GIFT 
 
 Paul Steindorff 
 1864-1934 
 
 Choragus 
 Univ. Of California 
 
w 
 
 L 
 
 NOTED MEN AND WOMEN 
 
 *^ 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1910 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES W. MORRISSEY 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE KLEBOLD PRESS 
 
 
MARY ANDERSON 
 (MADAME DE NAVARRO) 
 
NOTED MEN 
 AND WOMEN 
 
 A Profusely Illustrated Book 
 
 CONTAINING THE 
 
 Humor, Wit, Sentiment 
 and Diplomacy in the 
 Social, Artistic and 
 Business Lives of the 
 people herein set forth 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES W. MORRISSEY 
 
f 
 
 & / *~ 
 
Vomrtt 
 
 whose names appear in this volume, many of 
 
 whom are endeared to me in 
 The Sacred Ties of Everlasting Friendship ', 
 
 these stories are 
 sincerely and affectionately dedicated. 
 
 JAMES W. MORRISSEY. 
 
 M279074 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Mary Anderson (Madame de Navarro) Frontispiece 
 
 Jay Gould I 
 
 Mme. Parepa-Rosa I 
 
 Christine Nilsson I 
 
 Anton Rubinstein 27 
 
 Clara Louise Kellogg 27 
 
 P. S. Gilmore 27 
 
 Emma Abbott 49 
 
 Sir Charles Wyndham 65 
 
 Major-General Benjamin F. Butler 72a 
 
 Charles A. Dana 72a 
 
 Pauline L'Allemand 83 
 
 Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil 99 
 
 Annie Louise Cary 99 
 
 Pasquale Brignoli 99 
 
 Fanny Davenport 117 
 
 Mile. Aimee 117 
 
 Hortense Rhea 133 
 
 General Howard Carroll 149 
 
 McKee Rankin 149 
 
 Adelina Patti 169 
 
 Joseph Jefferson 169 
 
 Ignace Jan Paderewski 169 
 
 Henry Ward Beecher 185 
 
 Anton Seidl 185 
 
 Theodore Thomas 185 
 
 Frank Tilford 199 
 
 Emma Juch 199 
 
 Queen Victoria 2o6a 
 
 Zelie de Lussan 2o6a 
 
 Julia Allen 219 
 
 Tennie C. Claflin 219 
 
 Victoria Woodhull 219 
 
 Rose Coghlan 233 
 
 Signer Campanari 233 
 
 DeWolf Hopper 233 
 
 Mary Anderson (Madame de Navarro) 247 
 
 Nelson Roberts . , 247 
 
 James W. Morrissey 247 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS, SAMUEL F. B. MORSE, 
 TERESA CARRENO, ADELAIDE RISTORI, 
 JACOB GRAU, JAY GOULD, JAMES FISK, JR., 
 MARIE AIMEE, CHRISTINE NILSSON, PA- 
 REPA-ROSA. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANTON RUBINSTEIN, A STEINWAY, P. S. GIL- 
 MORE, EMMA ABBOTT, CLARA LOUISE 
 KELLOGG, HORACE GREELY, BARONESS 
 SOLOMON DE ROTHSCHILD, JUDGE HIL- 
 TON. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 EMMA ABBOTT AGAIN, A SOUTHERN PREACH- 
 ER, GENERAL SHERMAN, GENERAL "PHIL" 
 SHERIDAN, COL. HENRY WATTERSON, 
 FAMOUS ABBOTT Kiss." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MAJOR-GENERAL BENJAMIN F. BUTLER, 
 CHARLES A. DANA, CHARLES DELMONICO, 
 SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM, A MILITARY 
 RECEPTION. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 PAULINE L'ALLEMAND, A PRIMA DONNA'S 
 JEALOUSY, DIPLOMACY TO THE FRONT, A 
 SINGER IN DISTRESS. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DOM PEDRO, EMPEROR OF BRAZIL, BUYS A 
 PIANO, A MUSICAL CONGRESS, ANNIE 
 LOUISE GARY, JULIA RIVE KING, HENRY 
 WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, RAFAEL Jo- 
 SEFFY, PASQUALE BRIGNOLI. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FANNY DAVENPORT, OWEN FAWCETT, "A 
 FROST" IN GALVESTON, GENERAL BEAU- 
 REGARD, "NAT" BURBANK, SARASATE AND 
 D'ALBERT, Two DANDY COWBOYS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HORTENSE RHEA, EUGENE FIELD, A DISTIN- 
 GUISHED ADVANCE AGENT, A MANAGER- 
 IAL QUARREL, A BIRTH ON A TRAIN, 
 "Miss WYOMING." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 McKEE RANKIN, JOAQUIN MILLER, GENERAL 
 HOWARD CARROLL, CHESTER A. ARTHUR, 
 
"AN AMERICAN COUNTESS/' EBEN JOR- 
 DAN, "THE MOST PERFECT FOOT IN NEW 
 ENGLAND," WILLIAM A. BRADY. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JOSEPH JEFFERSON, IGNACE PADEREWSKI 
 AND STEINWAY, ADELINA PATTI, Six 
 THOUSAND DOLLARS A PERFORMANCE, 
 RICHARD MANSFIELD, THE NEW DIANA, 
 "PRINCE KARL" ANGRY AT A GODDESS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THEODORE THOMAS, P. S. GILMORE, ANTON 
 SEIDL, HENRY WARD BEECHER, EDWIN 
 BOOTH AND THE MINISTER ARE RIVALS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A PROFESSIONAL MATINEE, DANIEL FROH- 
 MAN, A GRAND MUSICAL FESTIVAL ON 
 WHEELS, ZELIE DE LUSSAN, QUEEN VIC- 
 TORIA, THE MAPLESON OPERATIC COM- 
 PANY, EMMA JUCH, A SOPRANO AND 
 CUPID, FRANK TILFORD'S GENEROSITY. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 JULIA ALLEN, THE DISCOVERY OF A NIGHTIN- 
 GALE, JOHN D. CRIMMINS, "ITALY AND 
 IRELAND," VICTORIA C. WOODHULL 
 
(LADY MARTIN), TENNIE C. CLAFLIN 
 (LADY COOK), HARRY NEW. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE PULLMAN STRIKE, AN AWFUL SCENE, 
 "WILLIE" SEYMOUR'S SHAKESPEREAN 
 FESTIVAL, A DISTINGUISHED GATHERING, 
 ROSE COGHLAN'S Loss AND GAIN, DE 
 WOLF HOPPER'S TRAGEDY AND COMEDY. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MARY ANDERSON (MADAME DE NAVARRO), 
 NELSON ROBERTS, AN INVITATION FROM 
 AMERICA'S MOST EMINENT MEN AND 
 WOMEN TO "OUR MARY." 
 
JAY GOULD 
 
 MME. PAREPA-ROSA 
 
 CHRISTINE NILSSON 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 MUSIC, HUMOR, WIT. 
 
 During the working day, when the interiors 
 of theaters are in gloomy contrast with the 
 brilliance of the night before, there is no 
 glamour in the theatrical manager's life. He 
 is a maker of contracts, a director of dry detail, 
 a business man. But when night comes, and 
 lights are blazing before the play-houses, and 
 the crowds are surging in, the manager be- 
 comes another personage. With his cares hid- 
 den behind an impressive front of evening 
 dress, he is less a man of business than the em- 
 bodiment of a smiling welcome to an alluring 
 atmosphere of art. 
 
 The day's work brings him in contact with 
 the unvarnished side of the world of the stage. 
 The evening's play brings him in contact with 
 the glittering side of the world at large. In 
 the course of time, if he is a manager of impor- 
 tant productions, his dual role of play-pro- 
 ducer and host causes him to know many lead- 
 ing actors on both the -stage behind the foot- 
 lights and on the wide stage of life in general. 
 
 Looking back over a long vista of days and 
 
nights at the theater, I can see many interest- 
 ing men and women in many parts. One of the 
 first that occurs to me appeared in a little im- 
 promptu comedy of his own composition, for 
 my especial benefit. 
 
 He was a small rosy-faced man, who wore 
 a carefully kept moustache and goatee, and 
 extremely tight trousers. His gray hair, I 
 remember, was brushed forward in front of his 
 ears. He approached me at an office in 
 Chickering's piano store, on Broadway 
 near Bleecker-st, where I, a boy in my 
 teens, was selling tickets for the much-adver- 
 tised readings which Charles Dickens, who was 
 then honoring this country with his second and 
 last visit, was giving in New York. 
 
 "How is the sale of seats for the Dickens 
 readings going?" inquired the dressy little 
 man. 
 
 "Very well indeed," I answered, reaching 
 for my bunch of tickets. 
 
 "Does Dickens seem to be taking in New- 
 York?" he then asked. 
 
 "Does he seem to be taking?" I exclaimed. 
 "Well, I should say so! He's great! He hits 
 off his characters to the very life. The people 
 are falling over each other to get in. If you 
 haven't heard him yet, you want to right away. 
 
I've only a few tickets left for this week. How 
 many will you have?" 
 
 The man waved aside the tickets, which I 
 was holding enticingly before him, and re- 
 marked with a smile : "Oh, I won't want any 
 tickets. I wouldn't take 'em if you'd give them 
 to me. I happened to be passing, and just 
 thought I'd drop in to inquire about this man 
 Dickens. I suspect, sir, that your enthusiasm 
 for him is merely in the way of business. I'll 
 warrant you that, for all your praise, you've 
 never laid eyes on the great man." 
 
 I turned red, and confessed that such was the 
 demand for seats that I hadn't been able to get 
 free tickets, and that their price was beyond my 
 pocket-book. But I assured him that I had 
 heard a great deal about Dickens, and thus 
 knew whereof I spoke. 
 
 "Well, well!" he exclaimed. "It's a shame 
 that you should miss this treat. Here, take 
 these, so that in the future you won't have to 
 speak from mere hearsay about so important 
 a matter. Yes, take them. I don't want them ; 
 I've heard Dickens heard too much of him." 
 
 He had extracted from his wallet seven tic- 
 kets, which he passed over to me. The clerks 
 at surrounding offices had stopped work and 
 were eyeing us with grins, but I did not 
 
suspect the reason until my friend had gone 
 and Mr. Chickering came over to me. 
 
 "Don't you know who that was?" he said. 
 "Why, that was Charles Dickens himself." 
 
 During the afternoon I thought of the 
 numerous things I could buy with the money 
 from those tickets if I should sell them. The 
 fact that I resisted this temptation saved me 
 from what would have been an embarrassing 
 experience a few days afterward. That night 
 my mother, my brother and I, together 
 with some friends, went to hear Dickens. 
 I leaned forward eagerly as I saw the 
 man with whom I had talked in the store 
 come out and make his bow, amid a great burst 
 of applause. Now that his hat was off, I 
 noticed little curls on his forehead. His hair 
 above his ears was still brushed forward, his 
 trousers were still tight, and he wore a big 
 "buttonhole bouquet." He impressed me as 
 being a dapper man who thought a good deal 
 about his personal appearance. 
 
 But for all the care he evidently lavished on 
 his appearance, it did not come up to the ex- 
 pectations of the audience. After the applause 
 had subsided, and Dickens had taken his seat 
 at a red desk, with two lamps shining down on 
 it, and had begun "Marley was dead" in a dry, 
 
 6 
 
husky voice, I remember that a murmur of 
 disappointment ran through the house. 
 
 But suddenly we had forgotten Dickens. 
 We were all hushed, intent upon watching and 
 listening to old Scrooge and Bob Cratchett 
 there in the dingy counting-room on Christmas 
 Eve, and a little later to Tiny Tim and the rest 
 of the company at that merry Christmas dinner. 
 In the course of the evening Dr. Pickwick 
 strutted into view, and we beheld Sam Weller 
 and his friends. Long-legged Dick Swiveller 
 came upon the scene, and with the Brasses 
 away went down into the regions below stairs, 
 where he regaled with meat on the end of a 
 fork the hungry and shrinking Marchioness. 
 
 Every time one of these familiar characters 
 was introduced there was a round of applause, 
 as if for a living being. We had forgotten 
 Dickens for his people, and the reason was that 
 he was injecting his own great vitality into 
 them. He seemed to become bony-handed and 
 tremulous with old Scrooge, pompous and well- 
 fed with Dr. Pickwick, rotund with Sam Wel- 
 ler, dryly humorous with Dick Swiveller, and 
 small and cowed with the little Marchioness. 
 They were all alive to him, and so they were to 
 us. The truth was that Dickens was display- 
 ing remarkable ability as an actor. 
 
Contrary to the custom among deadheads, I 
 was one of the first in the applause that night, 
 and when it was all over I was thankful that I 
 had not sold those tickets. But glad as I was, 
 I felt doubly so about a week afterward, when 
 Dickens stepped briskly into the store again. 
 
 "Well, my boy/' he exclaimed with a broad 
 smile, "have you heard that man Dickens yet ?" 
 
 "I have, Mr. Dickens/' I answered, smiling 
 in an embarrassed way as I remembered my 
 remarks when he was in before, "and I 
 
 "Well," he cried, interrupting me, "and now 
 I daresay you are prepared to take back those 
 fine things you said about him the other day." 
 
 "Not a word of them, not a word/' I replied 
 quickly, recovering myself under the influence 
 of his geniality. "I would add to them add a 
 lot if I could do the subject justice." 
 
 "Oh, you Americans!" he cried, raising his 
 hands to his ears as if to shut out the compli- 
 ments, "you would turn a man's head." With 
 that he wheeled about to greet Mr. Chickering. 
 
 Plenty of the celebrated men I have met since 
 then have been fond of fun, but few have pos- 
 sessed the degree of boyish high spirits and 
 keenness for an amusing -situation that Dick- 
 ens avowed when he played his little practical 
 joke on the unsophisticated young ticket-seller. 
 
I suppose I was rather new to the world's 
 ways then, and yet Dickens was not the first 
 celebrity with whom I came in contact. The 
 wealth and fashion of New- York and person- 
 ages from afar were wont to go to the photo- 
 graphic studio of Thomas Paris, on Broadway 
 near Eighth-st., to have their portraits made 
 on porcelain, a process which Paris had intro- 
 duced from Berlin, and which had become a 
 fad. I had recently been graduated from three 
 years' service at the studio as general utility 
 boy, and had seen something of the vanities of 
 life. 
 
 One of the prominent persons of the day 
 whom I observed at Faris's, and whom I still 
 can see vividly through the fog of years, was 
 the inventor of our telegraphic system, Samuel 
 P. B. Morse, a tall man with a flowing beard, 
 a large nose, and glasses which only partly 
 concealed the kindly expression in his eyes. In 
 appearance and manner he suggests to me, as 
 I recall him, a man of trend of mind vastly dif- 
 ferent from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 
 with whom some years afterward I drank cur- 
 rant wine at Cambridge. 
 
 Mr. Morse was at the studio several times to 
 sit and see about his pictures, but I remember 
 that he was less interested in them than the 
 
photographic processes. One day when he was 
 waiting for Mr. Paris, who was busy with a 
 sitter, he began to quiz me. The scope of what 
 I didn't know about photography was compre- 
 hensive, and he saw it, of course, but he quickly 
 set me at my ease, and we had a pleasant little 
 chat. Paris afterward revealed to him the 
 mysteries of the dark-room. 
 
 Another of those who stands out in my mind 
 from the crowd that came and went at the 
 Paris studio was little Teresa Carreno, no 
 longer little Teresa, but the woman who had 
 achieved world-wide fame as a pianist. Her 
 father, the President of a South American 
 republic, had sent her to New- York for the de- 
 velopment of the musical talent which she had 
 already shown in remarkable degree. She was 
 about twelve then a child with a smooth, dark 
 skin, a wealth of hair, and big eyes full of 
 dreams. I can recollect how beautiful I thought 
 she was as she sat perched demurely in a chair 
 to have her picture taken. 
 
 There was no similarity between this delicate 
 little maiden and Adelaide Ristori, the Italian 
 actress and perhaps the greatest tragedienne of 
 that time. But the latter also made a great im- 
 pression on me. Tall and commanding, with 
 a majestic carriage, she swept through the 
 
 10 
 
studio as Queen Elizabeth might have done. 
 I looked down on her one night from the gallery 
 of the Theater Francais, now the Fourteenth- 
 st. Theater, where she was playing her first 
 engagement in this country. I went again to 
 see her, then again. 
 
 On one of these occasions I happened to 
 meet young Maurice Grau. This chance meet- 
 ing was a turning point for me. I had known 
 Maurice at the Free Academy, but had seen 
 little of him since we had put scholastic pur- 
 suits behind us. He had been a clever boy at 
 school, but it was no prophetic feeling as to his 
 future fame that caused me that night to greet 
 him with enthusiasm. In my eyes he was al- 
 ready an important person, because he was the 
 nephew of Jacob Grau, manager of the Theater 
 Francais. 
 
 He spent a good deal of time at the theater, 
 and after this freshening of old acquaintance 
 I ventured to call on him there, getting past 
 the doorkeeper without a ticket, a consumma- 
 tion that I had figured on. Opportunities like 
 this were not to be neglected. My social visits 
 to the Theater Francais became frequent. I 
 couldn't keep away. The atmosphere of the 
 playhouse, the lights, the crowd, the music and 
 the acting of Ristori, whose deep voice was like 
 
 11 
 
a tolling bell in the dramatic passages, fasci- 
 nated me. I began to read classic plays at 
 home, and dreamed of becoming a great actor 
 myself. 
 
 "Here, you boys, see what you can do at 
 selling these books !" 
 
 It was the heavy, Teutonic voice of old Jacob 
 Grau, who had evidently decided that Maurice 
 and I might as well be useful. We took the 
 books which contained the English translation 
 of the Italian play that was on the bill, and 
 entered zealously upon the work of selling 
 them, keeping five of the twenty-five cents we 
 received for each. Thus Maurice Grau and I 
 began our dramatic careers in the same way, 
 on the same night. 
 
 We sold books regularly after that, but in a 
 little while Maurice, who, as I have said, was a 
 bright boy, was made ticket-seller in the box- 
 office. One night he did not appear, and his 
 uncle, who was in a fine German frenzy because 
 there was no one to sell the tickets and it was 
 time to open the doors, saw me getting ready 
 for my humble task with the books. "Here, 
 you, Jimmy/' he cried, "get you into the box- 
 office, quick !" 
 
 Now, I had always stood somewhat in awe 
 12 
 
of the cold-eyed, wise-looking men who pre- 
 sided in box-offices, and was frightened at the 
 prospect of trying to fulfil such important 
 duties. 
 
 "But, Mr. Grau " I began. 
 
 "I vant no buts, Morrissey," he interrupted 
 sharply. "I vant a ticket-seller." 
 
 "But I've had no experience, Mr. Grau." 
 
 "Bond speag to me of exberience !" he cried, 
 growing more German in his excitement. 
 "You'll ged all of that you vant to-nide. Must 
 ve stand here arguing when the beople are 
 vaiting with their money at the door ?" 
 
 So I took my place in the high chair behind 
 the window and waited for the onslaught. It 
 came in a moment, the play being a popular 
 one. The doors were swung open, and there 
 was a rush for the window. I served the first 
 man quickly enough, and then the next. In a 
 quarter of an hour I was getting the swing of 
 the thing, and a little later I half smiled as I felt 
 myself already falling into the impassive, au- 
 tomatic box-office manner. 
 
 But it was exciting work. That line seemed 
 never-ending. Finally, however, my ears 
 caught the sliding sound of the rising curtain, 
 and I had to deal with only a few belated 
 stragglers. At last I leaned back in my chair 
 
 13 
 
with a sense of great relief. My neck behind 
 was tired, but I didn't mind then, because I had 
 a feeling that now I was a theatrical man for 
 certain. 
 
 I had only one worry then : the counting up. 
 I wondered how many times in my haste I had 
 given too much change. When Mr. Grau came 
 for the money, and they began to count it, I 
 became anxious. It seemed to me that it took 
 them a long time to count that money. Sud- 
 denly the manager came up behind me. 
 
 "You did all right, Jimmy, poy. There's 
 pretty near tree tousand dollar in the house, 
 and you got it all. In fact, you toog in tree too 
 much." 
 
 It was a proud night for me. I sold tickets 
 for a week, when Maurice came back. This 
 was the way I gained the bit of experience that 
 led soon afterward to my selling tickets for the 
 Dickens readings, and then at Pike's Opera 
 House, now the Grand Opera House, on 
 Eighth-ave. near Twenty-third-st, New- York 
 City. Shortly after I began there as a full- 
 fledged treasurer, the theater and its contracts 
 for attractions passed into the hands of the Erie 
 Railroad. Jay Gould and James Fisk, Jr., be- 
 ing responsible. Mr. Gould was the father of 
 George, Howard, Edwin, Frank, Helen and 
 
 14 
 
Anna (the Countess de Castellane, now the 
 Princess de Sagan), the exciting and sensa- 
 tional episodes in whose lives would fill a good 
 sized volume, Gould and Fisk established their 
 offices on the second floor, gave the house its 
 present name, and became active theatrical 
 managers. 
 
 They managed with a vengeance. Probably 
 no theater ever had a more tempestuous sea- 
 son than this one had under Gould and Fisk. 
 I well remember that one night when I was 
 summoned to the big room up-stairs by Mr. 
 Gould I had to step, in almost total darkness, 
 between the prostrate forms of at least fifty of 
 the doughty henchmen of Mr. Fisk. 
 
 They were sleeping on the floor, having been 
 in the building for four days, all heavily armed, 
 to protect their chief from process-servers and 
 deputy sheriffs bent on executing papers in 
 an action brought by the English stockholders 
 of the Erie. 
 
 Fisk had sworn that no minions of the law 
 would get at him, and they didn't. Boss Tweed, 
 then in control of the city, was his friend. After 
 a siege of about a week the storming force was 
 called off, and Fisk was able to appear on the 
 street again. 
 
 But this was not the only nor the most ex- 
 is 
 
citing siege to which the theater was subjected 
 that season. The day came that is still vividly 
 remembered by veterans in Wall Street as 
 "Black Friday." Albert Speyers committed 
 suicide on the floor of the Stock Exchange, and 
 hundreds faced ruin. The blame was laid to 
 Gould and Fisk, and rage against them was in- 
 tense. ' It was well known that they spent their 
 evenings at the theater, and that night when 
 we opened the doors we were confronted by a 
 mob of at least five thousand strong. Some 
 carried revolvers, and all were intent upon 
 getting at Gould and Fisk. 
 
 We sent hurry messages to several police- 
 stations, and in short order a big force of police 
 were on the ground. They took their places 
 at the entrances, and the doors leading to the 
 offices up-stairs were doubly guarded. As we 
 purposed to give the show, despite the mob, a 
 lot of them stormed into the lobby, where I 
 was stationed. Many of them were brokers, 
 who knew me. 
 
 "Where are they, Morrissey, where are 
 they?" they kept demanding in loud voices, 
 clutching at me in their excitement. 
 
 "Gentlemen," I answered a dozen times, "you 
 must know that they wouldn't be here under 
 
 16 
 
the circumstances. I can't say where they are, 
 except that they are not in the theater." 
 
 This was the truth. They were not in the 
 theater, but in Fisk's house, the drawing-room 
 of which had a door opening into one of the 
 theater boxes. They stayed there for a week, 
 almost altogether cut off from communication 
 with the outer world. The newspapers had it 
 that they had left the city. 
 
 But the public wrath subsided as quickly as 
 it had risen, and ten days after "Black Friday" 
 Gould and Fisk were again smiling in the 
 theater foyer. 
 
 Like an ordinary manager, Mr. Gould was 
 wont to station himself there at night, sur- 
 veying the brilliant throng as it streamed 
 in, bowing to acquaintances, occasionally 
 scribbling an order for a box or or- 
 chestra chairs, and watching the business 
 always. Frequently his small figure would 
 be hidden in the crowd during the busy 
 moments just before the raising of the curtain, 
 but we would be certain that nothing was 
 escaping those luminous eyes beneath the im- 
 pressive expanse of forehead. We marveled 
 at his attention to small details at the theater, 
 knowing that he was navigating a stormy sea 
 
 17 
 
of railroad manipulation, and that his mind 
 was freighted with big cares. 
 
 But the truth was that this theatrical man- 
 agement was Jay Gould's play. I know that in 
 the stress of the day's work in the Erie Rail- 
 road offices above the theater he used to look 
 forward to the hour when he could get into 
 that velvet jacket of his, eat a leisurely dinner 
 served by Chef Ferdinand and his staff in the 
 private dining-room, and then descend to the 
 glowing foyer to act as a director of operatic 
 art. 
 
 There was an artistic and imaginative side 
 to Jay Gould's nature. It was his fondness for 
 music and drama and the atmosphere of the 
 theater that caused him to virtually take up 
 his abode in the Grand Opera House. It was 
 his appreciation of painting that caused him to 
 employ Giovanni Garibaldi, the famous mural 
 artist, to lavishly decorate a large reception- 
 room and combined council-chamber and 
 banquet-hall on the floor above the thea- 
 ter auditorium. It was his liking for the 
 creature comforts that caused him to 
 have these apartments most luxuriously 
 furnished, and to install Ferdinand, one of the 
 best chefs in New- York, in a specially equipped 
 kitchen in the building. With these facilities 
 
 18 
 
for entertainment he delighted in giving sup- 
 pers in the banquet-hall after the opera, and 
 was particularly well pleased when the table 
 was lined with beautiful women. 
 
 One of these suppers I shall never forget, 
 because, in the first place, it caused cold per- 
 spiration of anxiety to stand out on my young 
 brow, and because, secondly, it turned out to 
 be an ideal function of its kind. The opera that 
 night was "La Perichole," and in the leading 
 role was Mile. Aimee, the little queen of opera 
 bouffe, she who had, as she told me herself, left 
 Paris, besieged by the Prussians, in a balloon 
 to get to the sea-coast and America to fill this 
 engagement. 
 
 The operatic season in New- York that year 
 was a brilliant one. Christine Nilsson was at 
 the Academy of Music, and Madame Parepa- 
 Rosa, the celebrated head of a German opera 
 company, was turning them away from the 
 Stadt Theater on the Bowery at eight dollars 
 a piece for seats in the orchestra. By a coinci- 
 dence neither was singing on this particular 
 night, and both had come, each with a large 
 party, to hear Mile. Aimee. 
 
 Mr. Gould looked in on me in my little office. 
 
 "Mr. Morrissey," he said, "I understand 
 
 19 
 
that Nilsson and Parepa-Rosa are honoring us 
 to-night. How many are there in their par- 
 ties?" 
 
 "About fifteen in both," I answered. 
 "They're in opposite boxes, and a little while 
 ago I noticed that the prima donnas were re- 
 garding each other rather coldly. It's a way 
 that rival singers have, you know." 
 
 "We can't permit that in this temple of 
 peaceful art," laughed Mr. Gould. "I intend 
 to make these ladies friends. The fact is, I'm 
 going to give Ferdinand orders to get them up 
 a supper. Invite them and their parties in my 
 
 name." 
 
 "But what if they won't accept, Mr. Gould," 
 I suggested. 
 
 "They will if you manage right," he an- 
 swered. "I leave it to you. I want to have 
 them at this supper." 
 
 In a slang of to-day, I saw that it was "up to 
 me," I knew well enough that famous prima 
 donnas were in the habit of standing on their 
 dignity, and were extremely likely to look ask- 
 ance at an offhand invitation from a man, how- 
 ever well-known, whom they have never met. 
 There was also the complication of professional 
 jealousy. I had no acquaintance with either of 
 the women. Indeed, being comparatively 
 
 20 
 
young and inexperienced, I stood somewhat in 
 awe of these celebrities of two continents. But 
 I realized vividly that it would never do for me 
 to fail Mr. Gould in this case. 
 
 I had no idea of how to go about my task, 
 but, like the good general who surveys the field 
 before an engagement I went into the audi- 
 torium to take a look at the enemy. They made 
 a resplendent picture, but to me a formidable 
 one. I stood behind the orchestra chairs, much 
 perplexed, when suddenly in the crowd of 
 modish men and women in Nilsson's box I dis- 
 cerned a familiar face. "Tom Doremus!" I 
 exclaimed exultingly to myself. It took me not 
 more than fifteen seconds to write a line on a 
 card and send it by an usher to the box door. I 
 knew that he was the man to help me, remem- 
 bering that Nilsson was a guest at the house of 
 his father, Professor Doremus. 
 
 "Tom," I exclaimed when he appeared, look- 
 ing rather surprised, "I'm in a hole, and I've 
 come to ask you to help me out." 
 
 "How mu ?" He was thrusting his hand 
 into his pocket. 
 
 "No, no," I hastily interrupted, "I don't 
 want to borrow money." Then I explained. 
 
 He looked dubious. "You see, Morrissey, 
 
 31 
 
 
we've arranged for a little spread up at the 
 house to-night." 
 
 "I suppose so, I suppose so. I knew it would 
 be that way. And yet Gould has set his 
 heart on this thing, and my standing with him 
 depends upon my putting it through." I think 
 there was a touch of despair in my voice that 
 moved him, for after a moment's thought he 
 remarked : 
 
 "So it is as bad as that, is it ? I'd like to help 
 you." Then he added impulsively: "And, by 
 Jove, I will! Have you a messenger I could 
 send across town ?" 
 
 "A dozen of them," I cried. 
 
 "All right then. I'm host this evening, and 
 will accept for my crowd." 
 
 My spirits went up like a rocket. I was keen 
 now for corraling Parepa-Rosa and her party, 
 and scanned her box eagerly for a friend. It 
 did not surprise me much when I saw one, for I 
 knew most of the young men who frequented 
 the theaters. I sent my card to Harry Harper, 
 of the famous publishing house. 
 
 "I'm afraid it can't be done this evening, 
 Jimmie," he told me. "Only a few minutes ago 
 madam remarked that she was tired and would 
 be glad to get a good night's rest. I'll ask her, 
 but I'm sure she will decline." 
 
"Don't do it then," I broke in quickly. "I 
 don't want to be too abrupt about this question. 
 I'll try to think up some form of invitation that 
 will appeal to her. I'll come back here in half 
 an hour." 
 
 Flushed with my little victory on the other 
 side of the house, I was determined to make it 
 complete. The half-hour passed slowly, be- 
 cause I had hardly seated myself at my desk to 
 think when I hit upon a plan. 
 
 "I've got it Harry," I said gleefully when he 
 again came out of the box to see me. "I want 
 you to tell Parepa-Rosa that Mile. Aimee would 
 feel much honored if she could be presented to 
 the great prima donna, whom she has long fer- 
 vently admired, in the green room immediately 
 after the opera. Madam will consent to this, 
 I'm sure. Leave the rest to me." 
 
 "All right," laughed Harper. "It seems a 
 shame to get a lady to supper by a trick; but 
 I'll be your silent partner in it, whatever it may 
 be." 
 
 The thing happened as I had planned. I got 
 both parties into the green-room. Nilsson and 
 Parepa-Rosa bowed politely to each other, and 
 Aimee, with the intoxication of her own sing- 
 ing still upon her, was all gaiety and sparkle. 
 There was much chatter, many compliments 
 
 23 
 
a mutual admiration party until when there 
 was a little lull I raised my voice : 
 
 "And now ladies and gentlemen, I think it 
 will interest you to take a glimpse into the 
 offices from which the operation of a great 
 railway system is directed. I'm going to ask 
 you to follow me up-stairs." 
 
 We had the rooms brilliantly lighted. Our 
 guests stopped at the entrance of the reception- 
 room with exclamations of delight and aston- 
 ishment that there were in existence business 
 offices as palatial as these. As we were saun- 
 tering slowly over the rich, soft carpet inspect- 
 ing the paintings, Gould, Fisk, Oakley Hall, 
 then Mayor of the City, William M. Tweed 
 and two or three others appeared. I per- 
 formed the introductions, and as I did so I was 
 gently leading that big party toward some 
 heavy curtains. 
 
 Suddenly at a wave of my hand waiters on 
 the lookout on the other side drew aside the 
 draperies, revealing a long table, glistening 
 with silverware and cut glass, while on the 
 walls the nymphs, cherubs and angels of Gari- 
 baldi looked down. The scene was a charming 
 one. 
 
 24 
 
"A little surprise planned for our distin- 
 guished guests by Mr. Gould/' I cried. 
 
 "A feast arranged for goddesses," supple- 
 mented Oakey Hall, with a low semi-circular 
 bow that included all the women. 
 
 By this time they were not loath to take 
 supper with us. In great good humor, with 
 no thought of precedent or jealousy, our 
 friends found places and the supper began. 
 After the first toast to the long life and happi- 
 ness of everybody present, we were in a little 
 Arcady with the world and its cares far away. 
 
 In a little while Brignoli, the tenor of the 
 Nilsson company, who had been pianist to the 
 King of Italy before he won fame as a singer, 
 went over to the grand piano and sang us some 
 ballads to his own accompaniment. Then three 
 or four of the clever fellows present told some 
 good stories. 
 
