Chapter 11

At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as a usurer in Boston. His door was soon thronged by customers. The needy and the adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land-jobber; the thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, every one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices hurried to Tom Walker.

Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and he acted like a "friend in need"--that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good security. In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed his customers closer and closer, and sent them at length, dry as a sponge, from his door.

In this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon 'change. He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He even set up a carriage in the fulness of his vainglory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axletrees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. Having secured the good things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next. He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions. He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent churchgoer. He prayed loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday devotion.

The quiet Christians who had been modestly and steadfastly traveling Zion-ward were struck with self-reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in religious as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page. He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of Quakers and Anabaptists. In a word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches.

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due. That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat-pocket. He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green spectacles on the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to drive some usurious bargain.

Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and that, fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled, and bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost, because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it. This, however, is probably a mere old wives' fable. If he really did take such a precaution it was totally superfluous; at least, so says the authentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner:

On one hot afternoon in the dog days, just as a terrible black thunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house in his white linen cap and India silk morning-gown. He was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator, for whom he had professed the greatest friendship. The poor land-jobber begged him to grant a few months' indulgence. Tom had grown testy and irritated, and refused another day.

"My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish," said the land-jobber.

"Charity begins at home," replied Tom. "I must take care of myself in these hard times."

"You have made so much money out of me," said the speculator.

Tom lost his patience and his piety. "The devil take me," said he, "if I have made a farthing!"

Just then there were three loud knocks at the street-door. He stepped out to see who was there.

A black man was holding a black horse which neighed and stamped with impatience.

"Tom, you're come for!" said the black fellow gruffly.

Tom shrunk back, but too late. He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose. Never was sinner taken more unawares. The black man whisked him like a child astride the horse and away he galloped in the midst of a thunder-storm.

The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears and stared after him from the windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the street, his white cap bobbing up and down, his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement. When the clerks turned to look for the black man he had disappeared.

Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage. A countryman who lived on the borders of the swamp reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and that when he ran to the window he just caught sight of a figure such as I have described on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock swamp toward the old Indian fort, and that shortly after a thunderbolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and tricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have been expected.

Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects. There was nothing, however, to administer upon. On searching his coffers, all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders. In place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with worthless chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the ground.

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay this story to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. The very hole under the oak-trees, from whence he dug Kidd's money, is to be seen to this day, and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort are often haunted on stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in a morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer.

In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin of that saying prevalent throughout New England of "The Devil and Tom Walker."

SHELLEY ON CHILDREN.

They were earth's purest children, young and fair, With eyes the shrines of unawaken'd thought, And brows as bright as spring or morning.

VICTOR HUGO ON WOMAN.

=You gaze at a star for two motives: because it is luminous and because it is beyond your reach and comprehension. You have by your side a sweeter radiance and greater mystery--woman.=

_Les Misérables._

The Beginnings of Stage Careers.

By MATTHEW WHITE, Jr.

A Series of Papers That Will Be Continued From Month to Month and Include All Players of Note.

How did he start? How did she manage to get the chance to show what she could do? Was it "pull," persistence, or the fact of being born in the profession?

These are the things playgoers--and who is not a playgoer these days?--want to know about the players who have "arrived." There is a good deal of variety in the answers herewith set down. In some cases it is rather difficult to state just when the real start was made; in others, baby-day débuts can scarcely be considered to "count."

But of one thing the reader may be certain: in no instance has permanent success been won without work, be the actor a recruit from the business world, the society drawing-room, or the ranks of the Thespians themselves.

MANSFIELD'S OPPORTUNITY.

He Failed to Earn a Livelihood as a Painter, and Was Graduated from Comic Opera to the Drama.

Although Richard Mansfield's mother was Mme. Rudersdorf, the prima donna, he was in no sense cradled in the theater. His infant eyes first looked on the light in Heligoland, an island in the North Sea that then belonged to England. This was in the year 1857, and he was brought up with the idea that one day he should become a painter. It was while he was a schoolboy at Derby, England, that he received the first lift toward the career which has placed him at the head of his fellows on the American boards.

