Part 10

Pasture and arable lands were ridiculously cheap—two cents an acre for the former and twelve cents an acre for the latter being considered a fair annual rental. Draft-horses were a drug on the market at seventy-two cents each, and oxen at one dollar and twenty cents. In the days of the second Henry fifty dollars would have equipped a farm with three draft-horses, half a dozen oxen, twenty cows, and two hundred sheep, leaving a balance of two dollars toward the payment of the rent—about five dollars a year.

As for labor, three cents a day was deemed good wages for an ordinary laborer, and even at harvest-time four cents a day was the highest sum expected.

House rent was so absurdly small that the Lord Mayor of London paid only four dollars and eighty cents a year to his landlord; and the Chancellor, with an annual salary of one hundred and ninety-two dollars, seemed poorer than many a cook of our own time. When a father sent his son to a university six centuries ago, four cents a day was considered a comfortable allowance, with a margin for such luxuries as wine at eight or twelve cents a gallon.

Twenty-four dollars a year was a munificent salary in those days. It was the exact sum paid to the assistant clerk of Parliament, and more than the average priest, with cure of souls, received; while the pension allowed by Edward III to his apothecary was only twelve cents a day, and King Edward IV’s allowance to his daughter was but four dollars and eighty cents a week, with an additional two hundred and forty-seven dollars and sixty cents a year for the maintenance of her eight servants.

In the reign of Queen Elizabeth prices were still exceedingly modest, and, it is only fair to add, wages low in proportion. From a household book of 1589 we take the following typical prices: Beef, two and a half cents a pound; a neck of mutton, twelve cents; twenty-eight pounds of veal and a shoulder of mutton, fifty-six cents; cheese, four cents a pound; wheat, three dollars and eighty-four cents a quarter ton.

The Story of Anthracite.

Though a Company Was Organized in 1792 to Market “Stone Coal,” As Late as 1817 a Man Who Sold Some was Charged With Swindling by Philadelphians, Who Where Unable to Make it Burn.

_An original article written for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.

Coal is such a commonplace article that few people take the trouble to find out what it is and how it came into use. The average householder’s thoughts about coal are mainly confined to questions of price.

One picks up, of course, such interesting facts as that the United States burns three hundred and fifty million tons a year, at a cost to consumers of about seven hundred million dollars. In this estimate all grades of anthracite and bituminous coal are included. One wonders how long the visible supply will last, and whether the men who in future generations are to take up the work begun by Edison and other experimenters will find a new source of practical heat-supply in time to prevent a protracted “cold spell” when the coal gives out.

One is troubled, too, by the relations between miner and operator, and is worried when he learns that the great strike of 1902, for example, involved a total loss to workers, operators, railroads, and business men of about one hundred and fifty million dollars.

But all these matters are problems of the day—mere seconds on the clock of Nature. If we look back over so brief a gap as one hundred and fifteen years, we shall see the discovery of anthracite in America.

In 1791 a hunter, named Philip Ginther, lived on the eastern slopes of the mountains which are drained by the Lehigh River. Late one afternoon he found himself at the summit of Sharp Mountain. A storm was coming up, and Ginther broke into a run, for his home was some distance away. Stumbling over the roots of a fallen tree, he kicked up a black stone, and noticed that the soil in which the tree had grown was mingled with similar specimens of an unusual formation.

Now Ginther had heard that there was “stone coal” in the mountains, so he picked up the stumbling-block which had checked his course, and carried it home with him and gave it to Colonel Jacob Weiss, who lived near the site of the present Mauch Chunk. Colonel Weiss sent the specimen to Philadelphia, where it fell into the hands of Charles Cist, a printer, who recognized it as anthracite and advised Colonel Weiss to buy the land where the coal had been found.

To get the land was easy, for the region was wild and remote from the easier connections of civilization. Colonel Weiss bought from the government several thousand acres, and organized in 1792 the Lehigh Coal Mine Company. His associates included Robert Morris (the well-known financier), John Nicholson, Charles Cist, and J. Anthony Morris.

