CHAPTER XIV.

STAGE-STRUCK.

George McManus, treasurer of the Grand Opera House, St. Louis, in addition to being a good story-teller, is as fond of a practical joke as he is of three meals a day. During the season of 1880-81 George was at the box-office window, one day, looking out at the Dutch lager beer saloon across the street, and wondering why it was that people were so fond of "schooners," when a tall, thin, melancholy, Hamlet-like young fellow, with the air and clothes of rusticity, stalked slowly into the vestibule and up to the box-office.

"Well, sir," said George, as the young man got in front of the window and fixed his elbows on the sill.

"I want to be an actor," the young man began; "I kem here from Cahokia, a small place you may have heern about, and I'd like to go on the stage and play somethin' or other."

"Oh," answered George, smiling, "if that's all you want I can fix you. When do you want to begin?"

"I am ready to start in right neow," was the reply. "I told the old folks when I left the house last night that they needn't expect to see me ag'in 'til my name wuz on the walls an' the sides o' houses in letters more'n a yard long, an' I'm goin' to do it or die."

"I see you're made out of the right kind of stuff," said George, "and I'll give you a first-class chance. You're ambitious and you're lean--lean enough to play Falstaff--and lean and ambitious people always make their mark. Have you ever heard of the lean and hungry Cassius?--I don't mean a depositor at the door of a busted bank, but the Cassius of 'Julius Cæsar.' I'll bet you feel just like him now; you look like him."

The Cahokian candidate for Thespian honors blushed.

"Well," the practical joker went on, "you can begin work this morning. The minstrels will be here in a few minutes for rehearsal, and they want a new box of gags. Go over to Harry Noxon, at the Comique, and ask him to give you a box of the best gags he's got. Tell him they're for me."

With a face wreathed in smiles the Cahokian _Cassius_ stalked off towards the Comique while George went out and gathered in a few friends to enjoy the joke. The Cahokian went to the Comique, and Harry Noxon, understanding what was meant, gave the poor fellow a box half filled with bricks, and telling him that was all he had, directed him to go up to Pope's and ask for Ed. Zimmerman, who would fill the box for him. Shouldering the heavy load, the Cahokian moved bravely out towards Pope's, six and one-half blocks away. He was pretty tired when he got there. Ed. Zimmerman, in obedience to his request, sent the box around to the stage-door, where the carpenter removed the lid and added bricks enough to fill the receptacle. Nailing the lid on again the stage-struck youth was once more presented with it. It took a great deal of exertion for him to get the box to his shoulder, and when he had it there he staggered along under the load like a drunken man, to the Opera House seven blocks away. When he reached the Opera House, McManus said the Minstrels had changed their mind about using any new gags, and requested the Cahokian to carry them over to the Olympic. The Cahokian looked at McManus, then took a woeful and weary look at the box, and, wiping the perspiration from his high forehead and thin face, he swung his slouch hat over his brow and remarked that he was tired.

"I say, Mister," he said, "if that's what a fellow's got to do to be a actor I'd sooner plow corn er run a thrashin'-masheen twenty-three hours out'n the twenty-four. I thought there was more fun in the business than carryin' around two or three hundred pounds of iron or somethin' like it, all day in the sun. I guess I'll throw up my engagement. Good-bye." And he strode out into the street, while George and his friends had a laugh that was as hearty as the lungs that led in the merriment were loud and strong.