 Then Parepa-Rosa, accompanied on the 
 piano by Brignoli, sang with all the dramatic 
 unction that had brought her wild applause on 
 gala nights at the opera. She had apparently 
 entirely forgotten that she had been weary. 
 She was followed by Christine Nilsson, with 
 some of the best songs from her operas. She 
 was wonderful that night. For just this little 
 company she sang as well, or even better, I 
 
 25 
 
think, than she was wont to do for enthusiastic 
 thousands. Her remarkable voice, clear as a 
 bell, yet full of color and feeling, thrilled us, 
 brought moisture to our eyes. Now and then 
 I would glance at Gould. A charming woman 
 was on either side of him. His eyes were glow- 
 ing. I believe it was one of the rare occasions 
 when he really forgot his burdens and was 
 happy. 
 
 Parepa-Rosa's last song was a rollicking one 
 then popular: "At Five o'Clock in the Morn- 
 ing." I am afraid that the clocks would have 
 informed us that it was not far from that hour 
 when we aroused the drowsy coachmen wait- 
 ing on their boxes out in front of the theater, 
 and went rattling home through the silent 
 streets. My troubles of the early evening 
 seemed remote, a memory already half-forgot- 
 ten. I could not help thinking, as I glanced at 
 the darkened houses, that the dear public, 
 tucked away all unsuspecting in their beds, 
 would have paid thousands to have attended as 
 good a concert as this impromptu one behind 
 the scenes. 
 
 26 
 
ANTON RUBINSTEIN 
 
 CLARA LOUISE KELLOGG 
 
 P. S. GILMORE 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A CLASSIC GERMAN VERY MAD. 
 
 After a single eventful season Jay Gould and 
 Jim Fisk gave up theatrical management. The 
 Erie Railroad offices were moved from the 
 Grand Opera House, and it was leased to 
 Augustin Daly, I remaining as his treasurer. 
 
 It was during the first winter of Mr. Daly's 
 control that I made my initial essay as a man- 
 ager. 
 
 Jacob Grau, who had given me my start, had 
 died suddenly, and my friend Maurice Grau 
 had taken over a contract his uncle had made 
 with the famous Russian pianist, Anton Rubin- 
 stein, for a series of concerts in this country. 
 The musician was to be paid a sum of money 
 which for those days was exceedingly large. 
 It was a big undertaking for a young man of 
 not more than twenty-four; but Rubinstein 
 came, and under the management of young 
 Grau the concerts were proving a great suc- 
 cess. One evening I went down to the youth- 
 ful manager's house on Eleventh-st. 
 
 "Maurice," I remarked, "what shall I have 
 to pay for Rubinstein for six Sunday nights 
 in New- York?" 
 
 29 
 
"A thousand dollars a night," answered 
 Maurice promptly. 
 
 "I'll go you," I replied, and then and there 
 we drew up an agreement. I couldn't sign my 
 name to that brief contract quickly enough, for 
 I had figured that the pianist, who was creating 
 a sensation, would draw at least twenty-five 
 hundred dollars a concert, and perhaps five 
 hundred or a thousand more. It looked like 
 plain sailing. There was, however, one factor 
 in the situation that I overlooked. I forgot to 
 take into account the eccentricity of genius. 
 
 Immediately I busied myself with completing 
 the arrangements, engaging P. S. Gilmore's 
 band for the intervals between Rubinstein's 
 solos. For the first concert we decided to give 
 some of the music of Johann Strauss, which 
 was light but charming, and was much in 
 vogue. The great night came a fine night, 
 and before the tired box-office man was 
 through with that crowd there was over three 
 thousand dollars in the house. 
 
 I was in a state of exaltation, and yet in a 
 fever of worry too Rubinstein had not ar- 
 rived. Where was he ? He had to come down 
 from Springfield, Massachusetts, and while I 
 had received a telegram that he was on the way 
 I pictured all kinds of accidents and delays at 
 
 30 
 
the last moment. Finally, however, a carriage 
 rattled up to the stage door, where I was wait- 
 ing, and the celebrated musician bounded out, 
 an active man in a big, fur-lined coat. I re- 
 member that he had penetrating black eyes that 
 looked out from a strong but homely face. 
 
 He shook hands with me in the abstracted 
 way that genius has, and demanded to be shown 
 to his dressing-room immediately. Once there, 
 thinking to win his approval and occupy him till 
 the time came for him to play, I handed him a 
 program of the concert. He glanced at it in- 
 differently for an instant, and then jumped 
 from his chair, holding the paper at arms' 
 length and glaring at it. 
 
 "Vat issdis?" he cried. 
 
 "What is what?" Tasked. 
 
 "Your beople may like it, monsieur. They 
 such music may like, maybe; but I, Rubinstein, 
 cannot blay." 
 
 "Why not?" I inquired as calmly as possible. 
 
 "Vhy not !" he cried. "Do you need to ask 
 me that, monsieur ? Vat, I, Rubinstein, on the 
 same concert blay mit this Strauss, this this 
 jingler? Nevare! nevare!" He kept tapping 
 the offensive name of Strauss vehemently with 
 his forefinger. "I vould be disgra-aced !" he 
 
 31 
 
burst out again. "It iss an insult ! From here 
 I go!" 
 
 With an impetuous movement my star seized 
 his hat and bolted through the door. I stared 
 after him for an instant, paralyzed with aston- 
 ishment. Then I started in pursuit. He made 
 quick time down the passageway, gained the 
 street, leaped into his carriage and slammed 
 the door. 
 
 "Stop that carriage! Stop that carriage !" I 
 shouted. The driver heard me coming, and 
 was hesitating before gathering up the reins. 
 I reached the carriage door, and jerked it open. 
 
 "This is lunacy, Rubinstein," I cried, breath- 
 ing hard. "I have thousands of dollars in the 
 house. We can't send all these people home. 
 Come into my office, where we can talk this 
 thing over like sane men." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "But you must come/' I insisted. 
 
 "Oh, veil, to blease you," he exclaimed sud- 
 denly, with a gesture of resignation, "but not 
 to taug aboud it. I haf my determination made 
 up. I gannot blay," was all he would say. 
 
 When I got him up-stairs I said with all the 
 earnestness in my power: "Now see here, 
 Herr Rubinstein, this is my first attempt as a 
 manager. If you fail me this evening, if I 
 
 32 
 
have to dismiss this great audience that has 
 gathered here to hear you play, I shall be 
 ruined financially and discredited in reputa- 
 tion. I" 
 
 "Oh, but the rebutation of me, Rubinstein, 
 you forget," he broke in. "Vat aboud me? 
 Vat aboud my friends, the great musicians in 
 Europe, saying: 'Oh, Rubinstein in America 
 forgets everything but money. He vill blay 
 mit a jingler. He forgets his dignity, his art/ 
 No, no, monsieur, dollars are nothing to me, 
 nothing. I live for my art. I cannot blay." 
 
 "But if I change the program," I suggested 
 quickly. I didn't see how I could at that late 
 hour; but I was clutching at straws. Rubin- 
 stein shrugged his shoulders. "They are in 
 the hands of the audience," he remarked. 
 
 "But Til get them back again," I announced. 
 Without waiting for his reply, I ran to the 
 door and called for the head usher. I gave him 
 an order to send all the men he could through 
 the house gathering up the programs, and then 
 to set these men all at work crossing out the 
 name of Strauss and the selections from his 
 music. I next went to Pat Gilmore, whose 
 band was to have played the Strauss music, 
 and explained the situation to him. 
 
 "So Johann Strauss is too frivolous for 
 
 33 
 
him?" Pat remarked smilingly. "We forgot 
 that he was a musician of a heroic mold. You 
 would never have suspected it from this little 
 affair, would you? Still we must make allow- 
 ances for genius. Don't worry about us, Mor- 
 rissey. You have troubles enough. My men 
 have nothing except the program music with 
 them, but we'll pull through with well-known 
 
 airs." 
 
 That cheerful speech made me Pat Gilmore's 
 friend for life. I went back to Rubinstein, 
 fearing that he would escape again. I asked 
 him what he thought about this country and 
 its music, to give him a safety-valve for his 
 surplus spirit. In a few minutes the head usher 
 brought me a pile of programs, with the name 
 of the hated Strauss crossed out. I showed 
 them to Rubinstein. He merely shrugged his 
 shoulders. Another heap of programs were 
 soon brought in. The musician glanced at them 
 coldly. When a third lot were brought in and 
 taken away to be again distributed, he suddenly 
 asked: "Iss dat all?" 
 
 "Well, nearly all," I answered hastily. The 
 truth was that those in the balcony and gallery 
 had not been touched, but I did not feel that it 
 was necessary to mention this. 
 
 "Vel den, I blay, because I feel ligk id." 
 
 34 
 
And he did play magnificently. As I stood 
 listening to that wonderful uplifting music 
 coming from his favorite Steinway, it 
 was hard for me to realize that the great musi- 
 cian who was producing it was the same man 
 who a few minutes before had stirred up such 
 a furious little tempest in a tea-pot. In the 
 following concerts, which were highly success- 
 ful, you may be sure that the program suited 
 Rubinstein. 
 
 Of a vastly different type was the next musi- 
 cal star I managed. My pen fails me 
 when I try to pay a fitting tribute to the mem- 
 ory of Emma Abbott. She was a most admir- 
 able artist, but her nature compassed far more 
 than her art. Her voice was noble, but her 
 character was nobler. Her heart went out to 
 all who suffered. Many times I have seen her 
 eyes fill with tears at the mention of some one's 
 misfortune. In the days of her early youth she 
 had known what struggles and hardships had 
 meant to her, and she never forgot what they 
 must mean to others. In short, she was one of 
 the most sincere, kind-hearted and brave little 
 women I have ever known. "Honest little 
 Emma/' we used to call her. 
 
 One day I was sitting in the treasurer's 
 
 35 
 
office at the old Fifth Avenue Theater, which 
 had been leased to Mr. Daly after he had given 
 up the Grand Opera House. The door swung 
 open, and in walked a young woman with big, 
 earnest eyes of an azure tint, softly rounded 
 cheeks, a beautiful complexion, a mass of light 
 hair, and an exceedingly winning smile. 
 
 "You're Mr. Morrissey, aren't you?" she 
 said. "Well, I've heard about you, and I've 
 come to ask you to be my manager. Will you ?" 
 
 For a moment words failed me. Never be- 
 fore had an important proposal been put to me 
 in such a breezy, off-hand manner. 
 
 "Why why, I don't know, madam," I stam- 
 mered. "Pardon me, but may I ask your 
 name?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," she laughed, "I forgot to 
 tell you just like me. Why, I'm Emma Ab- 
 bott." 
 
 In her mind that seemed to settle it; but in 
 mine it did not. The truth was, I was raking 
 my brain to think who Emma Abbott was. I 
 had heard of her, but for the life of me I 
 couldn't place her. It was at the beginning of 
 her career. 
 
 "Oh, I see," I exclaimed, taking the small 
 hand which she had held out impulsively. "I'm 
 delighted to meet you, Miss Abbott ; but this of 
 
course is an important question. I'll have to 
 think it over. Could you come in again to- 
 morrow ?" 
 
 "Why, certainly I can." 
 
 We had a little further chat, and then, smil- 
 ing brightly, she bade me good-by, remarking : 
 "I'll be here in the morning, Mr. Morrissey, to 
 complete arrangements. I'm sure we can 
 agree." 
 
 I immediately consulted Mr. Daly. "I should 
 like to keep you with me," he said, "but this is 
 so fine a chance for you that I'll release you 
 from our agreement. I know of the girl; she 
 has a great future. By all means make a con- 
 tract with her if you can." 
 
 So when Miss Abbott came in the morning, 
 we drew up a preliminary agreement, and I 
 began a new epoch in our career. I was with 
 Emma Abbott for five years five years of 
 much profit and satisfaction to me, and, I think, 
 to her. 
 
 Everyone of the first days of my association 
 with her gave me a new impression of her 
 charm and the lovable qualities of her nature. 
 By degrees, in little casual conversations, she 
 unfolded to me the moving story of the strug- 
 gles of her childhood. 
 
 Even when she was so small, she told me, she 
 
 37 
 
was peculiarly susceptible to the influence of 
 music. Her father gave lessons on the piano 
 in Peoria, Illinois, where the family lived. 
 Once he journeyed to Chicago, to hear a 
 great prima donna, and when he returned told 
 Emma how the beautiful woman had stood on 
 the stage and sung, while a great crowd 
 cheered and threw bouquets to her. The little 
 girl was strangely thrilled by the description. 
 Her cheeks became flushed, and her small 
 bosom heaved. There was one thing, however, 
 that she did not understand. 
 
 "But, papa," she questioned, "was the stage 
 going? If it was I should think she would 
 have been afraid of falling off if she stood up. 
 
 "I know a little more about the stage now," 
 laughed Miss Abbott, when she related this 
 story. 
 
 The music lessons of the elder Abbott 
 brought such small returns that before she was 
 twelve little Emma felt called upon to add to 
 the family income. Her best friend in those 
 days was her guitar. She was always playing 
 it, mingling with its delicate strains the appeal- 
 ing, pathetic notes of her own voice. She 
 had appeared with her father at some country 
 concerts, and with this experience got up a 
 concert of her own in which she sang twenty 
 
 38 
 
songs and made ten dollars. She taught one 
 winter at a country school. 
 
 When she returned home she found her fam- 
 ily in desperate straits. It was necessary to do 
 something, so Emma literally took to the high- 
 way with her guitar. She sang from town to 
 town, traveling most of the time alone. Often 
 she suffered from cold and hunger. She was 
 forced to pawn her few trinkets, and on one 
 occasion her guitar. In need of food, she cut 
 off her long hair and sold it. And yet in the 
 trials of this struggle she did not lose her cour- 
 age, her high hope of the future. She was so 
 eager to learn and advance as a singer that 
 when she was about sixteen she played her 
 way from Illinois to New- York to hear Parepa- 
 Rosa, and then did not hear her, because the 
 prima donna, ill at the time, was not singing. 
 
 I asked her, when she related this story, 
 whether she dreamed, a little wayfarer in New- 
 York, of a time when people would be coming 
 from afar to hear her sing? 
 
 "Oh, I did! I did!" she cried. "It. was only 
 my dreams that kept up my courage. One 
 night in the winter of 1870 in Toledo I actually 
 thought of suicide. I was very cold. But I 
 played a little on my guitar, and something in 
 
 39 
 
it told me not to despair, but to keep on. Soon 
 afterward came my great stroke of fortune. 
 
 "I went to Detroit, and one evening asked 
 the manager of the Russell House if I might 
 sing and play in the hotel parlor, and take up 
 a collection afterward. Some managers re- 
 fused when I made similar requests, but this 
 one was very kind and gave his consent. 
 
 "The parlor was filled with people who had 
 just come from the dining-room, and were sit- 
 ting around chatting and reading. I always 
 shrank from the ordeal of interrupting people 
 in hotel parlors with my music, but my bread 
 and butter depended upon my doing it. This 
 time they listened attentively, applauded, and 
 were quite liberal with their contributions. 
 One woman, who was very handsome, looked 
 at me keenly as she dropped a coin into my 
 hand, and said in a low voice : When you get 
 through, my child, I want to speak to you/ 
 
 "I returned to her in a few minutes. 'Sit 
 down in that chair/ she commanded. 'Draw 
 it up close. And now, my dear, I want to ask 
 you why you are doing this thing ? Don't you 
 know, don't your relatives know, if you have 
 any, that you have a voice a beautiful voice ? 
 You've astonished me this evening. With 
 training you can rise far above this. I believe, 
 
 40 
 
yes I believe, my girl, that under the right in- 
 struction, you can become a great singer, a 
 prima donna/ 
 
 "I was trembling from head to foot. This 
 woman, a stranger to me, was putting into 
 words thoughts and longings which I had 
 hardly dared acknowledge even to myself. She 
 spoke very gently. 
 
 " 'You are thin and pale, my child. You are 
 having a hard, hard time, I know/ She asked 
 me questions, and I poured into her ears my 
 whole history. She became silent for several 
 minutes, and then exclaimed suddenly : 'I can't 
 let you go on like this ; you must come to New- 
 York with me. We shall find a way to have 
 that voice developed. My name is Kellogg 
 Clara Louise Kellogg. Will you come ?' 
 
 "Why my pillow was wet with tears that 
 night I won't attempt to say, because it seemed 
 that a new and glorious world had been opened 
 to me." 
 
 Within a few weeks Emma was in New- 
 York again ; but she was no longer the forlorn 
 little wanderer who had made the weary and 
 fruitless pilgrimage to the shrine of Parepa- 
 Rosa. Her best friend now was a noted singer 
 who was using her prestige and influence in 
 her behalf. Clara Louise Kellogg let slip no 
 
 41 
 
chance to advance the interests of little Emma. 
 Shortly after their arrival in the metropolis 
 the prima donna was invited to spend an even- 
 ing at the house of August Belmont. 
 
 "You come, too, Emma," she said. "You've 
 received no invitation only because they don't 
 know you. They will be glad to, I am very 
 sure. It will be all right. You must come." 
 
 They did not go to the Belmont house to- 
 gether. Emma's sponsor arrived first, to pave 
 the way, in a measure, for her young friend. 
 It was after nine when the latter reached the 
 house. Most of the distinguished company had 
 assembled. The night was wet and windy, but 
 Emma had walked. When the stately butler 
 had opened the door for her, the bottom of her 
 skirt was splashed with mud and water; her 
 umbrella was dripping; the feathers in her hat 
 were drooping. Many curious eyes were 
 turned in her direction from the crowded par- 
 lors. She presented a striking contrast to the 
 other women, beautifully attired in evening 
 gowns. Some of them laughed. Miss Kellogg 
 hurried to her, and Emma, when she saw her 
 friend, cried out in sheer relief : 
 
 "Here I am! I'm so glad to see you. I've 
 had an awful time wading through the pud- 
 dles." 
 
 42 
 
Her voice was pitched much above the even 
 tones of that assemblage. There was a sub- 
 dued titter; everybody smiled; but they were 
 not all derisive smiles. There were some who 
 saw that here was an impulsive little Western 
 girl with a naturalness and spontaneity that 
 had not been shriveled up by conventional so- 
 ciety. Emma was conscious of how different 
 she was in dress and manner from the others ; 
 but the discerning ones, who liked her at first 
 sight, spoke kindly to her. They relieved her 
 of embarrassment, just as she rescued them 
 from boredom. When she sang for them, their 
 liking grew to admiration. 
 
 Horace Greely was one of her most attentive 
 listeners, and his solemn face lighted up with 
 interest when she talked to him. She made of 
 the great editor a lifelong friend that night. 
 It was he who soon afterward did much to help 
 her obtain a position as soprano in Dr. Chapin's 
 church; and it was he who was chiefly instru- 
 mental in raising a sum of money to send her 
 abroad for the training of her voice. I learned 
 all this through Clara Louise Kellogg. She cer- 
 tainly had no reason to regret making Emma 
 Abbott her protege, nor introducing her into 
 society, even if those first moments at the Bel- 
 monts' were somewhat trying. 
 
 43 
 
But there were black days yet in store for 
 Emma. With such exhausting zeal and appli- 
 cation did she work in Europe that she woke 
 up one morning to find that her voice was gone. 
 She thought at first that it was only a tem- 
 porary disability, but weeks, months, dragged 
 on, and still she could not sing. She consulted 
 specialists, who gave her little help, but took 
 her money. At last her funds became ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 "I knew that a single letter to New- York 
 would have filled my pocket-book again," 
 Emma told me ; "but somehow the very willing- 
 ness of my friends to aid me, the very ease with 
 which I could have procured money from them, 
 caused my mind to recoil from the thought of 
 asking. The truth was I was beginning to 
 cease to care whether I had money or not, or 
 to care what became of me. My hopes were in 
 ashes. I grew afraid to look toward my future, 
 because I could see there nothing except a 
 blank curtain of dispair. With my voice gone, 
 I felt like a useless incumberer of the earth, 
 and again, as in that bitter winter in Toledo, 
 I thought of ending struggles that seemed too 
 much for me. 
 
 "But I still played my guitar a loyal little 
 friend. It would whisper to me happy recol- 
 
 44 
 
lections of other days. There seemed to be 
 gentle sympathy in its tones, and it told me, as 
 it had done before, to keep up my courage. 
 
 "One morning, when Paris was sparkling 
 in mellow sunlight, and birds in back windows 
 opposite mine were pouring out melodies, the 
 voice in the guitar seemed to rise to exultant 
 notes, and as easily and gently as a baby opens 
 its eyes from sleep I began to sing to sing, 
 mind you! and as well as ever. I laughed; 
 I cried ; I danced about the room. Winter had 
 passed; spring had come. My hopes and am- 
 bitions were again in blossom. 
 
 "So high were my spirits now that I ac- 
 cepted as a matter of course, as quite in the 
 order of things, an offer of Baroness Solomon 
 de Rothschild to lend me several thousand 
 francs. I knew I could pay her back. Once 
 more I began to practise, but not, you may be 
 sure, so intemperately as before. I knew better 
 now than to let excessive zeal wear out my 
 body and voice." 
 
 It was soon after Miss Abbott returned to 
 America that she engaged me as her manager. 
 When we opened in New- York her singing 
 and her winsome personality became the talk 
 of the town. She was busy, much absorbed in 
 her work, but she still had time to think of the 
 
 45 
 
misfortunes of others. She came to me one 
 morning in a flutter of excitement. 
 
 "I've been reading all about that murder 
 case in Jersey City," she exclaimed, "and I 
 think the woman should be set free. She's 
 been convicted, I know; but they said that if 
 she had a thousand dollars to pay the expenses 
 of an appeal she would probably get a new 
 trial and be acquitted. I've made up my mind 
 to raise the money for her." 
 
 She paused and looked at me half-defiantly. 
 
 "Go on," I said in an even voice. I was not 
 surprised. I was getting used to Emma. 
 
 "Well, I want you to help me. I'm going to 
 start a subscription list with a hundred dollars, 
 and I want you to come down town with me 
 to help me raise the rest. My carriage is wait- 
 ing. I want to go now. I simply can't have 
 any peace till this is off my mind." 
 
 "My dear Miss Abbott," I protested, "don't 
 you know how the public and newspapers will 
 regard such an act? They will say that it is 
 a mere advertising scheme. They will accuse 
 you of making use of a murder case to exploit 
 yourself. Besides, I believe it was a premedi- 
 tated murder." 
 
 "It wasn't ! It wasn't !" cried Emma. Even 
 if she did kill him, she didn't mean to. You 
 
 46 
 
can't look at it through a woman's eyes. I 
 see it all, and I am going to save her if I can. 
 As for the newspapers, what do I care what 
 they say? Do you think I'm going to let them 
 stand in my way in a case like this ? Will you 
 come with me, or shall I go alone?" 
 
 I had no relish for the business ; but in five 
 minutes, in her closed carriage, Emma and I 
 were on our way down town to beard the finan- 
 ciers. We stopped first at Judge Hilton's office. 
 Emma's presence transformed the place. As 
 she enthusiastically and with great earnestness 
 explained her mission to the Judge, she was 
 irresistible. He reached for his check-book. 
 
 "Did you say you wanted me to subscribe a 
 thousand?" he asked, with his pen in the air. 
 
 "Oh, no," laughed Emma. "I talk so rapidly 
 you haven't quite understood. It's very fine 
 of you to be willing to give a thousand dollars, 
 but I want you to subscribe only a hundred. 
 You are not the only kind-hearted man in New- 
 York, I hope." 
 
 The Judge laughed and wrote the check. 
 Emma folded it and put it in her pocket-book, 
 overflowing with thanks and gratitude. The 
 Judge followed us to the door, telling us re- 
 peatedly what pleasure our call had given him. 
 
 47 
 
I saw that it was going to be easy to procure 
 that thousand dollars. 
 
 We called on Jay Gould, J. Pierpont Morgan, 
 Eugene Kelly, John D. Townsend (who was 
 my lawyer), Charles Delmonico and others, and 
 after each visit Emma had another check 
 tucked away in her pocket-book. She was in 
 high feather. By noon we had the money and 
 returned up town for luncheon, in the course of 
 which my prima donna talked of nothing except 
 the generosity and charming qualities of those 
 men of wealth. 
 
 The thought occurred to me at the time, and 
 often since, when I think of little Emma, that 
 we get from this world what we give it. 
 
 I sent the money with the compliments of 
 Emma Abbott, to Dr. Rice, the pastor of Grace 
 Church, Jersey City, who was interesting him- 
 self in behalf of the unfortunate woman. An 
 appeal was made, a new trial ordered, and she 
 was finally released. 
 
 48 
 
EMMA ABBOTT 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 HEROES OF THE U. S. ARMY AT PLAY. 
 
 It was not Emma Abbott's fault that the 
 episode of her raising the thousand dollars for 
 the woman accused of murder became known 
 to the newspapers. She begged me to say 
 nothing about it, but it is hard for a theatrical 
 manager to keep such a good story about his 
 star from the ears of the great dailies. 
 
 Contrary to what I had told Miss Abbott 
 about the likelihood of her motives being mis- 
 understood, I decided that the public, which 
 was beginning to get an inkling of the ingen- 
 uousness of her nature, would not misinterpret 
 the act as one of self-advertising. So the talk 
 leaked out, and nearly every daily in the coun- 
 try commented upon it. Miss Abbott was, of 
 course, far above the need of anything foreign 
 to her art for arousing public interest; but it 
 is true that after this incident our box-office 
 receipts, already heavy, swelled perceptibly. 
 
 We were on tour, and were spending Sun- 
 day in Nashville, Tennessee. Emma never 
 missed an opportunity to go to church. She 
 started out this Sunday morning, her prayer- 
 book in her hand. 
 
 At about twelve o'clock. she returned to the 
 
 51 
 
hotel, flushed, tearful and bursting with indig- 
 nation. "Oh, it was outrageous!" she cried. 
 "I didn't know that there could be such a man 
 in the garb of a minister. But I gave him a 
 setting down that I think he'll remember !" 
 
 "What is it, Emma, what is it?" we de- 
 manded, burning with curiosity. 
 
 "I spoke out," she went on excitedly, "and 
 he became so confused he couldn't finish. I 
 hope he's learned a lesson !" 
 
 By degrees we got the story. It seems that 
 the preacher had thought the Sunday morning, 
 after a great audience of his fellow-towns- 
 people had been inspired by one of the sweetest 
 singers and some of the sweetest music in the 
 world, a fitting occasion to deliver a tirade 
 against the stage. 
 
 He denounced its people as possessing no 
 vestige of religion or morality. This was 
 more than Emma had been able to stand. 
 She had risen in her seat, and had cried 
 out a protest. I can well imagine her as she 
 stood there her head held high with pride, 
 and her tongue uttering in that ringing, stir- 
 ring voice of hers words that were far more 
 lofty in spirit, more honest and more eloquent 
 than any apparently at the command of this 
 preacher. 
 
 52 
 
She announced that she was Emma Abbott, 
 and declared that she and many other women 
 on the stage held themselves as high and were 
 as irreproachable as any wife in that congre- 
 gation. She said further that a man who 
 would sweepingly condemn on the merest hear- 
 say women who toiled and struggled was un- 
 worthy of the name of clergyman. 
 
 The congregation, I learned, sat in a death- 
 like silence during this astonishing outburst. 
 The preacher had vainly tried to quiet Emma 
 by stretching out his hand in a majestic 
 gesture of command. When she had resumed 
 her seat and he attempted to take up the broken 
 thread of his discourse, he stammered, stopped 
 and gave out a hymn to conceal his confusion. 
 
 This was simply one of many brave acts of 
 Emma's life ; but she was in the limelight now, 
 and the papers of the country took up the story, 
 just as they had the episode of the fund. Emma 
 did not like it at all. She always read with 
 eagerness comments on her work, but she had 
 an idea that all this talk about her personal 
 traits and actions was unfeeling and pre- 
 sumptuous. It annoyed and grieved her, but 
 I must say that I, as her manager, did not 
 grieve. These things were causing her person- 
 ality to loom large in the public eye. People 
 
 53 
 
were flocking to the theater not only to hear 
 the singer, but to see the woman, which of 
 course was a most excellent thing for business. 
 Everywhere we had to turn people away; 
 everywhere Emma had admirers. 
 
 When it was announced that we were to fill 
 an engagement in Washington, some of her 
 friends there decided to serenade her. The 
 plan was to have the Marine Band, then under 
 the leadership of John Philip Sousa, play be- 
 neath the balcony of the Arlington Hotel, 
 where we were stopping, at midnight after our 
 first performance. The project was mentioned 
 to me of course, and I mentioned it to Emma. 
 
 "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "I'm afraid it 
 will be very embarrassing for me. They cer- 
 tainly ought to be thanked for their trouble, 
 and yet I can't make a speech. I wish I could 
 think of somebody who would do it for me 
 somebody whom they all know." 
 
 Emma pondered a moment, tapping her little 
 foot on the carpet. Suddenly her face light- 
 ened. "I wonder if General Sherman wouldn't 
 do it." 
 
 I gazed at my star a moment in mute admir- 
 ation, and then burst out: "Miss Abbott, in 
 the art of publicity you're a genius a positive 
 
 54 
 
genius. Do you know what a speech of thanks 
 from General William T. Sherman would do 
 for us? Why, it would give us big head-lines 
 in a thousand newspapers. The General is the 
 head of the army. The affair would become a 
 national event." 
 
 "Don't ask him then, please don't, Mr. 
 Morrissey !" she implored me. "I wouldn't for 
 the world have him think that I was making 
 such a use of his friendship for me." 
 
 I at once realized my mistake in mentioning 
 the advertising feature of her suggestion. I 
 reasoned with her, laying much emphasis upon 
 the fact that into her mind at least the thought 
 of making capital of the General had never 
 entered. 
 
 "No, no, you can't stop me now!" I ex- 
 claimed at last. "My enthusiasm is aroused. 
 I'm going to ask him at once." 
 
 With this I rushed away, giving her no time 
 for further protests. 
 
 "So Emma Abbott wants me to respond to 
 the serenaders for her," laughed the General, 
 when I had laid the plan before him. He mused 
 for a moment, his strong features softened in 
 a kindly smile. 
 
 "Well, you tell her," he exclaimed, swinging 
 around in his chair, "that I am hers to com- 
 
 55 
 
mand always. Tell her that I shall be de- 
 lighted. Between you and me, Mr. Morrissey, 
 I think the world of honest little Emma." 
 
 It was a busy day for me. I hurried to the 
 offices of some other army officers whom I 
 knew, and to some of the legations, with in- 
 vitations to the dignitaries and their wives or 
 sweethearts to be present at the opera, on the 
 balcony of the hotel, and at a little supper after- 
 ward. When I mentioned the name of General 
 Sherman hesitation disappeared. All, except 
 one or two who had important engagements 
 for that night, accepted with alacrity. 
 
 Most of them, including General Sherman, 
 came in uniform. I surveyed them with great 
 satisfaction as they gathered in the boxes. 
 They were a gorgeous spectacle. Afterward, 
 in one of the hotel parlors which had been set 
 aside for this purpose, Emma received them. 
 She was sparkling with animation; she radi- 
 ated magnetism. There were some handsome 
 women in that company, but Emma, not beau- 
 tiful in the conventional sense, outshone them 
 all. "A star, indeed !" I commented to myself. 
 
 Suddenly from the street in front, where 
 policemen were shouting orders and there was 
 the continual murmur and movement of a great 
 crowd, came strains of sonorous music. 
 
 56 
 
"It's the serenade!" cried Emma. Instantly 
 we all ceased talking. Sousa was playing a 
 popular air from "Martha." After a moment 
 of listening Emma gaily thrilled a few notes, 
 moving her head in time with the music. "Oh, 
 that such honor should be thrust upon me!" 
 she suddenly exclaimed laughingly. 
 
 We all began to chatter again. When the 
 band was nearing the end of the selection Gen- 
 eral Sherman drew himself up to his full 
 military height, assumed a look and tone of 
 stern command and called out : 
 
 "Attention, company! Fall in line! For- 
 ward march to the front !" At the same time 
 he extended his arm to Emma, bending over, 
 because he was so tall and she so small, and 
 saying: "I stoop to conquer." Amid a great 
 deal of laughter we filed out on the balcony. 
 
 This serenade had been well heralded. Al- 
 most as far as the eye could reach on either 
 side the street was massed with people. We 
 were looking down upon twenty thousand up- 
 turned faces. Emma, accustomed as she was 
 to crowds, shrank closer to the General. She 
 looked a fragile little thing beside his tall form, 
 and her evening gown contrasted oddly but 
 most effectively with his resplendent uniform. 
 
 "Art and military glory receiving the hom- 
 
 57 
 
age of the multitude/' whispered a quick- 
 witted young officer. 
 
 As they advanced to the rail of the balcony 
 a mighty shout arose. At first it completely 
 drowned the music of the band, and then for 
 five minutes the musicians, who were playing 
 madly, evidently determined that their efforts 
 should be heard, sent forth notes that were 
 tossed and tumbled and smothered in that wild 
 sea of cheering. It was pandemonium, but it 
 stirred the blood. Emma's face was glowing 
 and her bosom heaving. At last General Sher- 
 man stretched forth his arm, and almost in- 
 stantly there was silence. 
 