In May, 1792, an expedition—four laborers, with a member of the company to direct them—set out to open and work the mine. It was found that a great bed of anthracite lay quite near the surface. The company quarried several tons of the coal.

The question now was how to dispose of the product. The anthracite was there in vast quantity, ready to be pilfered from old Earth; but many miles of forest and mountain separated the mine from the nearest market. Moreover, people were dubious as to the burning value of anthracite, and wood was still plentiful, and—well, like other new products, anthracite had to prove its usefulness before it would be accepted.

After a few weeks the laborers were discharged. Colonel Weiss carried lumps of coal in his saddle-bags and induced a few of the blacksmiths of near-by settlements to try it; but there was no general tendency to adopt the new fuel.

The Pennsylvania Legislature, in 1798, chartered a company to improve the navigation of the Lehigh River. The work was completed in 1802, but although the removal of obstructions and the building of wing-dams were something of an improvement, the river was still likely to prove rude to voyagers. The coal company, however, resumed its quarrying, and built a fleet of arks which, during high water in the spring of 1803, were loaded with coal and sent down the stream. Four of the six arks were wrecked; two reached Philadelphia. But when the Philadelphians tried to burn the coal, they had no success with it, and the Lehigh Coal Mine Company abandoned its efforts to introduce a fuel so unlucky.

In 1810 coal was found near Pottsville, and blacksmiths used it successfully. A Philadelphia chemist, after making a careful analysis, announced that the heating power of anthracite was extraordinary. Colonel George Shoemaker, who had dug up coal on his lands near Pottsville, loaded eight or ten wagons in 1817, and took the caravan to Philadelphia. Inasmuch as he guaranteed that the “stones” would burn, he succeeded in disposing of his stock; but now, as formerly, the Philadelphians failed to get any heat from their purchases—except the heat of their tempers, which led them to secure a warrant for the arrest of Colonel Shoemaker on the charge of swindling. He escaped to Pottsville by making a detour, and meantime the Fairmount nail-works, which had bought several tons of the anthracite, hit accidentally upon the way to make it burn.

The proprietor and several of his men had spent a morning vainly trying to fire up a furnace with the coal. They had raked, stirred, poked, and used blowers, but the stuff refused to burn. Noon came, and the men shut the furnace door and went to their dinner. When they came back they found the furnace red hot. The closed door had solved the draft problem. The way to make anthracite burn was to shut it in the furnace and let it alone.

In a few years more the coal industry became established. The Lehigh company reentered the field. They shipped 365 tons In 1820, 1,000 tons in 1821, and 2,240 in 1822. By 1830 their annual production was more than 41,000 tons; by 1840 it was 225,000 tons; by 1850, 722,000 tons. Up to 1847 the company got all its coal from its open quarry on the summit of Sharp Mountain. Boats carried the coal down the Lehigh.

To get the product from the mine to the river, a railway, nine miles long, was built in 1827. Excepting a track laid in the quarries at Quincy, Massachusetts, this was the first railway to be operated in the New World. Mules drew the cars to the summit; gravity carried them down.

The little black stone which the good people of Philadelphia rejected in 1792 has become the keystone of all our industries.

WHY MARCH 4TH IS INAUGURATION DAY.

The Principal Reason for the Selection of This Date Was the Curious Fact That It Seldom Falls on Sunday.

There have been many objections raised to the date upon which the Presidents of the United States are inaugurated, chief among them being the usually inclement weather which prevails so early in the spring.

The first President Harrison contracted the cold which caused his death, soon after he assumed office, at the ceremonies attending his inauguration; and anxiety is always expressed lest the unhappy incident should be repeated. There was a reason for choosing that date, however, which very few persons have ever heard of.

When the day was fixed upon the 4th of March, It was because that date seldom occurred on Sunday. But three times during our history has the inauguration day fallen on that day. The first was the second inaugural of James Monroe, the fifth President, March 4, 1821; the second was when Zachary Taylor was made President, March 4, 1849; the third was the inauguration of Rutherford B. Hayes, on March 4, 1877.