There are a few young men and young ladies in this world who do not take the same view of the stage that the Cahokian took: they imagine there is a great deal of fun in being an actor or an actress, and that it does not require any special effort to arrive at the point where a person becomes a full-fledged professional. In this they are just as much mistaken as was the Cahokian, and sometimes, after they have gone into training for the profession, they tire of the hard work as readily almost as the stage-struck young farmer tired of carrying the box of "gags." There is a general wild desire among the young people of this country to make players of themselves. They dream that the stage is something like a seventh heaven where there is nothing but music and singing and golden glory forever--admirers, wealth, and an uninterrupted good time generally. They do not know anything about the long and toilsome hours of work and the comparatively poor pay that form the portion of all who are not at the top of the dramatic ladder. They never pause to think if they are girls of the temptations into which they will be thrown, and of the slanders that will be uttered against their fair names upon the slightest provocation. All they see or know of theatrical life is its bright gilded side, the tinsel that looks valuable, the jewels that are paste, the silks and satins that are not what they seem, and the beautiful faces and bright smiles beneath which are wrinkles and toil-laden looks, when the actress is in her home plying her needle or studying the long lengths that belong to her part. It is because people are so ignorant of the realities of dramatic life that so many become stage-struck and go around striking tragic attitudes and rating imaginary scenery in a rabid rant through Othello's address to the Senate, or Hamlet's scene with his mother in the latter's chamber. There are forty thousand young ladies in this land who want to be Mary Andersons, and as many more who think they can kick as cutely as Lotta, while one hundred thousand semi-bald young men imagine they could out-Hamlet Booth if they had a chance, or lift the mantle of Forrest from John McCullough if the latter dared enter the ring with them. A Louisville newspaper reporter gave a very humorous description of an epidemic of this kind that prevailed in Mary Anderson's home city some time ago. "One half the girls of the city," said the writer, "are stage-struck!--stark, staring stage-struck. Hundreds of residences have been converted into amateur play-houses, where would-be female stars tear their hair, rave and split the air with their arms, and stalk majestically across imaginary stages to the imaginary music of imaginary orchestras, and amid burst of imaginary applause and showers of imaginary boquets. In the dry goods stores young ladies rush up to the counters with inspiration dropping from their eyes in great hunks and in hollow tones command the affrightened clerk to--

"Haste thee, cringing vassal; pr-r-r-r-ro-duce and br-r-r-r-r-ing into our pr-r-r-r-r-esence thy sixty-five-cent hose!"

In the ice cream saloons the maidens shove the cooling cream into their lovely mouths and sweetly murmur to their escorts:--

"Now, by me faith, Orlando, but is't not a nectar fit for the gods? Speak, me beloved; is't not a dainty dish that graces our festal board?"

And practical Orlando replies:--

"I bet you."

On the street-car the maiden stalks forward toward the driver and howls:--

"What, ho, there, charioteer, give me, I pray thee, diminutive coin for this one dollar bond an' I will upon the instant requite thee for thy services upon this journey."

When one of them catches a flea she holds the victim at arms' length and roars:--

"Ha-a-a-a! I have thee at last, vile craven. For many nights thy visits to me chamber have br-r-r-ought unrest. Now at la-a-st thou art in me clutches and I will shower vengeance upon thy thr-rice accursed head. Die, vile in-gr-rate, and may the seething fires of perdition engulf thy quivering soul forever-r-r-r!"

Then she opens her fingers a little to get a good squeeze at him and the flea hops out and goes home to tell its folks about it. They have got it bad and none of the old established methods of treatment seem to avail.

It is the very height of absurdity to see an amateur company on a stage, and particularly on the stage of a theatre. In the midst of the most solemn tragedy one is compelled to laugh at them. If they have on tights and trunks they try to get their hands into side pockets, and if they carry swords the weapon gets tangled in their legs, and ten to one after the blade has left its scabbard, the wearer will be unable to get it back again. Then the way they walk upon each other's heels, and tread upon each other's corns; jostle each other in the entrances and stick in their lines is enough to make one of the painted figures in the proscenium arch tear itself out of its medalion frame and die from excessive laughter. More ludicrous even than their performance is the frantic rush a young amateur makes for the photograph gallery to have himself preserved as a courtier, and the equally rapid progress the young society lady makes in the same direction--anxious to have her picture taken no matter whether she plays a queen, a lady of honor, or a page in tights. She has no hesitancy in displaying her awkward limbs in a picture, although she would be ashamed to show her ankle in the parlor.