 "Members of the band and ladies and gentle- 
 men," he called out in a voice that carried far, 
 "in behalf of Miss Emma Abbott I thank you 
 most heartily for this great demonstration." 
 
 That was all, but it was enough to start anew 
 the tumultuous cheering. The musicians, how- 
 ever, were not to be denied. They played until 
 the shouting thousands had become silent 
 listeners, and there was no sound except the 
 music swelling triumphantly on the night air. 
 
 Emma no longer shrank by the General's 
 side. She stood forth alone, radiant. She 
 leaned slightly over the balcony. A scarcely 
 perceptible but general motion went through 
 
 58 
 
the crowd they were moving up. Intuitively 
 I understood. Emma meant to sing. In an in- 
 stant I was at her side. 
 
 "No, no, Emma, you must not. Your voice 
 can't stand it. If you do there'll be no opera 
 to-eiorrow night." 
 
 She turned to me quickly with a defiant look. 
 
 "You must not do it, Emma!" I repeated. 
 She slightly shrugged her shoulders, and turn- 
 ing to the crowd again, shook her head and 
 once more glanced reproachfully at me. I 
 smiled and slightly bowed to acknowledge the 
 responsibility of the refusal; then took her 
 gently by the arm and drew her light wrap 
 more closely around her to indicate that our 
 prima donna had been long enough in the 
 night air. 
 
 The crowd burst into another cheer, in the 
 midst of which Emma backed off the balcony, 
 smiling and bowing and throwing kisses every- 
 where. We then sat down to a merry supper. ' 
 
 Never before in the history of the National 
 Theater had such crowds flocked there as dur- 
 ing the two weeks of our engagement. The 
 serenade made much money for us, but it was 
 never of the money that Emma thought when 
 she recalled it. Often afterward she spoke of 
 it to me. 
 
 59 
 
"It was a wonderful night, wasn't it, Mr. 
 Morrissey?" she would say, "and just think, it 
 was not so very long ago that I sang in the 
 street for pennies." 
 
 During the same season we came into a 
 pleasant and amusing contact with another 
 military hero. In the lobby of the Palmer 
 House in Chicago one night just after the opera 
 I happened to encounter General "Phil" Sheri- 
 dan. I knew him well, so I held out my hand, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "Why, General, where are you going in such 
 a hurry?" 
 
 "Well, it's true that I'm in something of a 
 hurry, Morrissey," he answered. "You see, my 
 wife is up-stairs waiting for me. She thinks 
 I've been keeping rather late hours recently 
 and that it's high time I was in bed." 
 
 "You don't look sleepy, General," I laughed, 
 "I wish you could join us. Miss Abbott is here 
 giving a little supper to a few friends. I should 
 like very much to have you meet her." 
 
 The General cast a glance toward the 
 elevator. "How how soon could I get away, 
 Morrissey?" he inquired earnestly. 
 
 "As soon as you like," I replied. 
 
 At about two o'clock in the morning, just 
 
 60 
 
when the General was in the midst of one of his 
 best stories, and our guests, bursting with 
 laughter, were hanging on his words, a waiter 
 touched me on the shoulder and handed me a 
 visiting card. On it I read: "Mrs; Philip 
 Sheridan." 
 
 "A little question of business I'll be back in 
 a minute," I exclaimed as cheerfully as possible, 
 as I hastily rose. I smoothed down my vest 
 and braced myself as I passed through the door. 
 Mrs. Sheridan was waiting for me. I usually 
 talk fast, but I think I outdid myself on that 
 occasion. 
 
 "I took the General in for only a moment, 
 Mrs. Sheridan. He said he couldn't possibly 
 stay for more than a moment, but once there 
 they simply wouldn't let him get away. He 
 tried hard enough, I assure you. Miss Abbott 
 and the others are delighted with him. Can't 
 you let him stay for just an hour longer ?" 
 
 Mrs. Sheridan reluctantly gave her consent. 
 I forgot to mention it to the General, and am 
 afraid that it was not far from the time when 
 Romeo would have said: "Night's candles 
 are burnt out," when the General went up- 
 stairs to bed. 
 
 In my chronicles of Emma Abbott it would 
 never do to omit a delicate subject which 
 
 61 
 
aroused wide-spread curiosity and contro- 
 versy : namely, the Abbott kiss. 
 
 At the climax of the third act of the opera, 
 "Paul and Virginia/' Virginia flies to Paul's 
 arms, it will be remembered, and kisses him 
 with great fervor. This episode is absolutely 
 necessary to the effectiveness of the scene. 
 There is nothing vulgar about it. What is 
 more natural than that two young people who 
 are fond of each other should, after a clearing 
 away of the clouds of misunderstanding, cele- 
 brate the return of sunshine of love with a 
 fervent kiss. 
 
 We first put the opera on in Louisville, and 
 when the kiss came the good people of the Ken- 
 tucky city held their breath. In the interval 
 between the third and fourth acts I had many 
 comments on it numerous expressions of 
 astonishment that Emma Abbott, of all per- 
 sons, should do such a thing. 
 
 In "The Courier Journal" the next morning, 
 lo and behold! there was a long editorial, 
 penned by Col. Watterson himself, as I after- 
 ward learned, on that kiss. Was it right? 
 Was it proper ? What was Emma Abbott, who 
 stood for the best on the stage, thinking of? 
 Other newspapers, some gravely and some 
 facetiously, took up the problem of the kiss. 
 
It was all well enough to defend the scene in the 
 name of art, the solemn ones contended; but 
 what possessed Emma Abbott to stretch her 
 art so far? 
 
 She herself, dismayed and surprised at all 
 this talk, wanted to leave out the kiss, but I 
 took a stand against any such concession to the 
 over-responsive sensibility of the public. 
 
 "You know it's all right, and we know it's 
 all right," I said. "Evil to them who evil 
 think. Let them argue it out among them- 
 selves." 
 
 Emma's husband, who happened to be with 
 the company at the time, indorsed my views, so 
 the scene was kept as it was. Just before the 
 climax of the third act there would be a flutter 
 of anticipation in the house a leaning for- 
 ward, an added intensity of attention, while 
 from almost every seat opera-glasses would be 
 leveled at the lovers. 
 
 It must be confessed that it seemed like a 
 real kiss, even under the closest scrutiny with 
 the glasses. Nearly everybody thought it was, 
 and I never took the trouble to disabuse them 
 of this idea. Never until now have I explained 
 the true inwardness of that osculation. 
 
 The truth is that it was the merest imitation 
 of a kiss. We arranged all that at the rehear- 
 
 63 
 
sals. None of us thought of expecting Emma 
 Abbott to really kiss the tenor. We were in 
 something of a quandary as to how to get the 
 most out of the scene, until we noticed the 
 dimple on his chin. Emma simply pressed her 
 lips on the dimple. This was all there was to 
 the famous Abbott kiss. 
 
 64 
 
SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DIPLOMACY AND ART AT A BANQUET. 
 
 The pastor of St. Cecelia's Church, located 
 in Harlem, New- York, came down to my office 
 at the Broadway Theater, now Daly's, one 
 morning in an uneasy frame of mind. 
 
 "Morrissey," he explained, "mine, you know, 
 is a young parish. We have had building and 
 furnishing expenses to meet, and my people, 
 who are mostly quite poor, have responded so 
 liberally that I now shrink from asking them 
 for another cent. Yet I must have at once two 
 thousand dollars. The firm from which we 
 bought our organ wrote me a polite letter 
 yesterday to the effect that unless we immedi- 
 ately made a substantial payment they would 
 be compelled to remove the instrument. We 
 couldn't possibly get along without our music. 
 Now, I didn't come in this morning to ask you 
 for money, but for your kind offices in our be- 
 half. It has occured to me that there must be 
 musicians who would be willing to rally to the 
 support of music, so to speak. Could not you 
 get us up a concert to save the organ ? 
 
 A concert! Without any machinery at my 
 command for the turning out of concerts, and 
 
 67 
 
with the participants expected to appear gratui- 
 tously, I well knew the mental wear and tear 
 that the management of a concert would in- 
 volve. As business manager for J. C. Duff I 
 already had numerous perplexities on my mind. 
 Yet the father's request was reasonable 
 enough. It was fitting, as he had said, that 
 singers, who have so often been carried to vocal 
 triumphs on the swelling tide of organ music, 
 should come to the rescue of an organ in dis- 
 tress. I felt that I should have to undertake 
 this concert, but was hesitating before com- 
 mitting myself to the labor of it when I had an 
 inspiration. 
 
 "I have thought of a better plan than yours," 
 I suddenly exclaimed. "General Benjamin F. 
 Butler gave in Boston the other day a lecture 
 on The Irish Soldier in America/ and it was a 
 big success. He's here in town, at the Fifth 
 Avenue Hotel. We'll go right down there and 
 call on him. Come along. We must catch him 
 before he goes out and escapes us for the day." 
 
 Fifteen minutes later the bell-boy who had 
 taken our cards informed us that we were to 
 "go right up." 
 
 "Come in !" shouted a deep voice on the other 
 side of the door. 
 
 "Ben" Butler, then Governor of Massa- 
 
 68 
 
chusetts, rose lumberingly from his chair and 
 said with a questioning stare on his heavy face 
 that he was glad to see us. His expression 
 rather belied his words; but I enthusiastically 
 explained our mission, painting a touching 
 picture of a church without music and an organ 
 threatened with the humiliation of being carted 
 back to a warehouse. Gazing thoughtfully into 
 the smoke of his cigar, General Butler gave 
 close attention to our plea. 
 
 "Well," he finally remarked, "my engage- 
 ments are such that I am afraid I can't give the 
 lecture in New- York. I am very sorry. I 
 should like to help you, but I cannot neglect my 
 official duties." 
 
 "But it would be an act of philanthropy, 
 General/' 1 I exclaimed, "and, moreover, it 
 would win you the stanch friendship of the 
 Catholic Church. We'll make a great affair of 
 it," I continued rapidly. "I'll rent the Academy 
 of Music, invite all the leading military men of 
 the city and get some good friend of yours 
 to deliver, by way of introduction, a fitting 
 eulogy on your character and achievements." 
 
 "I am afraid that if he was a man with a 
 conscience he would hesitate about the 
 eulogy," remarked the General with a twinkle 
 in his eyes, "but who occurs to you as being 
 
 69 
 
capable of doing justice to such an inspiring 
 theme?" 
 
 Again I was at a loss for a reply. One or 
 two names came to my mind, but they hap- 
 pened to be those of enemies of Butler. I was 
 hesitating, when Father Flattery interposed 
 a word. 
 
 "If I may make a suggestion," said he, "I 
 will say that I think Charles A. Dana would 
 be an excellent man." 
 
 "What?" cried the General, suddenly swing- 
 ing his big body toward the priest. "You sug- 
 gest Dana? I see, sir, that you have a large 
 sense of humor. Well it is a good joke!" 
 
 With this the General leaned back in his 
 chair and shook with laughter. "Oh, Dana 
 would be an excellent man to pronounce a 
 eulogy of me!" he exclaimed when he had 
 partly recovered himself, "an excellent man! 
 In his own peculiar way he would do me ample 
 justice. He's done it before, more than once." 
 
 I was red with mortification; but the good 
 father of course had no idea that the great 
 editor was Butler's most relentless and caustic 
 critic. 
 
 "Now, gentlemen," said the General, "I am 
 sorry to have to terminate this pleasant talk, 
 but I have an appointment down town which 
 
 70 
 
must be kept. As to the lecture, I will say this : 
 You may count on me to deliver it, whenever 
 and wherever you say, if you can assure me 
 that the speech of introduction will be delivered 
 by my great and good friend, Charles A. Dana. 
 Come back and tell me what he says/' he added 
 as a parting shot as we were bowing our- 
 selves out. 
 
 "It's a forlorn hope, father," I remarked as 
 we were leaving the hotel, "but as Dana prides 
 himself upon his ability to get new light on the 
 affairs of life every day, and upon the fact that 
 he never lets his opinions of the past interfere 
 with his course of action in the present, we 
 shall run down to The Sun' office and have a 
 little talk with him." 
 
 A previous acquaintance with Dana on my 
 part gave us easy access to the inner sanctum. 
 I plunged at once into the subject at hand, and 
 Dana, glancing at his letters while I talked, let 
 me have my say without interruption. When 
 I had finished he turned his head slowly and 
 gazed at me fixedly, his forehead wrinkled with 
 amusement, for at least half a minute without 
 saying a word. 
 
 "Don't you think, Mr. Morrissey," he said at 
 last, "that is somewhat daring for you to come 
 to me with a proposal like this ?" 
 
 71 
 
"Perhaps so," I answered quickly; "but the 
 cause is one for which I would dare much/' 
 
 "You don't think 'Ben' Butler really ima- 
 gines that I would speak a good word for him, 
 do you?" 
 
 "If you did," I replied, "I can assure you that 
 he would be the most gratified man in the Unit- 
 ed States." 
 
 "But you must know that it has never been 
 exactly my aim in life to gratify Ben Butler." 
 replied Dana. 
 
 "I know that well," I said, "but it is never 
 too late to acquire a new aim, is it? General 
 Butler would be glad to cooperate with you in 
 the interest of harmony the harmony, in a 
 church, of a fine organ, and, I might add, the 
 harmony in life of two distinguished citizens." 
 
 Mr. Dana smiled broadly. "That's not a bad 
 idea of yours, Mr. Morrissey: humaii har- 
 mony for the sake of musical harmony. To tell 
 you the truth, the humor of my pronouncing 
 any sort of eulogy on Ben Butler rather ap- 
 peals to me. It wouldn't be consistent, no; 
 but I don't take much stock in consistency. I 
 believe with my old friend Emerson, that it is 
 the hobgoblin of little minds. This thing would 
 surprise some of the good people of the town, 
 but I don't mind making them sit up once in 
 
 73 
 

 MAJOR-GENERAL BENJAMIN F. BUTLER 
 
 CHARLES A. DANA 
 
awhile. In short, I am inclined to view your 
 proposition favorably; but you tell Ben Butler 
 that if he lets me introduce him he must take 
 the consequences." 
 
 After this interesting and most satisfactory 
 interview I hurried to several newspaper offices 
 where I had friends, and imparted the informa- 
 tion that Dana, who had hurled so many shafts 
 at Butler, was about to pour balm on the lat- 
 ter's wounds. From the manner in which this 
 news was received I knew that we should have 
 heavy head-lines in the next morning's papers. 
 Late that afternoon we again saw General 
 Butler. 
 
 "What? Dana willing to introduce me?" he 
 exclaimed in a tone that was almost a shout. 
 "I can't believe it. If it's so, it's a miracle. 
 But I am game. Let me know the date a few 
 days ahead and you can depend upon my be- 
 ing on hand." 
 
 The next day, after the papers had exploited 
 the coming lecture for the benefit of the church 
 in a manner which would have delighted the 
 heart of a press-agent, I engaged the Academy 
 of Music. Then I visited all the armories in 
 town, and left invitations for every colonel, 
 major, captain and lieutenant to be present in 
 uniform on the stage to hear the great lecture 
 
 73 
 
on the Irish soldier in America by General 
 Butler. 
 
 My next care was to arrange for a band of 
 musicians, and to give orders for the building 
 on the Academy stage of a great tier of seats, 
 which, when occupied by the military men in 
 their martial attire, would present an impres- 
 sive setting for the distinguished speakers of 
 the evening. 
 
 When the night came, not only these seats, 
 but also everyone in the house was occupied. 
 The officers in their resplendent uniforms, 
 forming a great semi-circle that reached away 
 up to the rear flies, presented the most gorge- 
 ous stage picture I ever have seen. I confess 
 that I was proud of my work. In the green- 
 room, amid the inspiring tones of the music 
 that came to us from the stage, I greeted Mr. 
 Dana. 
 
 "What's this youVe got me into, Mor- 
 rissey?" he cried. "I had no idea that the 
 affair was to be so elaborate and and ap- 
 palling. Why, man, I'm nearly overwhelmed ! 
 I suppose you and Butler arranged to have me 
 flanked on every side by military so that he 
 would be protected against my vicious attacks. 
 They say that all's fair in love and war, Mor- 
 
 74 
 
rissey; but this is too much a single civilian 
 against an army." 
 
 I laughed and hurried away, leaving Dana 
 to buckle on his armor. Despite his protests 
 that he was frightened, he was self-possessed 
 enough when a few minutes later he appeared 
 on the stage, amid an explosion of applause. 
 A few seconds afterward, from the other side, 
 General Butler made his entrance, a soldierly 
 and impressive figure in the regalia of a 
 major-general. Again the great audience 
 roared out a mighty greeting. 
 
 But when Dana advanced to the front of 
 the stage the tumult of sounds almost in- 
 stantly died away, and in a silence that was 
 strange in contrast the celebrated editor began 
 to speak. There was hardly a person present 
 who was not well aware of the long warfare 
 he had waged against Butler, and all leaned 
 forward eagerly to catch every word he was 
 saying about the traditional victim of his pen, 
 who was sitting within three feet of him. 
 
 I shall not attempt to chronicle Dana's 
 speech; no one could do this from memory 
 without failing utterly to do it justice. I shall 
 only say that it was overflowing with tact and 
 cleverness, and that at its close, when Dana 
 said : "And now, ladies and gentlemen, I have 
 
 75 
 
the honor to introduce to you one of Ameri- 
 ca's foremost soldiers," there was a burst of 
 applause that shook the building. 
 
 Butler's voice was husky when he began to 
 speak. It was not nervousness, but an emotion 
 that arose from a far deeper source. The 
 kind and gracious words from apparently the 
 most relentless of his enemies unmasked him. 
 
 But as a vent for it he threw his feeling into 
 his address. He spoke of the Irish soldier as 
 if he loved him. He surpassed himself in elo- 
 quence, and the audience, ardently Irish in its 
 sympathies, was carried away by his emotion 
 and his oratory, There were deafening 
 cheers, that did not subside in long moments. 
 Never before had the Academy of Music 
 known such a night. 
 
 When the address was finished, and the en- 
 thusiastic band was making the air quiver and 
 dance with the refrains of old Erin, and the 
 military men were pressing closely around the 
 General to shake his hand, I was clutched by 
 the arm by Charles Delmonico. 
 
 "Morrissey," he cried, "it's been great, 
 great! .I'm not an Irishman, like you, but to- 
 night I wish I was, and for my deficiency I 
 want to make amends. I want you to get to- 
 gether a party of about twenty-five, including 
 
 76 
 
Butler and Dana of course, and bring them 
 over to my place for supper." 
 
 We had Delmonico's best supper-room, and 
 the best of his food and wines in unlimited 
 quanities. Besides our guests of honor, the 
 colonels and majors were all there. Toasts 
 were drunk to General Butler, to Mr. Dana, to 
 both together, to the Irish soldier, to St. 
 Cecelia's Church. The former foes again 
 made speeches and pledged each other, and be- 
 tween them the hatchet was buried forever. 
 
 The thought of this affair, of the gathering 
 of the warriors beneath the outspreading 
 wings of the Angel of Peace, reminds me of 
 another event which glistened with martial 
 trappings. 
 
 As manager for Joseph Brooks, I accom- 
 panied him to London to induce that fine actor, 
 Charles Wyndham, now Sir Charles, to pre- 
 sent his repertory of plays in the United 
 States. He accepted our proposal; but re- 
 marked: "I want you to promise that in 
 Chicago you arrange a military reception for 
 
 me." 
 
 Toward the close of the New- York engage- 
 ment of the company Wyndham again brought 
 up the subject. "By the way," he said, "has 
 
 77 
 
anything been done about that military recep- 
 tion in Chicago? It's part of our agreement, 
 you know, and I insist upon it. I don't want 
 to seem ungracious; but unless it is given, I 
 fear I shall not be able to resume, after this 
 one tour, the pleasant relationship which now 
 exists between us/ 5 
 
 In explanation, Wyndham gave us a bit of 
 his past history that was news. It seems that 
 in his early days he lived in Chicago and was 
 a doctor. When the Civil War broke out he 
 enlisted as a surgeon, and rose to the rank of 
 major. From the manner in which he im- 
 parted this information we could see that he 
 was prouder of his work as an army doctor 
 than of all his laurels as an actor. This was 
 why he had set his heart upon being greeted 
 in Chicago with the flare of trumpets and the 
 roll of drums. 
 
 The colonels of a number of Chicago regi- 
 ments listened to my proposal coldly, and as- 
 sured me that their soldiers could not be 
 utilized to swell box-office receipts. This was 
 discouraging, but I had lost none of my fervor 
 when I dropped into an armory one evening 
 where there was a regimental drill in progress. 
 It was something of a gala occasion, I learned 
 
 78 
 
afterward, because the men for the first time 
 had on gorgeous new uniforms. 
 
 The Colonel was not personally directing 
 the maneuvers. In a gallery surrounded by a 
 party of women, he was looking on, and there 
 I was invited to join him. 
 
 "Magnificent! Perfect!" I exclaimed. "We 
 have some fine regiments in New- York, but I 
 don't remember to have ever seen marching to 
 equal this." 
 
 I was sincere enough in my compliments, 
 and as the Colonel was perceptibly warming 
 up, I poured them out generously. "And the 
 beautiful new uniforms !" I added. "The regi- 
 ment won't have an opportunity to parade in 
 them until next Decoration Day, I suppose. 
 What a pity that the people of the city can't 
 see the regiment in them while they're fresh !" 
 I perceived that the Colonel was inclined to 
 agree with me, and so I seized the opportunity 
 to tell him what was on my mind. 
 
 "Are you certain that Mr. Wyndham was a 
 major ?" he inquired. 
 
 "Absolutely," I responded. The women had 
 caught the drift of our conversation, and rallied 
 enthusiastically to my support. They thought 
 that it would be charming for the regiment to 
 turn out to do honor to the handsome English- 
 
 79 
 
man who had served the country in a time of 
 war, and all of them said that there could be 
 no time better than this when the soldiers 
 would be able to wear their lovely new uni- 
 forms. The upshot of the talk was that the 
 Colonel agreed to the military reception. 
 
 Wyndham's company was due in Chicago 
 the following Sunday, and for that morning 
 we arranged the demonstration. It was an 
 excellent time for the regiment, because the 
 daily occupations of the men would not be in- 
 terfered with, and it was an excellent time for 
 us, because all Chicago would be at leisure to 
 observe the honor given to a military hero. 
 
 The train bringing the company was due in 
 Chicago early in the morning. It would be 
 undignified, of course, for our hero to wait 
 about the station or elsewhere for a convenient 
 time for the people of the city to see him being 
 received, so I arranged to have the special car 
 in which the company traveled switched off at 
 Grand Crossing, just east of Chicago, and 
 brought in by a train that would arrive at a 
 most opportune time a little after twelve, 
 just when the streets would be filled with 
 people coming out of church. 
 
 Meanwhile I had persuaded the Mayor, the 
 so 
 
late Carter Harrison to give the occasion the 
 official stamp of his presence. 
 
 The train fortunately was on time. With 
 the regiment, in the new uniforms, lined up, 
 the band playing, and the crowd cheering, Mr. 
 Wyndham, always a man of impressive ap- 
 pearance, made his entrance, so to speak, on 
 the rear platform of the car, and bowed 
 gravely, like Napoleon. 
 
 After a moment of this he was escorted to 
 the first carriage, in which sat the Mayor, a 
 judge, and "Dick" Hooley the theatrical man- 
 ager. In several carriages immediately fol- 
 lowing were leading members of the municipal 
 government, and then came the men and 
 women of Wyndham's company. 
 
 The band and the regiment led the way 
 through State-st. and Wabash and Michigan- 
 aves. Sonorous music, attuned to the Sabbath 
 calm, filled the air. We moved slowly, almost 
 solemnly, while the good people coming from 
 church stopped and gazed with great interest. 
 It was a stately pageant. At the hotel we gave 
 our guests an elaborate luncheon, and, I might 
 add as a detail, we played for four weeks to 
 record-breaking houses at Hooley's Theater. 
 
 81 
 
PAULINE L'ALLEMAND 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN ARTISTE IN DISTRESS. 
 
 The prima donna! You see in your mind's 
 eye a glow of lights, beautiful women in 
 dazzling gowns, charming scenery, and as 
 queen of all a vision of radiant femininity 
 pouring forth songs that thrill. The prima 
 donna, rising triumphant on a wave of music, 
 seems to be humanity's final expression of 
 loveliness and fascination, and she is. 
 
 But the operatic manager sees his prima 
 donna not alone behind the footlights in the 
 brilliant moments of her reign; he sees her in 
 the comparative dullness of his business office 
 during the day, in the gloom of the theater at 
 rehearsal time. She is still an angel far be it 
 from me to say otherwise but she also is 
 much of a woman. For instance, she is not 
 exactly a stranger to caprice ; she has mysteri- 
 ous impulses. The wise impresario does not 
 attempt to fathom these. He accepts them, 
 smilingly if possible, as part of the day's work. 
 Perhaps he ages before his time, but what of 
 that? Under what better auspices could he 
 grow gray than as prime minister to a queen 
 of song? 
 
 85 
 
The American Opera Company had finished 
 a brilliant engagement in New- York. Theo- 
 dore Thomas had conducted, Emma Juch, now 
 Mrs. Francis Wellman, and Jessie Bartlett 
 Davis, then just beginning to attract attention, 
 had sung leading roles. The company had 
 been in all respects a strong one, but the mem- 
 ber of it who most attracted me was Pauline 
 L'Allemand. She had scored a great success 
 in the role of Lakme, which she created in this 
 country, and had won high praise from the 
 public and the critics. 
 
 On the strength of all this I engaged her as 
 my prima donna for a spring season at the 
 Grand Opera House. We made great prepara- 
 tions for the opening, and I may say incident- 
 ally that I staked the larger part of my re- 
 sources on the venture. On the first night 
 everything w'ent swimmingly. At several per- 
 formances we repeated our success. The critics 
 were kind, and opera-lovers were flocking to 
 our doors. 
 
 I was in high feather. I foresaw a trium- 
 phant season, but to maintain the public in- 
 terest I decided on a frequent change of opera. 
 With considerable blowing of trumpets I an- 
 nounced "Faust/' with L'Allemand, of course, 
 in the part of Marguerite. A good deal was 
 
 86 
 
said about it in the newspapers, and my patrons 
 were looking forward to it. The advance sale 
 of seats was unusually large. It was the after- 
 noon of the day set for the opening, just after 
 an exhausting dress rehearsal, and within half 
 a dozen hours of the raising of the curtain 
 that Pauline, who, I had noticed, had re- 
 hearsed rather perfunctorily, informed me that 
 she wished to see me in private for a moment. 
 We went to my office. 
 
 "I can't do it! I can't do it!" she burst out 
 when I had closed the door. "In the first place, 
 there's that woman whom you have selected 
 for the role of Sibel. She's a soprano. Who- 
 ever heard of Sibel being sung by a soprano? 
 You know she should be a contralto." 
 
 "I know the role is usually sung by a con- 
 tralto, but Gounod wrote it, you know, for a 
 soprano," I replied, glancing at some letters on 
 my desk, so as not to seem to take too seriously 
 this little flurry. 
 
 "No, I don't know !" exclaimed Pauline in a 
 rising voice. "But I do know that I don't like 
 her. She gets on my nerves ; I won't sing with 
 her. She's the last straw. I won't sing any- 
 way ! I feel that I am on the verge of physical 
 collapse I may as well tell you the truth, Mr. 
 Morrissey. I wouldn't face that audience to- 
 
 87 
 
night for a thousand dollars extra, and I don't 
 intend to face any other till next fall! This 
 afternoon I've made up my mind to terminate 
 this engagement here and now. I'm sincerely 
 sorry to disappoint you, but as for the public, 
 what do I care for it? Must I ruin my health 
 and voice to give these people, who applaud 
 me at night and forget me in the morning, a 
 few pleasant evenings ? I've been working far 
 too hard this winter, and can stand no more of 
 this spring engagement. I am going to take 
 the first steamer for Europe and rest, rest. 
 Ye Gods, I must have rest !" 
 
 I saw that my prima donna was more than 
 half hysterical, and at the same time I saw my 
 little air-castle of a successful season tumbling 
 about my head, and crushing me, financially, 
 in the ruins. Every tick of the clock, more- 
 over, was bringing closer the night's perform- 
 ance, and I had absolutely no one except 
 L'Allemand for the role of Marguerite. You 
 can imagine my state of mind. But I had at- 
 tained sufficient wisdom to know that to suc- 
 cessfully deal with a woman, and particularly 
 a woman of an excitable temperament, you 
 must, above all, control your own feelings; so 
 I said in as calm a manner as I could muster : 
 
 "Please don't become excited, Pauline." I 
 
 88 
 
had to pause here to master my own excite- 
 ment, and to collect my thoughts for the task 
 of changing her determination. After a 
 moment of silence, in which she sat with her 
 head back in the chair and her eyes half shut, 
 I went on soothingly : 
 
 "I know you are very tired ; I know as well 
 as you do that you need rest. The truth is, I 
 am worn out myself. Don't let's say another 
 word about this matter just at present. We'll 
 do something better. I haven't had a bite to 
 eat since morning. Have you ? I thought not. 
 Well, I shall call a cab, and we shall go over 
 to Delmonico's and have a nice, quiet little 
 dinner. Mrs. Morrissey will join us. 
 
 The prima donna gazed at me out of weary 
 eyes and made no reply. 
 
 "What do you say? Is it a go?" I said this 
 in a tone calculated to be bright and persuasive. 
 
 "As you please," she answered. 
 
 I hastily sent for a carriage, and called Mrs. 
 Morrissey, who had come down to the theater 
 for the dress rehearsal. On the way over to the 
 hotel L'Allemand sank back among the cush- 
 ions and closed her eyes. 
 
 "Not for a year's salary would I face that 
 audience," she murmured. My wife took her 
 hand, and our tired singer said little more until 
 
 89 
 
we were ensconced in a cosy, little, private 
 dining-room beside an open window, through 
 which came playful little breezes that gently 
 fluttered the table-cloth and set the flowers 
 nodding. I remember well that these were 
 fragrant breezes, laden with the aroma and 
 the warmth of spring. They seemed to clear 
 from the brow cobwebs of care, to bear mis- 
 sives of new hope, to arouse the imagination. 
 We breathed deeply of them. 
 
 The freshness and sunshine was in delight- 
 ful contrast to the darkened theater and our 
 day of toil. I could see that Pauline's eyes al- 
 ready were growing brighter. After a few 
 mouthfuls of the food, which I had ordered 
 with great care, desiring it to be stimulating 
 and not satiating, and after a few sips of 
 champagne, she actually began to smile, to 
 show a touch of her usual vivacity. 
 
 "This is charming," she suddenly exclaimed, 
 "and such a relief ! I love the spring and 
 flowers." 
 
 "And so do we," I replied with fervor, 
 speaking for Mrs. Morrissey and myself. Our 
 guest indeed had struck a responsive note, 
 since we both were flower-lovers, and knew 
 something of them. I told of some rare ones 
 I had seen, and described a certain little gar- 
 go 
 
den in the country. It was with this kind of 
 talk, with never a reference to theatrical en- 
 gagements or the breaking of them, that we 
 passed away an hour. 
 
 "And now, Pauline," I finally remarked, 
 "you must lie down and sleep for a little while. 
 I have already engaged a room on this floor. 
 Mrs. Morrissey will be with you." 
 
 She was nothing loath, and I left the two 
 together. I could trust my. wife to continue 
 the good work. Yet I still was anxious, realiz- 
 ing the force of the great truth that you never 
 can tell about a woman. I went over to the 
 theater, but found it impossible to concentrate 
 my mind on business. I returned to the hotel, 
 tried to read a newspaper in the rotunda, and 
 at last, after about an hour and a half, knocked 
 with a nervous feeling upon the door behind 
 which my hopes and fears were centered. I 
 heard a laugh within. My spirits soared. 
 They were laughing at me, I knew; but under 
 the circumstances I could stand it. 
 
 "How do you feel, Pauline?" I asked. 
 
 "A world better, thank you," she answered, 
 gazing at me with a smile. 
 
 I saw that L'Allemand, like Richard, was 
 herself again. "And you will sing to-night, of 
 course?" 
 
 91 
 
She paused, still holding me in that lumin- 
 ous gaze and smile of hers. "Yes," she at 
 length responded, in an incisive little way that 
 was music to my ears. "But," she added, "you 
 must not imagine for a moment that it was 
 you who induced me to change my mind. You 
 must not congratulate yourself on the clever 
 little ruse of the dinner; but upon your luck 
 in having Mrs. Morrissey for a wife. She did 
 it. You should burn a little incense on her 
 altar, or much better yet, let her select a little 
 token of your appreciation down at Tiffany's. 
 Come to think of it, I think I shall make you 
 promise before I consent to sing." 
 
 She made me promise without the slightest 
 difficulty, because with L'Allemand in gay 
 mood I knew that the storm of the afternoon 
 had disappeared, and that she would be in her 
 best form that night, which meant a great suc- 
 cess. It was, and Pauline said no more to me 
 about breaking down, or of a sudden flight 
 to Europe. 
 