This will happen three times during each century, or one year after every seven leap years. Except when passing from one century to another, there is a slight variation, as will be observed in the following dates of the past and future inaugurations, of the first two centuries of the republic:

March 4 1821 March 4 1849 March 4 1877 March 4 1917 March 4 1945 March 4 1973

The Beginnings of Stage Careers.[2]

BY MATTHEW WHITE, JR.

EIGHTH INSTALMENT.

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

_An original article written for_ THE SCRAP BOOK.

Footnote 2:

Began March SCRAP BOOK. Single copies, 10 cents.

NEW NAMES BROUGHT LUCK.

Margaret Illington and Grace Elliston First Sought Thespian Fame Under Cognomens Now Almost Forgotten.

Although widely divergent in their personal appearance and methods of acting, Grace Elliston and Margaret Illington, the first two _Mice_ in “The Lion and the Mouse,” have one thing in common—each, after appearing on the stage under one name for some time, changed it for another.

Miss Elliston, it will be remembered, created _Shirley Rossmore_ in the original production of the well-known Klein play last autumn, while Miss Illington went to Chicago later on in the second company, and made a big hit in the part when the piece was tried in London. To take the ladles in this order then—

Along about the middle or early nineties, a New York critic, in noticing the appearance at the Casino of Frank Daniels in “The Wizard of the Nile,” wound up his comments with these two sentences: “There were others that were clever—and one little beauty of a maid whose eyes played havoc with the audience. Her name is Grace Rutter, and she will be a star some day.”

Mansfield Recognized Talent.

This “little beauty of a maid” was only in the chorus, and although she has not yet fulfilled the strict letter of this prophecy, she has come pretty close to it, and is yet young. Born in Bluff City, Tennessee, she became interested in amateur theatricals and in a small way made her first professional appearance at the old Lyceum Theater, Memphis, in “Boccaccio.”

The experience was fascinating, and an offer from a traveling company tempted her beyond her strength, and she went on the road, finally reaching New York as a member of “The Dazzler” company.

At a benefit performance of some sort she recited. Richard Mansfield happened to be present, saw promise in her work, and engaged her as a member of his Garrick Theater stock company, then in its first season at this house, which Mr. Mansfield had just taken over from Edward Harrigan and renamed. But as it happened, it was also his last season there, and Miss Rutter’s only opportunity was to do _Dodo_ in a burlesque of “Trilby” called “Thrilby.”

Hoyt & McKee, who succeeded Mansfield in the control of the Garrick, gave Miss Rutter a small part in Hoyt’s farce, “A Day and a Night,” which, in turn, secured for her an opening with Daniels, and in due course she was added to the musical comedy forces at Daly’s, where she was seen in “The Geisha,” “The Circus Girl,” and other London importations.

Chose Another Ladder to Climb.

But although she might be progressing all this while so far as salary was concerned, the ambitions in Miss Rutter’s heart were not being at all satisfied, and in the spring of 1899 she resolved to begin at the foot of the ladder again and mount up the dramatic rather than the light musical rounds.

After some casting about and a period of hope deferred, the ambitious young woman obtained a chance to appear with Daniel Frohman’s stock company at the old Lyceum. There she made her début in “His Excellency the Governor.” She decided, however, that the old name was against her, associating her as it did with musical work, so she appeared on the house bill as “Grace Elliston.” Perhaps her most notable work at the Lyceum was in the charming, fantastic curtain-raiser, “The Shades of Night.”

She remained with the Lyceum company for another season, and then, at the Criterion, created the leading part in that short-lived dramatization, “The Helmet of Navarre.” When this mistake was laid away on the upper shelf, minus camphor balls, Miss Elliston passed to _Bonita_ in a big Academy of Music revival of “Arizona.” Her Shakespearian aspirations were realized in 1903–’04, when she became _Olivia_ in Viola Allen’s offering of “Twelfth Night.”

Manager Named His Future Wife.

