Thirty-six years backstage

Preface

I have often wondered if a story of the Theatres of the years gone by would be interesting reading to anyone in these days of the Robot and Mechanized Amusements, Several times I have been tempted to put into type my memoirs of thirty-six years with the Theatres but each time I was deterred by the thought; Who would be interested? Surely not this present younger generation, many of whom have never seen a Legitimate Drama or Stage Show and to whom the story of the Spoken Drama is only a Legend, related to them by their Fathers and Mothers.

But then the thought would come also; That there are, perhaps, many of the older patrons of the Dramatic Stage left, and to them many of the items contained herein will revive old and pleasant memories of the times when they wended their way to the Opera House to see or hear some great star whose brilliance was of the first magnitude and whose name now rests in the Theatrical Hall of Fame.

It is to these old-timers, and to any of the younger generation who might be interested in knowing the types of entertainment that intrigued and amused their parents in the old 'horse and buggy' days in the late 90's and the early 1900's, that I dedicate these old memoirs of mine. There is no attempt to compare the merits of the olden types of entertainment with those of the present day, for, after all, that is only a matter of opinion to which everyone is entitled and which will never be settled on its merits alone. There is, however, some comparison in the patronage of the Theatres of yesterday with those of today.

CHAPTER ONE

In which the theatrical spirit is born to me and how I nourished it into being

I was born and lived in the city of Cleveland, Tennessee, until I was seventeen years of age. My parents were non-theatrical; in fact, they did not patronize the Theatre at all. [We] were all members of St. Luke's Memorial Episcopal Church that had been built and dedicated to Miss Nina Craigmiles, by her father, the late H. Craigmiles. He also built and owned the Craigmiles Opera House. My family and his were lifelong friends, and it was but natural that he often asked my sister and I to go to the shows with him. [Owning] the theatre, he would get passes to all the attractions that came our way, and my sister and I were tickled pink whenever he would ask us to share them with him. The Opera House was quite a nice building but so different from today. The floor was perfectly flat--not being ramped like the modern theatre and there was only one floor. No Balcony [or] Gallery. The Front curtain of the Stage rolled up instead of flying as they do now, and there was no such thing as drops but instead it was all flat scenery that worked in grooves in the floor and in the ceiling. In spite of its crudeness, many fine productions played there. No big extravaganzas or all-star casts but some very interesting and entertaining shows played our town, in fact more than one would suspect as Cleveland at that time boasted of only around 3,000 people. It was always an exciting event when the play-actors came to town, especially if there was a brass band with the company or if it was a minstrel company. This period was in the time when actors and actresses were frowned upon by our 'best' people and the mere mention of an actress' name brought a rise in the noses of our dear women folk and some very derogatory remarks. The average person in those days seemed to think an actor or actress was a disciple of the devil and one in which there could be no good.

To me they seemed to be creatures of another world--of supernatural as it were--and when I stood in their presence, I was awed by them and many times I had wished that I might travel all over the country as they did and be like them. Of course, I was looking only on the tinsel side of Theatrical life. Little did I know then that success in that business was attained only by hard work, self-sacrifice, and suffering and that only those possessed of great fortitude and perseverance could survive the hardships that go into the making of a star and artist.

I remember distinctly one company that played Cleveland for a three-day engagement. It was The Woodward-Warren Comedy Co. and was headed by H. Guy Woodward who played comedies, and his wife Bessie Warren who was the leading lady. The leading man, or Hero, as they were called then was none other than Charlie Middleton, a son of the late Mrs. Mary Middleton, of Chattanooga, and the Advance Agent ahead of the show was Bill Sharp, of Cleveland. Charlie Middleton is now in Hollywood working in pictures and has appeared in the support of many of the Screen's greatest stars, among them being the Late Will Rogers, the Late Marie Dressler, Harold Lloyd, Shirley Temple and many others. A peculiar co-incidence in Woodward's life was that he dropped dead while playing a Vaudeville Engagement at the Regent Theatre in Detroit, Michigan, and the spot where he fell was at the corner of Woodward and Warren Avenues. The names of streets being those of his and his wife. I was working at the Orpheum Theatre in Detroit at the time and had seen and talked to him a day or so before he died.

I will always remember the first show that I ever worked 'back-stage,' and that is really when and where the theatrical bug bit me hardest and inoculated me with a burning desire to adopt the theatre as a career. One day there came to Cleveland a company of actors and the vehicle they were appearing in was one of those very 'mellow' melodramas of rural life that were so popular in those days. It was that kind of show whose success depended on the amount of hisses the villain received and the amount of cheers the hero and heroine were accorded. This troupe carried a brass band and gave a free street parade. They were all dressed as rubes and during the parade they all scattered about the town, no two being together, yet they played in perfect unison and created quite a bit of comment. I was wild with excitement that day and hoped hope against hope that Mr. Craigmiles would ask sister and I to go with him that night but no such luck and I was beginning to lose all hope. However, I hung around the stage door all afternoon and in doing so happened to overhear one of the [company] ask the local stage manager or carpenter if he could get a couple of sheets, some pillows and a tablecloth to use in one of the scenes. [Here] was my golden opportunity--and I grasped it. I spoke right up with all the fervor of youth and said, "I'll get them for you," and was off before Mr. Duke could say no. After quite a bit of strategy on my part, I managed to purloin the aforesaid articles, for I knew it would never do to ask Mother [for] them for she did [not] lean very far toward things theatrical, so I quietly sneaked them out and over to the opera house as quickly as I could. As a reward for this service, I not only was allowed to see the show but was asked to help the stage manager work it. Oh boy, was I the proud thing. I was so excited I scarcely knew my name and could hardly wait until night came so I could begin my job.