 My troubles during the spring season, how- 
 ever, were not altogether over. Once more I 
 was forced to face a crisis, and it was even 
 more acute than the one of the threatened col- 
 lapse of L'Allemand, because I had much less 
 
 92 
 
time to save the operatic bark from going upon 
 the rocks. 
 
 I had announced the opera "Martha," and 
 for it had specially engaged a prima donna 
 who had made a high reputation in the leading 
 role. She was widely known in those days. 
 Many would still remember her if I should 
 mention her name, but this I do not intend to 
 do, for a reason which will be obvious in a 
 moment. 
 
 Besides the fame of her voice with the music- 
 loving public, she had considerable social 
 vogue, having sung at the White House and at 
 the residences of numerous people of fashion 
 in New- York. Therefore I congratulated my- 
 self on being able to secure her services, and 
 proclaimed her in the columns of the press and 
 on the fences with an even more clarion voice 
 than usual. 
 
 When the doors were swung open for the 
 opening night of "Martha," I saw to my satis- 
 faction that my extra outlay was going to be 
 amply justified. When the overture was being 
 played, in the parlance of the box-office, we 
 were "turning 'em away." 
 
 The curtain had risen, and in my little office 
 behind the ticket window, with sweet music in 
 my ears and piles of money before me on the 
 
 93 
 
table, I was absorbed in the occupation of 
 "counting up," a pleasing one on this occasion, 
 because there was so much to count. Suddenly 
 the head usher interrupted me with an exciting 
 and jarring voice : 
 
 "Mr. Morrissey, there's something wrong 
 with the prima donna." 
 
 "Wrong? What's wrong?" I cried, jumping 
 from my chair. 
 
 "Come and see," answered the young man 
 in an agitated tone. 
 
 I went and I saw. He was right. It was all 
 too clear that there was something wrong with 
 my prima donna. The audience was beginning 
 to laugh. Throughout the house there were 
 titters and frequent loud guffaws. The people 
 had come to hear elevating music, and were 
 finding themselves at a roaring farce. They 
 were evidently enjoying it, and so was my much 
 vaunted operatic star. Standing forth in the 
 full glow of the footlights, the center of attrac- 
 tion, she had lost control of her risibilities. In 
 fact, she seemed to be having "the time of her 
 life." 
 
 Bursting with anger and chagrin, I rushed 
 around to the stage, and when my precious 
 prima donna "came off" from her scene, after 
 finishing the sentimental air which she had 
 
 94 
 
transformed into a "laughing song," I seized 
 her by the shoulders. 
 
 "What do you mean by this ?" I cried harshly. 
 "Brace up ! You're making a fool of me. You 
 are ruining my reputation as a manager. To- 
 morrow the whole town will be laughing at 
 us." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Morrissey," exclaimed the 
 singer, endeavoring to simulate surprise and 
 indignation, but ending with a giggle, "how 
 dare you treat me so? Let go of me, please. 
 I can stand alone." 
 
 "How in the world did it happen?" I 
 demanded. 
 
 "Well, you see, Mr. Morrissey, I had an 
 awful pain in my shoulder this afternoon, and 
 I just took an an opiate, and it seemed to go 
 right to my head. But I'll be all right if you 
 let me lie down for a minute, only for a minute. 
 Please do, Mr. Morrissey!" 
 
 "I couldn't think of it for an instant," I 
 said. "Here, Mr. ," I added, calling to the 
 stage-manager, "take hold of Miss Blank's 
 arm ; we'll have to walk her up and down." 
 
 We did. We fairly ran with her, and in the 
 pauses for breath we held an ammonia bottle 
 to her nose, slapped her hands, rubbed her 
 forehead. It was rather ludicrous, I suppose, 
 
 95 
 
this frantic effort to galvanize a prima donna 
 into life and charm, in order that she might be 
 a fitting representative of the Goddess of Song, 
 but I saw nothing amusing in the situation. 
 
 The next scene was as bad as before. She 
 was greeted with mingled applause and 
 laughter. She joined in the merrymaking. 
 She would laugh, then the audience would 
 laugh, and then they would laugh together. 
 At the end of the act we hurried her to her 
 dressing-room, where the warm air over- 
 powered her completely. 
 
 We had fifteen minutes in which to do some- 
 thing, and I sat down, with my head in my 
 hands, to ponder. But I could think of nothing 
 except that most dreaded ordeal of managers 
 an apologetic dismissal of the audience and the 
 return of its money. However, there appeared 
 to be nothing else to do, and I started toward 
 the stage when a young woman passed. 
 
 "Good-evening, Mr. Morrissey," she said, "I 
 have just dropped in to get some costumes I 
 left in my dressing-room." She was Camille 
 Mouri, who had sung for me in some other 
 operas, but whom I had let go, thinking I 
 should not need her in the remainder of the 
 season. 
 
 96 
 
"Can you sing Martha?" I cried, catching 
 her impulsively by the hand. 
 
 "It is my best role," she answered. 
 
 "Come along then, quick," I exclaimed, drag- 
 ging her with me toward the dressing-room. 
 You have got to take the prima donna's place, 
 and must go on in ten minutes." 
 
 "But her costumes won't fit me," she pro- 
 tested, holding back. 
 
 "Well fix that," I answered. "You must 
 sing. I'll give you two hundred dollars for to- 
 night and re-engage you." I sent half a dozen 
 stage hands running for the wardrobe woman. 
 
 "Tuck the dresses ; take them in ; slash them 
 if necessary," I commanded her. 
 
 I don't suppose there ever was quicker dress- 
 making. I shouldn't like to vouch for its per- 
 fection of finish, but I can vouch for the fact 
 that with only ten minutes' delay of the curtain, 
 a new Martha, smiling and serene, stood before 
 the audience. It was silent for a few seconds, 
 spellbound, and then burst into applause. The 
 night was saved. 
 
 97 
 
DOM PEDRO, EMPEROR OF BRAZII 
 
 ANNIE LOUISE GARY 
 
 PASQUALE BRIGNOLI 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AN EMPEROR AND A POET. 
 
 "The Emperor Will Arrive To-day/' This 
 head-line, in a newspaper propped up before 
 me on the breakfast table, caught my eye, and 
 I read it eagerly, because I instantly realized 
 that an Emperor was just the man to help me 
 in a venture I had on hand. 
 
 It was in Philadelphia in Centennial days. 
 For several days I had been much engrossed in 
 preparations for what I had named a "Grand 
 Musical Congress," a series of three concerts 
 for which a number of the leading vocalists and 
 instrumentalists of America had been engaged. 
 It was a private enterprise, largely my own. 
 My artists were the most expensive in the land, 
 and this meant that I had obligated myself to 
 the payment of a lot of money. 
 
 The opening had been announced for the 
 next Monday night, and I was looking forward 
 to it rather nervously. There were moments 
 when I wondered whether, after all, the good 
 people of Philadelphia and the strangers within 
 the gates would favor us with their dollars in 
 sufficient numbers to lift the income above the 
 outlay. I never before had undertaken so large 
 
 101 
 
an enterprise, and to be frank I was experienc- 
 ing some of the symptoms of financial stage- 
 fright. This was why I was so interested in the 
 coming of the Emperor Dom Pedro of Brazil. 
 I felt that he could be of use to me. 
 
 With considerable pomp he and the Empress 
 arrived at the Continental Hotel. Indeed, 
 when they approached the street was jammed 
 with American citizens eager for a glimpse of 
 royalty. I had fitted an office within the portals 
 for the transaction of the business of my con- 
 certs, and here I devoted at least an hour that 
 afternoon to the task of drawing up a proper 
 note informing his majesty how honored my 
 artists and I should feel if he would accept a 
 box for the opening concert. I did not forget 
 to add that he would hear the best music that 
 America could produce, and that we should be 
 delighted, in the event of his presence, to ren- 
 der the national hymn of his country. 
 
 This communication I presented to a glitter- 
 ing attache outside the door of the Emperor's 
 suite, and awaited the answer with much 
 anxiety. In a little while the gentleman-in- 
 waiting handed it to me with a sweeping bow, 
 which I returned in kind, except that I cut it 
 rather short in my haste to see what his 
 majesty had to say. 
 
 102 
 
At a single glance I devoured the words, 
 which were to the effect that the Emperor and 
 Empress were pleased to accept Mr. Morris- 
 sey's invitation to hear the great lyric artists 
 of the United States. In my sudden joy I 
 could have slapped on the back the dignitary in 
 gold lace, but I merely bowed again and tucked 
 my epistle from an Emperor in my safest poc- 
 ket. 
 
 It was desirable, of course, that the news- 
 papers know of this, so I lost no time in 
 despatching a messenger to the strongholds of 
 the press, with the information that Mr. Mor- 
 rissey would be pleased to receive its represen- 
 tatives. The reporters came, and were duly 
 impressed. As may be imagined, I was in high 
 feather. My doubts had disappeared. With 
 royalty present at my concert, I knew that the 
 people would not remain away. 
 
 On Sunday night I retired betimes, so as to 
 be in the best form for the greatest day my 
 career had yet seen. I already had made 
 arrangements for a lavish decoration of the 
 theater in the colors of Brazil. All day men 
 and women filed past the box-office window 
 buying tickets for the opening concert, and few 
 of them neglected to ask if the Emperor and 
 Empress surely would be in evidence. 
 
 103 
 
There was neither seats nor standing room 
 for a quarter of the throng that stormed 
 about the doors that night. The police 
 had their hands full in clearing a way 
 for the carriages of the Emperor's party. 
 While the orchestra was playing the open- 
 ing number I surveyed the house. Reach- 
 ing to the roof was a sea of faces. The 
 body of the theater was brilliant with beautiful 
 women in gorgeous gowns and flashing gems, 
 and as a huge frame for this dazzling picture 
 there were the intermingled flags and bunting 
 of Brazil and the United States. The boxes 
 stood forth resplendent. In the lower one on 
 the right-hand side sat the Emperor and the 
 Empress, surrounded by an array of person- 
 ages in glistening uniforms. 
 
 Naturally, I was proud of this culmination 
 of my weeks of toil and worry. It was for me 
 one of those happy moments that sometimes 
 come as the fruit of long-continued effort. For 
 the concert itself I had no fears, for Clara 
 Louise Kellogg, Annie Louise Gary, Signor 
 Pasquale Brignoli, Julie Rive King, Franz 
 Remmertz and others of hardly less note, the 
 flower of the musical genius of the United 
 States, were even then in their dressing-rooms, 
 keyed up for the effort of their lives. 
 
 104 
 
The concert was well under way, and my 
 artists were being received with tumultuous 
 applause, when one of the attaches of the 
 Emperor's retinue presented himself to me. He 
 handed me a note, remarking: "From his 
 majesty." "The Emperor desires to know/' 
 it read, "if it would not be possible to change 
 the program from the Chopin waltzes to the 
 Liszt Rhapsody No. 2, which is a special fav- 
 orite of his." 
 
 Now, it is no light thing to make changes in 
 the middle of a concert. The artists and the 
 orchestra may not be prepared for a substitu- 
 tion, and the manager must consider the people 
 in the house, who may have come to hear the 
 selection which he eliminates. Therefore I 
 answered hesitatingly that I should have to ask 
 Rive King if she could play the rhapsody on so 
 short a notice. The attache waited while I 
 went to put the question to her. 
 
 "Indeed, I can play the rhapsody!" she ex- 
 claimed with enthusiasm. "Why, I was a pupil 
 of Liszt in Germany, and I love above all else 
 to play his music. I must say that the Emperor 
 has excellent taste." 
 
 I returned to the envoy with the assurance 
 that Madam King would be delighted to 
 gratify his majesty, and that she too thought 
 
 105 
 
that the rhapsody was one of the most beauti- 
 ful pieces of music ever written. "I should 
 like exceedingly," I remarked, "to have his 
 majesty's note read from the stage. Do you 
 think that his permission could be obtained?" 
 
 "I am sure he would have no objection," 
 answered the attache. "It is not necessary to 
 ask him. I will authorize it in his name/ 
 
 And so the note was read, and Madam King 
 played the rhapsody as, I believe, she never 
 had before. The Emperor and Empress 
 beamed with gratification, and applauded with 
 all the fervor of ordinary music-lovers. When 
 the last strains of her music were dying away 
 I was asked to come to the royal box to be pre- 
 sented to their majesties. I had prepared my- 
 self, when told that this honor awaited me, for 
 an ordeal; but found it far otherwise. Both 
 the Emperor and Empress were profuse with 
 compliments, and chatted in an easy manner 
 that caused me at once to forget that I was 
 not conversing with merely a cultivated couple 
 who had a deep love and knowledge of the 
 world's best music. 
 
 Dom Pedro told me that he was perfectly 
 familiar with the names of my principal artists, 
 and on the strength of this, with no idea as to 
 whether it was in accordance with royal 
 
 106 
 
etiquette, I invited him to the green-room. He 
 accepted with alacrity, and we held a little 
 levee behind the scenes. That night I had my 
 artists and some other guests, among whom 
 was the late George W. Childs, to supper. 
 There was much sparkling conversation; but 
 through it all a single phrase kept running 
 through my mind. It was: "Long live the 
 Emperor !" 
 
 I was still in my room the next morning 
 when a bell-boy brought me word that one of 
 his majesty's retinue was waiting for me in the 
 parlor. Full of curiosity as to what his mission 
 might be, I hurried down. Would Mr. Mor- 
 rissey accompany him at once to the Emperor ? 
 he asked me. Mr. Morrissey certainly would. 
 His majesty greeted me with extended hand, 
 again complimented me on the success of the 
 concert, and after a brief interval of general 
 conversation inquired: 
 
 "Do you think, Mr. Morrissey, that I would 
 be recognized if I should go out on the streets 
 on foot?" 
 
 "If you will pardon me for saying so," I 
 answered, surveying him, "you do not appear 
 very differently, in that frock-coat, from just a 
 prosperous American citizen. Once away from 
 
 107 
 
the hotel, I am sure that you would not be 
 generally recognized. " 
 
 "Good!" he exclaimed. "The truth is, I am 
 so hedged about by wearying formalities in 
 my own country that I am eager to seize any 
 opportunity to get away from them, to get a 
 breath of real liberty. I desire much to observe 
 the life of the great city. Will you not walk 
 out with me?" 
 
 I expressed my great pleasure at being able 
 to serve him, and in a few minutes we were in 
 the throng of pedestrians on the street. With 
 the exception of some acquaintances of mine, 
 no one noticed us. 
 
 "I get so little of this freedom!" exclaimed 
 the Emperor with an exultant laugh as we 
 dodged a truck in crossing Broad-st. He told 
 me that he would enjoy selecting an American 
 piano for the apartments of the Empress in the 
 palace at Rio Janeiro, and so we visited some 
 sale-rooms, in only one of which his identity 
 was discovered. He listened critically to the 
 tone of a number of pianos, but none of them 
 seemed to satisfy him. 
 
 "They are fine instruments," he remarked 
 after we had come out of one of the establish- 
 ments; "but none of them pleases me so much 
 as that which Madam King used last night. 
 
 108 
 
Aside from the magnificent playing, it seemed 
 to me to possess a brilliancy and responsiveness 
 which were remarkable. Could it not be pur- 
 chased for me?" 
 
 "Most assuredly," I answered. "If you say 
 so, I shall to-day arrange with Steinway and 
 Sons concerning it." 
 
 Thus it was that the fine instrument which I 
 had provided for the concert was shipped to the 
 royal palace in Brazil. 
 
 In the course of our conversation that morn- 
 ing his majesty told me that the Empress had 
 brought from South America a young girl 
 named Esmeralda Cervantes, who was con- 
 sidered Brazil's best harpist. 
 
 "Would she not play at one of the concerts?" 
 I quickly asked, on fire with this new idea. 
 "The people of Philadelphia would be delighted 
 to hear her." 
 
 His majesty seemed pleased at the sugges- 
 tion, and replied that it might be arranged. He 
 said he would send me word that afternoon. 
 He also informed me that the Empress and he 
 would like to attend the two remaining con- 
 certs. 
 
 Later in the day I met Senorita Cervantes. 
 She was an attractive girl of about sixteen, 
 with a sweet smile and big eyes full of music. 
 
 109 
 
We had a long talk, in the course of which I 
 learned what best she liked to play, and in 
 accordance with her wishes arranged a pro- 
 gram for her. After leaving her I hurried to 
 my printer, and gave directions to have in- 
 serted in the programs which were being pre- 
 pared for the last concert, on Saturday night, 
 not only the numbers which my little Spanish 
 harpist was to render, but also these words: 
 "Third Operatic Concert, Under the Imperial 
 Patronage of Dom Pedro, Emperor of Brazil, 
 in Honor of Senorita Cervantes." 
 
 That night, when the orchestra began "The 
 Star Spangled Banner," the Emperor, recog- 
 nizing it at once as the national air, rose to his 
 feet. He was followed by the Empress and all 
 the others of the royal party. In those days it 
 was not the general custom in this country to 
 stand when the national air was played, and 
 for a few seconds practically no other persons 
 in the house were on their feet. But suddenly 
 the significance of the Emperor's act burst on 
 the audience, and it rose en masse. Many 
 sang, and at the end everybody cheered the 
 Emperor, who stood bowing and smiling for 
 several minutes. The concert terminated in a 
 swelling note of triumph, which well expressed 
 my own feelings. My work was done, and I 
 
 no 
 
had scored a success far beyond my expecta- 
 tions, thanks to the Emperor of Brazil. 
 
 In the course of their visit to the United 
 States he and the Empress went to Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts, and were guests for some days 
 of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. In the 
 modest cottage of the poet Dom Pedro ceased 
 to be an Emperor. He left the trappings of 
 his exalted state behind him, and became the 
 subject of a king of poetry. 
 
 His 'Sojourn at the house of Longfellow re- 
 minds me of an afternoon I myself spent there. 
 Joseph H. Tooker and I went to Cambridge to 
 offer the poet a considerable sum of money for 
 a series of readings from his poems. He was 
 on a little veranda at the rear of his house 
 when we arrived, and we were invited out 
 there. Two daughters were with him, beauti- 
 ful young girls with blue eyes and flaxen curls. 
 The poet listened attentively, while we un- 
 folded our business proposition to him and em- 
 phasized the fact that the people throughout 
 the land would flock to hear him. I suggested 
 that he could lay aside the money for his 
 daughters. His grave eyes lighted up at this. 
 
 "It is large pay, gentlemen," he exclaimed, 
 "so large that I fear I could never earn it. 
 The prospect of trying almost frightens me. 
 
 111 
 
But I will confess that I am tempted. Money 
 does not often come to a literary man in such 
 an avalanche, you know. I shall communicate 
 with my publishers. If they are inclined to 
 view the proposition favorably, we can discuss 
 it in further detail. And now let us forget 
 business for the time. I want you to try some 
 pf my currant wine. You gentlemen from 
 New- York are connoisseurs ; but I think you'll 
 like this home product. I brewed it myself." 
 
 One of the daughters brought a pitcher of 
 the wine, and we sat with our glasses and 
 listened to gentle talk that was elevating and 
 full of kindly humor. It was talk of rather a 
 different kind from that we were accustomed 
 to hear in the theatrical mart of New- York, 
 and it refreshed us. 
 
 We left at last, feeling that we had had a 
 most delightful afternoon, even if the success 
 of our mission by no means was assured. In 
 about a week I received a letter from Mr. 
 Longfellow, saying that he had decided not to 
 attempt to read his own poems. He felt that 
 he ought to be satisfied, he wrote, if other peo- 
 ple read them. Our trip to Cambridge brought 
 us no financial fruit, but it has been one of my 
 pleasantest memories. 
 
 Shortly after my effort to persuade Long- 
 112 
 
fellow to publicly read his poetry I became ab- 
 sorbed in arrangements to take a musical com- 
 bination to Australia. My artists were to be 
 Clara Louise Kellogg, Annie Louise Gary, 
 August Wilhelmj the violinists, and Rafael 
 Joseffy the pianist, all of whom were then at 
 the zenith of their fame. I planned to give 
 Australia a musical treat such as she had never 
 had before, and then to move triumphantly on 
 to London. The project meant a trip around 
 the world. I was enthusiastic over it, and so 
 were my artists, all except Joseffy. Yet he was 
 the individual whom I desired most of all to 
 take along. This special predilection for the 
 pianist was not because his musical genius was 
 superior to that of the others in my little 
 group, but because of some remarks that 
 Colonel Chickering made to me one morning. 
 
 "I'll back this tour," he said, "if Joseffy ac- 
 companies you and you take the usual meas- 
 ures to let the public know that he is using our 
 pianos. Show me a contract with him for the 
 concerts, and I at once shall deposit in your 
 name twelve thousand dollars, and send an- 
 other twelve thousand to Australia if you 
 need it." 
 
 Well, Joseffy was coy, a cornucopia of 
 promises to be sure, but a dry ink-well when 
 
 113 
 
it came to writing his name at the bottom of 
 a contract. Days after the agreement with the 
 others had been signed I was dining, lunching 
 and breakfasting with Joseffy in my endeavors 
 to get him to dash off his signature on a paper 
 I always had handy in my pocket. 
 
 At each of our meetings I devoted myself 
 to tactfully leading up to the psychological 
 moment when the paper could be produced. 
 Time and again the moment came, and time 
 and again Joseffy would gracefully wave his 
 long, artistic hands and reply: "Not to-day, 
 Morrissey; to-morrow." 
 
 The thing had become an exaggerated case 
 of "To-morrow and to-morrow and to-mor- 
 row," and I think I was beginning to take on 
 a Teutonic accent and cast of countenance from 
 much patronage of the German restaurants 
 that Joseffy liked, when one day he announced 
 to me: 
 
 "I regret it, Morrissey, but it is now too late 
 to sign your contract. If you must know the 
 truth, I have just completed negotiations with 
 some other people to play only on their pianos." 
 
 "Who would think, Joseffy," I said sadly, 
 "that genius could be so commercial?" 
 
 "Ah, yes," he answered with a smile, "but 
 
 114 
 
you know that even genius likes a warm bird 
 and a cold bottle." 
 
 That globe-girdling tour was never taken. 
 
 A few weeks later, instead of being a 
 musical missionary in the antipodes, I was on 
 a concert trip in Pennsylvania, with Signor 
 Brignoli as my star. One moonlight night 
 when our train was standing on the track at 
 Titusville, Brignoli, who was of an inquiring 
 turn of mind, stepped out to the platform of 
 our car, the rear one, to take a look around. 
 
 He was lighting a cigarette, when the train 
 gave a jerk, due to some switching operation. 
 Brignoli lost his balance and toppled over 
 backward. I heard his anguished cry and ran 
 frantically to the door. The train was moving, 
 and the singer was lying prone on a bank of 
 dirt. 
 
 "Stop the train, -stop the train!" I shouted. 
 "Brignoli's killed !" Everybody rushed out to 
 the platform. The women began to weep and 
 wring their hands, and the conductor came 
 running back excitedly. Before the train had 
 stopped, and just as several of us were about 
 to leap from the platform we saw the prostrate 
 form on the bank bestir itself and loom up 
 against the sky. Then, to our astonishment, 
 we heard the hearty tones of Brignoli's voice 
 
 til 
 
swell out on the night air in "Di quella pira" 
 from the opera "II Trovatore." He came 
 toward us, a shadowy figure in the darkness, 
 singing lustily. Suddenly he turned his face 
 fervently toward the stars, and exclaimed with 
 great solemnity: 
 
 "I thank thee, Lord ! My body has suffered 
 grievously ; but the voice, ah, the voice ! has 
 not been injured." 
 
 As a matter of fact, Brignoli was practically 
 unhurt, thanks to the bank of soft earth upon 
 which he fell. That his precious voice was un- 
 impaired was speedily made doubly evident by 
 the sonorous maledictions he showered on the 
 train and all connected with it. 
 
 uo 
 
FANNY DAVENPORT 
 
 MLLE. AIMEE 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A FROST IN GALVESTON. 
 
 The actor's snug harbor is New- York. "The 
 road" is his tempestuous sea. Much too often 
 to suit his pleasure he must bid farewell to the 
 lights of Broadway and go on journeys of 
 vicissitude in the great interior. The theatrical 
 bark may rise triumphant on waves of ap- 
 plause, or winds of adverse criticism may cast 
 it up on some distant strand. Which it will be 
 the actor or manager is never sure. That un- 
 certainty and variety which give zest to life 
 may be found in plenty "on the road." 
 
 Galveston, Texas, at best, is a long way from 
 Broadway; but there was a time, back in the 
 days of Augustin Daly's management of the 
 Fifth Avenue Theater, when the distance 
 seemed to me about equal to the circumference 
 of the globe. 
 
 My Texas experience really began at the 
 Cer man Theater, on East-Fourteenth-st., New- 
 York, where Fanny Davenport and I sat in a 
 box one night and laughed so at a comedy 
 called "Ultimo," that at the fall of the final 
 curtain we sought out the manager and made 
 him an offer for the English rights, on behalf 
 of Mr. Daly. He accepted. Under the name 
 
 119 
 
of "The Big Bonanza/' the play was put on at 
 the Fifth Avenue Theater, where it scored an 
 immediate and great success. 
 
 On the strength of this, already feeling the 
 money of the good people of the "provinces" in 
 our pockets, J. C. Duff and I obtained Mr. 
 Daly's consent to organize a second company 
 for a tour. We selected Sara Jewett for lead- 
 ing woman, May Nunez for ingenue, Owen 
 Fawcett for chief comedian, and James Hardie 
 for the handsome lover. 
 
 With every part in competent hands we 
 started for the "Sunny South/' where we 
 knew there would be smiling skies and thought 
 there would be smiling audiences. But some- 
 how the latter did not seem to go into ecstasies 
 over "The Big Bonanza." In New-Orleans, 
 for instance, where one would never dream of 
 such a thing, we encountered a biting "frost." 
 Cold, I believe, has a tendency to contract 
 things. I know that it had shriveled up our 
 bank-roll by the time we got to Galveston. 
 
 This then was only a "three-day" city, not 
 being large enough to support an attraction 
 for a longer time. At the end of the week we 
 still were there, and after the all-too-brief 
 labor of "counting up" on Saturday night Duff 
 said to me: 
 
 120 
 
"The question is, Morrissey, how are we 
 going to get out of town?" 
 
 He was right that was the question but 
 I appeared not to notice the remark, that eve- 
 ning having exhausted all my genial repartee 
 on the hotel manager, who had mentioned 
 something about a little bill. 
 
 All the next week we played in Galveston, 
 not because we wanted to, or because the peo- 
 ple were hankering to have us, but because we 
 had nothing else to do. Our performances had 
 assumed the appearance of dress rehearsals. 
 The bright lights in front looked on; but that 
 was about all. We distributed passes with a 
 lavish hand in endeavors to "dress the house" ; 
 but this dress grew more and more scanty, 
 and the company began to ask satirically if we 
 were to make our permanent homes in Galves- 
 ton. We were on our third week there when 
 I decided on a heroic move. I had mentioned 
 it to Duff, and he had answered with one 
 word : "Absurd !" But he had nothing to sug- 
 gest himself, so I called a meeting of the com- 
 pany to announce my project. 
 
 "It's plain, ladies and gentlemen," I began, 
 "that we have exhausted this community. We 
 can't stay here much longer." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," broke in Fawcett. "The 
 
 121 
 
hotel people are cold ; but the weather's warm. 
 I suppose that soon now there will be good 
 sleeping on the beach." 
 
 "You are the funniest when you are silent, 
 Fawcett," I remarked. "If you want to talk, 
 if you have any real ideas to offer, take the 
 floor/' 
 
 "I'd rather take the train," he answered. 
 
 "My proposal," I went on, "is that since we 
 apparently have failed at acting, we try our 
 hand at singing. We must do something; so 
 let us sing." A burst of laughter greeted this." 
 
 "I mean it," I declared. "In happier days 
 I've heard you sing, Miss Jewett, and you 
 too, Miss Nunez. Your rich contralto voice 
 should thrill these Texans. You, Hardie, have 
 a lovely tenor. Don't deny it. Haven't we all 
 heard the trills issue from your dressing- 
 room? As for you, Fawcett, you have a deep 
 basso buffo that may give rise to a public sub- 
 scription to send us up to Houston." 
 
 "You're good to say so," answered Fawcett; 
 "but I think I'll confine my musical efforts to 
 whistling for my salary." 
 
 "Well," I continued, laughing in spite of 
 myself, "you'll all be whistling for not only 
 your salaries, but for your suppers, unless we 
 do something. I think that a grand operatic 
 
 122 
 
concert by this company of stranded actors will 
 appeal to the Texan sense of humor and fill 
 enough of the empty seats to terminate this 
 stand." 
 
 When I had finished everybody declared that 
 they would have nothing to do with my foolish 
 plan; but, proceeding on the principle that 
 birds that can sing and won't must be made to, 
 I announced the concert in the Galveston 
 papers. As I had anticipated, the writers 
 seemed to think it amusing that, in our dis- 
 tress, we should turn to song. 
 
 The facetious articles at first made my 
 artists all the more determined that they would 
 not stand up to be made butts for ridicule ; but 
 I pointed out to them that with the announce- 
 ments out and the tickets on sale, they would 
 have to sing or be mobbed, and so they began 
 to practise. At the last rehearsal I made a 
 few remarks. 
 
 "Sing to-night as you never did before/' I 
 admonished them. "Sing in a way that will 
 carry them away, and will also carry us away." 
 
 When the doors were opened for the concert, 
 and the young men of Galveston began to 
 crowd in, Duff was anxious. 
 
 "They look as if they intended to have 
 some fun with us to-night," he exclaimed. "Ke- 
 rn 
 
member, Jimmie, I'm not responsible. This 
 thing is on your head." 
 
 The audience was big enough. I saw that 
 we should be able to leave town in the morn- 
 ing; but as that noisy crowd filed in, even I 
 began to think that it would be better after all, 
 if we could go at once. 
 
 After the overture the orchestra gave a 
 selection, which was interrupted by only an 
 occasional hoot or catcall. When Miss Nunez 
 appeared and sang "The Old Folks at Home/' 
 the house became quiet, and remained so, ex- 
 cept for genuine applause, when Miss Jewett 
 sang "Waiting." I thought that we were saved, 
 and ventured to appear in the lobby, wearing 
 the broad smile of an impresario on a night of 
 triumph. It was now Fawcett's turn to en- 
 tertain. 
 
 He stepped down to the footlights with an 
 air of much confidence, and announced smil- 
 ingly that he would recite Shakespeare's 
 "Seven Ages." He was opening his mouth to 
 begin the first lines, when a great howl went 
 up. The house had broken loose at last. Faw- 
 cett stood there helpless for a moment, trying 
 to speak, while from every side came jeering 
 shouts. There was a bedlam of noise, I rushed 
 
 124 
 
around to the wings and beckoned to our com- 
 edian to come off. 
 
 "What'll we do, what'll we do?" cried Duff. 
 "This is awful! For Heaven's sake, Jimmie, 
 go out and tell them that we'll give them their 
 money back, or they'll do us violence !" 
 
 "Not on your life," I declared. "We'll ring 
 down the curtain if we have to, but not a 
 penny of their money shall they get." 
 
 Fawcett was still on the stage. With entire 
 self-possession he stood and waited, as if well 
 content to let them enjoy themselves in this 
 way, if they cared to. The truth was, he pos- 
 sessed an innate ability in controlling audi- 
 ences, and by degrees our noisy friends in 
 front began to feel his influence. At last the 
 tumult died away. 
 
 "Boys," he remarked, during a slight pause, 
 "you have had your fun; now let me have 
 mine. I am not a comedian you will admit 
 that and I am not a singer you would know 
 that if I tried to sing. But I always have had 
 an idea that I should be good in Shakespearean 
 roles, and I want to get your fair judgment on 
 the question. Won't you listen to me for a 
 moment ? Thank you." 
 
 Almost before they realized it, Fawcett be- 
 gan again on the "Seven Ages," to a soft ac- 
 
 125 
 
companiment by the orchestra, and almost in- 
 stantly had become impressive. There was not 
 a sound in the audience when he ended with 
 the words: "The last scene of all in this 
 strange, eventful history is second childishness 
 and mere oblivion : sans teeth, sans eyes, sans 
 taste, sans everything." Fawcett paused, as- 
 sumed his most comic smile, and added : "Sans 
 everything, including salary." 
 
 The house broke into real laughter, and the 
 rest of us, watching nervously in the wings, 
 knew that our comedian was master of the sit- 
 uation. He went on in a humorous speech, in 
 which he remarked that Miss Jewett had sung 
 "Waiting" because she had been waiting so 
 long in Galveston; that Miss Nunez had sung 
 "The Old Folks at Home" because away down 
 here in Texas she had been home-sick, and 
 lastly, that he had recited "Seven Ages" be- 
 cause it had seemed at least seven ages since he 
 had been in Galveston. At the end he said : 
 "And now, boys, we are going to say good- 
 night. We've done our best, and on the whole 
 you haven't treated us so badly. I believe that 
 you are good fellows, after all, and you would 
 find that we are if you knew us better. The 
 next time any of you run over to New- York, 
 
 126 
 
just look up Owen Fawcett, and you'll see the 
 town in proper shape." 
 
