty miles up the lake. 
 
 Rivas had at that time a population of 
 about ten thousand souls. Whether the 
 passing of a half-century has increased or 
 lessened the number I have never had the 
 curiosity to know. Its principal hotel then, 
 and the only one of any account, was kept 
 by a Captain Cauty, an Englishman, who 
 had been some time in the country and whose 
 acquaintance we made as owner of the 
 ground upon which our tent stood. His 
 hotel was a large and comfortable one-story 
 structure, built of adobe and roofed with 
 tiles. Like all the better class of Nicara- 
 guan houses, it had its four sides with an 
 enclosed court-yard in which tropical plants 
 and flowers were growing in wanton pro- 
 fusion. 
 
 The Captain received me cordially, and
 
 194 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 spread an excellent supper for my entertain- 
 ment. It was about the only meal I had as 
 yet eaten in the "Land of orange blossoms" 
 without the presence of beans. Our break- 
 fast was equally good and it was served 
 early enough to allow us to eat our way 
 leisurely through it and yet be off on our 
 road by sunrise. 
 
 And now I began to long for the end of 
 my ride, the novelty of which was fast losing 
 its gloss and growing threadbare. The 
 novelty of a good road would have been more 
 to my liking, for I was tired of constantly 
 picking my way between rocks and around 
 bowlders and under the limbs of thorn trees, 
 whose branches were ever threatening me 
 with a shower of ants. 
 
 Eusebio saw that my spirits were droop- 
 ing and tried to revive them, but took a very 
 peculiar method of doing it. He would 
 point out on the wayside certain clumps of 
 bushes and rocky caves in which he said the 
 native bandits were in the habit of hiding 
 and waiting for the unsuspecting traveler. 
 When the latter approached, they would
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. I95 
 
 pounce upon him, relieve him of his money 
 or other valuables, then cut him up with 
 their machetes and toss the pieces into the 
 lake. 
 
 He had just pointed out to me one of 
 these spots and was about finishing the en- 
 livening story connected with it, when I saw 
 a man coming toward us on horseback. He 
 wore a sombrero, a white linen jacket, and a 
 pair of trousers of the same material, en- 
 circled at the waist by a gaudy-colored sash. 
 There was nothing singular about such a 
 costume, for it is a common one of the coun- 
 try ; but there was something singular about 
 the pair of eyes that flashed from under that 
 sombrero. Instinctively I put one hand on 
 the butt of my revolver, and the other in the 
 pocket of my coat. In the latter there was 
 four hundred dollars' worth of gold, for my 
 purchases in Granada, and I was not anxious 
 to part with it for any other purpose. 
 
 Was I alarmed without cause? Perhaps 
 
 so, for the fellow merely nodded a "buenas 
 
 dias, Senor," and passed on. 
 
 "Who is that fellow, Eusebio ?" 
 14
 
 196 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Ouien sabe, I never saw him before." 
 
 "Nor I; and shall lose no sleep for not 
 seeing him again. How far are we from 
 Granada?" 
 
 "Twelve miles, Senor." 
 
 "And from Nyndime?" 
 
 "Five miles, Senor." 
 
 "Then let us be brisk or the night may 
 catch us." 
 
 The trail, which we had followed so long, 
 now widened into a passable road that 
 wound its way among fields of plantain and 
 through groves of orange trees with their 
 overhanging branches bending under the 
 weight of their fruit of gold. 
 
 While such a sight generally holds a 
 charm for the eye of a Northern man, it held 
 none for mine. At that particular time 1 
 had but one thought, one desire — to get from 
 off that horse's back. I was tired and sore, 
 and the orange trees could wait awhile for 
 my admiration. 
 
 "Here we are, Senor," said Eusebio, and 
 then a sudden bend in the road brought us 
 into the village of Nyndime.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 97 
 
 "Where's the hotel?" I asked, "Is there 
 such a thing in the place?" 
 
 "Yes, Senor; on the corner of the next 
 street." 
 
 The hotel was of the usual adobe build, 
 with a court-yard interior. The doorway 
 stood at the corner of the house and seated 
 upon the steps were two dark-eyed Senor- 
 itas who smilingly invited me in. On enter- 
 ing I found myself in the bar-room, across 
 which a hammock swung diagonally sus- 
 pended from two corners of the room. 
 
 "Shall I prepare supper for you, Senor?" 
 and a pair of dark eyes looked at me in such 
 a way I would have said "Yes" whether I 
 wanted supper or not. 
 
 "Si, Senorita, supper for two," and I 
 threw myself in the hammock. The supper 
 was soon ready — ham and eggs, tortillas, 
 chocolate and a dish of the inevitable beans ; 
 not a banquet, perhaps, yet I enjoyed it, for 
 I had eaten nothing but a couple of crackers 
 since I left Rivas. 
 
 It was now near sunset, and I determined 
 not to attempt the remaining miles to Gra-
 
 198 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 nada in the night, so long as there was an- 
 other day coming. Throwing myself in the 
 hammock again, I was about falling into a 
 doze when the neigh of a horse caused me to 
 open my eyes. I looked over the edge of the 
 hammock and in the dim light of the fading 
 day I saw a white- jacketed native leaning 
 over from his horse and talking to one of the 
 Senoritas. I had no trouble in recognizing 
 the fellow as the owner of the eyes that had 
 caused me so much uneasiness. 
 
 The conversation of the two was carried 
 on in so low a tone I was unable to catch its 
 purport. However, I did get hold of one 
 of their words, "Americano," and this was 
 quite enough to make me feel far from com- 
 fortable. After their talk had ended, the 
 man resumed his upright position in the sad- 
 dle and rode away. 
 
 I then turned over in the hammock and 
 fell into a sleep. It must have been a sound 
 one, for it took three or four shakes at the 
 foot of the hammock to awaken me. I look- 
 ed up and saw one of the Senoritas standing 
 there with a lighted candle in her hand.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 1 99 
 
 "Get up, Senor ; we are going to close the 
 house. Follow me and I will show you to 
 your room." 
 
 She led the way out of the bar-room into 
 a long corridor that ran upon one side of 
 the court-yard. Coming to a door at the far 
 end, she pushed it open, saying, "This is your 
 room, Senor," and then left me. I paused a 
 moment on the threshold before entering, 
 for I saw something to make me pause. 
 There were two beds in the room. On the 
 footpost of one a candle flickered in a socket, 
 which had been bored in the post to receive 
 it. Upon the side of the other, sat my friend 
 of the white jacket. 
 
 Now, I may as well confess that I am not 
 a courageous man, when courage is the one 
 thing needed. On the contrary, at such a 
 time, I am apt to lose, not only my presence 
 of mind, but also the control of my nerves 
 and muscles. However, what I lack in 
 courage I make up in caution. 
 
 As soon as I entered the room, the ill- 
 looking cut-throat — I was now satisfied that 
 he was nothing else — commenced catechis-
 
 200 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 ing me: Where was I from and where 
 bound? What was my business? Was I 
 a CathoHc or Protestant? To these and va- 
 rious other queries, I gave but one answer : 
 "No intiende, Senor;" as this told him that 
 I didn't understand what he was talking 
 about, he stopped his questions and lay- 
 down upon his bed, without removing any 
 of his clothes except the white jacket. 
 
 It was now my turn to prepare for the 
 night, and in doing so I thought it policy 
 to draw upon my stock of caution. First, I 
 took my revolver from my belt, cocked and 
 recocked it, examining it closely under the 
 candle-light — all of which manoeuvres were, 
 of course, intended for the edification of mv 
 friend of the white-jacket. Then I placed 
 the weapon under my pillow, blew out the 
 light and lay down with all my clothes on, 
 pulling my blanket over me. I lay with my 
 face toward the other bed, nor did I change 
 my position until the hard cowhide beneath 
 me began to worry my hip-bone and threat- 
 en to push it through the flesh. In order to 
 turn on my other side and still keep my face
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 20I 
 
 outward it was necessary to wheel my body 
 round and let my feet change places with my 
 head. This I did, and then "tired Nature" 
 had her way and I slept. 
 
 How long I had slept, or what disturbed 
 my slumber, I knew not, but it was broken, 
 and in an instant I was wide awake. The 
 room was as dark as Erebus and silent as 
 the grave. I strained my ears to catch the 
 breathing of my white- jacketed companion 
 but heard no sound save the ticking of my 
 watch. My thoughts were centered solely 
 upon him. Was he really a cut-throat, or 
 only a harmless native metamorphosed into 
 one by my heated imagination? I wasn't 
 long in doubt. A light footfall on the brick 
 floor at the foot of the bed and then I felt 
 my blanket being lifted slowly from off my 
 feet, while a hand passed gently under them. 
 Drops of perspiration oozed from my brow 
 and as freely as if it were a squeezed sponge. 
 One moment's pause to try to pierce the 
 darkness, and then I seized my revolver, 
 jumped from the bed and flung open the 
 door.
 
 202 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 The day was breaking, and by its gray 
 light I saw the fellow crouching upon the 
 side of his bed. How I managed to raise 
 the revolver and point it at his head is now 
 a matter of mystery to me; but I did make 
 that use of it, although the muzzle wabbled 
 in too eccentric a fashion to be dangerous. 
 But the object of it didn't seem to notice the 
 wabbling. Trembling like a leaf in the 
 wind, he dropped on his knees and, lifting 
 both hands, cried out imploringly: "Don't 
 shoot, Senor! Please don't shoot!" 
 