The boys arranged to act "The Merchant of Venice" on a certain grand occasion known as "Speech Day," and young Mansfield was cast for _Shylock_. So well did he acquit himself then that no less exalted a personage than a bishop shook him by the hand with the words that must still ring in the now mighty Richard's ears: "Heaven forbid that I should encourage you to become an actor; but should you, if I mistake not, you will be a great one."

Preparatory schooling over, his art studies at South Kensington were broken in upon by failing family fortunes, and the necessity of earning money in the present rather than waiting to gather in perhaps greater amounts in the future. So, through the agency of friends of his father, he set sail for Boston, where an opening had been made for him in the big dry-goods house of Jordan, Marsh & Co.

But business was not his forte. He spent all his leisure time in painting pictures, which he found, moreover, he could sell very readily. He burned for the more artistic atmosphere of the city by the Thames, and, encouraged by his success in disposing of his paintings, he threw up his mercantile job and departed for London.

And now began for him seven memorable years--years of keen disappointment, of deep bitterness, of hope deferred, of actual suffering in body as well as mind. The kind of pictures he had been able to sell with ease in Boston found no buyers in England, and matters went speedily with him from bad to worse.

The incident he had used in his play "Monsieur," of his hero's engagement to play the piano and toppling from the stool through weakness induced by hunger, is drawn from his own experience. The episode occurred at a concert-hall, when he was possessed of only one suit of clothes and no home.

Mansfield Meets W.S. Gilbert.

It was his ability to play and sing that really kept his body and soul together in these awful days and nights, for once in a while, by a clutch at the fringe of friendships left him from the old days, he could obtain an engagement to entertain a company of literary or stage folk. He fell in with W.S. Gilbert on one of these occasions. "Pinafore" had just taken the public by storm, and the makers thereof were hastening to utilize the wave of popular favor by thrusting all of their available wares to a ride upon its crest.

"I think that young man will do for _Wellington Wells_ in 'The Sorcerer,'" Gilbert remarked to his manager, R. D'Oyly Carte.

It was to be a company for the provinces, and as Mr. Carte thought that the rather shabbily attired young person who officiated at the piano would not be exorbitant in his demands for salary, he decided that he would do, and offered Mansfield three pounds, or fifteen dollars, a week.

To the out-at-elbows, fate-buffeted artist, this seemed a princely sum, and he accepted the position with an eagerness he hoped was not as apparent as his necessities demanded it should be. But his spine stiffened a little later on when, having made good with _Wellington Wells_ and one or two other impersonations in the Gilbert and Sullivan repertoire, he asked for a raise of salary amounting to two dollars a week. Mr. Carte declined to grant it, and Mansfield quit.

But, on the strength of his first engagement, it was not a heaven and earth raising matter to secure a second, and, like all the rest of his ambitious British brother actors, he steered his course across the Atlantic. He found a chance to appear as _Dromez_ in the comic opera "Les Manteaux Noirs," which was done in New York at the Standard Theater, now known as the Manhattan.

This was in the early eighties. His next venture was _Nick Vedder_ in a musical setting of "Rip Van Winkle," after which he returned to the Gilbert and Sullivan line and appeared as the _Lord Chancellor_ in "Iolanthe."

A Lucky Misfortune.

And right here steps in one of the luckiest misfortunes that ever befell a man. For had Mansfield not turned his ankle while dancing as the _Chancellor_ in Baltimore he _might_ have remained in comic opera until he disputed twentieth century honors in the field with De Wolf Hopper and Jeff De Angelis.

The accident put him out of the cast and sent him back to New York, right in the path of A.M. Palmer, who happened to be looking for somebody to do _Tirandel_ in "A Parisian Romance." This was a small part, but, being in straight drama rather than comic opera, was regarded by Mansfield as a step upward, and he did not hesitate about accepting the engagement.

What followed has been told so often from the Mansfield side that the reader may be glad to get the story in the words of the man who made it possible for a fellow actor to lift himself in a night from obscurity to fame. I quote from "Recollections of a Player," by James H. Stoddart, whose last creation on the boards was _Lachlan_, in "The Bonnie Brier Bush," and who is now living in retirement at his home in Sewaren, New Jersey.

From the Memoirs of James H. Stoddart.