Sometimes, instead of being made the subject of a practical joke on the street, as was the Cahokian of whom I told the story at the opening of this chapter, the joke is carried even farther--the aspirant being taken to the stage to give a sample of his work. Occasionally the show is given to the people of the theatre only, and the victim is quietly let through a trap, or guyed unmercifully, until he is glad of an opportunity to make his escape. I was present on an occasion when an Illinoisan who had just graduated from college was allowed to go on the stage during a matinee performance, when the house was light, to speak his piece. He chose, of course, the selection he had inflicted on the suffering audience that attended the Illinois college graduating exercises. It was "The Warrior Bowed his Crested Head," a very dramatic recitation and a difficult one even for a good reader. The debutant was about eighteen years of age, tall, and manly looking. He came forward trembling, and did not attempt to proceed further than about twelve feet from the entrance,--making a school-boy bow he began. The audience wondered at the innocence and awkwardness of the entertainer who did not appear in the programme, but all soon understood the affair. The debutant had not reached the second line of the second verse, when bang came a pistol shot from the side of the stage. The speaker ducked his head, trembled a little more than before, but went on. Bang went another pistol shot, and again the speaker acknowledged receipt of a shock by twitching his head and knocking his knees together. Still he kept on reciting. Sheet-iron thunder rattled through the place, horns were blown, drums beaten, horse-rattles kept in motion and for more than half an hour pistol shots and flashes of fire kept coming from both sides of the stage. Still he spoke on, making gestures, twitching his limbs, and ducking his head until the last line was reached,--something about the hero's weapons shining no more among the spears of Spain,--when he bowed and retired hardly able to walk. He was an exception, however, to the general rule that stage-struck people are easily frightened out of their wits, under such circumstances, and displayed such perseverance that he was complimented by the audience that had scarcely heard a word of what he had said--a loud burst of applause following his exit, which was continued until he came forward again and by a bow acknowledged their kindness. He must have been a brave fellow, for next day he was around at the manager's office asking for an engagement.

Managers are sometimes very cruel in their treatment of young people who are anxious to adopt the stage. I saw a newspaper item stating that at the Buckingham, a variety show in Louisville, a drop curtain was painted with the huge letters "N. G.," standing for "no good," and the manager ordered that this verdict be lowered in front of every performer who failed to show a fair degree of merit. It happened that the first to deserve this crushing verdict was a remarkably pretty girl, and the audience sympathized with her. She had given an execrable dance, and was in the midst of a woeful recitation, when the "N. G." curtain was lowered. The audience demanded her reappearance and did not permit anybody else to perform until the police had arrested the more gallant and noisy among them.

Amateurs who have any money to mingle with their desire to go on the stage find ready takers. I could name several gentlemen who are now alleged professionals, with talents that are not even mediocre, who are tolerated in first-class company only because they pay for the privilege. One way a moneyed, stage-struck person has of getting before the public is to rent a theatre, and hire a company for a night or a week or a month, as the case may be. Society swells generally do this kind of thing, and they never succeed. Marie Dixon was, under another name, a fairly well-to-do, well connected and popular lady of Memphis, Tennessee. She was old enough to have a married son, but did not appear to be more than thirty-six years. Her family had been very wealthy before the war, but that event swept away their possessions, as it swept away the possessions of many others. She was educated and accomplished, but was stage-struck. She had appeared at several amateur concert entertainments in Memphis, and the local papers having complimented her, and her friends having remarked that she was intended for an actress, she boldly, but foolishly, resolved to become one. She made up her mind to rival Mary Anderson, and to overshadow the memory of Ristori and all the great queens of the stage that have made a place for themselves in dramatic history. She paid $2,000 for the use of a St. Louis theatre for six nights; she hired a very bad company at, to them, very extravagant salaries; she bought a wardrobe larger and in some respects richer than that of any established star; then she came to St. Louis with her aged father, whose hopes and money were staked upon her; they put up at the Lindell Hotel, and having left Memphis amid a flourish of trumpets, they fondly expected a wilder flourish when they returned. Miss Dixon appeared before the St. Louis public for six nights, and was a failure. She was no actress. She was ashamed to return to Memphis, and at this writing is still absent from there. The father went home, and, I hear, died of a broken heart. Disappointed friends at first pitied, then laughed at this accomplished lady, whose only fault seems to be that she was one of the grand army of the stage-struck.