 I did n't shoot, nor did I intend to ; but 
 the fellow's abject show of fear had so stiff- 
 ened the backbone of my courage that again 
 I pointed the revolver at his head. The muz- 
 zle of the weapon did not wabble quite so 
 much now, and he had no trouble in keeping 
 his eye on it, while I threw at him some of 
 his own lingo which he had no difficulty in 
 comprehending. 
 
 ■'What do you mean, you rascal, by fum- 
 bling over my bed ?" 
 
 "Don't shoot, Senor! My blanket — I 
 was hunting for my blanket."
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 203 
 
 "Hunting for your blanket? A likely 
 story — what is that?" and I pointed toward 
 his horse, which stood in the court-yard, 
 with his blanket thrown over it and already 
 saddled for the departure he had contem- 
 plated taking in company with my valuables. 
 
 However slim my stock of courage may 
 hitherto have been, I had enough of it now 
 to equip the hero of a dime novel. "Come," 
 I said, "there 's your blanket ; now vamoose ! 
 and don't be long about it, or I'll bore a hole 
 through you big enough to stuff it in !" 
 
 He wasn't long about it. Mounting his 
 horse and digging his spur into the animal's 
 side, he galloped through the gate of the 
 court-yard. I looked and saw him take the 
 road to Granada with his horse on the full 
 run, his sombrero flaring in the wind, and 
 the ends of his gaudy sash streaming out 
 behind him. 
 
 The reason for the fellow's fumbling 
 around my feet was lucid enough. He saw 
 me lie down with my head at that end of the 
 bed, and, in the dark, was not aware that I 
 had changed my position. His object,
 
 204 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 doubtless, was to get hold of my revolver. 
 If he could have secured that, he thought it 
 would be easy work to secure whatever else 
 I might have. And probably it would have 
 been. 
 
 \Miether the dark-eyed Senoritas were in 
 the plot to rob me and share the plunder, I 
 know not ; but it wore that complexion. 
 
 Sunrise saw us again on our way. I told 
 Eusebio of my night's adventure, and that I 
 thought it would be wise to keep our eyes 
 about us, for when I saw the fellow last he 
 was on the very road we were now traveling 
 and might be lying in wait "to carve us up 
 with his machete and toss the pieces into the 
 lake." 
 
 My apprehension was groundless. Not a 
 soul of the Spanish type, or of any other, 
 did we see until we reached the suburbs of 
 Granada. 
 
 Like all cities of Central America, the 
 suburbs of this one are the habitat of the 
 poorer classes, whose huts are built of cane 
 and thatched with grass or palm. In the 
 city proper the houses are of one story, built
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 205 
 
 of adobe and roofed with tiles. Nearly four 
 centuries have passed since the city was 
 founded, and at on^ time it was the richest 
 in North America. But that was long ago, 
 and it has since dwindled down to a place of 
 little or no importance. It lies at the foot 
 of the volcano Momobacho and, during its 
 four hundred years of existence, has had 
 many a shake of terrestrial nature. The pop- 
 ulation is about ten thousand. 
 
 But I must drop my out-of-the-way tan- 
 gents and take up the object of my visit — 
 boards. They could be had at only one place 
 and at only one price — cinqito pesos, or 
 $5.00 each. They were sawed from trees of 
 bastard mahogany and measured twelve feet 
 by fifteen or eighteen inches. 
 
 The next morning the steamer arrived, 
 and in the evening the boards, together with 
 myself and some other live stock in the shape 
 of fifty chickens, were on board and bound 
 for La Virgin. 
 
 On my return I found my partner's mind 
 much exercised over a certain matter, and 
 the story of the matter may contain a little
 
 206 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 amusement for the reader. Before I tell it, 
 however, a short explanation will be neces- 
 sary in order to lull the scruples of such 
 readers as may have a reasonable prejudice 
 against all transactions that look slippery. 
 Nicaraguan laws relating to personal prop- 
 erty are somewhat lax; at least, we found 
 them so, as far as their sway controlled the 
 population of Virgin Bay. Whatever a man 
 owned was his, so long as it was in his pos- 
 session ; when it slipped out of it, no matter 
 how, it belonged to the somebody who was 
 lucky enough to get hold of it. 
 
 And now for the story. I had scarcely 
 entered our domicile when my partner ap- 
 proached me with a serious look on his face 
 and a couple of sheets of foolscap in his 
 hand : 
 
 "Joe," he said, "do you remember the in- 
 ventory that was given us with our hotel ?" 
 
 "Yes, what of it?" 
 
 "Why, I have it here, and in looking it 
 over carefully, I find there 's a ten-dollar pig 
 in it." 
 
 "Well?"
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY, 
 
 207 
 
 "But it is n't well, my boy. Though I find 
 the pig in the inventory, I can find him no 
 where else. There 's a sty back of the tent, 
 but no ten-dollar pig in it nor any other kind 
 of one. Now I am rather fond of fresh pork, 
 and think I am entitled to a slice of that pig. 
 My palate is getting tired of these everlast- 
 ing strings of jerked beef." 
 
 'T 've no doubt of that ; a pork chop would 
 be more paradisal. But why don't you take 
 your gim and try your luck in the woods? 
 The flesh of a bird or two might give your 
 palate a rest." 
 
 He reached for the gun that stood behind 
 the bar. 
 
 "A good idea, my boy; strange that I 
 never thought of it! Hand me the powder 
 horn and shot pouch out of that drawer, and 
 if I don't bring you something in half an 
 hour that will make you smack your lips, 
 I '11 be content to live the remainder of my 
 days on beans and jerked beef !" 
 
 He shouldered his gun and started for the 
 woods, the edge of which lay fifty feet in 
 the rear of our hotel.
 
 208 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 I lighted a cigar, picked up a book, and 
 seating myself in the shade at the front of 
 the tent, passed away an hour, reading at 
 times, and now and then lifting my thoughts 
 from the book and dropping them into the 
 far-away haunts of civilization. 
 
 I was suddenly startled by the squeal of 
 a pig. At first the sound came faintly, as if 
 far away, then louder and louder grew, until 
 at last it seemed to come from the very edge 
 of the woods. I rose from my chair and 
 looked back. A pig was there sure enough. 
 And Wheatley was there, too, pulling at a 
 rope which he had managed in some way to 
 hitch around one of the pig's hind legs. 
 While my partner was trying his best to 
 drag the pig in one direction, the pig was 
 trying equally hard to drag my partner the 
 opposite way. These cross-purposes were 
 plainly owing to a mistake of Wheatley' s — 
 he had made his hitch at the wrong end. 
 
 As I looked around the corner of our tent, 
 he' caught sight of me : 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Joe, lend me a little 
 help with this fellow, or I shall have to let
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 2O9 
 
 him go. He has made my hands all a- 
 blister." 
 
 Then came another tug and another 
 squeal, by which time I was on the field of 
 action, and greeted by an exclamation that 
 somewhat surprised me: 
 
 "My boy, I 've found that pig of ours!" 
 
 "That pig of ours?" I echoed. 
 
 "Yes, here he is." 
 
 "I see there is a pig here, but how do you 
 know he is our pig?" 
 
 "How do I know it? By using the sim- 
 plest bit of logic. If he isn't our pig, please 
 tell me whose pig is he?" 
 
 This "bit of logic" was more simple than 
 sound; however, as I couldn't answer his 
 question, I didn't think it worth while to 
 dispute the soundness of his logic. I merely 
 remarked : "I don't wonder your hands are 
 blistered; you have made your hitch at the 
 wrong end." 
 
 "I couldn't help that, my dear fellow. 
 When T threw my lasso, I aimed it for one 
 of his fore legs, but he was quick enough 
 to step out of it, and when I tightened the
 
 2IO WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 rope I found my hitch, as you rightly say, 
 at the wrong end." 
 
 "You must have had a Sisyphean task on 
 your hands." 
 
 "Sisyphean? My boy, if Sisyphus had 
 been condemned in the World of Shades to 
 pull that pig backward for half a mile, he 
 would have encountered more up-hill work 
 in it than he ever did in his big marble block. 
 Anyhow, he would have earned his chops, 
 as I am sure that I have." 
 
 There was little doubt that my partner had 
 "earned his chops," and none at all that he 
 afterwards enjoyed the fruits of his labor. 
 But what was my astonishment, a week 
 afterwards, to see him walk into the back 
 of the tent with another pig. Without giv- 
 ing me time to ask any questions, he said: 
 
 "Joe, I made a mistake about that other 
 pig; he wasn't ours at all. But there's no 
 mistake this time; here he is!" 
 
 I have never as yet been able to solve the 
 mystery that hung around "that pig of 
 ours." However, if there were any more of 
 him roaming and foraging in the woods of
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 211 
 
 Nicaragua, my partner was thenceforth 
 content to let it roam and forage in peace. 
 