The story of "Si Plunkard," for that was the name of the drama, had to do with the old familiar theme 'mortgage on the farm' which dad couldn't pay. You know the kind, where the villain, the village shylock, held the mortgage but was willing to 'tear up the papers' if the farmer's daughter would be his forever. The girl, of course, held no such thoughts but instead was deeply in love with a simple country boy, one poor in purse but rich in honor. We often see these plays burlesqued now-a-days and I sometimes [think] the burlesquing is not overdone for they seem so silly now and if they were played today as then I am sure the patrons would think us crazy to have enjoyed them as we did in the days now long gone. Well, the saving of the farm and the foiling of the villain carried you through two and a half hours of enthralling interest and brought hiss after hiss for the villain and cheer after cheer for the hero. Even in those days they had big spectacular effects and the piece-de-resistance of this drama was the big life-size threshing machine in full action at a threshing bee down on the farm. The climax came when the villain attempted to throw the girl who had spurned him into the maw of the big thresher but instead found himself thrown there by the hero and his trusting farm hands. It was thrilling in the extreme and literally chilled the blood in your veins.

It was my particular job to be the 'motor' or engine for this thresher and how thrilled I was to think I had such a responsible job that merely entailed turning a big crank that set in motion all the gears and gadgets that made the machine appear real and authentic. I was so excited and proud that I [clearly] forgot the tanning I was sure that I would get when I got home for taking those sheets and things without permission. But that didn't happen for I was so happy when I got home that I rather think Mother didn't have the heart to punish me.

From that time on, I hung around the opera house every time a troupe came to town hoping that something would turn up that I could help the stage carpenter with, and it usually did, for Mr. Duke took a liking to me and used me whenever he could and each new experience served only to fan the flames of desire for a theatrical career that were consuming me and it was only natural that when circumstances compelled us to remove to Chattanooga that I immediately turned all my interest to the Old Opera House, that was afterwards called the Lyric and which stood where the present Power Building now stands.

CHAPTER TWO

In Which I Begin My Real Theatrical Career

For the first year after coming to Chattanooga, I attended every theatrical performance that showed at the Opera House. I was probably its most consistent patron. Oftentimes I could not rustle up the price of a seat in the Balcony, which was my preferred place to see a show from, so I was forced to go into the gallery. There, I became acquainted with J. Will Brown, who was the Advertising Agent and Gallery doorman. I used to help him out in the rushes that were very common then, and we became fast friends. A young man by the name of Charlie Davis was 'bouncer' in the gallery at that time, and after the first year of my residence in Chattanooga, he obtained a job on the Cincinnati Southern Railroad, and Brownie gave me his job. He did this over the protest of Miss Sophia Albert, who was assistant manager of the Theatre, under her father, the late Paul R. Albert. She claimed I was one of the house's best patrons, and she did not want to lose my patronage. However, I held on, and for two years I was 'bouncer,' working for 'glory.' By 'glory-worker' is meant without pay other than to see the shows. But in my zeal to become a full-fledged theatrical man, I believe I would have paid them for the privilege of working, and this in the face of the fact that 'bouncing' in the gallery those days was no cinch but was a very hazardous job. Had I known what I learned later, I probably would have thought twice before accepting this job, but once I was installed in it, I would not have quit under fire. Don't misunderstand me, bravery or courage had nothing to do with it; I am now and have always been a confirmed pacifist, but my ardor was so keen then that I did not give any thought to the danger, though I had every reason to, for seldom did a day or night pass that there wasn't some disturbance in the gallery. Sometimes it was of trivial nature; other times they could have led to serious consequences had they not been quelled in their incipiency and in a quiet way that prevented a general panic.

I well remember one that occurred at a New Year's Matinée. The show was a Revolutionary War story entitled, "At Valley Forge." It seems that two Negro men in the reserved section of the gallery got into an argument, and one of the colored ushers attempted to quiet them and, as is the case with most peace-makers, he came out a bad second, for one of the belligerents hit him over the head with a walking-cane he had made out of a billiard cue, and it knocked him cold, and the blood spurted everywhere. Some Negro woman seated nearby shouted at the top of her voice, "fight!" Instantly, everyone rose to their feet, for it sounded on the two lower floors as if she had shouted "fire!" The house was crowded to capacity, and I immediately sensed a panic. I rushed to the front rail of the gallery and shouted as loud as I could, "For God's sake, sit down!" This took only a second or two, but to me, it seemed ages. The people hesitated, and this hesitancy broke the incipient panic. Again, I shouted, this time with an oath, for them to sit down. Everybody broke into a laugh--that did the work--in a moment, I had assured them it was not a fire but only the usual fight in the gallery, and they all sat down again to enjoy the show while we cleared the gallery of the belligerents and sent the poor usher to the doctor to have his head sewed up.