It was in 1900 that patrons of James K. Hackett, in “The Pride of Jennico,” saw that the part of the gipsy girl was played with much fire and dash by a very young actress who was set down on the program as Maude Light. Investigation shows this to be the real name of a stage-struck young woman from Bloomington, Illinois, who, after some very modest attempts in Chicago, had come to Daniel Frohman with her dramatic aspirations. She was placed in a minor rôle with the Hackett company, to be speedily promoted to _Michel_, the gipsy aforesaid, the second important female part in the play. And it wasn’t long before she was sometimes doing that of the _Princess_ herself, whenever Bertha Galland was out of the cast. Her change of name was made at the request of Mr. Frohman. It seemed that the other women were all using stage _noms_, so when the matter was laid before her Miss Light expressed her perfect willingness to fall in line.

“But what shall I call myself?” she inquired.

“I’ll make you up a name,” replied Mr. Frohman, and forthwith took her native State, Illinois, and her home town, Bloomington, and out of the two formed “Illington,” prefixing “Margaret” for euphony.

From the Hackett play Miss Illington passed to the stock company at Daly’s, still under Mr. Frohman’s management, appearing as the _Maid_ in “Frocks and Frills,” a small part which she made stand out vividly, and at the same theater she did _Fleur de Lys_ in “Notre Dame.”

Succeeded Miss Loftus.

E. H. Sothern’s troupe next claimed Miss Illington’s services, and she took Cecilia Loftus’s place as leading woman when that actress fell ill and was obliged to leave the stage for the hospital.

In the autumn of the same year (1903) Miss Illington created the leading part in that distinguished failure, “A Japanese Nightingale,” but during the brief run of the piece she assumed a part attended with more success—that of the wife of her manager, Daniel Frohman. It was announced then that she would leave the stage at the end of the “Nightingale” engagement, but, as so often happens in such cases, the bridegroom proposes and the bride elects to please herself. So the very next spring we found her as _Henriette_ in the all-star cast of “The Two Orphans.” And last season she filled the title rôle in “Mrs. Leffingwell’s Boots.”

For the coming winter Miss Illington is to be entrusted with the most important part that has yet fallen to her—that of the leading lady with John Drew in Pinero’s new play, “His House in Order”—a rôle created in London with great success by Irene Van Brugh, who made such a hit here a few years ago with John Hare in “The Gay Lord Quex.”

WOULDN’T STAY CURED.

Jane Wheatley Celebrated Her Recovery from First Attack of Stage Fever By Falling Victim to a Second.

Although stock company work, with two performances a day and a weekly change of bill, is an awful grind, it is also about the only way nowadays in which the young player can obtain the necessary experience to give him or her that versatility which broadens ability.

Take, for instance, the six weeks last spring when Jane Wheatley filled an engagement in Providence as leading woman of the Albee stock company, at Keith’s. During that period she was _Muriel_ in “The Second in Command,” an English comedy; _Lucy_ in “The Dictator,” an American farce; _Katherine_ in “If I Were King,” a romantic drama; _Phyllis_ in the Goodwin-Elliott play, “When We Were Twenty-One”; _Marcelle_ in “The Gay Parisians,” a lively farce from the French; and _Mary of Magdala_ in the Scriptural play, “The Holy City.”

Of her work in the last-named part, a local critic wrote: “She carried the rôle through from the moment of awakening from the scarlet bondage with a spirit of reverence that was much more than mere acting, and had applause been permitted she would have carried off all honors.”

Spent Allowance for Theater Tickets.

Miss Wheatley is a young woman who went on the stage from pure love of it, starting In 1898 with a very lowly part In “The Christian.” She was with Viola Allen for three seasons, and subsequently she played prominent parts with Sadie Martinot. She followed Grace Filkins as _Lady Airish_, in the support of Alice Fischer, in “The School for Husbands.” The account she has furnished THE SCRAP BOOK of her start in the profession is so very entertainingly written that I am giving it herewith in her own words:

“While studying in Boston some years ago, every penny of my allowance went for theater tickets, and the Hollis Street Theater was my favorite haunt. My chum was an enthusiast on the subject, if ever there was one, and I made a very good second. We had our respective favorites, and mine was Miss Viola Allen. I always had hoped to meet her, and even thought she might advise me or help me to a position on the stage. But how to arrange a meeting?