 The next steamer day was a notable one 
 for us. We captured about two hundred 
 of the passengers, and among them were the 
 then famous New Orleans Serenaders — the 
 head and front of them being the Buckley 
 Brothers. Frank Chanfrau, the actor and 
 friend of both of us, was also among the 
 number whom we now expected to be our 
 guests until the arrival of their steamer at 
 San Juan del Sud. 
 
 Virgin Bay is within twelve miles of mule 
 travel from San Juan, and it was always 
 our endeavor, and, of course, to our interest, 
 to detain the passengers as long as possible. 
 A few of them would become impatient and 
 leave us, but the majority were satisfied to 
 remain until we notified them of the arrival 
 of their steamer at San Juan. 
 
 I have said nothing as yet regarding the 
 
 nature of the "fodder" we furnished for their 
 
 sustenance. Possibly, from what I have 
 
 hinted, the reader may guess that "beans" 
 
 played an important part. They did. The 
 15
 
 212 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Other prominent features of the bill of fare 
 were jerked beef, tortillas, or corn cakes, 
 plantains, "bottled" butter and barreled 
 egg-s. ("Bottled butter" is not in any way 
 related to the cow, but only a new and appe- 
 tizing name for peanut oil.) It is perhaps 
 needless to speak of the Nicaraguan bar- 
 reled eggs, for they are not at all bashful 
 and, if they have an opportunity, will speak 
 for themselves. We had three or four bar- 
 rels of them that came into our possession 
 with the purchase of the hotel, and there 
 was no other way of disposing of them 
 profitably except through the stomachs of 
 the passengers. If the question were some- 
 times asked me — as it often was — "Hello ! 
 Landlord ; what's the matter with these 
 eggs ?" I could only answer : "I don't know. 
 If there's anything wrong with them you 
 must ask the Nicaraguan hens. That 's the 
 style of eggs they lay down here." 
 
 Sometimes the answer would be satisfac- 
 tory — if the man were a Californian. 
 Northern men just from the States were 
 more skeptical, and one of them, in reply
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 2I3 
 
 to my explanation, told me that he thought 
 it "dern strange that a Nicaraguan hen 
 didn't understand her business better than 
 to turn out an egg with a pop in it like a 
 toy pistol." 
 
 Of course, the Nicaraguan hen had 
 nothing to do with it. The eggs were laid, 
 nobody knows when, nobody knows where, 
 and barreled for the delectation of those 
 whom fortune, or misfortune, had thrown 
 beyond the pale of civilization with appetites 
 too fierce to be squeamish or discriminating. 
 
 I have said that the day of the steamer's 
 arrival was a notable one — notable because 
 it brought us the company of friends, and 
 made us forget, for a time, the company of 
 fleas and jiggers. 
 
 When the night came and the supper was 
 over, the long table was cleared, the sere- 
 naders gathered round it and the Buckleys 
 gave us a musical program arranged 
 especially for our entertainment. It was 
 then that we heard for the first time that 
 negro melody which afterwards became so 
 popular and which has not yet lost its pop-
 
 214 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 ularity though fifty years have passed — 
 "The Old Folks at Home." It was sung 
 by one of the Buckleys, and with so much 
 pathos that I saw the moisture glisten in 
 the eyes of Wheatley and trickle down his 
 cheek. But there was nothing strange in 
 that. He had an "Old Folk" of his own at 
 home and why shouldn't he give the tribute 
 of a tear or two to the memory of that dear 
 old mother of his existence ? 
 
 After the program came champagne. 
 Jokes and anecdotes flew around, so did the 
 bottle, and all were as merry as good com- 
 pany and good wine could make them. 
 
 Now, Wheatley, though fond of a glass 
 of wine, was not what the world calls "a 
 drinking man." On the contrary he was 
 inclined to be abstemious ; a virtue for which 
 he took no credit, because, as he told me, his 
 comfort compelled it. "I have to keep my 
 prudence constantly on guard," he said ; "I 
 may take a glass, or even two, with impu- 
 nity, but if I go beyond that, the indulgence 
 will throw my internal mechanism out of 
 gear, and tie up my head in towels and ice-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 215 
 
 water for a week." When an accident of 
 this nature did befall him, its day-after effect 
 was curious. He was sure that his days 
 were numbered and that the light of another 
 one would find him pitching headlong into 
 the other world. 
 
 We left him seated at the table with the 
 Buckleys and enjoying an event which was 
 not likely to happen again. Then he 
 thought he might venture, for once, to give 
 his prudence a holiday. And he did. The 
 next morning he failed to put in an appear- 
 ance, and at breakfast time I went to look 
 him up. Swung in a hammock at the back 
 of our tent lay the comedian, with the Bible 
 in his hand and a wet towel around his head. 
 As I had my doubts about his appetite being 
 very ravenous for his breakfast, I thought 
 I would sharpen it a little : 
 
 "William, we are having buckwheat cakes 
 for breakfast; get up and eat them while 
 they 're hot." 
 
 He laid the Bible down, and putting both 
 hands to his head squeezed it as though to 
 prevent its splitting apart. Then he turned
 
 2l6 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 over in his hammock mumbling to himself : 
 "Buckwheat cakes for a dying man !" 
 
 We had now been in Nicaragua for 
 about two months. Money was rolling in 
 on us and we began to figure how long it 
 would take to be up to our neck in California 
 "slugs." But alas for the freaks of Fortune ! 
 The fickle jade, after patting us so kindly 
 on the back, turned about, gave us a frown, 
 and prepared to kick us out of Paradise with 
 a flea in our ear and the Calentura in our 
 bones. 
 
 And this is the way she did it. 
 
 The old Commodore had built a large 
 steamer, the Northern Light, for his Cali- 
 fornia line, and on her first trip to Grey town 
 she brought a cargo of nine hundred and 
 sixty passengers. They reached Virgin Bay 
 and waited there for the North America, 
 which was due at San Juan del Sud, to take 
 them up to their destination. After a week 
 of weary waiting, word came that the vessel 
 lay a wreck on the coast, some three hundred 
 miles above San Juan. There had been 
 great rivalry between the Panama and Nic-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY, 21/ 
 
 aragua companies, and the delayed passen- 
 gers believed that the captain of the North 
 America had been bribed to wreck his vessel, 
 as the disaster happened on a moonlight 
 night and in a calm sea. Whether bribery 
 really had anything to do with it was never 
 clearly proven. 
 
 In the meantime the Independence, an- 
 other of the Vanderbilt steamers, came 
 down from San Francisco, but her captain, 
 after landing his own passengers, refused 
 to take aboard those of the Northern Light, 
 saying that his orders were to await for the 
 consort of his boat, the Daniel Webster. 
 The passengers let out their wrath in indig- 
 nation meetings, but neither wrath nor in- 
 dignation could budge the captain of the In- 
 dependence. Loud and sulphurous were the 
 anathemas thundered at the head of the Old 
 Commodore, but as he was too far away to 
 hear them, they began to look about for some 
 way out of their trans-isthmian pickle. Those 
 of them who had money enough, either took 
 passage in sailing vessels to California or re- 
 turned to the States. But there were others
 
 2l8 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 who were not so luckily fixed. They had 
 already spent their surplus cash and to keep 
 themselves alive were forced to fall back on 
 the plantain. The diet and the climate to- 
 gether caused a natural result. Sickness 
 broke out among them, and the bones of 
 many a poor fellow who had left his home 
 with his brain brimming with dreams of a 
 land of gold he was never to see, were left 
 to bleach and crumble under the glare of a 
 tropical sun. 
 
 Bad tidings fly fast, and the wreck of the 
 North America and rumored bribery of her 
 captain were known in New York and San 
 Francisco before the sailing of the next 
 steamers. The result was disastrous. The 
 bottom of the Nicaragua line dropped out 
 completely, as did also the bottom of our 
 hotel business. The latter depended solely 
 on the support of the to-and-fro passengers 
 between New York and San Francisco, and 
 the number of these thenceforth became so 
 insignificant that we resolved to quit both 
 the business and the country, whenever the 
 opportunity came. But opportunities are
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 2ig 
 
 not always ready to come when they are 
 wanted. For ten tedious months did we wait 
 for ours, longing and fretting for the time ; 
 and it is perhaps Providential that we didn't 
 know that it was so far away or we might 
 have hurried it up by cutting our way out of 
 the country with the edge of a razor. 
 
 However, "Hope springs eternal in the 
 human breast," and it is a most fortunate 
 thing that it does, for — if we are to believe 
 Shakspere — "the miserable have no other 
 medicine." We held a consultation and re- 
 solved to remain, reasoning ourselves into 
 the belief that things might take a turn for 
 the better, and propping up the belief with 
 the consolation that we couldn't get away 
 without the sacrifice of all we had invested. 
 
 Days, weeks and months dragged their 
 slow way along. Then, through the fog 
 of our ill-luck we saw the approach of 
 that day which is so dear to the heart of 
 Uncle Sam's subjects. Of course, I mean 
 "the glorious Fourth." 
 
 Now, my partner was an American to the 
 core, and saturated with love for "Old
 
 220 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Glory" and the Declaration of Independ- 
 ence. It was a pet doctrine of his that a copy 
 of the great charter of our freedom should 
 be tied about the neck of every American 
 male babe as soon as born, and kept there 
 until the child was old enough to vote ; then 
 laid aside to be handed down to his descend- 
 ants as an heirloom. 
 