 There was a great burst of applause. Owen 
 bowed and made his escape quickly to the 
 wings. James Hardie then sang delightfully. 
 Finally the orchestra swung into a lively air, 
 and the curtain slid down. 
 
 Behind the scenes we showered gratitude 
 and congratulations on all those who had taken 
 part in the concert, and had been equal to the 
 emergency. Then the artists made hasty 
 changes in their dressing-rooms, and we made 
 our way to the hotel. 
 
 It was not long afterwards that we were 
 safe on Broadway. 
 
 This was not the only occasion upon which 
 I failed to find the "Sunny South" entirely 
 benign. Once in New-Orleans, when the code 
 of honor was still to some extent in vogue 
 there, I was challenged to a duel. Our play 
 was "Antony and Cleopatra," with Frederick 
 Warde and Rose Eytinge in the name parts. 
 One night, in the strong scene in which Cleo- 
 patra falls into Antony's arms when he returns 
 from the wars, I happened to be occupying a 
 seat, and at the dramatic moment just before 
 the end of the act, when the house was hushed, 
 
 127 
 
I had my sensibilities rudely jarred by a ro- 
 bust laugh, which came from just behind me. 
 
 At the fall of the curtain I turned and in- 
 formed the man whom I knew to be guilty of 
 the breach that if he didn't know how to be- 
 have himself in the theater he had better 
 leave it. 
 
 With this I left my seat and went into the 
 lobby, where I joined General Beauregard, 
 famous for his services on the Confederate side 
 in the Civil War, and Nat Burbank of "The 
 New-Orleans Picayune." To my surprise, I 
 saw that the man to whom I had spoken, ac- 
 companied by two others, was close behind. 
 
 "Sir, you have insulted me!" he hissed with 
 a French accent. "I will fight you. Select 
 your second. This gentleman will act for me. 
 Let the meeting be arranged at once." He 
 held out his card. 
 
 I took it, tore it in two and threw it at his 
 feet, at the same time turning my back on him. 
 I heard a slight scuffle, and glancing around 
 saw that my French enemy, speechless with 
 rage, was straining in the grasp of his friends 
 to get at me. 
 
 "Come, Morrissey," exclaimed General 
 Beauregard, catching me by the arm, "this is 
 
 128 
 
serious. You must get away from here. Your 
 fire-eating friend will try to shoot you." 
 
 We took seats in the cafe, and out of the 
 corner of my eye I saw the Frenchmen lead 
 their infuriated countryman out through the 
 main entrance. The General and Burbank ap- 
 peared grave. 
 
 "I think you will have to fight him," said the 
 former eyeing me critically. "Are you a pretty 
 good marksman ?" 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" I exclaimed. "I'm from 
 New-York." 
 
 "I know," the general answered; "but now 
 you are in New-Orleans. He's of one of the 
 best families, and your tearing up his card was 
 a deadly insult. He won't rest till it's avenged 
 with swords or pistols. It's the code among 
 gentlemen down here, and unless you accept 
 his challenge you had better leave town to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 I wiped my fevered brow, and informed the 
 General that I would leave the case all to him. 
 
 "I suppose I may assume then," he re- 
 marked, "that I am your second. Very well. 
 If you will excuse me I shall confer at once 
 with the other side. The early morning is the 
 usual time. The weapons we can discuss a 
 little later." 
 
 129 
 
General Beauregard was gone a full half- 
 hour, and in the interval Burbank entertained 
 me with tales of duels of the past, in which 
 much blood was shed. 
 
 "You had better choose pistols, Morrissey," 
 he advised me, "because your antagonist is an 
 expert with the sword and yet, come to think 
 of it, he's said to be excellent with the pistol 
 too. But he'll be so angry that you may be 
 able to hit him first. Don't try to spare him, 
 because he won't be so considerate. These 
 things are hushed up down here. There is 
 simply a quiet funeral." 
 
 I thanked Burbank for his kind encourage- 
 ment and advice; but I didn't like his manner. 
 There was a gleam of pleasure in his eyes 
 that I thought was in the worst of taste on this 
 occasion. 
 
 Suddenly General Beauregard's form 
 loomed in the doorway, and behind him was 
 the man who wanted my life, accompanied by 
 his two companions. 
 
 "The meeting-place has been arranged," an- 
 nounced the General when he reached the table. 
 "It is to be right here and now. Mr. Morrissey, 
 permit me to present Messieurs Blank and 
 Blank and Blank. They have assured me that 
 the laugh was unintentional, and I assured 
 
 130 
 
them that you, as the manager of the company, 
 was prompted only by a sense of duty. Sit 
 down, gentlemen, and let us have supper. I 
 had no intention from the start of permitting 
 you gentlemen to fight a duel. I suppose, Mr. 
 Morrissey, that Mr. Burbank has reassured 
 you during my absence." 
 
 The latter began to laugh, and the General 
 joined him. I saw then for the first time that 
 the two had been playing a kind of grim joke 
 on me. A little later we adjourned to the 
 Varieties Club. 
 
 There was another time, in a Western city, 
 when my friends told me that I would be a 
 target for gun-play if I wasn't careful. I was 
 business manager for the concert tour of 
 Sarasate, the famous violinist, and D'Albert, 
 who was almost equally well-known as a 
 pianist, and one night two cow-boys in the 
 complete outfit of the plains slouch hats, 
 cartridge belts and righ-heeled boots with 
 spurs rode up to the theater entrance. The 
 concert was half-over and the box-office closed, 
 but they swaggered up to the window, and one 
 of them said : 
 
 "Say, pardner, we want to see The Brass 
 Monkey/ Is this it?" 
 
 131 
 
"No," I answered, "that's down the street; 
 but we have something here that's a hundred 
 times better the finest music in the world." 
 
 "Well, we'll take your word for it, and buy 
 the chips. Pass J em out." 
 
 "Say, Morrissey," exclaimed the house man- 
 ager when they had gone in, "this is not the 
 kind of entertainment those fellows are looking 
 for. They'll be pretty sore on you when they 
 come out, and as their kind pretty nearly own 
 this town when they come in from the ranges, 
 they're likely to try a little target-practice 
 around your feet." 
 
 I laughed at this, and was standing in the 
 lobby when the last strains of the music died 
 away. Suddenly I felt a thump on the back 
 and heard the loud voice of one of the cow- 
 boys in my ear. 
 
 "Say, pard, we'd started to take in 'The 
 Brass Monkey,' but your show is good enough 
 for us. Thunderin' Moses ! but that fellow 
 could make his fiddle talk. We couldn't get 
 him out to a ranch dance, could we? No? 
 Well, we're much obliged anyway." 
 
 132 
 
HORTENSE RHEA 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A BIRTH ON A TRAIN. 
 
 The way of the manager often is hard. The 
 road he travels is beset with pitfalls, and now 
 and then he is bound to stumble. Perhaps a 
 Good Samaritan may journey along and ex- 
 tend him a helping hand. If so, he is lucky, 
 especially if the Good Samaritan happens to 
 be a Eugene Field. 
 
 I had Mile. Rhea in Chicago, and one night 
 after the performance, in the course of a little 
 supper at which Field was present, I took oc- 
 casion to bemoan my lot. 
 
 "I'm at a loss to know what to do," I said, 
 "We open in St. Louis next Monday night, and 
 my representative ought to be down there an- 
 nouncing the coming of Mile. Rhea. Instead 
 of this, he's flying back to New- York as fast 
 as the train will take him, with his feelings 
 much injured by a few remarks I made to him 
 this morning. It's impossible to pick up a 
 good man at a moment's notice. With no 
 proper announcements in St Louis, we are sure 
 to play to losing business." 
 
 "Jimmie, you're a pessimist," said Field, gaz- 
 ing at me quizzically from across the table. 
 
 135 
 
"You wrong Chicago when you say that it is 
 impossible to find in this town artists in your 
 game of holding out alluring bait to a confiding 
 public. Why, in Chicago they grow on every 
 bushr 
 
 "Then pick one for me," I answered quickly. 
 
 "Well," drawled Field, gazing thoughtfully 
 into the smoke from his cigar, "as a loyal 
 citizen of Chicago I naturally have a grudge 
 against St. Louis, and I was just thinking that 
 I might run down there myself to induce them 
 to attend your show." 
 
 "Field, you're joking !" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Well, if I am," he answered, "I think it is 
 a kind of grim joke on St. Louis. But, as a 
 matter of fact, I am as serious as Hamlet. Do 
 I get the job?" 
 
 "Do you get it?" I cried. "If you really are 
 not joking, I should say you did !" 
 
 "Alright then," he said, reaching out his 
 long hand to me, "it is a gentlemen's agree- 
 ment. I'll stand not on the order of my going, 
 but will go to-morrow morning. Give me your 
 instructions now, so that I may devote the re- 
 mainder of the evening to packing my tooth- 
 brush and bidding my creditors farewell." 
 
 A trip like this did not interfere with Field's 
 writing his daily column of "Sharps and Flats" 
 
 136 
 
for "The Chicago News." Indeed, it took him 
 into a fresh sphere for copy. He was at the 
 train the next morning in lively mood, and 
 bade me good-by gaily. Thus it was that I 
 acquired a new advance agent. 
 
 From the train I went at once to the tele- 
 graph office and indited to the dramatic editors 
 /of the St. Louis newspapers a message which 
 read like this : 
 
 "Eugene Field has been turned loose on 
 your town as publicity purveyor pro tern, for 
 the Rhea company, and arrives to-night on 
 the seven o'clock train. Please give him a 
 wide berth in your columns that is, give him 
 plenty of space in which to toss about." 
 
 Eugene of course was well-known by rep- 
 utation in St. Louis, and I rather opined, as I 
 handed my telegram to the operator, to be 
 duplicated to the various newspapers, that he 
 would find plenty of opportunity to show his 
 mettle as a press agent. That was all that I 
 wanted him to do. For billing the town my 
 plan was to send our paper to a boss bill-poster 
 in whom I had confidence, and run down to 
 St. Louis myself a little later in the week, just 
 as soon as I could get away conveniently, to 
 look after the details. And so that day I went 
 about my business with a feeling of assurance 
 
 137 
 
that the advent of Mile. Rhea in St. Louis 
 would be well heralded after all. 
 
 On the second morning afterward, when 
 Field had been in St. Louis a day, I bought 
 that city's papers to ascertain what my new ad- 
 vance agent had accomplished at the beginning 
 of his campaign. In a moment my eyes had 
 caught the head-line: "Reception to Eugene 
 Field." 
 
 My eager reading of the article informed 
 me that the newspaper men had got up a little 
 welcome for my representative. 
 
 The next morning I received a telegram 
 from him to this effect : "If possible, come at 
 once. Shall expect you on the seven o'clock 
 train. You are needed here." This was signed: 
 "Eugene in the Field." 
 
 I telegraphed that I should be on hand, and 
 as my train sped southward I was consumed 
 with curiosity as to what "Gene" might be 
 up to. 
 
 "Mr. Morrissey? Ah! Yes, Mr. Field has 
 been expecting you." said the clerk when I ar- 
 rived at the hotel. "The boy will show you to 
 his room." As we hurried along the corridor, 
 the sound of numerous voices assailed my ears. 
 The boy paused before the door from behind 
 which the noises came. I knocked, and a sten- 
 
 138 
 
torian voice called: "Come in!" The door- 
 knob was pulled out of my grasp from the 
 other side, and I stood dazed and blinking in 
 a flood of light, in which I wonderingly made 
 out a long table, glistening with a dinner 
 service, and a dozen men hastily rising. At the 
 table's head, in the center of this festive scene, 
 was the lank form of my friend "Gene." On 
 his long face was a wide grin. 
 
 "Gentlemen, the health of Jimmie Morris- 
 sey!" he cried. "You're just in time to help 
 me in my trouble my trouble in holding 
 within bounds these Apaches of the press. 
 And now sit down in the vacant chair, oh, 
 poor traveler, and regale thyself with food and 
 drink." 
 
 It was one of the merriest gatherings in 
 which I ever assisted. Field called me the 
 guest of honor, and delivered an address of 
 welcome that was a most amusing imitation 
 of pompous efforts in this direction. 
 
 "But this is play, Gene," I remarked to him 
 late in the evening, when we were breaking 
 up. "Has has any work been done?" 
 
 "My dear major-general," he replied, "you 
 put me in charge of this campaign, did you 
 not? Let me assure you then that this is only 
 the skirmish before cannonading. The am- 
 
 139 
 
munition is in the guns. This evening I am 
 just supplying the boys with a little of the 
 afflatus that will enable them to properly 
 touch off the fuses. Get up early in the morn- 
 ing and read the papers." 
 
 "Napoleon," I answered smilingly, "I say 
 no more. You are my superior officer. I 
 salute you." 
 
 I did get up early to read the papers. Rhea, 
 Rhea, Rhea ! In a dozen columns I read that 
 alluring name, and in most of them I rec- 
 ognized Field's deft hand. There was a touch 
 of genius in the articles. What he didn't 
 know about my star he had imagined. He 
 told some strange tales about her things that 
 must have happened when she was in some 
 somnambulant state, for she informed me 
 afterward that she had no knowledge of them. 
 But they made most excellent reading. 
 
 "Good-morning, sir ! I hope my efforts have 
 been satisfactory, sir," Field said to me in a 
 tone of mock obsequiousness when he came 
 down to breakfast. 
 
 "Satisfactory?" I exclaimed. "Why, I 
 place a new laurel wreath upon your intellec- 
 tual brow. You are the world's greatest 
 press agent." 
 
 "Crown me not thus," he answered. "I 
 
 140 
 
would sink beneath the weight of such 
 distinction." 
 
 Field's literary cannonading hit St. Louis 
 hard. The people turned out in droves to see 
 the performances of Mile. Rhea. We played 
 to overflowing houses throughout the week. 
 
 Our next "stand" was to be Kansas City, 
 and because it was his old home, and because 
 his brother, Roswell Field, was dramatic 
 editor on a paper there, Eugene decided to 
 accompany us. "Jimmie you strollers lead 
 fascinating lives," he remarked one night. "I 
 think I'm stage-struck. Would I make a 
 Hamlet? Now, don't destroy my budding 
 hopes by saying no. Allow me to dream on." 
 
 By this time my regular advance man, with 
 his plumage smooth again, had returned to 
 the fold, so we no longer had a genius for a 
 press agent; but we had him for the most 
 cheery companion I have ever known. Indeed, 
 in Kansas City he was more than that to me. 
 
 Mile. Rhea, be it known, had a fiery Belgian 
 temper, and one evening she and I had a fall- 
 ing out, as what star and manager do not some- 
 times? She informed me that she would play 
 that week, yes, but no more. On Sunday she 
 would take the train for New York, and I 
 
 141 
 
might fill her place if I could. Meanwhile 
 she would hold no communication with me. 
 Our contract? Nothing but a bit of paper. 
 
 The whole thing had grown out of a mere 
 caprice on her part which I had seen fit not to 
 humor. But some caprices are expensive. 
 This one threatened to cost me thousands of 
 dollars. 
 
 On this account I was blue when Field and I 
 went into a restaurant near the theater after 
 the performance the next night to get a sand- 
 wich. Mademoiselle, with her chief supporter 
 in the feud, was sitting at another table. She 
 bowed to Field, whom she greatly liked, and 
 glared at me. After a period of one-sided con- 
 versation, he suddenly said. 
 
 "Jimmie, it's a shame to see you two good 
 people sulking in opposite corners of the tem- 
 ple. Blessed is the peacemaker! I'm going 
 to make peace with her." 
 
 "Make peace with the deuce !" I blurted out. 
 
 "Well, that's my forte, you know," answered 
 Eugene with a gentle smile. "Excuse me while 
 I go to hold out the olive-branch." 
 
 My chair was sidewise to them; but out of 
 the corner of my eye I watched the process. 
 
 Mademoiselle raised her dark, eloquent orbs 
 when my self-appointed emissary approached 
 
 142 
 
her, and smiled sweetly at him. I suppose this 
 particularly gracious manner was to further 
 emphasize the frigid looks she had cast in my 
 direction. After a moment of the light banter 
 they were accustomed to exchange, Field drew 
 his chair a little nearer to hers, and leaning for- 
 ward began to talk earnestly. 
 
 Rhea immediately drew back her queenly 
 head and looked haughtily. She frowned, knit 
 her eyebrows, made dramatic gestures, and 
 spoke out in quick, excited tones. She was 
 tragedy personified. You would have thought 
 that Field was suggesting some dire deed. 
 Through it all he talked on quietly. At last her 
 demeanor became more calm. Her face as- 
 sumed a listening, thoughtful look. Her eyes 
 were fixed on his. I could see that her expres- 
 sion was growing softer. Finally she smiled 
 outright. He laughed and rose. She looked 
 up at him with another smile, and a shrug 
 which seemed to mean: "As you will, my 
 lord." 
 
 Field came over and touched me on the shoul- 
 der. "It's all right now, old man. She for- 
 gives you, and thinks that, perhaps, after all, 
 she herself may have been a little hasty. She's 
 consented to dress a salad for us in true Bel- 
 gian style. The oil from my olive-branch will 
 
 143 
 
be in the mixture. Come over, and treat her 
 as if there never had been any yawning gap be- 
 tween you." 
 
 Thus was a disastrous parting of the ways 
 avoided, and for the remainder of the tour 
 Mile. Rhea was all graciousness. When, at the 
 end of the week, Field departed for Chicago, 
 it seemed almost as if there had been a death 
 in the company, he left such a vacancy. 
 
 I remember another happening of the Rhea 
 season which, while it had nothing to do with 
 my star, I always have considered interesting. 
 Incidentally, it cost me an overcoat. Ahead of 
 the company, I was traveling alone in one of 
 the Western States of great prairies. It was 
 late in the afternoon, and tired of reading and 
 of gazing out at the trackless plains, I was half- 
 dozing, when I heard the door open and shut 
 quickly, and a man's voice ask anxiously : "Is 
 there a doctor in this car ?" 
 
 Everybody glanced up, but no one confessed 
 to medical attainments. A stalwart young fel- 
 low in cow-boy garb had made the inquiry. 
 He appeared as if he could keep his nerve on 
 most occasions, but it was plain that now he 
 was excited and distressed. He repeated his 
 question, and gazed at us all as if somehow 
 
 144 
 
we were guilty in not being doctors. Realizing 
 that we could be of no assistance, he rushed 
 on without giving any of us a chance to find 
 out what the trouble was. In the car behind 
 us the sound of his urgent question came 
 faintly to me: "Is there a doctor here?" 
 
 A moment later the conductor ran through 
 the car. He, too, appeared perturbed, but his 
 expression also was half a grin. Like the 
 youthful cow-boy, he was in too much of a 
 hurry to answer questions. 
 
 But somehow knowledge from a mysterious 
 sound seemed to come to the three women in 
 our car. I noticed a sort of fluttering among 
 them. Each assumed an important, command- 
 ing air, and one by one they disappeared 
 through the forward door. 
 
 After a considerable interval, one of them, a 
 motherly-looking soul, returned. "It's a girl," 
 she said softly to the old man who was her 
 traveling companion, "and its father says that 
 anyone who wishes to may take a look at it." 
 
 I was one of those who looked, "It's a fine 
 one," I declared, assuming a knowing air. 
 "What are you going to name it?" 
 
 "Why why," stammered the young fellow, 
 "I suppose it's pretty soon to think o' that; but 
 
 145 
 
it did come to me just now that Wyoming/ 
 after this State, would sound kind o' nice." 
 
 "I should say it would !" I answered with en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 "We get off in a few minutes now," re- 
 marked the young fellow, after a pause. 
 
 "You don't mean it?" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes, there's a flag station down the line a 
 piece. I've got a team tethered there. I come 
 up to the city this morning to get my wife. 
 We'll drive over to the ranch house. It's only 
 about ten miles across the plain." 
 
 "Well, well!" was all I could say to this. 
 Then, after a few seconds of silent contempla- 
 tion, I remarked : "But it's getting chilly. Wy- 
 oming will be cold." 
 
 "Do you think so?" replied the father, glanc- 
 ing over at the little bundle anxiously. "I 
 might 'a' brought a lot o' blankets with me, 
 but you see this thing has been kind of sudden 
 and we weren't prepared for it now." 
 
 "Here," I said, "take my overcoat for her. 
 I insist, I've got another in my trunk." 
 
 In a little while the train slowed down and 
 stopped at a small open station that loomed up 
 conspicuously on the treeless plain. Just be- 
 yond was a spring wagon and a pair of sleek 
 horses grazing peacefully. 
 
 146 
 
The conductor held the train while willing 
 hands helped Wyoming and her mother off and 
 stowed them in the wagon. Meanwhile the 
 head of the family had hitched up. He took 
 his seat and waved us a farewell with his whip. 
 The end, for us, of Wyoming and her parents 
 was the wagon, in silhouette against the glow- 
 ing of western sky, moving slowly across the 
 prairie into nowhere. 
 
 147 
 
GENERAL HOWARD CARROLL 
 
 McKEE RANKIN 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MOST PERFECT FOOT IN BOSTON. 
 
 "Hello, Jimmie, you are just the man I want 
 to see." From out of the human stream on 
 Broadway had come suddenly a familiar face, 
 the strong but good-natured one of McKee 
 Rankin. 
 
 "I've got a new play in my pocket," he in- 
 formed me, "and I've been intending to drop 
 in at the theater to give you the privilege of 
 hearing me read it." 
 
 "That's thoughtful of you Rankin," I an- 
 swered banteringly. "I've no doubt your play 
 is great." 
 
 "You've hit the nail square on the head, 
 Jimmie," he replied enthusiastically. "You 
 won't be sarcastic when you hear it, because it 
 is great." 
 
 "Of course, of course ! I suppose you wrote 
 it yourself," I said. 
 
 "No; but I wish I had. The author is a 
 Western poet, Joaquin Miller." 
 
 "Oh, well, as long as it's not one of your 
 own progeny," I laughed, "I'll listen. Well 
 fix the time of my martyrdom at three this 
 afternoon, if you say so." 
 
 151 
 
Despite my jesting, I was glad to listen to 
 any play that McKee Rankin considered good. 
 Promptly at the hour, with a big and ominous 
 roll of manuscript protruding from his side 
 pocket, he arrived at my office in the Broadway 
 Theater, now Daly's, which I was managing 
 for James C. Duff, Augustin Daly's brother-in- 
 law. 
 
 "Before you begin, Rankin," I said, "I want 
 to warn you that I couldn't put the play on 
 here, even if it was a wonder. Duff is in 
 Europe now, you know, and he has engaged 
 Mile. Aimee to open our season, and she prob- 
 ably will have a long run." 
 
 "Now, don't you go trying to pile up moun- 
 tains in the path," answered the actor. "Just 
 give me your close attention. This play," he 
 added, clearing his voice to read, "is called The 
 Danites,' and it's about life in the Rockies." 
 
 Those of my readers among the many thou- 
 sands who since have seen this celebrated 
 drama will recall the climax of the third act, 
 where the villain, furiously jealous because the 
 girl he loves apparently has been receiving 
 attentions from Billie Piper, entices that youth 
 into a lonely canon, with murder in his heart. 
 There is a struggle. Billie, greatly over- 
 matched, sinks down with the exclamation: 
 
 152 
 
"Please give me time to pray!" The villain 
 seizes the white throat and is bending it back 
 in a death grip when he suddenly perceives 
 that Billie is a girl. 
 
 This description of the scene sounds bald 
 enough ; but the incidents leading up to it make 
 it thrilling, and Rankin had read it with great 
 dramatic effect. 
 
 When he finished the act I exclaimed : "You 
 needn't go on with this play! I've heard 
 enough. I'll cable Duff to-day to postpone 
 Aimee's engagement. We'll produce this. It's 
 one of the best I ever heard." 
 
 It was. Not only the stirring dramatic act- 
 ing, but also the striking dialogue, touched with 
 the grace and strength of true poetry, filled me 
 with confidence that "The Danites" would make 
 a deep impression on the public. 
 
 And yet, as every manager is well aware, it 
 is difficult to forecast the drawing power of a 
 play in manuscript. When Rankin had gone 
 and I began to look at the subject coolly, I 
 realized that it was a hazardous proceeding 
 for me to cable Duff to change his plans. I 
 knew Aimee of old, knew that she was bound 
 to make money for us. With this drama, on 
 the other hand, there was, after all, the uncer- 
 tainty which attends every untried production, 
 
 153 
 
however promising. The new scenery would 
 be costly. If, by any chance, this play should 
 fail, I would be undone. Would it be wise for 
 me to assume the responsibility ? Had I better 
 not let well enough alone? Thus for an hour 
 I reasoned with myself, and then cabled Duff 
 that I had found a gold mine. 
 
 This was the way I became first manager of 
 "The Danites." Joaquin Miller came on for 
 the rehearsals. With his flowing hair and beard 
 and untrammeled Western ways, he was a 
 picturesque figure at the theater, more pictur- 
 esque, in fact, than any of our actors in their 
 make-up, and I used to feel that I should like 
 to "stage" him just as he was. But after a 
 visit or two he seldom was with us in our work. 
 The environment did not seem to suit him. 
 
 "You have let us go it pretty much alone, 
 Mr. Miller," I remarked to him one day; "but 
 on the first night you must be prepared to make 
 a speech before the curtain, and also to meet 
 the critics. If my guess is right, they will be 
 glad to know you." 
 
 "What?" he cried. "Make a speech in a 
 New- York theater and meet all those smart 
 fellows on your big papers. I didn't dream 
 that I should have to do all this just because 
 
 154 
 
I tried my hand at playwriting. I think I shall 
 go right back to the Rockies." 
 
 We had a big audience that first night, and 
 by the time the second act was reached knew 
 that our play was all that we had anticipated. 
 McKee Rankin was playing the leading part 
 magnificently, and Mrs. Rankin was making 
 a most effective Billie Piper. 
 
 At the end of the big scene in the third act 
 the good people in front burst into tumultuous 
 applause, and then, as I had expected, they 
 began to shout : "Author, author !" 
 
 I hadn't seen Joaquin that evening. I 
 glanced into the box that had been set aside 
 for him. He was not there. I scanned the 
 house, knowing that if he was present my eyes 
 would not miss the hirsute luxuriance of the 
 bard of the West. I failed to see him. Then 
 I sent boys in half a dozen different directions 
 in search of the missing poet. 
 
 Meanwhile the audience was maintaining in- 
 sistently the call of "Author, author !" Finally 
 the stage-manager went before the curtain and 
 announced that the author was not in the 
 house. This was a mistake. In the fourth act 
 a boy touched me on the elbow. 
 
 "He's up in the gallery, sir, and says he's 
 
 155 
 
going to stay there. He told me you'd have to 
 get a team of oxen to drag him down." 
 
 I made no effort to bring him forth from his 
 safe haven among the gods. Why should I 
 disturb him? He had paid his quarter and 
 climbed the steep stairs, and had a perfect right 
 to remain in his vantage-point up under the 
 roof if he cared to. But I know of no other 
 playwright who would have been so modest as 
 to have thus avoided the first fruits of triumph. 
 
 The next morning, after I had fervently con- 
 gratulated him on the glorious success of the 
 night before, I laughingly asked him why he 
 had hidden from the ovation. 
 
 "It was just that I didn't have the nerve to 
 face the music/' he replied. "I'm not used to it, 
 you know. At first I thought I would stay 
 away altogether ; but I did want to see how the 
 thing went, so I slid in at the side door and 
 climbed up with the boys. You see, I'm accus- 
 tomed to high altitudes. I thought I was safe 
 up there at first, but when they began to call 
 for the author I had one of the worst ten 
 minutes of my life, fearing that some of you 
 fellows would discover me. New- York is too 
 much for me. I'm going to light out for the 
 hills this afternoon, and leave this theatrical 
 business all to you." 
 
 156 
 
'The Danites," as everybody knows, proved 
 to be one of the greatest dramatic successes of 
 a generation. 
 
 Another dramatic production with which I 
 became associated in an accidental way brought 
 a stirring first night; but on this occasion the 
 author did not dodge his honors. 
 
 A New- York train was pulling out of the 
 station at Washington, D. C, when, on passing 
 through a car to my chair, I felt a hand touch 
 my arm. I turned and confronted Howard 
 Carroll, now General Carroll, who at that time 
 recently had been graduated from years of 
 service as the Washington correspondent of 
 "The New- York Times." 
 
 "Trying to give me the go-by, were you, 
 Jimmie?" he said laughingly. "Well, you won't 
 succeed. Sit down here. I want to talk to 
 you. I have a confession to make," he went on, 
 after I had shaken his hand and seated myself. 
 "Prepare for the worst. I've written a play." 
 
 "Good!" I exclaimed. 
 
 "Of course it's a good play," he answered. 
 "Thank you very much for your favorable ver- 
 dict. I presume that you will be pleased to pro- 
 duce it at once. However, it might be just as 
 
 157 
 
well if you first heard it read. I have it right 
 here in my bag." 
 
 "Oh, wait till we get to New-York," I said 
 "How can a man concentrate his mind on a 
 great work of art in a railroad train? But 
 what do you call your play?" 
 
 "The Lorelei," he answered. 
 
 "You'll have to give her another name if 
 you want the people to flock to see her," I 
 informed him. "But we can discuss her name 
 when I hear the play." 
 
 We had dinner together at General Car- 
 roll's home in New- York the next day, and 
 afterward he read me the drama. It was a 
 clever and poetically conceived satire on mar- 
 riages of American girls with titled foreigners, 
 the theme being suggested, he told me, by the 
 alliance between the daughter of John W. 
 Mackay and the Italian Prince Colonna. It 
 was beautifully written. 
 
 "I congratulate you most heartily on your 
 maiden effort as a playwright, General Car- 
 roll," I said at the conclusion of the reading. 
 "I shall produce this play; but as I said on the 
 train we shall have to change the name to 
 something the people can understand. Why 
 not call it The American Countess' ?" 
 
 "Excellent!" said Carroll. "We will. But 
 
 128 
 
where will you produce it here in New- 
 York?" 
 
 "Why," I answered, "I was thinking that 
 our friends down at the Capital deserved the 
 honor of seeing the first presentation. I am 
 managing Mile. Rhea, you know. We play an 
 engagement at the National Theater in Wash- 
 ington. You are so well-known and popular 
 there that the opening with your play would be 
 a big event." 
 
 "Jimmie, it's an inspiration !" exclaimed Car- 
 roll enthusiastically. "President Arthur is my 
 friend. Our first night will be honored by the 
 presence of the head of the nation." 
 
 And so it was arranged. When I read the 
 play to Mile. Rhea, she was delighted with it. 
 We made great preparations for the produc- 
 tion. I had new scenery painted, and Rhea 
 selected from her wardrobe, to wear on the 
 stage for the first time, a gorgeous court cos- 
 tume which had been made for the Queen of 
 Holland, but which, not being entirely satis- 
 factory to the Queen, had been purchased in 
 Europe by my star. 
 
 For the purpose of impressing upon the 
 newspapers the importance of the event, Car- 
 roll and I went to Washington a couple of 
 weeks before the opening. Thanks to his high 
 
 159 
 
favor there, we succeeded admirably in our 
 mission. No dramatic production was ever 
 heralded with a greater flourish of trumpets. 
 
 President Arthur permitted us to use his 
 name. In fact, he stood behind the play as a 
 sort of sponsor. The dramatic editors of the 
 New-York papers came down for the first per- 
 formance. The fashion, culture and brains of 
 Washington were assembled in brave array for 
 the occasion. The President was in a box. It 
 indeed was a gala night. The initial effort of 
 no other budding playwright that I know of 
 was ever launched so auspiciously. 
 
 During the first two acts the brilliant audi- 
 ence showed great appreciation of the well- 
 developed action and fine dialogue, and when 
 the curtain rose on the third act there was a 
 burst of spontaneous applause. This scene 
 showed a ball-room, with a conservatory be- 
 hind, and we were proud of it. The conser- 
 vatory was filled with roses, lilies and other 
 growing flowers from the President's own hot- 
 houses, and the official horticulturist had 
 arranged them so cunningly that they appeared 
 to reach away in a long vista. The theater was 
 pervaded by their fragrance. When Mile. 
 Rhea swept in, managing like a queen the long 
 court train of resplendent yellow, with the 
 
 160 
 
charming bower as her background, the scene 
 was exceedingly charming. 
 
 But Carroll, at this time of triumph, was far 
 from happy. He was pale with nervousness, 
 because, at the end of the third act, he knew 
 that he would be called upon for a speech. To 
 lighten his burden of apprehension, I told him 
 the story of how Joaquin Miller had concealed 
 himself in the gallery the night of the first pro- 
 duction of his play. 
 
 "I can understand it, I can understand it!" 
 cried Carroll. Rather than go out there and 
 face all those people I'd prefer to do as Shake- 
 speare's soldier did, and 'seek the bubble 
 reputation in the cannon's mouth.' I wish, 
 Jimmie, that you had written this play instead 
 of I. When they call for the author, couldn't 
 you go out and say that you did write it, after 
 all?" 
 