"After the reading of the play the company were unanimous in their opinion that 'A Parisian Romance' was a _one-part piece_, and that part the _Baron_, and all the principals had their eye on him. After some delay and much expectancy, the rôle was given to me. Miss Minnie Conway, who was a member of the company and had seen the play in Paris, said that she thought the _Baron_ a strange part to give me.

"'It's a Lester Wallack part,' she said.

"This information rather disconcerted me, but I rehearsed the part for about a week, and then, being convinced that it did not suit me, I went to Mr. Palmer and told him I felt very doubtful as to whether I could do him or myself justice in it.

"He would not hear of my giving it up, saying that he knew me better than I did myself; that I was always doubtful; but that he was willing to take the risk. He also read a letter which he had received from some one in Paris giving advice regarding the production, in which, among other things, it was said that _Baron Chevrial_ was the principal part, that everything depended on him, and that 'if you can get Stoddart to look well in full dress he is the man you must have to play it.'

"I left Mr. Palmer, resolved to try again, and do my best. Mr. Mansfield was in the play for a small part, and, I discovered, was watching me like a cat during rehearsals.

"A lot of fashion-plates were sent to my dressing-room, with instructions to select my costume. As I had hitherto been, for some time, associated with vagabonds, villains, etc., I think these fashion-plates had a tendency to unnerve me more than anything else. So I again went to Mr. Palmer and told him I could not play the _Baron_.

Young Mansfield's Triumph.

"'You must,' said Mr. Palmer. 'I rather think Mr. Mansfield must have suspected something of the sort, for he has been to me, asking, in the event of your not playing it, that I give it to him. I have never seen Mr. Mansfield act; he has not had much experience, and might ruin the production.'

"At Mr. Palmer's earnest solicitation I promised to try it again. I had by this time worked myself into such a state of nervousness that my wife interfered.

"'All the theaters in the world,' said she, 'are not worth what you are suffering. Go and tell Mr. Palmer you positively cannot play the part.'

"Fearing the outcome, I did not risk another interview with my manager, but sought out Mr. Cazauran, and returned the part to him with a message to Mr. Palmer that I positively declined to play it.

"The result was that Mr. Mansfield was put in my place. The result is well known.

"Mr. Palmer was delighted, and _I_ consoled myself with the thought that my refusal of the part had proved not only far better for the interests of the production, but was also the immediate cause of giving an early opportunity to one who has since done much for the stage."

Back To Comic Opera.

Oddly enough, in spite of his sensational success as the senile _Baron_, Mansfield's next engagement after "A Parisian Romance" had run its course at the Union Square Theater, was as _Koko_ in Gilbert and Sullivan's "Mikado." But the halt of this company in Boston brought the young actor a chance to connect himself with the famous Museum stock there, and he bade good-by to comic opera for good when he first trod the Museum boards as _Chevrial_, following this up with the title rôle in "Prince Karl."

A dramatization of Robert Louis Stevenson's powerful story, "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," followed, also at the Museum. It was in New York, in the summer of 1886, twenty years ago, that saw Mansfield's practical start as a star, with "Prince Karl," at the Madison Square Theater, where he submitted "Beau Brummel" four years later.

Meanwhile he had been invited by Henry Irving to play in London, where he made his first Shakespeare production in the shape of "King Richard III."

RISE OF MISS ANGLIN.

The Clever Canadian Woman, in the Role of Roxane, Leaped from Obscurity in a Single Night.

From Mr. Mansfield it is but natural to pass to Margaret Anglin, who, from practical obscurity, leaped to distinction in a night as _Roxane_, the heroine of "Cyrano de Bergerac." This was produced at the Garden Theater, New York, on the 2d of October, 1898, and the next morning readers of the papers were asking themselves why they had never heard before of this young woman, who had almost shared equal honors with the redoubtable Richard himself.

The first meager information about her was furnished by Acton Davies, in his _Evening Sun_ notice of the play, from which it may prove interesting to quote a couple of paragraphs:

"It rarely happens that an actress scores a success so unostentatiously as Miss Margaret Anglin. All that had previously been known of her were the facts that she was a Canadian, and that last season, while understudy in the Sothern company, she played _Lady Ursula_ in Hope's play with such amazing success that it compelled Miss Virginia Harned to recover from a somewhat serious illness and resume her rôle after missing one performance. When Miss Anglin first appeared as _Roxane_ last night, a sigh went up from all parts of the house: 'Here's another blond and simpering ingénue.'