 "My dear boy," he said, "the day — the 
 day of all days will soon be with us, and I 
 intend to celebrate it with the spirit and glory 
 it deserves." 
 
 "Celebrate it? Where is your glory to 
 come from? We have a flag, I know, but 
 where do you expect to get your fireworks 
 and the et ceteras, and — " 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, my boy. I am aware 
 we have no fireworks, but they wouldn't be 
 appreciated here if we had them. As for the 
 ct ceteras, as you call them, have n't we two 
 double-barreled guns and three revolvers? 
 Won't these make noise enough ?" 
 
 My friend was never at a loss to find a 
 substitute for anything when the other thing 
 could n't be found — a faculty which the
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 221 
 
 reader will discover to be a very convenient 
 one, should he chance to spend many of his 
 days in the Paradise of the world. 
 
 Now, to me the Fourth of July, as cele- 
 brated at home, is a nuisance. The smell of 
 burnt powder hasn't the same fragrance to 
 the man of twenty-five that it has to the boy 
 of ten; nor does the racket of crackers and 
 the bang of pistols have the same invigo- 
 rating effect upon his nerves. 
 
 But circumstances alter cases, and, some- 
 times, very materially. We were not at 
 home. We were in a foreign land, and our 
 Yankee blood was now ready to gallop 
 through its veins at the mere thought of the 
 day at which we had been in the habit of 
 turning up our nose and running away from 
 when at home. Why, we could have hugged 
 the small boy with his pack of noisy crackers, 
 had he been about ; but he was n't, so we had 
 to get along without him. 
 
 My friend's program for "the day we 
 celebrate" was a success, considering the 
 slim resources at his beck. He made the 
 oration, and he made it an effective one.
 
 222 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 When he reached the end he dovetailed it so 
 neatly with the Declaration that it was dif- 
 ficult to discover the joint. His delivery 
 of the pregnant sentences of the latter was 
 quiet yet forcible, and with the tact of 
 a true dramatic artist he held his climax in 
 reserve. When he came to the closing sen- 
 tence, he snatched a flag gracefully from a 
 hidden recess and raised his arms aloft, wav- 
 ing the symbol over an ideal conclave of our 
 revolutionary sires, whom he saw, in his 
 mind's eye, pledging for us and our posterity 
 their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred 
 honor. 
 
 This was the cue for Eusebio and Loren- 
 zo, our cook, whom Wheatley had stationed 
 outside the tent, the one with the revolvers, 
 the other with the double-barreled guns. 
 Three or four volleys were fired and then 
 came the next thing on the program : "Hail 
 Columbia," followed by the "Star Spangled 
 Banner." 
 
 Directly after the firing of the volleys 
 Wheatley mounted the top of a barrel and 
 spoke :
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 223 
 
 "Friends and Fellow Citizens: I did in- 
 tend that you should sing these glorious old 
 tunes, but as you, like myself, may not be 
 well posted in the art of singing, I will not 
 insist on your trying it. But I do insist on 
 your making a noise of some kind. It 
 doesn't matter about the tune so you get 
 the words straight. Sentiment, not music, 
 is what we are here for to-day. Now, fol- 
 low me." 
 
 As my partner had said, singing was not 
 exactly in his line, and I don't recall that he 
 ever attempted it before or after that event. 
 To follow him, therefore, was not an easy 
 task. In the crowd of commemorators 
 which, exclusive of the natives, numbered 
 about twenty-five or thirty, were a few who 
 had some recollection of the words, but each 
 had his own idea about the rotation of the 
 stanzas. The result of this, of course, "play- 
 ed Hail Columbia" with the sentiment. 
 
 One more feature remained on the pro- 
 gram : "Yankee Doodle by a musical box 
 kindly loaned by the Transit Company for 
 this occasion only."
 
 224 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 The box was a large and an expensive one, 
 and perhaps would have performed its part 
 in a creditable maner, if its owner had been 
 present to keep its music under control. It 
 had a long repertoire consisting of a dozen 
 or more operatic airs together with a pro- 
 miscuous assortment of jigs and hornpipes, 
 and it insisted upon going through these be- 
 fore obliging us with "Yankee Doodle" that 
 lay at the bottom. 
 
 My partner was annoyed at this hitch in 
 his program, and again mounted his barrel. 
 
 "Fellow Citizens, we will now take an in- 
 termission of half an hour for refreshments, 
 and also to give that box a chance to have its 
 way. There 's no particular hurry ; we can 
 wait. When it gets through with its own 
 program maybe it will consent to go on 
 with ours. A Fourth of July without a 
 'Yankee Doodle' would indeed be like the 
 play of 'Hamlet' with the melancholy Dane 
 left out. Please step this way, gentlemen." 
 
 The crowd followed him to the rear of the 
 tent, and was soon wrapped in convivial for- 
 get fulness of the incorrigible box, which was
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 225 
 
 afterwards brought in and placed upon the 
 table. Then, as if to atone for its previous 
 stubbornness, it began its "Yankee Doodle" 
 and kept up a repetition of it, until, exhaust- 
 ed of its wind, the strains dragged lazily 
 along and finally ceased. 
 
 The celebration was now over, and the 
 crowd, after a vote of thanks, made straight 
 their way homeward — or as straight as cir- 
 cumstances would permit. 
 
 And thus ended our Fourth in the Para- 
 dise of the world. 
 
 I will not tire the reader with a recital of 
 the many fruitless efforts we made to sell out 
 and get away. Suffice it to say that at the 
 end of our twelfth month I suggested to 
 Wheatley that we put up our hotel and its 
 contents at auction. 
 
 "Auction ? Where 's your auctioneer ?" 
 
 "Here," I replied. 
 
 "You? As the buyers will be mostly 
 Greasers, how do you expect to make them 
 understand what you are talking about?" 
 
 "I '11 manage that. If they but under- 
 stand what they want, I know enough of
 
 226 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 their lingo to make them understand that if 
 they expect to get what they want, they must 
 pay more for it than anybody else." 
 
 The day came and we had our sale. As 
 the Transit route was dead beyond the hope 
 of resurrection, nobody wanted the hotel ; 
 and the sum realized from the contents was 
 not startlingly large, as they consisted of 
 cracked crockery, dilapidated hammocks and 
 bad whiskey. The crockery, however, 
 brought bigger prices than similar articles, 
 minus the cracks, could be bought for in 
 New York. 
 
 At the end of the sale we had a few hun- 
 dred dollars, and now resolved to leave the 
 place and the country. But there was still 
 a stumbling block in the way. During our 
 stay we had been dealing with a Greytown 
 merchant named Ferguson, from whom we 
 had purchased flour and other stuff needed 
 by our hotel, and who claimed there was a 
 balance due him of $400. This was for 
 goods we had never received, nor did we 
 ever get vouchers to show they had been 
 sent. Under these circumstances Wheatley
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 227 
 
 said he didn't feel like paying the bill, more 
 especially as it would take the bulk of what 
 we had realized on our sale to do it. 
 
 "Well, William," I said, "Ferguson is a 
 man of influence in Greytown, and unless 
 that bill is settled in some way, there is a 
 likelihood of his holding on to our precious 
 bodies until it is." 
 
 "Do you think so ? Well, suppose we send 
 for him and give him a note payable in three 
 months after date. A bit of paper of that 
 kind will be of less use to us than 'our pre- 
 cious bodies' and may be of more use to 
 him." 
 
 "Very good; but if he refuses to take the 
 bit of paper — what then?" 
 
 "My dear boy, never anticipate Trouble. 
 Let her chase you, if she will, but don't run 
 to meet her. I think Ferguson would much 
 rather have the note than be bothered with 
 the care of our bodies. Anyway, we will 
 try him." 
 
 So we sent for Ferguson, gave him the 
 
 $400 note drawn up on the stamped paper 
 
 of the country, and the next morning were 
 16
 
 228 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 on our way across the lake and down the 
 river to take passage on the Prometheus for 
 New York. 
 
 When we arrived at Greytown the steamer 
 was not there, nor did she make her appear- 
 ance for a week. During this time we stop- 
 ped at the town's best hotel — a two-story 
 frame building, the second floor of which 
 was one large room, about thirty feet square, 
 containing twelve cots. The first night, 
 Wheatley and myself used two of them, the 
 remaining ten being occupied by the Calen- 
 tura's victims. The second night I was the 
 only well man in the room, Wheatley having 
 added another to the sick list. 
 
 'T was on our seventh day that the Prome- 
 theus steamed into the harbor, and I will 
 leave to the reader's imagination the delight 
 with which we both stepped upon her deck 
 to bid good-bye forever to the Paradise of 
 the world. Mal-de-mer had no terrors for 
 us now; they had all been swallowed up in 
 the capacious maw of those we were about 
 to leave behind. 
 
 The Calentura clung to Wheatley during
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 229 
 
 the entire voyage to New York and for weeks 
 after he reached there. As for myself, I 
 took up my quarters in the city at French's 
 Hotel, making daily visits to the home of my 
 friend, who was then living with his mother 
 and sister in 22nd street. 
 