 But our playwright gave little evidence of his 
 stage-fright when he stepped before the cur- 
 tain. He bowed first to the President, who 
 immediately rose to his feet and bowed gravely 
 in return. The house broke into applause at 
 this, and General Carroll had time to find his 
 voice, which he speedily did, with most excel- 
 lent effect. He made an extremely happy and 
 clever little speech, 
 
 161 
 
Some months afterward, at Hooley's Theater 
 in Chicago, we gave the one hundredth per- 
 formance of "The American Countess." 
 
 Neither with this play, nor, of course, with 
 "The Danites," was I put to the necessity as 
 managers often are, of devising ways and 
 means of increasing the business. But I need 
 hardly say that there have been occasions when 
 this has been my fate. 
 
 In the early days of the Tribly furore I took 
 the play of that name to Boston, for Mr. 
 William A. Brady, the only manager who took 
 chances of realizing $200,000, and he suc- 
 ceeded. After about a month of our engage- 
 ment, Eugene Tompkins, the owner of the 
 Boston Theater, said to me one morning: 
 
 "Morrissey, business, as you know, is falling 
 off. Can't you think of some way of building 
 it up? We don't want to finish like a dying 
 swan." 
 
 "We certainly do not," I answered. 'Til 
 think it over." The next day I announced my 
 scheme. 
 
 "The souvenir idea is an old one," I said; 
 "but it always brings the women flocking to 
 the theater, and I think that we have a great 
 opportunity with Trilby, who is supposed to 
 
 162 
 
have beautiful feet, you know, to put our 
 feminine friends in a flutter and make them 
 talk a lot about us. My plan is to offer a pair 
 of Trilby slippers, studded with diamonds, to 
 the woman in the audience whom they fit best. 
 And I don't think the diamonds will cost us a 
 cent." 
 
 That day I saw young Eben Jordan, of a 
 large Boston department store. "I figure that 
 the diamonds and slippers will cost, all told, 
 about four hundred dollars," I informed him. 
 "Will you furnish them for the sake of the 
 advertisement? We can display them first on 
 a pedestal in one of your windows." 
 
 The idea appealed to Jordan. He thought 
 that there would be a good deal of fun in the 
 trying on, at any rate, and so, after a little 
 talk, he agreed to supply the diamond slippers. 
 
 We had them made from a model of a 
 perfect foot. They were of pink brocade and 
 gold lace. The diamonds were so affixed as 
 to be easily screwed off and worn where their 
 fortunate winner might desire. Then we 
 prepared a pedestal of black velvet, and 
 upon this, all alone in one of the store's largest 
 windows, we put the Trilby -slippers, were they 
 shone resplendent for several days before the 
 contest. The president of one of New-Eng- 
 
 163 
 
land's largest shoe companies had consented 
 to act as chairman of the trying-on committee. 
 
 There were at least three thousand women 
 in the theater at that matinee, which meant, 
 with premiums, nearly $5,000 for a single per- 
 formance. At the conclusion of the play we 
 lowered a plank across the orchestra inclosure, 
 and invited the contestants, fifty at a time, to 
 come upon the stage. The scene was a pretty 
 drawing-room, and down near the footlights 
 was a gilt chair, with a stool before it, for our 
 Cinderellas. 
 
 As these came up we formed them in a semi- 
 circle around the stage, where they at once 
 removed their shoes and handed them to maids, 
 receiving checks in return. We took special 
 care with this part of our arrangements, desir- 
 ing to avoid the small riot that might result 
 from a mix-up of footwear. 
 
 While this performance was going on at the 
 rear of the stage, Cinderellas in rapid succes- 
 sion were being called to the chair. The presi- 
 dent of the shoe company was doing most of 
 the trying on. Now and then he would rise to 
 get the crick out of his back, and another mem- 
 ber of the committee would bend to the work, 
 but in a moment the chairman would be at it 
 
 164 
 
again. Judging from his zeal, he felt the 
 responsibilities of his position. 
 
 If the pair of feet on the stool wouldn't do 
 at all, the chairman would glance into the 
 anxious eyes above and regretfully shake his 
 head, while one of the committee would say in 
 a tone of personal disappointment: "We are 
 sorry, madam." The defeated one then would 
 get her shoes, put them sadly on, and retire to 
 the audience, where she would be received with 
 gentle jeers and titters by her friends. 
 
 If the feet of the Cinderella went easily into 
 the slippers, the chairman would make a little 
 gratified bow and wave his hand, and one of 
 the others of us would say : "Stand over there, 
 if you please, madam." Then there would be 
 a patter of applause from her adherents out in 
 front. 
 
 After the first trial, there were left on the 
 stage about a hundred owners of shapely feet. 
 After the second, fifty remained. After the 
 third, there was just two surviving. One was 
 an unusually pretty Boston girl of eighteen, 
 and the other a young woman who apparently 
 had come in from a farm. Her face was plain, 
 her hands, I noticed, had been roughened by 
 toil, and her dress, though neat, was of cheap 
 material. She was painfully embarrassed. 
 
 165 
 
By this time the excitement in the audience 
 had become intense. Even on the stage we all 
 were leaning forward eagerly, and the house 
 was hushed as the chairman, a large man with 
 an impressive head, bent over the stool with a 
 frown of concentration on his intellectual brow. 
 
 Several times he had one and then the other 
 of the young women reseat herself in the gilt 
 chair. He was perplexed, and mopped his fore- 
 head. Finally he straightened himself, asked 
 the rivals to take places on either side of the 
 chair, and then drew aside Eugene Tompkins 
 and myself, who were the other members of the 
 committee, for a whispered consultation. 
 
 "It's very difficult to decide between them," 
 he said. Both have remarkably beautiful feet; 
 but the younger one is so much more attrac- 
 tive that I" 
 
 "This is not a contest of faces, but of feet," 
 I interrupted. "It has reached such a fine point 
 now that I have no opinion; but, I should say, 
 let your conscience decide the question." 
 
 "By all means," added Mr. Tompkins. 
 
 With this, our chief judge stepped over to the 
 chair again, and in a strained silence from the 
 throng of intensely interested women, he held 
 out his hand in congratulation to the homely 
 girl from the country. 
 
 166 
 
The orchestra leader, who had been on the 
 alert, instantly began to wave his baton in a 
 lively air. The audience burst into applause, 
 and the girl who had won, her eyes bright with 
 exultation and her cheeks suffused with blushes, 
 sat down in the chair again, to have those per- 
 fect feet of hers incased in the diamond slip- 
 pers. In a few seconds the chairman had 
 given her his arm and, with his back still a 
 little bent from his exertions, but otherwise 
 appearing gallant, he stood before the audience. 
 The music stopped, and he said : 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the young 
 woman whom the diamond slippers, modeled 
 after the ideal classic foot, have fitted best of 
 all. I have the honor to present her to you." 
 
 As I recall the episode, I am glad that the 
 plain, timid girl won the slippers from the fash- 
 ionable Boston women who tried them on. For 
 her, it was the triumph of a lifetime, and Mr. 
 Brady never questioned my Souvenir ideas 
 after that. 
 
 167 
 
ADELINA PATTI 
 
 JOSEPH JEFFERSON 
 
 IGNACE JAN PADEREWSKI 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 AMERICAN AND FOREIGN ART EMBRACE. 
 
 We find few bargains when we shop for 
 blessings in the department store of life, but 
 if we pay the standard price we are apt to get 
 a fair return. Joseph Jefferson had spent a 
 wealth of kindliness, with the result that he re- 
 ceived tokens of the world's good feeling 
 continually. 
 
 I happened to meet him one afternoon in 
 front of the Madison Square Garden, in New- 
 York. After he had greeted me genially, in 
 that slightly drawling voice with which mil- 
 lions of theater-goers are familiar, he asked: 
 
 "What's going on in here, Morrissey?" 
 
 "Why, Paderewski is giving the United 
 States his farewell concert. Haven't you heard 
 him yet?" 
 
 "No, I haven't." 
 
 "Well, come in then, won't you? There is 
 plenty of room in my box. We should be de- 
 lighted to have you." 
 
 "And I'll be delighted to go. I have wanted 
 to hear Paderewski." 
 
 When we entered the box the concert had 
 begun. The audience was sitting hushed under 
 
 171 
 
the spell of sweet sounds that stirred the soul, 
 from a Steinway Grand. But our arrival 
 caused heads to turn. I could see people nudge 
 each other, and say that it was Joseph Jeffer- 
 son who had just come in. For a moment at- 
 tention wandered from the music. It was plain 
 to me that Paderewski, sensitive to slight im- 
 pressions, felt it. He half turned his head, 
 with just a slight suggestion of annoyance. 
 
 But, of course, there was no break in that 
 wonderful flow of music. Jefferson, with the 
 fine instinct that made him desirous not to in- 
 terfere in the slightest degree with the per- 
 formance of another, took a seat as far back irP 
 the box as possible, and in a moment the audi- 
 ence again was under the sway of music that 
 was full of strange whisperings. 
 
 When Paderewski ceased, with a final burst 
 of rhapsody, the rows of statues in the seats 
 suddenly became animate with wild enthusiasm. 
 The pianist bowed distantly, and then glanced 
 toward our box. Jefferson had left his chair, 
 and was leaning recklessly over the railing, 
 clapping his hands with the gusto of a boy. 
 
 Paderewski recognized him. Instantly his 
 abstracted expression changed to smiles, and 
 ignoring now the demonstrative applause in 
 
 172 
 
front, he bowed directly to Jefferson. The 
 latter put fresh impetus into his hand-clapping. 
 The pianist bowed to him again. Jefferson 
 clapped harder still. Once more Paderewski 
 bowed, and in the veteran actor's response it 
 seemed as though he surely would split his 
 gloves. The pianist suddenly laughed, and 
 Jefferson laughed, and the audience laughed. 
 
 Then the latter, realizing that before their 
 eyes was the pretty comedy of two celebrated 
 artists exchanging tributes of appreciation, 
 and each trying to outdo the other, gave vent 
 to a burst of applause that sounded like a sud- 
 den rush of mighty waters. 
 
 It was some moments before the house be- 
 came quiet enough for Paderewski to continue 
 his recital. After it was over, I took Jefferson 
 back to the green-room to meet his fellow con- 
 queror in the field of art, and their hand-grasp 
 was a long one. 
 
 Not only in the high places, but down 
 through every walk of life, are found admirers 
 of Joe Jefferson. 
 
 I was making my way through Madison 
 Square Park one spring afternoon when I 
 heard a shout and saw a commotion. An active 
 boy was scurrying across the grass, and in hot 
 pursuit was a big policeman. The boy dodged 
 
 173 
 
neatly several times ; but the superior length of 
 his pursuer's legs was too much for him, and 
 in a moment he was borne down by the heavy 
 hand of the law. The policeman lifted his cap- 
 tive by the collar and dragged him to the walk, 
 where he stood over him, breathing hard and 
 scowling ferociously. 
 
 "Ye will run on the grass, will ye?" he was 
 saying when I came up. "If ye hadn't given 
 me such a chase I'd let ye go, but now, begorra, 
 I'm goin' to take ye in, ye young scalawag! 
 Come along now ! Ye can cool off in a cell." 
 
 The boy had no defiance left. He was cow- 
 ering and trembling under that firm grip on 
 his collar. I glanced into his frightened face 
 and recognized young William Jefferson. 
 
 "Excuse me, officer," I said, stepping up. "I 
 know this boy. I'm sure he meant no harm. 
 He ran simply because you frightened him. He 
 is the son of Joseph Jefferson." 
 
 The policeman had turned on me belliger- 
 ently ; but at my mention of the name of Jeffer- 
 son his expression changed. 
 
 "What? Ye don't mane to tell me he's the 
 son of Joe Jefferson, the great actor ?" 
 
 "The same," I answered. "His father is 
 playing over at the Garden Theater." 
 
 "Well, now, who'd belaved it?" the police- 
 
 174 
 
man exclaimed, releasing his hold on young 
 Willie's collar and mopping his perspiring 
 brow with a big handkerchief. "Onct on me 
 night off I took the wife to see him 
 in old 'Rip Van Winkle/ and 'twas a fine 
 time we had. So this is his son, is 
 it? Well, I should be hatin' to harm 
 a lad of old Rip's. I suppose, after all, our 
 young friend here was only wantin' a bit o' 
 fun with the cop. I mind how, whin I was a 
 kid, we used to like to do th' same. Ye can 
 run home now, sonny, but ye'd better be 
 thankin' yer stars you've got Rip Van Winkle 
 fer a pop." 
 
 If all players and singers were like Joseph 
 Jefferson, the path of the manager would be 
 always pleasant ; but it would be absurd to ex- 
 pect that average human nature should be like 
 that of a rare man. 
 
 When I was business manager of the Madi- 
 son Square Garden, the president of the com- 
 pany, Frederick K. Sturgis, said to me one day : 
 
 "Mr. Morrissey, I wish we could get some 
 big event here besides the horse show that 
 fashionable people would attend." 
 
 "How would a great musical festival do?" 
 I asked. 
 
 175 
 
"Excellent ! But who would you get as our 
 chief singer?" 
 
 "Why, Patti. Her engagement at the Met- 
 ropolitan Opera House will soon be over, and 
 I am -sure that she can be persuaded to remain 
 for a week or two longer on this side of the 
 Atlantic. I also can arrange for a large 
 orchestra, eminent soloists and a great chorus, 
 and these will make a most impressive en- 
 semble. Even if Patti's voice is not strong 
 enough to fill the Garden, we can carry the peo- 
 ple away on big waves of music." 
 
 "Fine, Morrissey!" exclaimed Mr. Sturgis. 
 "Go ahead. I leave the affair in your hands." 
 
 Half an hour later I sent my card to Mme. 
 Patti at the Hoffman House. In her soft voice, 
 with its touch of Italian intonation, she in- 
 formed me of her pleasure at our meeting. I 
 got down to business without delay. Upon 
 what terms, I asked her, would she sing at a 
 series of three concerts in the Madison Square 
 Garden. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Morrissey, I do want so to re- 
 turn to my dear home in Wales ! I am so tired ! 
 I am but a weak woman, you know. And yet, 
 I love the dear Americans. It gives me much 
 pleasure to gratify you, and so I think I might 
 be willing to sing for you, to please you, for 
 
 176 
 
what shall we say five thousand dollars a con- 
 cert ? Yes, I will say that. My arrival at my 
 beloved home will be delayed; but I cannot 
 forget that you are Americans, who have been 
 so good to me, who are asking me to sing." 
 
 Madame Patti need not have assured me 
 that she was not forgetting that it was Ameri- 
 cans who were requesting this favor, because 
 if she had forgotten she would not have men- 
 tioned that little sum of five thousand dollars 
 a concert, since abroad she often sings for less. 
 I knew this well; but I bowed low in recogni- 
 tion of her sacrifice and said smilingly: 
 
 "Madame, you are very kind. I realize that 
 it is asking much of you to change your plans, 
 and have only had the courage to do so be- 
 cause there are many thousands of Americans 
 who are eager to hear your marvelous voice. 
 It is in their interest that I have spoken." 
 
 Madame bowed and smiled most sweetly. "I 
 appreciate your feeling in the matter, Mr. 
 Morrissey." 
 
 "And, now," I continued, "I shall go to my 
 office and make out a contract, which I im- 
 mediately shall bring back for your signature, 
 Madame Patti, so that we can dispose of tire- 
 some business questions at once." 
 
 "Very well," she answered, "I shall await 
 
 177 
 
your coming. I think you have the gift of in- 
 sight, Mr. Morrissey, to know that I like to 
 keep my mind free from business. It is so dif- 
 ferent from the things of art. I have so very 
 little knowledge of it." 
 
 She extended her delicate hand with a 
 charming smile, and murmured a sweet au 
 revoir. 
 
 My friend, the late Henry Villard, more 
 than once had advised me to make contracts as 
 short as possible, so I drew up a brief docu- 
 ment, and in a little while again was smiling 
 and bowing in Madame Patti's sitting room. 
 
 "This will be quite, quite satisfactory, Mr. 
 Morrissey," she said, glancing over the paper 
 with prettily knitted brows," only there is just 
 one little thing I have forgot. A woman, you 
 know," she went on with a deprecatory little 
 smile, "cannot be expected to remember every- 
 thing in business, as you men can. Is it not 
 so, Mr. Morrissey?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly," I answered. 
 
 "Now that I have made my little apology," 
 she continued gaily, "I want to say that I was 
 so inconsiderate as to forget my poor sec- 
 retary." Her voice here took on a touch of 
 pathos. "He has been away from his dear 
 family in Italy so long, so long! He will be 
 
 178 
 
much grieved when he hears that he must 
 wait still longer before clasping his sweet 
 children in his arms, and so I thought after 
 you had gone that it would be pleasant if we 
 could do something for him. Let us say then, 
 that our little agreement be for six thousand 
 dollars a concert, instead of five." 
 
 "Madame," I exclaimed, with feeling and 
 admiration in my voice, "you are very thought- 
 ful ! I am touched by your mention of the dis- 
 appointment of your secretary, and agree with 
 you, of course, that we should do what little 
 we can to mitigate it. By all means, let us 
 make it six thousand. Give me the paper, and 
 I shall change the figures." 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry, sorry to put you to this 
 trouble!" madame remarked in a voice of 
 deep solicitude, as I carefully changed the five 
 in the contract to a six. 
 
 "It is nothing," I replied, "just putting one 
 little number in place of another. A mere 
 stroke of the pen. There, it is done now ! I 
 sincerely hope that it saves your secretary too 
 much suffering." 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Morrissey," cried the prima donna 
 with enthusiasm, "it is good to arrange these 
 little business matters with a man of feeling! 
 
 179 
 
You, too, have the artistic temperament ! Is it 
 not true?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not, madame," I answered 
 sadly. "If I was endowed with it as you are I 
 should be rich." 
 
 With a further exchange of compliments, 
 we bade each good-by. I arranged for a 
 chorus of a thousand voices and an orchestra 
 of one hundred, conducted by Arditi. The 
 choral singing under Chapman filled the Gar- 
 den with majestic surge of music, and per- 
 haps was even more impressive than Patti's 
 voice. But still she was at the height of her 
 powers, and undoubtedly it was the influence 
 of her name that brought throngs of people to 
 the Garden. 
 
 At the last concert, on a Saturday afternoon, 
 we took in the largest receipts on record for a 
 musical entertainment. The amount was 
 seventeen thousand dollars; and as I counted 
 this money I began to think that possibly we of 
 the management, after all, had a shade of that 
 artistic temperament which Patti mentioned. 
 
 Association with those who are highly en- 
 dowed with this temperament has its excite- 
 ments. Richard Mansfield was playing an 
 early-summer engagement at the Garden 
 
 180 
 
Theater, where I was business manager for T. 
 Henry French, who then was in Europe. 
 
 Between the first and second acts of "Prince 
 Karl" one afternoon I received a message from 
 the distinguished actor that he would like to 
 see me in his dressing-room. 
 
 When I entered he was sitting before his 
 mirror, engrossed in putting finishing touches 
 to his make-up. 
 
 "Mr. Morrissey," he remarked in an irri- 
 tated voice, "what is that horrible noise?" 
 
 "Why, I hear no noise, Mr. Mansfield," I 
 replied, much surprised. 
 
 "Oh, listen, listen intently, and you will hear 
 it. During the last act it has annoyed me tre- 
 mendously. It must be stopped !" 
 
 I proceeded to listen, and finally caught a 
 faint tapping sound, like the ticking of a watch 
 under one's pillow. 
 
 "Ah, you hear it now!" exclaimed Mansfield 
 in a tone of triumph. "I cannot stand it. It 
 distracts me. Unless it is stopped the audi- 
 ence must be dismissed." 
 
 I went out to the street to ascertain the 
 source of this terrible noise, and down at the 
 other end of the block saw a large crowd view- 
 ing the new Diana for the tower rise slowly in 
 the air. I approached, and saw that Stanford 
 
 181 
 
White himself, the architect of the Garden, a 
 man celebrated in his profession, was superin- 
 tending the difficult work. A group of the 
 board of directors of the Madison Square Gar- 
 den Company, who had been holding a meet- 
 ing that afternoon, were watching its pro- 
 gress. 
 
 On the ledges of the little windows of the 
 tower men were engaged in preventing the 
 goddess from hurting herself against the wall 
 as she rose. The sound that had so disturbed 
 and inflamed Mansfield was the little clicking 
 of the hoisting derrick. I went back and ex- 
 plained the situation to him. 
 
 "Either that noise must cease at once or the 
 play must stop !" he remarked in the acid tones 
 that he knew so well how to use. 
 
 I realized that I should have to take some 
 action, and so I walked down the block again. 
 When I reached the crowd I hesitated. There 
 obviously was no way out of the difficulty 
 except to ask Mr. White if the work could not 
 be discontinued temporarily ; but the reason for 
 making this presumptuous request seemed to 
 me so trivial that I hardly could muster cour- 
 age to ask it. 
 
 I positively was embarrassed when I finally 
 decided to execute my mission and haltingly 
 
 182 
 
stepped up to the architect, with whom I was 
 well acquainted. 
 
 He listened with an expression of astonish- 
 ment on his face when I told him that Mans- 
 field had said that he would dismiss his audi- 
 ence if the noise caused by the hoisting of the 
 goddess did not cease. 
 
 "Does he really mean it?" asked Mr. White. 
 
 "He certainly does." 
 
 "Well, I'm sorry, but the thing can't be done. 
 We must get the figure in place while there is 
 plenty of light. It's a ticklish job for those 
 men up in the air, and they must finish it be- 
 fore they come down. I should like to accom- 
 modate Mr. Mansfield, but in this case it is 
 impossible." 
 
 I had expected this, and turned to go, 
 mentally preparing myself for the distasteful 
 ordeal of dismissing the audience, when the 
 architect said: 
 
 "I suppose he really would send all of those 
 people away. It would be too bad, when you 
 have such a large audience. We must make 
 allowances for the high nervous tension of 
 genius, I guess, and so I'll see what can be 
 done." 
 
 What he did was to give orders to suspend 
 operations until the conclusion of the matinee, 
 
 183 
 
and the goddess dangled ingloriously in the 
 air, half-way to her pedestal, while the play 
 went on. 
 
 184 
 
HENRY WARD BEECHER 
 
 ANTON SEIDL 
 
 THEODORE THOMAS 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 A CONTEST FOR SUPREMACY. 
 
 That the baton of Theodore Thomas has 
 been laid down means the loss to the United 
 States of one of its most important musical in- 
 fluences. In music Thomas was a pathfinder. 
 He led many thousands across frivolous rills 
 of music to high place where they could hear 
 and appreciate the ocean-like surge of great 
 compositions. 
 
 His nature, strong and deep, caused him to 
 have little regard for musical trivialities. 
 There was a kinship between him and such 
 men as Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Liszt, Wag- 
 ner; and through the medium of his orchestra 
 he interpreted their music with a fervor, un- 
 derstanding and persistency that lifted the 
 American public to a higher plane of musical 
 culture. In) this work he was followed by 
 others but he was the pioneer. 
 
 I remember him well in the old days, at the 
 beginning of his career as an orchestra leader. 
 Often I used to go to hear the concerts which 
 he gave in Stein way Hall on Four teen th-st, 
 New- York. Even then, in his comparative 
 youth, he was a masterful figure. His control 
 of his musicians was absolute. He conducted 
 
 187 
 
with the simplicity and seriousness of manner 
 which marked his work to the end, and which 
 brought it out in strong relief against the af- 
 fectation and ostentation of some other orches- 
 tra leaders. 
 
 But I believe that all men, however great, 
 have periods when their careers seem to stag- 
 nate, when the world wearies a little of the 
 tension of notice their strength demands, and, 
 relaxing, turns to others. 
 
 I know that this was true of Theodore 
 Thomas. I had become well acquainted with 
 him during the years he conducted in Central 
 Park Garden, where a riding academy now 
 stands. Afterward, for a long time, our paths 
 did not cross ; but one spring day in the early 
 nineties I happened to meet him on the street. 
 
 "I am going to leave New- York," he in- 
 formed me. "I have remained here too long, 
 Mr. Morrissey. The people have become tired 
 of me. New-Yorkers are eager for new faces, 
 and so we veterans must pass along. If we are 
 wise, we go before the signs that we have 
 worn out our welcome become too un- 
 mistakable." 
 
 He said this smilingly, with a twinkle in his 
 keen eyes, but behind his half-jesting manner 
 I could detect much feeling. 
 
 188 
 
"You will pardon me, Mr. Thomas/' I said 
 protestingly ; "but I am sure you are wrong. 
 There are few men who haven't good reason 
 to envy your standing with the intelligent and 
 cultivated people of this city. It will be a great 
 loss to have you leave us." 
 
 The smile on his strong face deepened. My 
 words pleased him, for the reason, I think, that 
 they had the ring of the sincerity that was be- 
 hind them. "It's good of you, Morrissey, to 
 say these things, but whether they are true or 
 not, I feel that I need a new environment. I 
 have my eyes fixed on Chicago." 
 
 "When do you go?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, not in some months yet, not until fall." 
 
 An idea struck me, and I ,said quickly : "I 
 am business manager of the Madison Square 
 Garden. Would you mind dropping in on me 
 at my office in the tower sometime to-morrow ? 
 The truth is, I don't think you ought to be per- 
 mitted to leave New- York so easily as you have 
 planned." 
 
 Thomas glanced at me questioningly. 
 
 "I shall explain myself to-morrow," I said 
 smilingly; "but prepare yourself for a propo- 
 sition." 
 
 He laughed and promised to call. 
 
 "It is not in keeping with your brilliant 
 
 189 
 
career in New- York, Mr. Thomas/' I said to 
 him the next day at my office, "to steal away 
 without a sound. If this is the last act, as far 
 as the metropolis is concerned, let us make its 
 end a climax; let the curtain go down to a 
 full house and with a great ensemble of music/' 
 
 Thomas listened intently to my enthusiastic 
 talk, of which the upshot was the drawing up 
 of a contract for a three months' season of sum- 
 mer-night concerts in the Madison Square 
 Garden. 
 
 "I will tell you frankly/' he remarked when 
 he was leaving, "that I doubt the financial suc- 
 cess of this venture. People don't care much 
 for classic music in the summer, and they are 
 tired of Thomas." 
 
 "Before long you will think differently," I 
 replied. 
 
 For the Thomas concerts we formed a 
 three-cornered partnership between the Madi- 
 son Square Garden Company, Chickering & 
 Sons and myself. The concerts were a great 
 success. Thomas, gratified to find that New- 
 York was not so fickle as he had thought, was 
 in high spirits all that summer. There were 
 evenings when he so gave himself up to the 
 spirit of the great tone poets that he con- 
 ducted like a veritable god of music. It was 
 
 190 
 
a magician's wand that he waved over his 
 orchestra. It responded to him, a wonder- 
 fully harmonious unit, as if beneath a spell. 
 Thomas, in truth, had an almost hypnotic 
 faculty for command, but under the mask of a 
 manner of some austerity there was a wealth 
 of feeling. This was illustrated to me more 
 than once, but was particularly manifest the 
 night we gave him a testimonial concert. It 
 was toward the end of the season. The Gar- 
 den was crowded to the doors that night. 
 Emma Abbott was our soloist. 
 
 In connection with her, by the way, I re- 
 member a rather interesting little incident of 
 the concert. She wore a long train, and when 
 after her songs she started to leave the plat- 
 form in the center of the amphitheater the 
 train caught on something. It was too big an 
 affair for a little woman to manage, anyway. 
 Thomas saw her difficulty. He stepped down 
 quickly from where he had been conducting, 
 gathered up the silken superfluity, and with 
 the bow and smile of a courtier motioned her 
 to proceed. She turned around, made him a 
 charming little courtesy, and then moved 
 gracefully down the steps and along the aisle 
 between the chairs, her cavalier following with 
 the train. Emma seemed a queen, and Thomas 
 
 191 
 
had the appearance of a knight of the days of 
 chivalry, except for his evening clothes. These 
 rather marred the picture for the eye; but it 
 was plain to everyone that there was chivalry 
 in his heart, and the great audience burst into 
 spontaneous applause. 
 
 After the concert we gave a supper at Del- 
 monico's for the conductor. He had begun his 
 career as an orchestra leader years before un- 
 der the auspices of William Steinway, and at 
 this supper the latter made a speech, in which, 
 besides referring in terms of high eulogy to 
 our guest of honor, he carried us back to for- 
 mer nights of triumph. We heard again the 
 music and the voices of other days. 
 
 I was sitting near Thomas, and could see 
 that he was greatly affected. When he rose 
 to reply the light glistened on moisture in his 
 eyes, and before he had finished telling how 
 deeply he felt about the friendship that had 
 been extended to him in New- York, and how 
 he regretted leaving the associations which 
 meant so much to him, there were many other 
 eyes at those long tables that were not dry. 
 We saw that night a new phase of the char- 
 acter of Theodore Thomas. 
 
 After the supper I hurried back to the 
 Garden to assist in the counting up. Not long 
 
 192 
 
afterward Thomas went to Chicago, where, as 
 is well-known, he repeated his New- York 
 successes and spread his uplifting influence in 
 the sphere of music. The concerts at the Madi- 
 son Square Garden were the last he ever gave 
 in the Metropolis with his own orchestra. 
 
 I had my eyes open the next spring for an- 
 other orchestra leader for summer concerts at 
 the Garden and again, by a chance meeting on 
 Broadway, I found my man. 
 
 "Hello, Morrissey, how are you?" It was 
 a hearty voice that sounded in my ears, and 
 wheeling about, I looked into the round face of 
 Patrick S. Gilmore. 
 
 "Why," I exclaimed, "I thought you were 
 in Boston! What are you doing here?" 
 
 "I was in Boston, Morrissey; but the Hub 
 and I have parted company. About all that I 
 am doing here can be summed up by the word 
 nothing?" 
 
 "What have you in view?" 
 
 "Again echo answers nothing," laughed 
 Gilmore. 
 
 "This is providential!" I exclaimed. "Have 
 you time to come over to Madison Square 
 Garden with me?" 
 
 "I am killing time; bu I think I can spare 
 
 193 
 
a few minutes. I never have been in Madison 
 Square Garden in my life," Gilmore told me as 
 we walked across the park, "and yet the build- 
 ing that stood on the same site was called Gil- 
 more's Garden. Times are not what they 
 were, Morrissey." 
 
 "They are better/' I said. "Wait till you 
 see this building. With all due respect to you, 
 it is a big improvement on Gilmore' s Garden. 
 
 "Perhaps so," he answered; "but Gilmore 
 couldn't have a garden named after him nowa- 
 days. The fact is, I seemed to have been edged 
 out of the arena, and am having some difficulty 
 in locating the door through which I can pass 
 in again." 
 
 "I will show it to you," I said quickly. 
 "That's what I brought you over here for." 
 
 Before going up to my office in the tower we 
 took a little trip through the Garden. My com- 
 panion was much pleased with it. "All it needs 
 is a Gilmore," he laughed. 
 
 "Exactly," I answered. In my office we 
 talked over the subject, and drew up an agree- 
 ment for a season of summer concerts. Gil- 
 more gathered 'together his band, and within 
 two weeks had begun an engagement which 
 was continued in the summer for three years. 
 Afterward he conducted for a number of sea- 
 
 194 
 
sons at Manhattan Beach. Here and at the 
 Garden he scored perhaps the greatest tri- 
 umphs of his career. 
 
 Summer orchestral concerts at Madison 
 Square Garden had become almost an institu- 
 tion when our contract with Gilmore expired, 
 and since he had signed for a season at the sea- 
 shore it behooved me to find another leader. I 
 procured Anton Seidl, a fine musician, as every- 
 body knows. He much resembled Theodore 
 Thomas in the respect that all his preference 
 was for music of the highest class. Indeed, he 
 continued in New- York his great predecessor's 
 work of educating the musical taste of the peo- 
 ple. Yet he was willing to tickle the ears of 
 his audience with light and jaunty airs. He 
 happily combined the classic and the popular, 
 and his success at the Garden was at least 
 equal to that of the others. 
 
 I used to be hurrying through the streets to 
 the home of Seidl at a time when the birds 
 were caroling their first songs and the fresh- 
 ness of extreme youth was on the day. Sleepy 
 housemaids would be coming out with brooms 
 to sweep the sidewalk, boys would be deliver- 
 ing papers, and tradesmen unbarring their 
 doors, as I passed along. But I did not ap- 
 
 195 
 
preciate these touches in the awakening of a 
 great city, because I knew that at nine o'clock 
 our printer would be clamoring for the copy 
 for the program of the evening concert, which 
 yet was to be prepared. 
 
 Seidl, after the first few days of the engage- 
 ment, fell into the habit of making this out in 
 bed. While propped up among the pillows, he 
 would scribble the selections on slips of paper, 
 and then go back to sleep. I hadn't seen the 
 sparkle of early morning in some years before 
 that summer, and hope it did me good. 
 