Miss Helen M. Lewis, a Charleston, South Carolina, heiress, who was anxious to become a Sarah Bernhardt or a Siddons, was taken in recently by an advertisement in a New York paper. The advertisement stated that a lady with a little capital was wanted to head a first-class dramatic combination, and that she might call at No. 602 Sixth Avenue, New York. Miss Lewis, who was without any training, answered the advertisement, and was told that $1,000 would be required to obtain the position, which was leading lady in the "Daniel Rochat" Combination, which was to begin its tour, by opening at the Boston Theatre. The negotiations were carried on with Maurice A. Schwab and Robert J. Rummel, who received $700 from Miss Lewis, and furnished her with an alleged instructor in the dramatic art. In order to be near the theatre Miss Lewis took rooms at the Revere House, Boston, where Schwab and Rummel also established themselves, and proceeded to study her part after engaging an alleged instructor recommended by Schwab. After two or three weeks' standing off by the swindlers, who made constant demands on her for money for her wardrobe and other things, she chanced to call at the Boston Theatre to hear how the rehearsals of "Daniel Rochat" were progressing. She was told that there were no rehearsals in progress and learned that she had been swindled. Schwab and Hummel fled, leaving her to pay her hotel bill, but she had them arrested in New York, and both on trial were, I think, convicted and sent to the penitentiary, where plenty more managers of their stripe should be.

Managers of what are known as "snap" companies are just as bad as Schwab and Rummel. They are glad to find some young lady or gentleman of means with lots of ready cash, and they do not hesitate to make victims even of professional people. The snap manager has no money of his own. He sits around a theatrical printing office all day, and pretends to be running a circuit of several towns. He watches his opportunity until a company comes along which he thinks he can take over to his villages. By false representations he manages to run up a big bill with the printer and to borrow money from the company, who go as far on his circuit as their means will permit, when the snap manager deserts them, leaving them to walk, or beg, or borrow their way home as best they can. Marie Prescott, who supported Salvini during his last American tour, and who is an actress of merit, was caught in the clutches of one of these managers at one time and was put in a pitiable plight. Other actresses of good reputation have accepted engagements from strange managers only to find themselves members of fly-by-night combinations, giving their services without even the show of a probability of ever receiving any salary.

Even so exalted a gentleman and eminent an impresario as Col. Mapleson is alleged to have brought a young girl from France promising he would make a fortune for her. The girl's father and mother accompanied her, and when the gallant colonel of Italian troupes failed to keep his contract with the sweet singer, the father became enraged and wanted to fight a duel with the military impresario. The family went back to France almost penniless.

The worst class of managers in the world are those who take advantage of the ambition of young girls to effect their ruin. In some of the variety theatres managers pay salaries to young ladies or introduce them to the stage for none other than a base and iniquitous purpose. Frightful stories of this kind have been told, and the success real managers have met with in this direction has caused numerous pretenders to arise, and has made the theatrical profession a bait to secure innocent girls for Western and Southern bawdy-houses, concert dives, and low dancing-halls. I read the following advertisement in the _Globe-Democrat_ one morning:--

PERSONAL--Wanted, three or four young ladies to join a travelling company. Address Manager, this office.

I knew that reputable theatrical managers did not advertise in this style--indeed, they need not advertise at all, for there is always plenty of talent in the market--and came to the conclusion that the "Personal" was a veil to hide some piece of dirty work. Therefore I sat down, and, in varying feminine hands, wrote letters to the manager, asking for an opening. Two letters, with their corresponding answers, are here selected as specimens of the remainder, answers to all having been received. One of the applications ran as follows:--

ST. LOUIS, February 6, 1878.