 One day while I was crossing the City 
 Hall Park, my head began to reel and my 
 legs to bend and wabble after the fashion 
 that sometimes follows a too liberal use of 
 the bottle. The reader, however, must n't 
 jump at that conclusion. The bottle, for 
 once, was innocent. The Calentura was the 
 culprit, and its seeds, which had been planted 
 in me at Greytown, were now sprouting with 
 alarming vigor. I never could have wabbled 
 over the forty or fifty yards of pavement 
 that lay between me and the door of my ho- 
 tel without the help of a good Samaritan 
 who saw my predicament and held me on my 
 feet. He helped me into the hotel and up to 
 my room where I lay alone for four days, 
 with the fiery fever burning into my brain 
 and filling it with phantasmal pictures of the 
 land of orange blossoms. Fortunately for
 
 230 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 me, Wheatley's mother missed my daily 
 visits, came herself with a cab and took me 
 to her home. 
 
 In adjoining rooms lay Wheatley and my- 
 self. Gradually my partner began to conva- 
 lesce, while I was going step by step the 
 other way. How far I went the other way 
 the reader can judge. My head was fasten- 
 ed to my pillow as firmly as if it were chain- 
 ed there. Then, through some strange 
 whim, or perhaps demand, of Nature, I 
 craved a spoonful of what, in those days, 
 was a much-be-puffed liquor — "Schiedam 
 Schnapps;" but Mrs. Wheatley, before she 
 gave it, deemed it safer to ask the doctor's 
 permission. She had no trouble in getting 
 it : "Let him have whatever he wants ; it can 
 make no difference now." 
 
 This was not a flattering diagnosis, but the 
 doctor was mistaken. It did make a differ- 
 ence and a big one. A single teaspoonful of 
 that Schiedam so astonished the Calentura 
 that it loosened its grip. At the second tea- 
 spoonful, it let go altogether, and the third 
 day I was out of bed and down stairs. By
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 23 1 
 
 the aid of ten more teaspoonfuls and ten 
 more days, I gathered enough strength to 
 start for and reach my home in that Quaker 
 settlement which lies dozing on the banks of 
 the Delaware and which the sarcastic Goth- 
 amites call "The City of Sleepiness and 
 Brotherly Love." 
 
 Apropos of the Schnapps, I will relieve 
 the reader of his suspicion — if he has any — 
 that what I have written is an advertisement 
 for its proprietor. The latter, I believe, has 
 gone the way of all flesh and needs no 
 puffery. As for his Schnapps, they too, 
 for aught I know, may have been dead 
 enough to follow him and take their place 
 among the spirits of the other world. 
 
 After Wheatley had entirely recovered he 
 determined to return to the stage, and did so, 
 taking the management of Ford's Theatre 
 in Baltimore. This was in 1851. The fol- 
 lowing year he came to Philadelphia as the 
 stage manager for Thomas J. Hemphill, 
 who was then the lessee of the Arch. When 
 the season expired he leased the Arch with 
 John Drew (the elder) as co-partner, and
 
 232 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 opened it on the night of August 20th, 1853. 
 The opening was auspicious. Crowded 
 houses followed each other with regularity 
 and it was evident that "Wheatley and 
 Drew's Arch St. Theatre" and its "Star 
 Company" were already ensconced in the 
 heart of the theatre-going public. 
 
 Nearly three years had passed since we 
 left Nicaragua, and during that time neither 
 Wheatley nor myself had given a thought to 
 that Greytown note. I had accepted a posi- 
 tion in the box office of the Arch and was 
 busily employed in entering up the receipts 
 of the night before, when I was interrupted 
 by an inquiry at the window : "Where's 
 Wheatley?" I looked at the man whose face 
 seemed familiar and yet I was in doubt. His 
 features were those of our friend Ferguson 
 of Greytown, but that individual when last 
 T saw him weighed at least two hundred 
 and fifty pounds, while the man before me 
 would have had some trouble to tip the scales 
 at half that weight. His coat hung flabbily 
 on his shoulders, touching nowhere else, and 
 could have been buttoned on his back.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 233 
 
 "Mr. Wheatley is not in at present. But 
 pardon me," I said, "have n't I met you be- 
 fore? Aren't you Mr. Ferguson of Grey- 
 town? I thought you were dead." 
 
 "You are right about my name, but not 
 quite right about my being dead ; although I 
 would have been very dead had I not got 
 out of that hole when I did. How long be- 
 fore Wheatley will be in ?" 
 
 "I expect him shortly," I replied, and then 
 he left me saying he would call again. 
 
 When Wheatley came in I said to him: 
 "William, there has been a gentleman here 
 to see you, and one that probably you are not 
 anxious to meet." 
 
 "Not anxious to meet? I know of none 
 that I wish to avoid. Who is he ?" 
 
 "Ferguson, of Greytown." 
 
 Wheatley threw up both hands, as if he 
 had been hit below the belt with a Minie 
 ball. "Great God! That note!" 
 
 "Yes," I said, "and you '11 have to pay it. 
 A note is a contract, and a contract, if it is 
 good where made, is good the world over." 
 
 "I '11 not pay a cent of it. We received
 
 234 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 nothing for it, and I '11 plead 'no considera- 
 tion.' " 
 
 "That will be hard to do, with any suc- 
 cess, upon a promissory note that bears on 
 its face 'value received.' " 
 
 "Then I '11 plead 'duress.' " 
 
 "That, too, would probably be as futile. 
 The proposition to give the note came vol- 
 untarily from ourselves. We were entirely 
 too anxious to get out of the country, and the 
 mistake we made was in not disputing the 
 bill entirely: then, if our liberty to leave was 
 restrained, your plea of 'duress' would have 
 a leg or two to stand on. It is true that we 
 imagined we would be held in limbo unless 
 the bill was settled in some way ; but 'imag- 
 inary duress,' in the scales of a court of 
 justice, would hardly 'weigh the estimation 
 of a hair.' " 
 
 "Well, my boy, your exposition of the law 
 may be sound, yet nevertheless I shall retain 
 counsel and fight this note to the bitter end." 
 
 He did fight it, and the "bitter end" turn- 
 ed out no sweeter than T thought. With all 
 the eel-like squirmings of a Philadelphia
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 235 
 
 lawyer at his back, he was forced to pay the 
 note, with nearly three years' interest. 
 
 The Old Arch has had both ups and downs 
 in its day. When Wheatley and Drew took 
 hold of it, the stock, of which there were 
 one hundred and thirty-four shares, was 
 selling at $225 and gradually rose to $400. 
 Their capable management soon lifted the 
 reputation of the theatre from out the mud, 
 and dainty Fashion, that had for years avoid- 
 ed it as a pest house, now condescended to 
 become its regular patron. 
 
 During Wheatley's connection with the 
 Arch it was under the control of four differ- 
 ent lesseeships: Thomas J. Hemphill's, 
 Wheatley & Drew's, Wheatley & Clarke's, 
 and that of Wheatley alone. He retired 
 from its management in June, 1861, and then 
 leased the "Continental," which stood on 
 the site where Gilmore's "Auditorium" now 
 stands. He had long contemplated the pro- 
 duction of Shakspere's "Tempest" as a spec- 
 tacular piece, and this was his chief motive 
 for leasing the theatre. The play was pro- 
 duced, and during its run nine of the ballet
 
 236 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 girls, including the four Gale sisters, were 
 burned to death. The house was crowded on 
 that occasion with twenty-five hundred peo- 
 ple, and it was Wheatley's presence of mind 
 that prevented a panic and the loss of, per- 
 haps, hundreds of lives. The theatre at that 
 time extended back to Sansom street, and 
 the dressing room of the ballet was on the 
 second floor and faced that street. 
 
 On the night in question, the curtain had 
 risen on the "Ship scene," in the first act. 
 Wheatley, dressed as Prospero, was stand- 
 ing at the first entrance, with the prompt- 
 book in his hand, and watching the men 
 working the sea cloth, which covered the en- 
 tire stage. The mirrors, used in the fourth 
 act to represent a lake, were built on a slop- 
 ing frame (like that of a hot-bed) and this 
 — for the convenience of handling — was di- 
 vided into four sections which now stood 
 between or back of the wings. 
 
 The play commenced. The little ship be- 
 gan to rock and toss upon the mimic waves ; 
 the lycopodium flashed ; the thunder rolled 
 and rattled in a way that Jove himself might
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 237 
 
 have been jealous of; the audience cheered 
 and clapped and stamped, and then above 
 the din of all there came a piercing shriek, 
 followed by a crash of glass; and then an 
 object, that looked like a ball of fire, rolled 
 from the wings and out upon the stage. Be- 
 fore the audience had time to discover what 
 the object was, the men at the wings had 
 wrapped the sea cloth round it, and Wheat- 
 ley rang down the curtain. His first thought 
 was to save the twenty-five hundred people 
 from the danger of a panic. He did not stop 
 to know all that he was soon to know. The 
 shriek, the crash of glass, and the ball of 
 fire told him too plainly that if he possessed 
 any coolness and presence of mind, now was 
 the time to use them. Stepping before the 
 curtain, he walked leisurely down to the 
 footlights and spoke : 
 
 "Ladies and Gentlemen : There has been 
 an accident which will keep the curtain down 
 for a few minutes, after which we will pro- 
 ceed with the play." Then, with a motion 
 to the orchestra to start an overture, he 
 walked back of the curtain. Here his eyes
 
 238 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 met a sight liable to make the stoutest heart 
 to quail, and the steadiest mind to lose its 
 equilibrium — nine girls, pacing between the 
 wings, wringing their hands in agony, with 
 their clothes burned off them, and their 
 scorched flesh hanging in ribbons from their 
 limbs and faces. 
 