 As I look back, I am impressed by the good 
 fortune of the management of the Madison 
 Square Garden in enlisting the services of 
 these three men. Now that they are dead, and 
 we can view them and their work somewhat in 
 perspective, we see that each, in his sphere, was 
 representative, and was possessed of a profes- 
 sional and personal individuality that lifted 
 them far above the average. Indeed, they 
 reached the highest level of influence and 
 achievement that orchestra leaders in this 
 country have yet attained. 
 
 In thinking of them, I am reminded of the 
 part Henry Ward Beecher played in a testi- 
 monial concert which I arranged for a musical 
 
 196 
 
conductor, Bernard Mollenhauer. The latter 
 led the orchestra in Booth's Theater, and was 
 so conscientious in his work that toward the 
 end of one of the seasons at this house we de- 
 cided to give him a benefit, and to make it as 
 great a success as possible I went over to 
 Brooklyn to ask Mr. Beecher if he would not 
 read, to orchestral acompaniment, Collins' 
 "Ode to the Passions," which he had rendered 
 with great success not long before. 
 
 I was received with great cordiality by Mr. 
 Beecher. It was a cold winter morning, I 
 recollect, and on this account, I suppose, he 
 suggested a little sherry. Over our glasses we 
 discussed the question of his reading. I told 
 him that we had been undecided whether to 
 ask him or Edwin Booth, but finally had con- 
 cluded that he was the man we wanted. 
 
 "Am I to infer from this," he inquired 
 laughingly, "that you regard me as the better 
 actor? Mr. Booth and I were rival attrac- 
 tions, to use the theatrical term, in Chicago not 
 long ago, and I was surprised to learn that I 
 drew more people than he did, which I re- 
 garded, of course, as a highly complimentary 
 circumstance. I am turning my drawing 
 power into money for the church, and will 
 give the reading for five hundred dollars." 
 
 197 
 
This was perfectly satisfactory to me, and 
 so Mr. Beecher, with the accompaniment of an 
 orchestra of seventy-five, read Collins' "Ode 
 to the Passions," as it rarely had been read 
 before. 
 
 198 
 
FRANK TILFORD 
 
 EMMA JUCH 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A GRAND MUSICAL FESTIVAL. 
 
 Some critics have said that managers are not 
 always entirely frank with the public when 
 they announce extra matinees. Indeed, these 
 critics insist that though the manager may in- 
 vite other theatrical companies and call it a 
 "professional performance"; he may scatter 
 tickets broadcast among the clergy with the 
 avowed purpose of having the ministers see for 
 themselves that his play is altogether uplifting 
 and inspiring ; he may throw open his doors to 
 the children and stand in the lobby smiling be- 
 nignly on his little guests as they flock in al- 
 ways behind this fine hospitality there is the 
 appreciation of the value of this method of 
 stimulating public interest in the attraction 
 and bringing paying guests to the box-office 
 window. 
 
 This kind of criticism, I am free to confess, 
 was what was chiefly in my mind in Baltimore 
 when I decided that his fellow-players in that 
 vicinity should have an opportunity to observe 
 and profit by the finished art of Sir Charles 
 Wyndham at Ford's Opera House. I well knew 
 that the announcement that on a certain day 
 
 201 
 
we should give a "professional matinee" would 
 not only cause fresh talk in the newspapers and 
 at dinner-tables, but also would draw to that 
 performance many of those rather ingenuous 
 theater-goers who take an acute interest in 
 viewing actors and actresses off the stage, and 
 seemed never to get over a feeling of mild sur- 
 prise that they are like ordinary mortals, after 
 all. 
 
 The public came in goodly numbers that aft- 
 ernoon, and I am sure that they felt well re- 
 paid in the opportunity to bask in the profes- 
 sional atmosphere that was introduced into the 
 house by the stage people. Between the acts 
 there was constant visiting among the boxes 
 and between little parties in the orchestra 
 chairs. The enthusiastic greetings, the kisses, 
 handshakes, easy exchange of first names and 
 of theatrical gossip gave the assemblage the air 
 of a social function, and there was that pleas- 
 ant flow of comradeship across the footlights 
 that sometimes is in evidence when a consider- 
 able number of players are in the house. 
 
 All this evidently was edifying to the "out- 
 siders," who no doubt felt that they were in 
 close touch, for the time, with the alluring 
 realm of the theater. Yet it was a mere surface 
 manifestation of the good-fellowship and buoy- 
 
ancy of people of the stage. It did not compare 
 in interest with the little foregathering of some 
 of us an hour before. 
 
 On the previous day I had invited one of 
 Daniel Frohman's companies, which was play- 
 ing in Baltimore, to attend our performance, 
 and then had gone over to Washington to an- 
 nounce to the principal members of the Bos- 
 tonians, who were at the National Theater 
 there, that our latch-string was out. 
 
 I first called on Stilson Hutchins, proprietor 
 and editor of "The Washington Post," who as- 
 sured me that he would be delighted to take 
 an afternoon off to see our play in Baltimore 
 in company with the good people I had in mind 
 as guests. In fact, he was so pleased by the 
 prospect of this little lark that he said he would 
 like to go the rounds with me while I extended 
 the invitations. 
 
 We hailed a cab and made morning calls at 
 the several stopping places of the principals in 
 the Bostonians. We also looked in for a 
 moment at the Capitol, and invited Congress- 
 men "Sunset" Cox and Amos Cummings. 
 Hutchins suggested as an acquisition to the 
 party Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, whom 
 he described as a young author bound to make 
 her mark. We called upon and invited her, 
 
 203 
 
and then arranged with the railroad people for 
 a special train of two drawing-room cars. Our 
 last move in the preparations was one of the 
 most important. We dropped in at Chamber- 
 lain's, and saw John himself about the luncheon 
 to be served aboard the train. 
 
 The next morning I again went to Wash- 
 ington to act the pleasant part of host. My 
 guests were all assembled when, at half-past 
 twelve, the locomotive and two cars backed up 
 to the station platform. The woftnen were 
 Adelaide Phillips, Jessie Barlett Davis, Mrs. 
 Burnett, Geraldine Ulmar, Marie Stone and 
 Miss Ober (who was the original organizer of 
 the Bostonians, under the name of the Boston 
 Ideals, and who then was managing the com- 
 pany with great ability). 
 
 As a setting for these fair ones, we had 
 Myron Whitney (the great basso), Henry 
 Clay Barnabee, W. H. McDonald, "Sunset" 
 Cox, Amos Cummings, Harry Rapley (pro- 
 prietor of the National Theater), and some 
 others. 
 
 Since I knew that the trip to Baltimore 
 would be all too short, I had given orders that 
 the luncheon be ready to serve, and so when we 
 boarded the train the tables were glistening 
 and the waiters stood at "attention." We lost 
 
 204 
 
no time in going into action. With the land- 
 scape sliding by swiftly we despatched that 
 luncheon. Toward its close somebody pro- 
 posed the health of the host, and I bowed mod- 
 estly. This was the beginning. We drank 
 the health of everybody, made Mr. Cox deliver 
 a speech, and compelled Amos Cummings to 
 tell some stories, which he did as only Amos 
 could. We had begun a round robin of anec- 
 dotes, punctuated with gusts of laughter, when 
 Sam Studley, the musical director of the Bos- 
 tonians, discovered in the other car an upright 
 piano. "Last call for the concert in the music- 
 car I" he announced loudly in the doorway. We 
 filed in, and he began to make the piano ring- 
 above the roar of the train with a wild tune 
 from "The Pirates of Penzance." We all be- 
 gan to sing. Some of us were accomplished 
 singers, and some were far from it, but nobody 
 was deterred by a lack of vocal ability from 
 lifting up his voice. We caroled with such fer- 
 vor that gatemen at the crossings grinned as 
 they lowered their flags, and people in houses 
 along the line came running to the windows, 
 and placid cows in meadows raised their heads 
 in mild amazement. 
 
 But we cared not for the opinion of the cows. 
 The swift spirit of the rushing train was in 
 
 205 
 
our veins. We skipped nimbly from one air 
 to another, with Studley pounding the piano 
 furiously all the while. He struck into a fast 
 waltz, and we began to dance. Then we burst 
 into song again. At the stations as we shot by 
 we had quick visions of people standing rigid 
 with astonishment. They had heard us com- 
 ing, and we must have left behind a trail of 
 music. I have no idea that any such train ever 
 had passed along the road before. I am sure 
 that our conductor and brakeman never had 
 had any company like ours as passengers. 
 They stood in the door, our sole audience, with 
 smiles of wonder on their faces. 
 
 But in the midst of this hilarious concert on 
 the train the locomotive whistle joined the 
 chorus with a long shriek. It well might have 
 been a shriek of protest, but it was merely an- 
 nouncing that Baltimore was at hand. We 
 alighted from that train tired out from song 
 and laughter, but we had had a glorious hour. 
 Of all those of my life I remember none more 
 filled with abandonment to the merrymaking 
 spirit. Only children, I may say in passing, 
 yield to this spirit as readily as do stage folk, 
 which accounts, perhaps, for some of the fail- 
 ings of the latter in the eyes of the world at 
 large. 
 
 206 
 
QUEEN VICTORIA 
 
 ZELIE DE LUSSAN 
 
I was particularly glad to have the Boston- 
 ians with me that day, because I long had taken 
 a special interest in the company. This was 
 due to the fact that its first important prima 
 donna was Zelie de Lussan, an old friend of 
 mine. Zelie, despite her name, was a New 
 York girl. She was graduated from the fam- 
 ous public school on Twelfth street, and had a 
 rapid rise as a singer. 
 
 While successful in this country, she has 
 scored her greatest triumphs in England, not 
 the least of which were commands, on several 
 occasions, to sing before Queen Victoria at 
 Windsor Castle. She is said to have enjoyed 
 this honor more times than any other singer, 
 with the exception of Madam Albani, who also 
 began her professional career in the United 
 States, having been educated in Albany, from 
 which city she adapted her stage name, Albani. 
 
 Zelie de Lussan has told me that the Queen's 
 preferences in music were not exactly those of 
 one deeply versed in it. She liked simple, 
 catchy airs the best, and never tired of the 
 same ones. Her favorite operas were "Mar- 
 tha," "The Daughter of the Regiment," and 
 "The Lily of Killarney," and almost invariably 
 it was from these that Zelie was asked to sing 
 when she was summoned to Windsor Castle. 
 
 207 
 
She is still in harness, being one of the prima 
 donnas in the Moody-Manners Opera Com- 
 pany, which is popular in the English prov- 
 inces. 
 
 It is a well-known fact that singers and 
 players retain their popularity in Great Britain 
 much longer than they do in this country. 
 Here the newest stars are hailed with an ac- 
 claim that drowns the voices of the favorites 
 of the past. Those who can point to successes 
 of twenty years ago usually have to rest con- 
 tent with these. In the swift rushing of the 
 stream they are left in eddies. But the English 
 do not so easily forget their idols. 
 
 It was sometime ago, for instance, that 
 Madam Albani burst into the flower of prima 
 donnahood. She married Ernest Gye, impres- 
 ario of Covent Garden, London, and was prima 
 donna assoluta there when Emma Abbott made 
 her English debut at Covent Garden. In fact, 
 it was because Madam conceived a great fond- 
 ness for the little American girl that she pre- 
 vailed upon her husband, the impresario, to 
 give Emma her London opportunity. This was 
 not yesterday, and yet Madam Albani still is 
 singing with success in concert in Great 
 Britain. 
 
There is nothing I have disliked more since I 
 began to "strut my hour" upon the stage of life 
 than "rest" during the summer months, when 
 so many theater doors are boarded up. I have 
 tried to avoid this period of inglorious ease, 
 and usually have succeeded. One summer my 
 desire for activity led to an idea for a musical 
 festival at Saratoga. I gathered together a 
 concert company, in which the principals were 
 Emma Juch (now Mrs. Francis Wellman), 
 Teresa Carreno (the celebrated pianist), Ro- 
 salba Beecher (a relative of the great pulpit 
 orator), Signor Brignoli, Signor Tagliapietra 
 and Signor Tomasi. Then I went to Colonel 
 Mapleson, who had come to this country after 
 great success as an impresario in England, and 
 told him that I wanted to use his name in con- 
 nection with my company, and after naming 
 its leading members, asked him what it would 
 cost me to open in Saratoga under the prestige 
 of his great reputation. The Colonel was in 
 jovial mood that day. 
 
 "My dear boy," he said, "it needn't cost you 
 a cent. You have a concert organization that I 
 would be proud of, and will be glad to father. 
 If you make money, you may send me a check 
 for any amount you think proper, if you feel 
 
 209 
 
like it. If you don't make money, you may for- 
 get all about it, and so will I." 
 
 Thus it was that I took the Mapleson Oper- 
 atic Company to Saratoga. But before com- 
 pleting arrangements I had canvassed the vil- 
 lage among those who had gone to that gay 
 resort to drink the waters and other beverages, 
 and had received some large subscriptions. 
 Judge Hilton, who was managing the Grand 
 Union Hotel for the A. T. Stewart estate, ap- 
 preciated the fact that concerts of the quality I 
 purposed to give would be a good thing for the 
 town and for his hotel, and had gone into the 
 venture with me to the extent of a thousand 
 dollars. Thomas F. Gilroy, afterward Mayor 
 of New York City, had told me that he would 
 guarantee me against any loss. Some others 
 likewise had been liberal. 
 
 Everything augured success when I went to 
 Saratoga for the final preparations; but still I 
 had a perplexity. Emma Juch had expressed 
 a strong desire to sing "The Inflammatus," 
 from "The Stabat Mater," and because I ad- 
 mired her greatly both as a singer and as a 
 woman I was keenly anxious to please her. 
 But how it could be done was a difficult prob- 
 lem, since "The Inflammatus/' to be rendered 
 with anything like the effectiveness that I felt 
 
 210 
 
it should be given in justice to Miss Juch, our 
 patrons and the company required a chorus of 
 at least eighty or a hundred voices. 
 
 I knew well that I could not afford to bring 
 any such number of singers from New York 
 for the few concerts I intended to give, and so 
 what to do about this number became a ques- 
 tion that had some of the inflamed quality sug- 
 gested by the title of the selection. 
 
 Finally, at the last minute, I bethought me 
 of choir singers in the churches of the town, 
 and with a hot July sun beating down upon 
 me visited the ministers. They all were dis- 
 posed favorably toward my idea, since "The In- 
 flammatus" was an inspired treatment in music 
 of a holy theme. The pastor of the Episcopal 
 Church was particularly gracious. He called 
 in his two daughters, clever and energetic 
 young women, who at once became so enthusi- 
 astic over the project that they volunteered to 
 go out themselves, that morning, and garner 
 as many singers as they knew. 
 
 With fresh zest I made the rounds of choir- 
 masters, and called on singers myself. It was 
 hard work, but with the ministers, choir-mas- 
 ters and the two young women enlisted in it, 
 we recruited in two or three days fully a hun- 
 dred vocalists, who were not only willing but 
 
 211 
 
anxious to have a part in the musical festival. 
 
 Miss Juch and our choir singers gave an 
 impressive rendition of "The Inflammatus." 
 One might have thought that this sonorous 
 piece of music, overflowing with a solemn re- 
 ligious spirit, would not have appealed to the 
 gay and worldly Saratoga throng; but it fell 
 on fallow ground. Each time it was given the 
 house rose to it, as if those people had been 
 thirsting, amid frivolities, for a note of ear- 
 nestness. I never have seen greater enthusi- 
 asm, even in audiences of German or Italian 
 music-lovers in New York. 
 
 The program-maker does well to remember 
 that the human intellect takes an instinctive joy 
 in contrasts. I had this in mind at Saratoga, 
 with the result that before our auditors had re- 
 verted to their normal feelings, after having 
 been lifted out of themselves by the strength 
 of "The Inflammatus/' Rosalba Beecher, a 
 charming woman, would trip down to the foot- 
 lights and sing with exquisite gaiety and grace 
 a dainty little song called "No, Sir." This was 
 like the joyous singing of a bird after thunder, 
 and the audience, released from its tension, 
 would sweep to Rosalba with an avalanche of 
 applause. 
 
 After the first concert Mrs. A. T. Stewart 
 
sent her card to the stage, asking if she could 
 see Miss Beecher. I escorted the widow of the 
 millionaire merchant to the singer's dressing- 
 room. 
 
 "I can't tell you, Miss Beecher," said Mrs. 
 Stewart, "how delighted I have been with your 
 singing, and with yourself, too. What I am 
 going to say may seem rather abrupt and odd 
 from one who is a stranger to you, but I want 
 to know if you won't be my guest at the Grand 
 Union for the remainder of the summer. I 
 should like very much to have you give a song 
 recital in the big parlors, for the benefit of 
 yourself. I will be your first patroness." 
 
 This, of course, was highly complimentary 
 to Miss Beecher, and she flushed with pleasure. 
 But she was under contract to go to Newport 
 with the concert company, and so she turned to 
 me with a look of inquiry. 
 
 "I won't stand in your way in this opportun- 
 ity, Miss Beecher," I said quickly. "You will 
 have a delightful time here as the guest of Mrs. 
 Stewart, and your testimonial will bring you 
 more money than I could pay you. I will come 
 back and manage it if you say so." 
 
 Thus I lost a valuable member of my com- 
 pany; but I did go back and manage the testi- 
 monial, which brought Miss Beecher about two 
 
 213 
 
thousand dollars. Never in her life, she told 
 me, had she enjoyed herself as during those 
 weeks in Saratoga. She might have become a 
 famous artiste, but just as she was beginning 
 to develop her abilities matrimony intervened. 
 
 Apropos of Grand Opera ; shortly after this, 
 I occupied the position of business manager of 
 the American School of Opera, then located 
 at Forty-fourth-st, near Fifth-ave., there were 
 over one hundred advanced students in the 
 school and six excellent teachers, or "profes- 
 sors" as they gloried in being called. Both 
 professors and students were "well up" in the 
 various popular operas, and weekly perform- 
 ances of Faust, Martha, Carmen, Lucia, II 
 Trovatore and Rigoletto were given to the 
 thorough satisfaction of all concerned. 
 
 ' The time came, when the ladies and gentle- 
 men of the Opera School were in arrears with 
 their payments, due for the knowledge gained 
 in the institution, which was to make them, per- 
 haps, prima donnas, tenors, contraltos, bari- 
 tones and bassos of famous organizations in 
 Europe or America. There were no funds. 
 The teachers must be paid at least two weeks' 
 salary three were due them or the school 
 must be put out of commission that night, and 
 
 214 
 
the pupils whose homes were in all parts of 
 the United States must say good-by to opera 
 and take quick trains for their various des- 
 tinations. 
 
 The directors held a hurried meeting, ways 
 and means were gone over a dozen times, be- 
 coming more alarming each time, and everyone 
 was notified of the inevitable end. Despair, 
 sorrow, anxiety, tears were visible on every 
 side. 
 
 "Necessity is the mother of invention" 
 or .inspiration, and I had one, or both. With 
 the rapidity of lightning I put on my hat and 
 coat, whispered a few words to the president 
 and left the room. Hailing a cab at the door 
 I cried, "Mr. Frank Tilford, Broadway and 
 Twenty-first-st" To him I breathlessly re- 
 lated my sad story. He laughed aloud, drew a 
 check quicker than I could talk, and said, "Will 
 that answer ? If so, take it to help the Institu- 
 tion along. I love music, Mr. Morrissey and I 
 shall be happy if this will enable your worthy 
 school to continue." 
 
 I lost my power of speech ; pressed his hand, 
 and hastened to make one hundred people shed 
 tears of joy. 
 
 A thousand "little mothers" had the happiest 
 day of their lives, one recent Christmas, for 
 
 215 
 
they were having their annual festival dinner 
 provided for them by Frank Tilford. It was 
 the best dinner, the best entertainment, and the 
 presents the best the children ever had. The 
 Murray Hill Lyceum, where the festivities 
 were held, was draped solidly with American 
 flags. Over the platform were the words, 
 "Welcome Little Mothers" in electric lights, 
 and on the platform itself were two enormous 
 Christmas trees, and back of them there were 
 presents enough banked up to fill a toy shop. 
 
 The "little mothers" themselves were so 
 gayly dressed that no one could have guessed 
 they came from the very poorest parts of 
 Manhattan and Brooklyn; but here and there 
 were little girls who could not have come at all 
 if the Little Mothers' Aid Association had not 
 sent stockings to cover their little bare limbs. 
 There were others who, after they reached the 
 Hall, received petticoats to put under their thin 
 frocks. Half the children did not have hats. 
 They did not mind that so much, though, and 
 not at all after they sat down to the dinner. 
 For who would ever have guessed it? At each 
 plate were snapping favors, with a flag in 
 them. When the children learned the secret 
 there was a vigorous popping all over the hall, 
 and suddenly the little girls blossomed out like 
 
 216 
 
fairies, with pink caps and blue caps and red 
 and yellow ones. 
 
 The children shrieked with delight when 
 they saw the tables and cried, "Oh, what pretty 
 bouquets !" But they were not bouquets, only 
 clean quite napkins standing up in fancy 
 shapes. 
 
 Guests more patient and appreciative could 
 hardly have been found, but turkey and plum 
 pudding disappeared as if by magic, and it 
 seemed an almost impossible task to keep the 
 plates from being empty. Three "little moth- 
 ers" three of the smallest made such an in- 
 defatigable assault on the good things pro- 
 vided, that they compassed their own ignomini- 
 ous defeat, and a physician who was present 
 had to minister to them before they recovered 
 from their pains. 
 
 There were bouquets of celery, and chicken 
 soup with rice, 1,300 pounds of turkey, with 
 all the "fixin's," 200 pies of all kinds, plum 
 pudding, fruit, and ice cream. 
 
 There were 1,050 little people who sat down 
 to dinner, for while 1,000 "little mothers" were 
 invited, there are always other little children 
 who appear at the last moment, and are so 
 lonely and hungry that they are asked to come 
 in, too. 
 
 217 
 
Before they were seated, the children caught 
 sight of Mr. Tilford in a box, and gave a great 
 shout, though that was not down on the pro- 
 gram. Their official greeting to him came 
 later, when they said, in a great chorus of 
 small voices: "Thank you, Mr. Tilford. We 
 wish you a merry Christmas." 
 
 And how they greeted the Punch and Judy 
 show, and the singers, the harp, and the 
 sleight-of-hand tricks! As they marched out, 
 each one received a gay-colored bag containing 
 a huge doll, a bag of candy, a handkerchief, 
 and a pair of stockings. Thus did Mr. Tilford 
 bring supreme happiness and delight into the 
 lives of these little toilers of the slums ! 
 
 218 
 
JULIA ALLEN 
 
 TENNIE C. CLAFLIN 
 
 VICTORIA WOODHULL 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ITALY AND IRELAND. 
 
 I presume that everybody is familiar with 
 the vocal efforts of the neighborhood prima 
 donna, whose voice floats out from a window 
 somewhere along the block, and pierces the 
 peaceful air in crescendos that are long drawn 
 out and melancholy. 
 
 Living in an ambitiously musical section of 
 New York city, I had become so accustomed 
 to feminine voices coming into my windows 
 from over the back yards that for a long time 
 one Sunday morning in the early summer I sat 
 in a lounging chair, half buried in "colored 
 comic supplements" without particularly notic- 
 ing the music that was in my ears. It was just 
 a pleasing accompaniment to the twitter of the 
 birds, and was so soothing, so much akin to the 
 sunbeams that were dancing in through the 
 open window by which I sat, and to the flowers 
 blooming in the window-box, that for awhile I 
 accepted it in a subconscious way, as a part of 
 the spirit of spring that was all around. 
 
 By degrees, however, I became an active lis- 
 tener. My professional instincts were aroused ; 
 I noted a flexibility and joyous resonance in 
 that voice not found in those of ordinary cali- 
 
 221 
 
her. Arias from "La Traviata," "Lucia" and 
 "Faust" had been falling sweetly on my ears. 
 Suddenly the waltz song from "Romeo and 
 Juliet" swelled out in triumph. I could contain 
 myself no longer. 
 
 "Mamma, I'm going to hunt down that 
 voice !" I exclaimed to Mrs. Morrissey, tossing 
 aside the forty-eight pages of the Sunday news- 
 paper. 
 
 "Oh, nonsense !" she replied, laughing. "How 
 are you going to do it? Make a house-to- 
 house canvass, saying you are searching for a 
 voice ?" 
 
 "It won't be hard to locate," I declared. "It 
 comes from one of the houses nearly opposite 
 here. All I have to do is to go around the cor- 
 ner. I'll guarantee that I shall ring the right 
 door-bell the first or second time I try, and as 
 a signal that I have succeeded you will hear 
 the waltz song from 'Romeo and Juliet' again." 
 
 With the domestic admonition not to be gone 
 all day in my ears, I started on my quest for the 
 voice. I went around to Eighty-fourth-st, and 
 as luck would have it saw beneath a bell in the 
 first vestibule the name of Cleary, which was 
 that of a famous contralto. I touched the bell, 
 and in a moment was greeted by a pleasant- 
 faced woman. 
 
"Does Miss Cleary live here?" I asked her. 
 
 "Why, no," she answered; "but I am her 
 mother, and I think I know who you are. You 
 are Mr. Morrissey." 
 
 "I am," I said, with the blush of course that 
 this recognition demanded, "and I am search- 
 ing for a voice. At my home on the next street 
 I have been gladdened for an hour this morn- 
 ing by beautiful singing. In my enthusiasm I 
 have come out to locate its source, and yours 
 has been the first bell I've rung." 
 
 "Well, I'm very glad you have come here," 
 said the mother of the singer, "because I too 
 have been mystified by that voice, and am en- 
 tirely consumed with curiosity to know who its 
 owner may be. But I think I can show you 
 where she lives, if you will come in." Mrs. 
 Cleary pointed out a house that was just two 
 doors from the one in which I lived. 
 
 "Remarkable!" I exclaimed. "I could have 
 sworn that the voice came from this direction." 
 
 "Don't you see," laughingly inquired Mrs. 
 Cleary, "that this wall acts as a sounding- 
 board, and throws the voice back into your 
 windows ?" 
 
 "I see now," I answered, "and I am going 
 right around to that house to see the myster- 
 ious singer." 
 
 223 
 
"If you bring out a new prima donna, Mr. 
 Morrissey," called Mrs. Cleary when I was 
 half-way down the hall, "don't forget to give 
 me some of the credit for putting you on her 
 track." 
 
 Mrs. Cleary was right about the house. I 
 was met at the door of the apartment by a 
 young woman of much charm of face and man- 
 ner, who laughed gaily when, after informing 
 her who I was, I explained that I had heard a 
 voice which aroused an enthusiasm that would 
 not let me rest until I had found its owner, 
 however long the search. 
 
 "Well," the young woman replied, "its 
 owner stands before you, found ! I have been 
 rather expecting that the neighborhood would 
 be heard from. I thought probably that I 
 should be waited upon by a committee with a 
 request to please desist." 
 
 "That could not possibly happen," I replied 
 quickly. "Why, do you know what you're 
 doing? You are transforming back windows 
 into opera boxes." 
 
 My singer asked me to sit down, and we had 
 a little talk, in the course of which she told me 
 that her name was Julia Allen, that she had 
 been graduated from the New-England Con- 
 servatory of Music, and had come from Bing- 
 
hamton, her home, to New- York, to make a 
 place for herself in the musical world; but, not 
 knowing just how to get a hearing, had con- 
 tented herself up to that time with practising 
 and some church singing. 
 
 But at the beginning of our conversation I 
 told her that I had heard her sing the waltz 
 song from "Romeo and Juliet," and asked her 
 if she would mind repeating it. While this 
 delighted me, it was chiefly for the benefit of 
 Mrs. Morrissey. 
 
 On my return home I greeted her with a 
 superior smile. 
 
 "Yes, I heard it," she acknowledged; "but 
 where did you find her?" 
 
 I told her. 
 
 "Oh, it was just by a lucky chance, then. If 
 it hadn't been for that, you would have been 
 ringing door-bells on the next street yet." 
 
 I called several times on Miss Allen, and 
 obtained an engagement for her to sing, chiefly 
 by way of practice in public appearances, with 
 some of our best orchestras and Musical Festi- 
 vals. The directors were delighted, and pre- 
 dicted a great future for her. Her ambitions 
 soared even higher than they had before, and 
 she asked my advice about going to Italy to 
 have her vocal education rounded out. I 
 
 225 
 
strongly indorsed this idea, and arranged a tes- 
 timonial concert to help her on her way. 
 
 It had this result, being successful both 
 musically and financially. Miss Allen now is 
 winning triumphs in leading operatic roles in 
 the Old World centers of music. She is in 
 great demand among European impresarios; 
 but in a season or two will return to her native 
 land, when the United States will have a new 
 grand-opera prima donna of whom it well may 
 be proud. 
 
 When Miss Allen was in New- York my 
 friend Signor de Machi gave her instruction in 
 Italian vocal lessons. I saw him often, and one 
 day asked him to accompany me to the house of 
 John D. Crimmins. After Mr. Crimmins and 
 I had discussed a little question of business, he 
 suggested that perhaps de Machi and myself 
 would be interested in his music-room and art- 
 gallery. Receiving our assurance that we 
 should be much interested, Mr. Crimmins led 
 us through several beautiful apartments. We 
 admired the pictures and statuary, and were 
 particularly impressed by a bust of one of his 
 daughters, done in Italian marble by an Italian 
 sculptor of celebrity. 
 
 Finally we sat down near this work of art, 
 and our host, being in a mood to talk, and inter- 
 
 226 
 
ested in de Machi, proceeded to draw him out. 
 The conversation turned on Italians in the 
 United States. 
 
 "Why is it, signor," asked Mr. Crimmins, 
 "that your countrymen who come over here do 
 not become more assimilated with American 
 life? You cut little figure in the political and 
 industrial life of the nation, while the Irish, 
 of which land Mr. Morrissey and myself have 
 the honor to be representatives, have got hold 
 pretty well of the reins of power and influence 
 in the United States. You Italians should be 
 more adaptable. You would make better citi- 
 zens if you were." 
 
 This, and considerably more to the same 
 effect, Mr. Crimmins said in a tone of good- 
 natured raillery, which, however, was entirely 
 lost on de Machi, who was a patriotic Roman, 
 and somewhat lacking in a sense of humor. 
 I, who understood his fiery and explosive tem- 
 perament, saw that he thought our host was 
 making a serious attack upon his nationality. 
 Beneath an outward calm his rage was rising, 
 and was growing more intense, I perceived, 
 because of his inability to adequately express 
 himself, his command of the English language 
 not being of the best. 
 
 I expected every instant to see him rise and 
 
 227 
 
leave with much more abruptness than polite- 
 ness, a proceeding which would not have suited 
 me at all, since a breach between him and our 
 host would have been disastrous to the little 
 enterprise we had discussed. De Machi's 
 shrugs and rather contemptuous waving of 
 the arms had not warned Mr. Crimmins. 
 
 "When Italians come over here/' he re- 
 marked, "they begin with a hand-organ or pea- 
 nut-stand, and end with one." 
 
 De Machi began to sputter in excited words, 
 beside himself, but I caused him to pause by 
 rising quickly from my chair and laying my 
 fingers on the marble bust. 
 
 "It cannot be denied," I said, "that no 
 Italians in New- York are ward leaders, and 
 there are a good many more Irishmen on the 
 police force; but imagine an Irishman making 
 anything like this!" 
 
 The suggestion seemed so ludicrous that Mr. 
 Crimmins began to laugh, while de Machi's 
 dark eyes glowed with satisfaction. 
 
 "It iss true what you say, -signer," he cried, 
 jumping to his feet excitedly. "Ze Roman 
 make ze beautiful statue, paint ze fine picture, 
 write ze great opera, while ze Irishman " 
 Words failed de Machi, and he finished his sen- 
 
 228 
 
tence with a shrug and a wide outspreading of 
 the palms that expressed much. 
 
 "Of course, it's true!" agreed our host, 
 rising and shaking our eager Roman by the 
 hand. "In the fine arts there's no comparison 
 between the Italians and the Irish." 
 
 This completely mollified de Machi, and a 
 little later, when he and Mr. Crimmins sepa- 
 rated, they were the best of friends, and my 
 project was saved from being wrecked upon a 
 rock of international disagreement. 
 
 The recent visit to the United States of 
 Lady Cook, who was Miss Tennie C. Claflin, 
 commonly called "Tennessee" Claflin by the 
 newspapers, recalls to me some memories of 
 her and her elder sister Victoria Woodhull. 
 
 In an office-building on Broad-st., New- 
 York, near the Stock Exchange, there once 
 was a gilt sign bearing the inscription, "Wood- 
 hull & Claflin, Brokers." One never would 
 have suspected from this sign, nor even from 
 the luxuriously furnished offices behind the 
 glass doors, that the members of this firm were 
 not ordinary Wall Street workers of the mas- 
 culine persuasion; but I knew well that they 
 were two remarkably charming women who 
 had made reputations as lecturers and writers 
 
 229 
 
before going into Wall Street to harvest 
 wealth. 
 