"But as soon as she spoke Miss Anglin arrested attention. Her voice was charming, and she moved about the stage with an ease which showed that, however short her training may have been, she was in every sense an experienced actress. As the play progressed, this young girl, who has neither beauty nor a fine stage presence to assist her, fairly captivated the audience by the grace and tenderness with which she invested a most thankless and trying rôle."

Thus was Miss Anglin started on a career in which she has taken no backward step. On the night before the twentieth century came in, when, as leading woman of the Empire stock, she came forward in "Mrs. Dane's Defense," she justified every prediction that had ever been made regarding the trend of her attainments, which she had varied since the _Roxane_ days, by proving herself an exquisitely pathetic _Mimi_ with Henry Miller in "The Only Way." And during the present season as the star _Zira_ in Wilkie Collins's revamped "New Magdalen" she kept people coming to the Princess from September until the middle of January.

How did she obtain her opening in the first instance, you ask? I had the reply to this from her own lips for the benefit of THE SCRAP BOOK audience.

"I had the ambition to become a professional reader. Rather an absurd one, wasn't it? The stage itself seemed to hold no special lure for me. Well, after some opposition on the part of my family, I came to New York at seventeen, with money enough to pay for a season's tuition at a school of acting, which had just been opened in connection with the Empire Theater.

"I was one of the very first pupils to be enrolled, and in spite of my indifference to the theatrical side of elocution I could not but be dazzled by the bait which Charles Frohman dangled before the eyes of the students. This was the promise of an engagement to four of the pupils who should acquit themselves with the most credit at the public performances of the school.

"The crucial afternoon arrived, and I went through my part. I dare say Mr. Wheatcroft, our principal, was more excited than I, as it was the initial performance of his pupils, and I knew that I had several other opportunities in which to make good in case my part did not show me up to the best advantage on the present occasion. Judge of my amazement, then, when word came from Mr. Frohman that he stood ready to give me the part of _Mildred West_ in 'Shenandoah' right away.

"To be sure, it was only a tiny rôle, but in my recollection now it bulks big, as it proved the gateway to a career which I had no idea of following when I paid down my four hundred dollars for a year's tuition in the dramatic school."

MRS. CARTER'S HARD FIGHT.

Compelled to Earn Her Own Living, She Had Difficulty in Persuading Managers to Give Her a Hearing.

The speed with which theatrical fame is made and lost is startlingly demonstrated by a glance through a book on celebrated actors of the day, published only ten years ago. Out of thirty players, only five are now as much in the center of the limelight as they were then. The others are either dead or have sunk back into obscurity.

The volume contains no mention, for instance, of a name now so high on the dramatic scroll of to-day as that of Mrs. Leslie Carter. It was in that very year of 1896 that Mrs. Carter was laying the foundation of her vogue by her swing from the belfry in David Belasco's "Heart of Maryland."

She hails from the West, and grew up as Caroline Louise Dudley, with never an aspiration for the stage. She recalls the first performance she ever saw as being "Joe" Jefferson in "The Cricket on the Hearth" at MacCauley's Theater, Louisville. She was not particularly carried away by it, although for some time thereafter her father facetiously dubbed her "Tilly," after the _Tilly Slowboy_ of Dickens's story.

After her father's death the family moved from Kentucky to Ohio, and here she met the wealthy Leslie Carter, of Chicago, and married him. But the match proved an unhappy one, a divorce followed, and Mrs. Carter was very ill for a long time. On her recovery she faced the necessity of earning her own living, and as she could neither sew, teach, nor manipulate a typewriter, she turned to the stage, as so many others, in similar cases, had done before her.

But it was a heart-breaking task to find some one to give her even a chance to show what she could do. The haunting of managers' offices day after day, the making of appointments with them that they never kept nor thought of keeping, the lying in wait for them at dark turns on the stairs, and the dashing across the street to intercept them in their walks abroad--all this fell to the lot of Louise Leslie Carter, as she was known when Belasco finally consented to put her out in "The Ugly Duckling," by Paul Potter.