 Wheatley paused but a moment to say to 
 the call boy : "Go front and tell Mr. Whit- 
 ton that I shall dismiss the audience, and to 
 have the doors wide open." Then picking 
 up Prospero's wand, he again stepped before 
 the curtain. There was no sign of emotion 
 in his manner; no trace of tremor in his 
 voice : 
 
 "Ladies and Gentlemen : — The accident 
 to which I referred will interfere with our 
 performance more than I thought. The 
 actors are so much excited over it that it 
 will be impossible to go on with the play. 
 Please go out." 
 
 They went out, but took their own time 
 in doing it, which they scarcely would have 
 done had they known that the back of the 
 theatre was on fire. This, however, they did
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 239 
 
 not know until they were outside ; and when 
 the noise of the engines and the laying of 
 hose told them the story there was many an 
 mward thank to Heaven, and many an out- 
 ward expression of praise for the man whose 
 coolness had saved them the cost of a crush- 
 ed limb, if not the cost of their life. 
 
 The accident happened in this way. The 
 gas lights in the dressing-room were not en- 
 closed with wire screens, as is now the cus- 
 tom, and the dress of one of the girls took 
 fire by coming in contact with them. Her 
 companions crowded around her to smother 
 it, and in a few minutes all were ablaze. 
 There was plenty of combustible matter in 
 the room, and this also caught the flames, 
 carrying them into the carpenter shop above, 
 and setting fire to the theatre. Prompt work 
 of the firemen, however, saved it from de- 
 struction. 
 
 The burned girls were taken to the hos- 
 pital. They lingered there for a little while, 
 then, one by one, their lives flickered out, 
 and the body of each was carried to its grave 
 from the home of Wheatley.
 
 240 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Having given an instance of my friend's 
 presence of mind, suppose I give another to 
 show how he sometimes suffered from its 
 absence. Walking together one day we met 
 a male acquaintance of his, but a stranger to 
 myself. After a moment's conversation with 
 him, my companion stopped the talk in or- 
 der to introduce me : "Mr. Brown, it gives 
 me the greatest of pleasure to introduce to 
 you the best friend I have in the world. 
 You may have heard me speak of him." 
 Then he paused and whispered in my ear : 
 "What the deuce is your name, anyhow?" 
 
 I enlightened him, but the incident set me 
 to wondering whether a forgetfulness, dar- 
 ing enough to drive my name from his mem- 
 ory, would n't some day imperil the recol- 
 lection of his own. 
 
 Now let us turn to Wheatley's lease of the 
 Continental. Tt was merely a temporary 
 one, and when it was about to expire he 
 made a proposition to the owner, E. P. 
 Christy, of New York, for a renewal at a re- 
 duced rent. While he was waiting for a 
 reply he received a telegram from Jarrett,
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY, 24 1 
 
 Davenport and Wallack that they were about 
 to take Niblo's Garden for three months, 
 and asking if he would n't join them in 
 the venture. Before he answered the tele- 
 gram he sent another to Christy: "Will 
 you accept my offer? Telegraph at once, 
 yes or no." The answer that came back was 
 "No." 
 
 It takes but small things, sometimes, to 
 make or mar a man's fortune, and upon that 
 little "No" hung the one that Wheatley had 
 struggled for so long, and which was soon 
 to drop within his grasp. 
 
 Re-engaging such members of his Con- 
 tinental Company as he thought would be 
 required for Niblo's, he took them with him 
 to New York, and the theatre was opened. 
 Its success, however, did n't meet the ex- 
 pectation of Jarrett, Davenport and Wal- 
 lack. Before the end of the three months 
 they became discouraged, and backed out, 
 leaving Wheatley the sole lessee. John Col- 
 lins, the Irish comedian, had been engaged for 
 two weeks, and it was during his first week 
 that the dissolution of partnership took place.
 
 242 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 From that time the tide of ill-luck began to 
 ebb. Collins' second week was a profitable 
 one, and this was followed by the engage- 
 ment of Edwin Forrest — an engagement, by 
 the way, that was not clinched without a 
 little diplomacy on the part of Wheatley. 
 Forrest was not the man to forgive and for- 
 get an injury, even though it were a fancied 
 one, and he had long labored under the im- 
 pression that his stage reputation had been 
 injured by "this man Wheatley" — as he 
 called him — and in a manner that would 
 brook no forgiveness. The manner of the 
 mjury was this : When Wheatley was 
 lessee of the Arch he chanced to stand in 
 need of some play that would prove attrac- 
 tive, and he pitched upon "Jack Cade," 
 bringing it out with E. L. Davenport in the 
 title role. But before he did so, and through 
 fear of trampling on the property of Forrest, 
 he wrote to the author of the play, Mayor 
 Conrad, asking what rights, if any, the great 
 tragedian had in "Jack Cade." Conrad's 
 answer was : "No rights at all. You are at 
 liberty to play the piece if you choose."
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 243 
 
 Ten years had passed since this unpar- 
 donable damage had been done to Forrest's 
 stage reputation, and still the recollection of 
 it flourished in his breast. But there was 
 something else that was flourishing in that 
 broad breast of his — the recollection of his 
 pocket. He was anxious to play an engage- 
 ment in New York city, and there was no 
 theatre open to him that his pride and ambi- 
 tion would permit him to play in, save 
 Niblo's. Wheatley was not only willing, but 
 most desirous to have him, and finally the 
 mutual friends of both put their heads to- 
 gether, a reconciliation followed, and the 
 engagement was consummated. 
 
 This was the inauguration of the extrava- 
 gant rates paid to successful stars. Forrest's 
 terms, previous to that time, were two hun- 
 dred dollars a night, and a half-clear benefit 
 each week. He asked no more and would 
 take no less. But Wheatley, when he found 
 the whole weight of Niblo's management on 
 his shoulders, grew cautious. He thought 
 there was a risk in paying certainties to 
 
 stars, and determined to avoid it if he could, 
 17
 
 244 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 whatever might be their drawing capacity. 
 Therefore he proposed to Forrest to share 
 the receipts after one hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars, and to give him a half-clear benefit 
 each week; a proposition which the trage- 
 dian grudgingly accepted. 
 
 Wheatley paid through the nose for his 
 caution. Had he given Forrest his twelve 
 hundred dollars a week, the difference be- 
 tween that and the sum he actually paid 
 him, which averaged nearly three thousand 
 per week, would have gone into his own 
 pocket. However, he was satisfied with his 
 policy, and so much so, that he offered Bar- 
 ney Williams — whose engagement fol- 
 lowed Forrest's — the same terms, and with 
 nearly the same result. 
 
 There seemed no doubt now about the 
 future success of Niblo's. Wheatley renew- 
 ed his lease at a rent of $15,000 a year, which 
 was to be paid in forty weekly sums of $375 
 each. The next year his rent was raised to 
 $18,000, and the following year to $20,000. 
 All of his ventures proved profitable, save 
 one — the production of "Faust and Mar-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 245 
 
 gtierite." The piece was put on the stage 
 with care and expense, with J. B'. Roberts 
 in the character of Mephistopheles. It was 
 a failure, and, as I have said, the only one 
 to interrupt the train of Niblo's success. 
 
 And now I will step over a year or two, 
 and come to 1866 — a year which Fate had 
 decreed should brim with luck for Wheatley, 
 as well as for a pair of other managers, 
 equally well known in the theatrical world. 
 In the latter part of May or the early part of 
 June — I have forgotten which — of that 
 year, Jarrett and Palmer returned from Eu- 
 rope, whither they had gone for the purpose 
 of seeking some stage novelty with which 
 to open the coming season in New York. 
 They had found their novelty, and now fixed 
 their eye on Niblo's as the theatre best adapt- 
 ed for its exhibition. They lost no time in 
 calling on Wheatley, and in the interview 
 that followed, Jarrett said : "William, we 
 have brought something with us which I 
 think is sure to set the city wild; and we 
 need only your co-operation to do it." 
 
 "What is the something?"
 
 246 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "A Grand Ballet — and a grander one 
 than was ever seen on this side of the At- 
 lantic. Now, we will make you a proposal." 
 
 "Go ahead ; what is it?" 
 
 "It is this: That you take Mr. Palmer 
 and myself in with you, as partners in the 
 management of Niblo's, to bring out on its 
 stage a spectacular play, in which we can in- 
 troduce our Ballet. The dresses — and we 
 have a multitude of them — were made in 
 Paris. They are of the most gorgeous de- 
 scription, and alone will be a feature strong 
 enough to make the piece, whatever it may 
 be, a big success." 
 
 Wheatley accepted their proposal at once, 
 an agreement was signed, and the partner- 
 ship consummated. 
 
 Then came the question: "What shall 
 the piece be?" 
 