 I thought of the brokerage firm of Wood- 
 hull & Claflin one night toward the close of a 
 season of Sunday-night concerts which Joseph 
 H. Tooker and I were giving at the Grand 
 Opera House. We had been drawing our 
 singers and instrumentalists from the opera 
 company under the direction of Max and 
 Maurice Strakosch at the Academy of Music, 
 but had had all who were worth having, and 
 were pondering that evening on the introduc- 
 tion of some novel attraction to revive interest 
 in our waning season. 
 
 "Why not get Victoria Woodhull to deliver 
 a lecture on the bulls and bears of Wall 
 Street?" I asked. "Tennie Claflin, who is just 
 as accomplished a talker as her sister, can give 
 us something too." 
 
 "Great!" said Tooker. "Suppose, Jimmie, 
 that you go right down there to-morrow morn- 
 ing and beard the lionesses in their den ?" 
 
 I went, and was received by Mrs. Woodhull, 
 a handsome woman, with a stateliness of man- 
 ner that made a great impression upon me, as 
 it must have upon the many patrons who were 
 wont to go there to invest their money. 
 
 When I had explained my mission, Mrs. 
 
 230 
 
Woodhull sent for Miss Claflin, a young 
 woman with beautiful eyes and complexion, 
 and a charming manner with a touch of tim- 
 idity in it that was exceedingly alluring, but 
 rather odd, I thought, in a Wall Street broker. 
 The sisters gave a favorable ear to my pro- 
 posal. We discussed terms they were excel- 
 lent business women and soon came to an 
 agreement. 
 
 Their fellow-brokers quickly got wind of the 
 proposed dissertations on the methods of the 
 "Street," and began to invest heavily in tickets. 
 In fact, before the night of the entertainment 
 the house was sold out almost wholly to Wall 
 Street men. 
 
 We heard rumors to the effect that they 
 purposed to give their feminine competitors an 
 ovation such as is customary on the floor of 
 the Exchange, and to overawe any brokers or 
 camp-followers who might be inclined to seize 
 the opportunity to give vent to exuberance be- 
 yond the limits of decorum, we had a special 
 cordon of police that night. 
 
 They were not called upon, however. The 
 house was packed, and the brokers wildly 
 cheered the oratorical efforts of their co- 
 laborers; they even interjected a remark now 
 and then ; but kept well within bounds, and the 
 
 231 
 
evening brought fresh forensic honors to the 
 brilliant sisters. 
 
 Sometime afterward I was walking along a 
 street in Indianapolis, on my way to call on 
 Harry New, proprietor and editor of "The 
 Indianapolis Journal." Suddenly I heard a 
 carriage stop behind me, and a voice call out: 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Morrissey, this is providential! 
 You are just the man I want to see." 
 
 I turned, and beheld the radiant countenance 
 of Miss Tennie C. Claflin. She explained that 
 she was thinking of giving a lecture in Indian- 
 apolis, and asked me if I would manage it for 
 her. 
 
 I assured her that I should be delighted, and 
 told her I should begin at once by taking her to 
 call on Harry New, the most desirable man in 
 the city for her to know. 
 
 Well-heralded by "The Journal," the lecture 
 was a success in every way. When I next 
 heard of the sisters they had forsaken lecturing 
 and stocks for the bonds of matrimony in the 
 English peerage. 
 
 232 
 
(m 
 
 ROSE COGHLAN 
 
 SIGNOR CAMPANARI 
 
 DEWOLF HOPPER 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SARATOGA AT ITS HEIGHT. 
 
 The month was June. Long twilights, and 
 soft airs that came over new-mown lawns, and 
 flower beds, and lilac-bushes, suggesting these 
 wanderings in their fragrance, were casting a 
 spell too potent for the theatrical world to hope 
 to rival and so the dramatic season was in its 
 last days. 
 
 I was attending to the finances of "The 
 American Heiress," at McVicker's Theater in 
 Chicago. The "Heiress," however, was about 
 to go into retirement for the summer, and I had 
 decided that this probably would be my fate 
 too, when William Seymour, who had staged 
 the play, told me one day of plans for a Shake- 
 spearean festival at Saratoga. 
 
 A Shakespearean festival! After the tur- 
 moil of a hard season on the road the words 
 had a soothing and alluring sound, and I 
 forthwith telegraphed to Woolley and Garrins, 
 lessees of the Grand Union Hotel, who were 
 planning the entertainment, that I was open to 
 an offer to take charge of the business arrange- 
 ments. They wired back asking me to come to 
 Saratoga as soon as possible. 
 
 The next day I started East. It was the time 
 
 235 
 
of the Pullman strike. Few of the cars of the 
 Pullman Company were being used, and few 
 persons were riding in them, since they were 
 being made the objects of riotous attacks along 
 the line. But having no desire to arrive at my 
 destination wearied from a long vigil in a day 
 coach, I concluded to take my chance in a 
 sleeper. 
 
 The only other occupants of the car were a 
 man and his daughter, and he, I learned after- 
 ward, when we had become united by the bond 
 of a common menace, was no less a person than 
 President Harper of the University of Chicago. 
 
 Our train serenely glided through Illinois, 
 and my two fellow-passengers and myself were 
 beginning to congratulate ourselves upon being 
 above the groundless fears that had caused 
 others to forego the luxury of the Pullman for 
 the ordinary cars in front. But suddenly, at a 
 little town in Indiana, where no stop was 
 scheduled, our train came to a standstill. 
 
 The station was crowded with men who, it 
 quickly became apparent, had been waiting for 
 us. While the air still was whistling from the 
 brakes they swarmed over the station platform 
 with a clamor of shouts, and came running to- 
 ward the Pullman. 
 
 They shook their fists and cried out impre- 
 
 236 
 
cations upon the car and upon us who were 
 patronizing it. 
 
 One big fellow hurled a stone. Others fol- 
 lowed his example, and in an instant we three 
 passengers had become besieged. Stones rat- 
 tled against the side of that offending Pullman 
 and crashed in through the windows. The 
 attack had come so quickly that we had had no 
 time to escape. We crouched down in our 
 seats, afraid to move. The conductor thrust an 
 excited face in at the forward door and 
 shouted : 
 
 "If you value your lives, get out of here 
 quick ! They're uncoupling the car to wreck it. 
 You'll be killed." 
 
 Having no wish to die in this inglorious way, 
 and yet feeling that I could not leave the col- 
 lege president and his daughter there alone, I 
 raised my voice sharply above the tumult: 
 "Take your daughter and make a run for the 
 forward car." 
 
 "Yes, father, come, come!" the girl urged 
 tremulously. 
 
 They went, and I lost no time in following. 
 A jeer of derision rose from the strikers as we 
 sought cover among the passengers in the car 
 ahead. 
 
 A moment afterward the Pullman was un- 
 
 237 
 
coupled, and the mob pushed it backward. 
 There was a down-grade. The car gathered 
 momentum and went careening off to destruc- 
 tion. It goes without saying that we thanked 
 our stars that we had escaped from it in time. 
 
 About a hundred miles further on the train 
 picked up another Pullman, and the remainder 
 of my journey to Saratoga was free from ex- 
 citement. 
 
 We made great preparations for that Shake- 
 spearean festival. It was to begin with the 
 production of "The Merry Wives of Windsor" 
 on the hotel lawn. Needing a forest, we trans- 
 planted one. That is, we sent to the woods a 
 gang of men, who dug from their native heath 
 a lot of young trees that were comely, and 
 appeared as if they would do well before the 
 footlights, and arranged them on one side of 
 the lawn. 
 
 The night of the production came at last, a 
 serene night of midsummer softness. Our 
 trees were hung with illuminated bulbs in the 
 shape of fruit, and with these little lights shin- 
 ing among the leaves against the background 
 of darkness, the impression from the seats was 
 that of a veritable fairy forest. The roof of 
 our theater was the starry sky; the moon wit- 
 nessed the performance without a ticket, 
 
 .238 
 
The stentorian tones of De Wolf Hopper in 
 the part of Falstaff carried well on the soft 
 night air, and Rose Coghlan, who also is gifted 
 with a voice of unusual power and resonance, 
 was equally effective. Some of the others 
 appearing were Henry Clay Barnabee, Signor 
 Campanari of the Metropolitan Opera House, 
 Camille D'Arville, Minnie Seligman and Adele 
 Ritchie. All did well. They were inspired by 
 the novelty and romantic atmosphere of this 
 night performance beneath the stars, and en- 
 joyed the performance as much as did the 
 great audience, among whom were the follow- 
 ing distinguished people: Chauncey Depew, 
 W. K. Vanderbilt, Frank Tilford, Levi P. 
 Morton, W. Bourke Cockran, John D. Crim- 
 mins, Delancey Nicoll, General Howard Car- 
 roll, Perry Belmont, Daniel Frohman, William 
 A. Brady, David Belasco, Walter Damrosch, 
 Charles Steinway, Thomas F. Ryan, Charles 
 Frohman, Moses Herrman, Roosevelt Schuy- 
 ler, Ex-Mayor Gilroy, and members of their 
 families. 
 
 We had a merry little supper afterward. 
 Rose Coghlan was in the party. She was in 
 gay mood when we sought our rooms ; but, in 
 the words of Byron: "Who would think that 
 
 239 
 
upon night so sweet such awful dawn could 
 rise?" 
 
 I had been asleep for only about five minutes, 
 it seemed to me, when I heard an insistent 
 knocking on my door. I aroused myself 
 drowsily and opened it. There stood a boy. 
 
 "Great heavens!" I exclaimed. "What is 
 the matter ? It's hardly light yet." 
 
 "I know, sir," answered the boy in an apolo- 
 getic tone; "but Miss Coghlan has sent word 
 that she wants to see you as soon as possible." 
 
 Wonderingly I donned my clothes and made 
 my way across the hotel grounds to the annex 
 in which our star had her room. The debris 
 of the festivities of the night was all around. 
 The trees that had stood so bravely with their 
 twinkling lanterns seemed in the wan light for- 
 lorn and dejected, as if they were tired and a 
 long way from home. The improvised stage, 
 of which we had been so proud, seemed tawdry. 
 The chairs, which had been arranged in orderly 
 rows, were scattered and some upset. The air 
 was damp and chilly. Life was only a mockery, 
 after all. 
 
 I knocked half-heartedly on the door to 
 which the boy directed me. Miss Coghlan was 
 up and dressed. 
 
 "Oh, I'm sorry to get you up at this un- 
 
 340 
 
earthly hour, Mr. Morrissey," she began 
 hastily; "but" 
 
 "So am I sorry," I interrupted, without 
 attempting to conceal my feelings. 
 
 "But I've had a great misfortune," she went 
 on, "and I simply couldn't rest till I'd told you 
 about it. You remember the check of two hun- 
 dred dollars for my salary you gave me last 
 night?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember it." 
 
 "Well, I had it cashed by the hotel clerk, be- 
 cause I thought I might want to spend a little 
 money before going to bed, and now every 
 cent is gone. I've lost it all, and I depended 
 on it to get me to San Francisco for my sum- 
 mer engagement. I had expected to start to- 
 day. Indeed, I must start to-day in order to 
 arrive on time for my opening. And yet I 
 haven't even enough money to buy a railroad 
 ticket to New- York. Was ever woman so un- 
 fortunate?" 
 
 "Careless women have been," I replied. "I 
 sympathize with you sincerely; but what do 
 you want me to do ?" 
 
 "Why, if you only would make a search be- 
 fore the servants begin to clean up. Look in 
 the restaurant. I was there last. It may be 
 under the table, on a chair. It must be some- 
 
 241 
 
where. Find it, do find it ! If you don't I shall 
 be in the worst predicament of my life." 
 
 Her tragic tones moved me, sleepy as I was. 
 I took the boy, unearthed a porter, and to- 
 gether we ransacked the restaurant and other 
 places where we thought Miss Coghlan might 
 have been. But my drowsy eyes were glad- 
 dened by no roll of bills. I went back and told 
 Miss Coghlan so. Her despair was great. 
 
 "Oh, come, cheer up !" I said. "There have 
 been more serious misfortunes in the history 
 of the world. The day will come when you will 
 look back with smiles upon this tearful dawn. 
 Perhaps you won't have to walk to San Fran- 
 cisco, after all. I'll see you again after break- 
 fast. Meanwhile, compose yourself and get 
 some rest." 
 
 I lost as little time as possible in following 
 that advice myself, and worried no more about 
 the catastrophe, because I had thought of a 
 plan by which Miss Coghlan might be relieved 
 of her distress. 
 
 After a leisurely ten o'clock breakfast I told 
 Mr. Woolley the sad tale of the lost roll. He 
 was in a generous mood, as I thought he would 
 be after the financial success of the night be- 
 fore, and received with great good nature my 
 
 242 
 
suggestion that we start a little subscription 
 for Miss Coghlan. 
 
 "Why, of course !" he agreed. "It's the only 
 thing to do. Put me down for fifty." 
 
 With this good start I approached others in 
 the hotel whom Miss Coghlan and I knew, and 
 to whom a ten or twenty-dollar bill was noth- 
 ing. It was easy to gather in that little harvest 
 of bank-notes. In less than an hour my labors 
 were completed. To give the affair a proper 
 finishing touch, I drew up a testimonial, in 
 which it was stated that the undersigned were 
 glad of this opportunity to express their appre- 
 ciation of the sterling merit of Miss Coghlan 
 as a woman and as an actress. 
 
 She had had her breakfast served in her 
 room, and it was there that I found her, with 
 red eyes and a disconsolate expression, a 
 mournful picture. 
 
 "You won't have to walk to San Francisco/' 
 I said, standing in the doorway, flourishing the 
 money, "Read this." 
 
 When she glanced over my testimonial her 
 eyes filled with tears again. 
 
 "Oh, this is glorious, Jimmie, glorious! A 
 thousand times I thank you and these other 
 good friends of mine. I never knew I had so 
 
 243 
 
many, and I will try harder than ever to de- 
 serve their friendship." 
 
 Then she had to put on her hat and run out 
 to thank everybody in person. She took a 
 Western train that afternoon, and a little party 
 of us saw her off. 
 
 "The heavy clouds of dawn have cleared 
 away/' I remarked to her smilingly as we 
 shook hands at the car steps. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," she answered, "and I never 
 shall forget to-day. Out of evil cometh good. 
 All this kindness has been an inspiration 
 to me." 
 
 We gave an operatic concert that evening, 
 and the following night brought the festival 
 to a triumphant and resplendent close with a 
 Shakespearean ball, the feature of which was 
 a minuet danced by sixteen men and women 
 who, to all appearance, had stepped out of 
 Shakespeare's plays. I wish he could have 
 been present to see those people of his, 
 He would have been astonished ; for their selec- 
 tion of partners for the dance, and their actions 
 in general were wholly inconsistent with their 
 characters. 
 
 Old King Lear, for instance, was gay and 
 flirtatious, and danced nimbly with the young 
 
 244 
 
and tender Juliet. Shylock chose Portia for a 
 partner, and seemed on the best of terms with 
 her apparently wholly forgetful of the way 
 in which she turned the scales on him in 
 the question of the pound of flesh. "The en- 
 trance of Duncan under her battlements," no 
 longer bothered Lady Macbeth, and it was ob- 
 vious that she found a good deal of pleasure 
 in the society of the foolish Sir Andrew 
 Aguecheek. Hamlet, having cast his melan- 
 choly to the winds, capered mincingly with one 
 of the merry wives of Windsor. Julius Caesar 
 and Ophelia evidently discovered much in com- 
 mon. The fierce Othello took a fancy to the 
 gentle Rosalind and so it went. It was an 
 off-night for all of these celebrities. 
 
 A little tragedy of our own day had a happy 
 ending that night. De Wolf Hopper had been 
 angered by a critical paragraph written by the 
 correspondent of a New- York paper about a 
 certain feminine member of the cast of "The 
 Merry Wives of Windsor," and had struck 
 the unlucky writer. 
 
 There was a general assembling in the hotel 
 restaurant after the ball. The correspondent 
 was with our party, and Hopper sat with 
 friends at an adjacent table. I was full of a 
 "peace on earth, good-will to men," spirit, and 
 
 245 
 
it grieved me to see this yawning breach be- 
 tween two good fellows. Impelled by this feel- 
 ing, I stepped over to the actor's table. 
 
 "Hopper/' I said, "I've come over here as 
 a peacemaker. It's too bad that you and our 
 friend should be enemies. You must admit 
 that you were hasty yesterday, to say the least. 
 Why don't you make everything right by go- 
 ing over with me and apologizing?" 
 
 He glanced up at me quickly, and ex- 
 claimed : "By George, I will !" 
 
 The apology was made in a loud and hearty 
 voice that the whole room could hear. It won 
 the writer. The two shook hands, and we in- 
 vited the comedian's friends over to our table, 
 where we had a little love-feast. 
 
 24 G 
 
MARY ANDERSON 
 (MADAME DE NAVARRO) 
 
 NELSON ROBERTS 
 
 JAMES W. MORRISSEY 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SOME EMINENT MEN AND WOMEN. 
 
 Through a haze of years I look back and 
 see a girl, tall and lithe, with clear, compelling 
 eyes, warm-tinted hair rippling back from a 
 forehead smooth as marble, a complexion of 
 white and pink, and the profile of a maid of 
 old Greece. It was in a hotel parlor that I 
 first saw her. I knew little of her, except that 
 she was beautiful, and that her name was 
 Mary Anderson. 
 
 Upon the invitation of her stepfather, Dr. 
 Hamilton Griffin, I had gone to her hotel. On 
 my way I speculated considerably about this 
 young actress, who had taken the West by 
 storm, and now had come to New- York to 
 have the final stamp placed upon her success, 
 and wondered what the fates ordained that I 
 should have to do with her work. 
 
 Then I saw Miss Anderson: the most im- 
 pressive type of young womanhood that ever 
 came within my horizon, and listened to a 
 voice that was like the sweet murmur of a 
 chant in the distance. She and I chatted 
 casually for a brief period. I asked her how 
 she liked New- York. She did not like it much, 
 not nearly so well as Louisville. 
 
 249 
 
"But you are going to like it better," I re- 
 marked, "because New- York is going to like 
 you." 
 
 "Do you really think so?" She leaned for- 
 ward with a sudden radiant smile and look of 
 eager inquiry. 
 
 Afterward I talked business with Dr. Grif- 
 fin, and, not then, but some years later, be- 
 came Miss Anderson's manager under the di- 
 rection of Joseph Brooks. It was at Booth's 
 Theater. I was right about New- York liking 
 her. The public flocked to this playhouse to 
 see the young Kentucky girl who had risen so 
 quickly into the firmament of dramatic stars. 
 
 After the first performances the manager 
 does not watch the stage usually, except for 
 business reasons ; but night after night I used 
 to stand "in front," because, however old the 
 story of the play might be, the beauty and 
 magnetism of Mary Anderson always was new 
 to me. 
 
 It was not alone in the atmosphere of the 
 theater that I saw her. I remember vividly 
 one afternoon at her Long Branch cottage. 
 She gave a tea-party on the lawn. The tables 
 were spread there. The grass was our carpet 
 and the branches of trees our ceiling. A mer- 
 rier company never sat down to partake of re- 
 
 250 
 
freshment, and the merriest of all was the girl 
 who the night before had been the stately 
 Galatea. 
 
 Afterward we went rowing on the little lake 
 that reached into the grounds. Six of us got 
 into one boat. It sank deep into the water ; but 
 our hostess insisted upon taking the oars, and 
 she pulled with a sure and lusty stroke. We 
 sang, and with the rhythmic swaying of her 
 body and dipping of the blades she kept time. 
 She was not Mary Anderson the actress now, 
 but Mary Anderson the high-spirited girl, with 
 the world before her. 
 
 After the Booth's Theater engagement Miss 
 Anderson toured the country, winning na- 
 tional fame. She went to London and dupli- 
 cated her American success. Her native land 
 was proud of her, and its people everywhere 
 came to speak of her as "Our Mary/' 
 
 Cupid, as was natural, had been hovering 
 about her. At last he shot an arrow that went 
 true to the mark. Miss Anderson married, and 
 bade the stage farewell. She said that she 
 would act no more. 
 
 This announcement was not received with 
 entire seriousness. The fact was, few be- 
 lieved her. For years the plaudits of the crowd 
 had been in her ears. She had fame, admira- 
 
 351 
 
tion, success such as does not come to many 
 mortals, a life splendid in its inspirations. 
 What woman, queried the doubters, could 
 put behind her absolutely the intoxication of 
 general adulation for the bonds of matrimony ? 
 Other famous actresses, they observed, had 
 renounced the stage, and had returned to it. 
 The exercise and expression of one's powers 
 was the only real life, they said, and in the 
 case of a woman with the beauty and dramatic 
 gifts of Mary Anderson the stage would be 
 beckoning constantly to her, and eventually 
 she would respond. 
 
 Years passed, and she did not respond. Yet 
 it is an adage in the rough that you never can 
 tell about a woman. Until the end she 
 may be expected to change her mind. It oc- 
 curred to me that Mary Anderson might 
 yield to the promptings of her dramatic temp- 
 erament. I interviewed a number of prominent 
 persons, who had known her personally or had 
 seen her act, and found that their desire was 
 strong that "Our Mary" return to inspire and 
 gratify them. 
 
 I drew up a letter, and had it written on 
 parchment, embellished with silk brocade, and 
 
 352 
 
mounted in silver. The letter read as follows : 
 
 DEAR MADAM: The undersigned would 
 greatly appreciate the honor of a visit from 
 you to the United States, whereby your genius 
 once again can be made manifest to the men 
 and women of your native land, thousands of 
 whom, in the new generation, have not had 
 the pleasure of beholding you, and who are 
 eager to do homage to your noble and gracious 
 presence. 
 
 It is proposed that readings from the poets, 
 especially Shakespeare, Tennyson and Long- 
 fellow, be embodied in your programs, the 
 formation of which shall be left entirely to 
 yourself; and your proposal that part of the 
 gross receipts arising from each performance 
 in every city of the United States be devoted 
 to charity will be observed cheerfully, and ex- 
 ecuted by your prospective managers, Nelson 
 Roberts and James W. Morrissey. 
 
 This invitation was signed by Cardinal Gib- 
 bons, Mr. and Mrs. Chauncey Depew, General 
 and Mrs. Nelson A. Miles, General and Mrs. 
 Thomas L. James, Mr. and Mrs. George J. 
 Gould, Charles J. Bonaparte, Archbishop Far- 
 ley, W. Bourke Cockran, Clarence H. Mackey, 
 John D, Crimmins, Bishop Potter, George B, 
 
 253 
 
McClellan, General Howard Carroll, W. W. 
 Abeel, F. Egerton Webb, W. K. Vanderbilt, 
 Henry Gilsey, Russell Sage, Edward Lauter- 
 bach, Senator Aldrich, W. G. Morse, Bishop 
 D. H. Greer and Governor B. B. Odell. 
 
 I know of no other actress who has been 
 honored by a like summons from distinguished 
 fellow-countrymen. But this of course was to 
 be re-inforced by a more material and substan- 
 tial inducement. I was authorized by Nelson 
 Roberts to offer Madam de Navarro one hun- 
 dred thousand dollars and a share in the 
 receipts. 
 
 Like a fisherman with a strong confidence in 
 his equipment for the cast, I embarked for 
 England. In London I tarried a day, and then, 
 without sending in advance any announcement 
 of my coming, I journeyed down through sixty 
 miles of orchard country to the village of 
 Broadway, in Worcestershire. 
 
 I found it a quaint hamlet, with streets that 
 rambled in a sort of easy-going manner, and 
 houses that evidently were built at a time 
 when architects thought more of substantia- 
 bility than of ornate effect, and yet which had 
 a beauty all their own, that of a dignified sim- 
 plicity. A peaceful village was Broadway. It 
 
 254 
 
seemed to be brooding on its centuries of 
 memories. 
 
 The night of my arrival I spent in an ancient 
 inn, where I was informed, Cardinal Wolsey 
 had been entertained several times in the days 
 of "Bluff King Hal." I should not like to 
 testify in court that the great oak "four- 
 poster" which received me into its soft depths 
 was the very one in which the astute adviser of 
 King Henry VIII. had composed himself to 
 rest; but I let my fancy persuade me that it 
 was. Indeed, my imagination turned back the 
 dial of time some three hundred and fifty years 
 and I was a courier with a message for the 
 Queen. There was nothing in the furnishings 
 of that primitive old room to interfere with 
 this idea. 
 
 But suddenly the sunshine was streaming in, 
 and the twittering of many birds was in my 
 ears. It was a glorious day, this one which 
 would be the real beginning, or would end my 
 project. But of the latter possibility I did not 
 permit myself to think. How could everything 
 except trouble and perplexity end upon a day 
 when all nature was expanding with joy and 
 singing a chorus of thanksgiving. 
 
 When I asked a husky liveryman if he would 
 drive me over to Court Farm, the home of the 
 
 255 
 
de Navarros, he answered cheerily: "Aye, sir 
 that I will! It's a pleasant place you're going 
 to, sir. Many's the visitor I've taken there." 
 
 For seven miles we drove through orchards 
 white, pink and purple with blossoms, and as 
 I went the delicately scented air, the well-kept 
 houses that yet seemed to belong to another 
 age, the cool and fragrant woods, the glimpses 
 of rolling hills and pasture lands where cattle 
 grazed, banished from my mind all wonder 
 that Mary Anderson had not returned to the 
 stage, and began to make me doubt whether 
 after all I should be able to win her from a 
 region so delightful. 
 
 "You're a stranger here, I see," remarked 
 the driver as we reached a more populous part 
 of the district. 
 
 I told him that I was. 
 
 "Per'aps you know, though/' he went on, 
 "that the mistress of Court Farm used to be 
 in big plays up in London and in America be r 
 fore she came here, and had all the people 
 cheerin' and clappin' hands because she was 
 so great?" 
 
 I assured him that I had some knowledge 
 of this fact. 
 
 "Well, you'd never think it from her way 
 with us folks about here she's so offhand and 
 
 256 
 
friendly-like. It's always a nod and a smile 
 when we pass her on the road, and in the 
 village she'll stop us with a 'Good-mornin', 
 John, and how's the wife, or how's the little 
 one to-day?' She knows all our given names, 
 sir, and when anybody has to take to bed with 
 sickness, why, almost before the news of it 
 gets around the village her carriage will be at 
 the door. She comes right in and makes herself 
 at home, and the sick man, woman or child 
 can't help but to feel better just from the sight 
 of her. More than that, the Court Farm 
 brougham rolls up again the same day and the 
 footman jumps off the box with something. 
 When you open it, sir, your mouth waters, be- 
 cause it's the very thing you've been cravin' 
 for." 
 
 At last the surrey wheels crunched on a 
 gravel roadway, and I was at the English 
 home of Mary Anderson. It was a stone 
 house, with turrets and ecclesiastical steeple. 
 Ivy climbed the walls. It was not large, but 
 it had a certain stateliness, and the flavor of 
 age was on it. "This is just the kind of house," 
 I commented to myself, "that I should have 
 expected Mary Anderson to select for a home." 
 
 She rushed to the door as soon as I was 
 
 267 
 
announced, and at sight of me her face was 
 illuminated by her old brilliant smile, and she 
 held out both her hands in an impulsive way 
 that I remembered well. "Why, Mr. Morris- 
 sey!" she cried. "Come in, come in! I'm 
 truly glad to see a friend from dear New- 
 York." 
 
 As she smiled, and as the rich, moving tones 
 of her voice fell upon my ears, I was carried 
 back through the years. It was indeed the 
 charming Mary Anderson of other days, her 
 very self so well-known in America. 
 
 "You've arrived opportunely," she went on. 
 "We're just sitting down to luncheon. Over 
 the tea-cups we can chat about old times." 
 
 In a little while, with beating heart, I will 
 confess, for the decisive moment of my long 
 journey had come. I placed in her hands the 
 invitation. She scanned it eagerly. 
 
 "Isn't it beautiful?" she exclaimed, holding 
 it up to the light, and then, turning to Mr. de 
 Navarro, she said: "Look, dear. See the 
 names of all these famous people. They want 
 me to return to America." 
 
 I asked her to read it aloud. With a smile 
 she consented. All the deep, musical notes of 
 the voice that has thrilled great crowds, all the 
 fine effects of unconscious eloquence, were still 
 
 258 
 
there. More than ever was I anxious that my 
 mission be successful. 
 
 "Well," I said, drawing a long breath when 
 she concluded, "is it all right? May I cable 
 'Yes' to New- York to-night?" 
 
 Madam de Navarro at once became thought- 
 ful. "I am deeply touched," she said slowly. 
 "It is a very serious matter. I must think it 
 over carefully. Give me a few days to decide 
 let us say a week." 
 
 "If you wish to go, you have my full con- 
 sent," remarked her husband. 
 
 "I'll coax mamma to go," cried little Jose, 
 their eight-year-old son, who had been hover- 
 ing about with his eyes glowing with pleasant 
 excitement at the thought of a trip to the 
 United States. 
 
 Afterward I mentioned in detail the terms of 
 the offer, and then Madam de Navarro led me 
 along the wide hall to the farther end, where 
 was spread out to my view a wide vista of 
 fields and orchards and bits of woods. She 
 called my attention to her flower gardens, to 
 which she told me she was devoted. She told 
 me too something of her interest in the people 
 of the country-side, and how her little atten- 
 tions had given her their affections in a degree 
 that made it good to live among them. 
 
 259 
 
The shadows were growing long across the 
 road when I rode back to the station, exhila- 
 rated by my contact with the personality of 
 Mary Anderson and her charming home-life. 
 
 In London the letter came informing me that 
 she could not give it up. It was as follows: 
 
 COURT FARM, BROADWAY, 
 
 WORCESTERSHIRE, May 7, 1904. 
 
 DEAR MR. MORRISSEY: With a deep sense 
 of my unworthiness of the honor bestowed 
 upon me by so many of America's most dis- 
 tinguished people, in both the religious and 
 secular world, and with an intense feeling of 
 gratitude for their kind thoughts and words, I 
 still am compelled by conviction not to deviate 
 from my resolution made fifteen years ago : not 
 again to enter into the rush and excitement of 
 public life. It is with real regret that I feel 
 impelled to decline this unique request, 
 signed by so many whom I admire and esteem. 
 
 The wish on my part to contribute occa- 
 sionally to the entertainment and support of 
 the poor, it would seem, has been the source of 
 the report that I was desirous of undertaking 
 a concert tour on a charitable-financial basis. 
 Nothing was or is farther from my mind. I 
 
have consented to help the poor here occa- 
 sionally with whatever talent I may possess, 
 but without remuneration to myself. I have 
 appeared five times during the past year in the 
 cause of charity, and I purpose reading again 
 at the People's Palace, East End, on June 23. 
 Further than this I never have considered the 
 possibility of a professional return to the stage, 
 concert or dramatic, notwithstanding the re- 
 peated flattering offers I have received since 
 my retirement. 
 
 Will you therefore kindly convey my sincer- 
 est thanks and regrets to my eminent compa- 
 triots, and accept the same for yourself. In- 
 deed, I deeply appreciate all the trouble you 
 have personally taken in the matter. Yours, 
 dear Mr. Morrissey, with kindest regard, 
 Very truly. 
 
 MARY ANDERSON DE NAVARRO. 
 
 So my mission apparently was over ; and yet 
 when I went to Broadway again to bid Madam 
 de Navarro farewell, I felt that it had not 
 failed altogether. 
 
 "You may rest assured of one thing, Mr. 
 Morrissey," she remarked as we shook hands 
 in parting: "if I ever do appear again on the 
 stage in the United States, it will be under 
 your management. Indeed it could not be 
 
 261 
 
otherwise, after such a formidable list of dis- 
 tinguished men and women who have honored 
 me with the invitation." 
 
 My return to London was more cheerful than 
 my morning journey down to Broadway. 
 
 "Gentlemen," I said that night at a supper 
 where I met the correspondents of a number 
 of New- York newspapers who had been eager 
 to cable to the United States that Mary Ander- 
 son would return, "you may yet delight New- 
 York some morning with the news that 'Our 
 Mary' is coming back. I have lived long 
 enough to know that a woman's 'No' not in- 
 frequently is a 'Yes' in disguise." 
 
 THE END. 
 
THE 
 
 STEINWAY 
 
 is to-day the only high-grade piano 
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 and controlled by the direct descen- 
 dants of its original founder. 
 
 All the rest have been forced to 
 seek the alliance or amalgamation 
 with manufacturers of cheap com- 
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 Thus time-honored names have 
 become mere trade-marks, lacking 
 every vestige of individuality. 
 
 Able to pursue its lofty ideals un- 
 fettered by commercial exigencies, 
 the house of Steinway & Sons has 
 exerted all its energies in but one 
 direction, with the flattering result 
 that to-day the Steinway is pro- 
 claimed everywhere 
 
 THE STANDARD PIANO OF 
 THE WORLD 
 
Lyceum Theatre 
 
 DANIEL FROHMAN, Manager 
 
 \Vest 45tk Street, near Broadway 
 New York 
 
 Tke Home of All tkat Is Excellent 
 in Comedy and Drama 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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