MR. MANAGER: I want to adopt the stage; have appeared as an amateur, and will join you if I can learn. I am seventeen, a blonde, small, and my friends say I look well on the stage. I sing and perform on the guitar. I have a friend--a very pretty brunette--who is very anxious to go with me, but she has never acted. She is same age. Please let me know where I can see you, if you have not already employed enough; but I must be particular, as my mother does not want me to go away. Address

ETTIE HOLAN, City Post-Office.

I will call at general delivery and get it.

The other was written in this strain and in these words:--

ST. LOUIS, February 6, 1877.

DEAR SIR: I saw your advertisement in this morning's _Globe-Democrat_, asking for three or four young ladies to join a travelling theatrical company, and as I am desirous of going on the stage, and am of good form and pretty fair appearance, and have a pretty good voice, I would wish to join your company. I have never appeared on any regular stage, but made several amateur appearances, which were pronounced very successful. I have an ambition for the stage, and think I would succeed. I am seventeen years of age, and medium height, with black hair and dark eyes, and am a tasty dresser. I hope you will not pass over my application, but will receive it favorably. Anxiously awaiting an early reply, I remain, respectfully yours, etc.,

LIZZIE HILGER.

P. S.--Address your reply to me to the post-office.

These and the others were all calculated to make the "manager" feel that he had captured a whole shoal of gudgeons. He would certainly reply to such unsophisticated notes as these, and he did. The letters were placed in the newspaper office box on Wednesday afternoon, and bright and early on Thursday morning, I went around to the post-office, presented my string of names, and met with no little opposition from the gentlemanly delivery clerk, at first, who naturally did not like to give an armful of mail for females to one who was not a female. The situation was explained, however, and a half dozen rose-tinted envelopes, all properly backed and stamped, and each containing an epistle, was the result. They were opened one after another, and the rose-tinted and perfumed pages of each told, in a bold running hand exactly the same story--"pass the corner of Eighth and Locust Streets," at hours varying from noon to sundown on Thursday afternoon. It was just what had been expected. Ettie Holan, the petite blonde, who could play the guitar, was answered as follows:--

ST. LOUIS, MO., February 6, 1878.

MISS ETTIE HOLAN: Your letter through the _G.-D._ at hand. We desire to engage several young ladies for the company now travelling, and among numerous applicants note yours, and think it possible to fix an engagement both for yourself and lady friend. As you are very particular about your folks, you might possibly object to coming to our office, so if you desire the engagement, please pass the corner of Locust and Eighth Streets with your lady friend about four (4) o'clock P. M. to-morrow (Thursday), the 7th.

Yours, respectfully, HARRY RUSSELL.

And Lizzie Hilger, with nothing to recommend her but a voice and figure that she had recommended herself, was encouraged in her ambitious aspirations in the following manner:--

ST. LOUIS, MO., February 6, 1878.

MISS LIZZIE HILGER: Your favor at hand. Among numerous applicants I have remembered yours. We desire several young ladies to strengthen the company for our Chicago and Boston engagements, and desire to meet you personally, if possible, to-morrow afternoon. You may object to coming to our office, so please pass the corner of Locust and Eighth Streets to-morrow afternoon (Thursday) about 2:30 (half-past two) o'clock.

Yours, respectfully, HARRY RUSSELL, Manager.

Here then was the "manager's" little game. Of course Harry Russell was not the man's name at all, and of course he had no office to which either Miss Ettie Holan or Miss Lizzie Hilger, or any of the four other girls who had applied for positions through me, "might object to coming," and of course he had nothing to do with strengthening any company's Boston or Chicago engagements. It was evident now, if not before, that the advertisement was a snare to trap the unwary and to pull the wool over the eyes of the innocent and unsuspecting, and I made up my mind to pay a visit to the locality named in the above letters.