 "Have you thought of any?" asked 
 Wheatley. 
 
 "Yes, the 'Naiad Queen.' " 
 
 "Well, that has an advantage in its room 
 for scenic effects; but there 's one objection 
 to it. Should we make a success of it, every
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 247 
 
 concert saloon in New York will be playing 
 the 'Naiad Queen.' " 
 
 "Well," said Jarrett, "suppose we wait a 
 day or two. Something else may turn up." 
 
 "Something else" did turn up. Charles 
 M. Barras, a New York actor, had written a 
 play which he called "The Black Crook." 
 He had carried it around in his pocket for 
 months, hoping and vainly striving to get 
 some manager bold enough to take hold of it. 
 Whethei- he had heard of the quandary the 
 managers of Niblo's were in, I know not; 
 it is more than likely that he had, else he 
 would not have been so independent about 
 his play, nor so stiff about its price. How- 
 ever, be that as it may, he brought the manu- 
 script to Wheatley, who saw at once that it 
 was the very thing he needed. 
 
 "What do you want for your piece, Mr. 
 Barras?" 
 
 "Two thousand dollars for the sole right 
 to play the piece in New York city. You 
 may think the terms exorbitant, but I know 
 my play is worth it. At all events I will ac- 
 cept no less."
 
 248 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Barras, I will consult with 
 Jarrett and Palmer, and let you know 
 whether or not we will accept your play." 
 
 "There is another condition I must insist 
 on, Mr. Wheatley, should you accept the 
 piece." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "After the play is produced there must be 
 no intermission in the run of it; otherwise 
 the contract will be at an end." 
 
 Now, the Black Crook was not a play 
 of much literary merit. It had no plot to 
 speak of, and but little originality, being 
 nothing more than a conglomeration of the 
 "Naiad Queen," "Lurline," "Undine," and 
 a few other spectacular chestnuts. But lit- 
 erary merit was not what Wheatley was 
 looking for. He wanted a piece with op- 
 j portunities for scenic display, and the Black 
 Crook was full of them. He wanted a 
 piece the title of which would catch the eye 
 and ear with its novelty, and he thought the 
 "Black Crook" would do both. In fact, he 
 believed the title, alone, worth all that Bar- 
 ras demanded for the right to play the piece.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 249 
 
 Whether Jarrett and Palmer would have 
 the same high opinion of it was another 
 question. Wheatley showed them the manu- 
 script, but when he told them the price that 
 Barras asked for it, they thought the man 
 must be crazy. 
 
 "Two thousand dollars? Why, we can 
 get Daly to write us a play for one- fourth of 
 that sum, and one we can own outright." 
 
 "Perhaps you can," said Wheatley, "but 
 it won't be the Black Crook. I am con- 
 vinced that it would be difficult, if not im- 
 possible, to obtain a play, at any price, so 
 well fitted to our purpose. However, we 
 will discuss the matter again to-morrow. 
 After a night's sleep over it, you may open 
 your eyes to look at it as I do." 
 
 The night's sleep had the desired effect. 
 The next day a contract was drawn up and I 
 signed, by the terms of which Wheatley, 
 Jarrett and Palmer agreed to pay Chas. M. 
 Barras the sum of two thousand dollars, in 
 consideration of which they were to have the 
 sole right to play the Black Crook in New 
 York city, and as long as they liked — pro- I 
 
 f
 
 250 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 vided there was no intermission in the run 
 of it. 
 
 These clever managers made one mistake. 
 If their cleverness had been a little more 
 sharp-sighted, and could have looked a few- 
 months into futurity, it would have been 
 better for their pockets. I'hey would never 
 have rested content with the right to play the 
 I Crook in one city, but would have left no 
 stone unturned to secure the right for all 
 cities. In other words, they would have 
 tried to buy the piece outright. Before it 
 had been produced, Barras, in all probabil- 
 ity, would have snapped at an offer of $10,- 
 000 in spot cash; a month afterwards that 
 sum quadrupled would not have tempted 
 him. Reports of the play's success had 
 flashed into every nook and corner of the 
 country. Managers were flooding him with 
 letters, begging him to sell them the right 
 to play his piece, and before the Crook was 
 six months old, it had placed in the pocket of 
 Its author the tidy little sum of $60,000 in 
 royalties. 
 
 Let us now take a look at the trouble and
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 25 1 
 
 the money the Crook cost before it was ready 
 for the public eye. The managers were 
 anxious that its production should take place 
 about the first week in September, and, to 
 effect this, every moment of the intervening 
 time would be needed. Unfortunately there 
 was a considerable number of these moments 
 which did n't belong to them. The Ravels 
 held possession of the stage, with an en- 
 gagement which had six weeks yet to run, 
 and they insisted upon playing it out. They 
 were not making much money, either for 
 themselves or the management, yet nothing 
 but a check for ten thousand dollars could 
 induce them to change their mind, and can- 
 cel their engagement. They got the money, 
 and the managers were then free to go 
 ahead. The old stage was taken out, the 
 earth beneath it excavated to a depth suf- 
 ficient for the dropping of scenes, and a new 
 stage put in. This was a marvel in its way. 
 Never before, on either side of the Atlantic, 
 had a stage been constructed so complete for 
 Its purpose, and so complicated in its mechan- 
 ism. Its cost was over ten thousand dollars.
 
 252 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 Before the curtain rose on the first night 
 of the Crook — September 10, 1866 — the 
 management had laid out fifty-five thousand 
 dollars in its preparation. Their bills and 
 advertisements figured the sum at five thou- 
 sand less, but this was an error. The ac- 
 tual cost was not known on the opening 
 night, nor, indeed, for some time after, and 
 then the sum, in round numbers, turned out 
 to be what I have named. 
 
 The success of the play was phenomenal. 
 In five weeks — thirty-five performances, in- 
 cluding the matinees — the box-office gather- 
 ed in eighty-seven thousand dollars. As 
 the running expenses for that time were 
 about thirty-one thousand five hundred, or 
 a little over six thousand a week, the Crook 
 had wiped out its cost, and handed a little 
 surplus to its managers. 
 
 There was one thing that helped materi- 
 ally to swell the success of the Crook — I 
 mean the stream of abuse poured out upon 
 the play by the New York Herald. The 
 cause of this abuse arose out of a quarrel 
 between Barnum and Bennett, and in this
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 253 
 
 way. In July, 1865, the showman's mu- 
 seum was burned to the ground. Bennett 
 fancied that the site would be an eligible 
 one for the erection of a new Herald Build- 
 mg, and, before the ruins had fairly done 
 smoking, he opened negotiations with the 
 owner of the land for securing a fee title, 
 and also with Barnum for purchasing the 
 remainder of his lease. Real estate experts 
 having told Bennett that the fee to the prop- 
 erty was worth $400,000, he signed a bond 
 agreeing to pay the owner $100,000 in cash, 
 and to give a mortgage for $400,000 more. 
 He was willing to pay the $100,000 over and 
 above the estimated value of the fee, as he 
 was anxious to commence his building at 
 once, and his offer, which was accepted, pre- 
 vented delay. Then he went to Barnum, 
 who wanted $200,000 for his lease, which 
 had some years to run. After a good deal 
 of higgling, Bennett agreed to the price and 
 gave him a check on the Chemical Bank for 
 the money. And now commenced the 
 trouble. The experts who had estimated the 
 value of the fee evidently knew nothing of
 
 254 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 the existence of Barnum's lease upon the 
 property, or they would have found out 
 what he asked for it, and deducted the 
 amount in making their estimate. After 
 their error was made known to Bennett, he 
 quickly discovered that he had paid too much 
 for his whistle. Seven hundred thousand 
 for a bit of land, fifty-six by one hundred 
 feet, was a higher rate than had ever before 
 been paid in New York or any other city in 
 the world. 
 
 On finding out his mistake, he immedi- 
 ately notified the owner of the ground that, 
 notwithstanding his agreement, he con- 
 cluded he would n't take the fee. Then he 
 went to Barnum and told him he had no use 
 for the lease, as he was not to be the owner 
 of the land, and therefore the showman 
 would greatly oblige him by handing back 
 his $200,000. But the worldly-minded Bar- 
 num did n't look at the transaction in that 
 light. He had the money in his pocket, and 
 told Bennett that he intended to keep it there. 
 
 "You 're not in earnest, Mr. Barnum ?" 
 
 "Seriously so."
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 255 
 
 "Then all I have to say is that you '11 re- 
 gret it." 
 
 After the fire Barnum had taken his com- 
 pany to the Winter Garden, where he was 
 giving entertainments; and on the morning 
 following his interview with Bennett he 
 looked for his advertisement in the columns 
 of the Herald, but it was n't there. Then 
 he sought for the reason of its omission, and 
 got it from old Bennett himself: 
 
 "Mr. Barnum, hereafter, I don't want 
 your advertiseme,nt, and won't take it at any 
 price." 
 
 This was not pleasant information for the 
 showman. He was about to start another 
 museum on Broadway, and did n't relish the 
 idea of being barred the use of its columns, 
 for he knew the value of the Herald as an 
 advertising medium. 
 
 "So, he won't take my advertisement, hey? 
 Well, I '11 make him sweat for this, and 
 probably change his mind." 
 