“My chum (Kate) and I talked it over, and finally decided upon a plan of action.

“Kate had gone to a boarding-school, somewhere in Canada, and had heard much from the teachers about Miss Allen, who had been a former student there. One of the teachers even suggested giving Kate a letter to Miss Allen. These facts were all we had to introduce us, but I remember that I was the timid one and Kate the fearless.

“After the matinée one day we summoned up courage and went to the stage entrance, sent in our cards, and, with beating hearts, waited. Miss Allen was then leading woman with the Empire stock company.

“In a few minutes a maid came out to us, and with cold politeness inquired what we wanted.

Aid from Viola Allen.

“‘We wished to see Miss Allen,’ was our answer.

“I know now what a piece of effrontery it was on our part, for when an actress has played a long part, and has only a short time before she has to play it again, she is ready for only one thing, and that is rest. However, Miss Allen was then, just as she always has been, kind, and invited us to come another day—which we did; and this time we were successful, for she saw us, and I remember how happy it made me.

“I remember the conversation, too; for she spoke of what was uppermost in our minds—our ambitions. So encouraging was the interview with this dear lady that when I finished my studies in Boston I wrote to her, saying that I meant to start my professional career in the autumn, and ‘would she help me?’

“She did. In reply to my letter, she said there were no parts in her play, ‘The Christian,’ except those requiring experience, but that some characters would speak in chorus, and I would be welcome to such a part.

“I remember an illustration made frequently by Dr. Emerson at the Emerson College. He pointed out to us that on the stage we were like parts of a mosaic—alone we were nothing, but as a part of the whole, each one in his place very necessary to the whole. I did not then realize how very small was to be my part of the mosaic—its proportions were exaggerated in my mind, and I had visions of myself in a dainty or artistic costume, entering with two or three other young ladles, and speaking in chorus, something as do the four daughters in ‘The Gay Parisians.’

“I also remember Miss Allen’s apologetic remark about the salary. ‘The money is nothing,’ she said.

“As for that part of it—money—it had never entered my mind. The happiness of having the opportunity was enough; and to think of being paid, actually paid, for simply doing what I loved to do! It was all very beautiful.

Appalled by Reality.

“To skip rehearsals, which, needless to say, were a source of great enjoyment, as it was all so new to me, the opening night in Albany came, and there my troubles began.

“The ‘characters speaking in chorus’ formed a mob, and extra supernumeraries were engaged for the night in Albany. It was a wild enough mob; my pride suffered, and my toes, too, for both were trodden upon. The damp cellar dressing-room with its many occupants, and the harsh, severe directions of the stage manager—it was all so different from what I had expected.

“In the course of the evening I found a lonely corner in the despised cellar and wept long and bitterly. Was this the way to Fame? Could I bridge these humiliations and discomforts? The goal seemed very far off, and I remember repeating to myself:

“‘I’m cured! I’m cured!’

“However, I went on to Washington with the company. There I tried another day of it, but conditions grew worse instead of better. During the afternoon of the second day in Washington I packed my bag, walked to the station, bought a ticket for New York, said nothing to any one of my resolution, but wired my father to meet me, and got on the train, bound for home.

Moth Again Seeks Flame.

“And oh, how glad I was to see my father, and he to see me! And how glad he was that I was ‘cured’ of my desire to be an actress!

“Well, to make a long story short, I remained ‘cured’ only a short time—two weeks, I think it was.

“A nice letter from Miss Allen, saying that she would keep my understudy for me, enticed me to return when the company played in New York. I refused to give up again, although those first tears were not the only ones I had cause to shed during that long season.

“My reward came, however, for before the close of the theater year the girl whose rôle I understudied left the cast, and they gave me her part for the rest of the season. Miss Allen helped me herself to do justice to it—even to rehearsing me after matinée, when she must have been very tired.