A visit was paid, after dinner, to the proposed place of meeting. On the way up I met a detective friend, to whom my business was disclosed. The detective said he would go along and "spot" the fellow for future reference, and he did. Handsome Harry was found at his post, gazing up and down and across the street. He was standing in front of a saloon, on the corner, and a friend was hard by, who was to witness the success of the little game. Now and then a young lady passed to or from her home, and every time she came within sight "Manager" Harry began to prepare himself for the "mash." The coat front was readjusted, the shirt collar straightened up, the hat lifted from the head and the fingers run through the hair, and, as a last and finishing touch, the ends of his dainty moustache were fingered and carefully set away from his lips with a silk handkerchief. But here came the young lady. How he stared her in the face as she came towards him, ogled her when near by, and cast a disconsolate and disappointed look after her as she passed. Then he went back to communicate to his friend that she was probably "not the one," or that "maybe she weakened," and again took his stand to watch the next comer. This little business was gone through with as many times as there were young ladies who passed. At last it was evident to the two persons who had their eyes on Harry that he was beginning to weaken, and was about to leave the place for a time at least. Under these circumstances there was only one thing to do--to go over and have a talk with him about the show business and make further engagements for the young ladies who were so anxious to blossom forth on the stage. The detective walked up to the man who was presumably Harry Russell:

"Do you know of a man named Harry Russell stopping about here?" asked the detective.

Harry was with his friend now, and both became almost livid in the face and were evidently taken back by the inquiry.

"N-no; w-what is he?" stammered out Harry.

"I believe he's manager of a theatrical company."

"Harry" had somewhat regained his mental equilibrium by this time, and answered positively: "Don't know him; never heard of him."

"Have you seen any man around in the past half hour? Russell made an engagement to meet me here."

"I haven't been here but about ten minutes," and away "Harry" and his friend sailed.

The detective and myself had been watching the pseudo manager for over two hours from a room across the street, and, of course, knew there was no truth in the measure he placed upon the time he was watching and waiting for victims that never came. He was not a theatrical man, but some dirty scamp.

Some time ago an advertisement of the same character as the "Personal" quoted above, appeared in the Chicago papers, and many young ladies, anxious to adopt the stage as a profession, applied for positions. They obtained admission to the _quasi_ manager, who, when no resistance was made by the applicants, shipped them to Texas and other Southern points, where they found themselves perhaps penniless in the midst of a life of uncertainties, into which they had been duped and to which they had been sold. Many of these had been, and would still be, respectable young girls and ornaments to their respective home circles, were it not for the serpent with the fascinating eyes that peeped out at them from under the three or four lines in the advertising columns of that Chicago paper. Discoveries of the same kind were made in several cities of the East, and it is dreadful to contemplate the havoc which must have been wrought by this means, for surely many of the hundreds of really good girls, who are always sure to answer such an advertisement in the innocent belief that it may be the means of making Neilsons, Cushmans, Morrises or some other equally firmamentary individual in the galaxy of the stage of them, and who refused to be debauched, were sorely disappointed in the result of their apparent good fortune in obtaining the recognition of the "manager."

The following letter from a band of stage-struck young men of color is an extraordinary document, and may be taken as a sample of the letters received every day by theatrical managers:--

Kansas City, 1789 [1879], January 14. Mr. De Bar, Dear Sir, I take thes opportunity of witring you theas few lines to ask you for an engagement at the Orepry [Opera] house if you can as we would like to get it if we can. i and my trop can do a great meny performence on the stage. W. H. Terrell he can do the Iron Joyrl [iron jaw] performence and do a Jig Dance and a Clog and Double Song and Dance and other tricks. Mr. Benjermer Frankler [Benjamin Franklin] waltz With a pail of water on his head and plays the frence harp the sanetime on the stage and laying down with it on his head and roal all over the floor and Jump 6 feet hiagh in the air on hand and feet. allso and we have the Best french harp players in the world that ever plaid on one. and leaping through a hoop of fire same as a circus. If you can git it for me pleas write soon and let me know. Sam Chrisman is one of my atcters. yours Truly, B. FRANKLIN.

Excuse writing and paper. This is a Cold trop.

It is hardly necessary for me to say Ben de Bar did not give the "Cold trop" an engagement. Poor old Ben was dead at that time.