 His method of making the Scotchman 
 "sweat" was this : The day after Bennett 
 had refused his advertisement he called a
 
 256 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 meeting of the Board of Associate Mana- 
 gers, and told them of Bennett's action, and 
 then made a motion that all the managers, 
 m a body, withdraw their advertising and 
 printing from the New York Herald. The 
 motion was carried, with but two dissenting 
 votes — William Wheatley's and Lester Wal- 
 lack's. Then another motion was made and 
 carried : "All of our future advertisements 
 m the other papers shall bear the headline : 
 'This establishment does not advertise in the 
 New York Herald/ " 
 
 Whether all this caused the Scotchman 
 to lose any of his perspiration or not I can- 
 not say ; but, at all events, he did n't part 
 with enough of it to make him change his 
 mind and insert the showman's advertise- 
 ment. 
 
 In the meantime the heads of the Crook's 
 managers were full of conjecture regarding 
 the course the Herald would take toward 
 the play when it was produced. As they 
 looked for no praise, there was but one of 
 two things they could expect — silence or 
 abuse. They preferred the latter, and got it.
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 257 
 
 Now, if the purpose of Bennett's diatribes 
 was to prevent the success of the Crook, 
 that purpose lamentably failed. But I can- 
 not believe or imagine that the shrewd old 
 Scotchman had any such intention. He had 
 lived a newspaper man long enough to know 
 the foibles of human nature, and also to 
 know that since the days of Adam and Eve 
 curiosity has been its mainspring. There- 
 fore I think that his columns of vituperation 
 were meant to help, and not injure, the 
 Crook. There is no doubt that he knew of 
 Wheatley's friendly disposition toward him 
 and his paper — as evidenced at the meeting of 
 the Board of Managers — and as he could n't, 
 with consistency, puff the play, he took 
 plan which he thought would prove quite as 
 effective in stirring up the curious, and 
 crowding them within the doors of Niblo's. 
 The following is a sample of the Herald's 
 abuse, and I venture to say that if Bennett 
 had asked the managers of the Black 
 Crook to pay for a few more samples of 
 the same sort, he could have commanded 
 his own price, whatever it might have been :
 
 258 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "Nothing in any Christian country, or in 
 modern times, has approached the indecent 
 and demoraHzing exhibition at Wheatley's 
 Theatre in this city. The Model Artists are 
 more respectable and less disgusting, because 
 they are surrounded with a sort of mystery 
 — something like a veil of secrecy — which 
 women do not look behind, and men slip in 
 stealthily to see. But the almost nude fe- 
 males at Wheatley's are brought out boldly 
 before the public gaze 
 
 "Of course, Wheatley is making money. 
 It is just such a spectacle as will make an 
 excitement, and draw those crowds of loose 
 characters and people with morbid, pru- 
 rient tastes, which may be found in all large 
 cities. Then there are a great many people 
 who come in from the surrounding country 
 to get a glimpse of this new thing. We 
 must not, therefore, give credit to our cit- 
 izens for being the only supporters of the 
 shocking performance. It gets a great deal 
 of support from the countrymen who come 
 to town expressly to see the 'elephant.' .... 
 
 "Nothing, as we have said, has been wit-^^
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 
 
 259 
 
 nessed in a theatre in modern times so in- 
 decent as this spectacle. We can imagine 
 there might have been in Sodom and Go- 
 morrah such another place and scene, such 
 a theatre and spectacle on the Broadway of 
 those doomed cities just before fire and brim- 
 stone rained down upon them, and they were 
 buried in the ruins. 
 
 "There was, too, we believe, similar places 
 and scenes in Pompeii just as that city was 
 buried beneath the eruption of Vesuvius. 
 We may be saved, perhaps, from a like fate 
 on account of the many good people there 
 
 are in New York But that does not 
 
 do away with the guilt of tolerating or per- 
 mitting such an exhibition to exist as that 
 at Wheatley's. Our respectable citizens 
 should cry it down, and the police should 
 arrest all engaged in such a violation of pub- 
 lic decency and morality 
 
 "Let husbands and parents and guardians \ 
 who value the morals of their wives, their 
 daughters, and their wards, bear a watchful 
 eye, and keep them out the walls of Niblo's 
 during the rein of the Black Crook 
 
 Y 
 
 18
 
 26o WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 "If any of the Herald's readers, in spite 
 of its warnings and advice, are determined 
 to gaze on the indecent and dazzling bril- 
 liancy of the Black Crook, they should 
 provide themselves with a piece of smoked 
 glass." 
 
 But the Herald's abuse was not the only 
 spur to the curiosity of the public. The 
 Rev. Charles B. Smyth, of New York, made 
 I use of all his pulpit oratory to prevent the 
 pure innocence of the Gothamites from be- 
 ing soiled by coming in contact with the 
 Black Crook. Two months had passed 
 since its production, and with no falling off, 
 but rather an increase, in its popularity and 
 power of attraction. "Now," thought the 
 reverend gentleman, "it is high time for me 
 to step in, or Beelzebub and his show will 
 gobble up the whole city." 
 
 So he stepped in by renting the Cooper In- 
 stitute and preaching a sermon, the text of 
 which was 'The Nuisances of New York, 
 Particularly the Naked Truth." The ser- 
 mon was a remarkable one, especially for the 
 quality of its hell-fire— an article, by the
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 26 1 
 
 way, which is said to have no terrors for the 
 New Yorker. This may be a slander, but, 
 whether it is or no, Smyth's brimstone was 
 not the sort of stuff to frighten a Gotham- 
 ite away from Niblo's. Here is a specimen 
 of it: 
 
 "But our chief concern to-day is with 
 the dancing, theatrical representations, and . 
 of a particular establishment which has 
 lately attracted a great deal of attention. 
 I know not what may have been the mo- 
 tive that impelled the gentlemen, to whom 
 it belongs, to get up its sights. Who can 
 tell but their love of human nature in gen- 
 eral is such that, from the most generous 
 impulses, they have gotten up an expensive 
 and dazzling entertainment purely for the 
 purpose of lightening the cares of life of the 
 busy and careworn, by giving the latter an 
 opportunity, on as low terms, almost, as the 
 most extravagant places of amusement, of 
 seeing by gas-light and hell-fire light, and in 
 the bronzed light of His Satanic Majesty's 
 countenance, and in the red glare of the re- 
 cording demon, the beautiful countenances.
 
 262 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 resiilar busts, trunks and limbs chiseled out 
 from head to foot by Nature's own hand 
 with an exquisiteness of perfection far sur- 
 passing any that the finest art of man has 
 ever wrought in Parian marble, with 
 charms more bewitching and attitudes of 
 
 softness and luxury most fascinating 
 
 Poor, dear, darling, charming, enchanting 
 creatures ; who could help loving them ?" 
 
 If there were any among those that lis- 
 tened to this sermon, who had not as yet 
 seen "The Naked Truth," it is more than 
 likely they lost no time in taking a glimpse. 
 
 The reverend gentleman's crusade, how- 
 ever, came to an untimely end. His first 
 sermon, much to the regret of the Crook's 
 managers, was his last. The Trustees of the 
 Institute were not satisfied with the char- 
 acter of his brimstone, and refused to allow 
 any further display of it upon their premises. 
 Moreover, one of them uncharitably sug- 
 gested that Mr. Smyth's motive in preach- 
 ing against the Crook was a worldly one — 
 in plain words, that he was in the pay of its 
 managers. This was not so. I was in a po-
 
 WILLIAM WHEATLEY. 263 
 
 sition to know all the inside workings of the 
 Crook, and, in justice to the reverend gen- 
 tleman, as well as to the managers them- 
 selves, can say there was as little truth as 
 charity in the suggestion. 
 
 The Crook had a continuous run of near- 
 ly sixteen months, and at the end of it 
 Wheatley retired from the management of 
 Niblo's with three hundred thousand dol- 
 lars to his credit. Ambition would probably 
 have tempted other men to reach for more. 
 My friend's ambition was not of that stripe. 
 He thought he now had all of this world's 
 goods he would ever need, and was content. 
 Never again did he indulge in theatrical 
 "flyers," for he was aware of the uncertainty 
 that surrounds them. Age was creeping 
 upon him, and he was too mindful of his 
 declining years to further flirt with Fortune. 
 True, she had been kind to him of late — 
 "more kind than is her custom ;" but he knew 
 her for a wayward wench, and was not dis- 
 posed to give her the chance of changing her 
 mind, and filching from him that which she 
 had been so slow to grant.
 
 264 WAGS OF THE STAGE. 
 
 And now, having spun my narrative, and 
 perhaps to a tedious length, let me close with 
 a word or two in memory of him, the sub- 
 ject of it. William Wheatley no longer 
 lives, but while he did he had every attribute 
 to catch and hold the respect of those who 
 knew him. It is true he had his frailties — 
 which of us has not? — but "take him for all 
 in all" he was 
 
 In truth a man of men ; of sense refined ; 
 Whose gentle mien betrayed the polished 
 
 mind; 
 As actor, too, where stands his peer to-day 
 In Comedy, or Farce, or five-act play? 
 The Stage now grieves his loss — the Art he 
 
 graced 
 Will wait in vain to see the loss replaced. 
 
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