As I said before,

hardly a Matinée or night performance passed without some fracas in the gallery.

Sometimes, I was able to settle them without aid, but oftentimes I had to call on the police for aid, and there was scarcely a morning matinée at the police station that did not have a disorderly conduct in a place of public amusement case on its docket.

In the years that have passed, I often wonder how I had the fortitude to go among those four or five hundred whites and blacks and maintain order. One thing is sure: I would not undertake it today for a large salary, let alone do it for 'glory' as I did in those days.

In all, I spent nine years in that gallery. Two as 'bouncer' working for 'glory' and seven as Advertising Agent and gallery doorman, the job held formerly by J. Will Brown, and the one I inherited from him when he quit to become stage manager, or carpenter back-stage. I became so used to seeing the shows from that angle that when I was promoted to better jobs, I oftentimes found myself slipping up into the gallery to sit among my friends and really enjoy the show, for even to this day, when all is said and done, it's the gallery-gods that make or break a show. If the gods approve, it's a success; if they turn thumbs down, no amount of 'ballyhoo' will make it a success, regardless of Author, Manuscript, or Management. The old-time performer knew this better than anyone else, and it was always to the gallery-god they played their best.

Since my nine years in that old gallery, I had done most everything there is to do around a theatre and occupied every position from head bill boy and bill poster to manager of a theatre, and of all the assignments I have had, my two favorites are working back stage with a 'Stock Company' and box-office work. Working stock is so much different from the regular run of stage work. In it, you are called on to do a lot of building of scenery and properties that call for a bit of ingenuity and creative ability. There is never a dull moment while working stock; the next best is picture presentations. I have had the pleasure of working quite a long time under the direction of Mr. Emmet Rogers, whom I believe to be one of the most original and creative men in the business. He can figure out more elaborate settings and use less material in their building than any man I know, and behind every one of his creations, you can see the touch of a real artist. Some of his presentations, during the long season when Alex. Keese was the leader of the Tivoli Troubadours and master of ceremonies, were really works of art and would do credit to any theatre in the country. Mr. Rogers is a thorough master of stage lighting; he can do more with lights and lighting effects than any other man I know or ever heard of.

CHAPTER THREE

A Thumbnail Sketch of Paul R. Albert as I Knew Him

Most of the older theatre patrons will recall that the old Opera House was an upstairs house and had its main entrance on Market St. You had to go up a long flight of steps to reach the first floor, and there was only one other above the Orchestra or Parquet, as it was called then. The second floor was a combination of Balcony and Gallery. The first section of about ten rows was the balcony and back of that, separated by a wall about five feet high, was the gallery. The balcony and gallery had separate entrances so that the white and colored patrons were not forced to mingle.

This theatre was managed by the late Paul R. Albert, as fine an old gentleman as I ever knew and one of the best known and admired managers in the entire country. Honest to a fault, he oftentimes sacrificed his box office returns rather than misrepresent to his patrons the merit of an attraction he was in doubt about. Even to this day that is a rare trait among managers.

Mr. Albert was of French and Jewish extraction and was amiable to a degree. He scarcely ever lost his temper with his employees, but it was an established fact among them all that if you heard him "cussing" in French it was your cue to beat it and stay beat until things became normal again.

Few of the older patrons ever knew, and I suppose none of the present-day patrons care, but Chattanooga owes a lot to Paul R. Albert. He put Chattanooga on the map theatrically speaking. He turned a small town into a center for the greatest theatrical attractions that ever traveled. It was his efforts and his alone that brought to Chattanooga the greatest stars that ever shone in the Theatrical world. It was through him and not his patrons or the civic bodies of the city that attractions played Chattanooga that were not shown in many of the larger Southern cities. How this came about is quite a story and I will tell it as best my memory serves.

In the olden days, the booking of a theatre was a very complicated proposition. It entailed not only a great mass of correspondence but necessitated a long trip to New York where for days and days the managers were forced to go from the offices of one producer to another seeking dates for his house. This was, in the least, most confusing and resulted quite frequently in double dating or dating two attractions for the same date, thereby causing not only the loss of time but in most cases both time and money.

About this time there came into existence a theatrical firm that was destined to make theatrical history and revolutionize the industry. Into the industry came two men with a vision, Marcus Klaw and Abraham Erlanger. They formed the well-known firm of Klaw and Erlanger and conceived the idea of establishing a booking office in connection with their producing office. It was their plan to centralize the booking of theaters under one head whereby the houses all over the country could be booked quickly and without confusion and without the local managers having to make a trip to N.Y. So thoroughly was their plan developed that it was only necessary for a manager of a local house to agree to be booked exclusively by this office and that ended his booking troubles. A list of attractions would be made up with their play dates arranged so that a wide variety of attractions would be presented and the terms of percentage agreed upon. This service cost the local manager nothing, the expense of the booking consisting of a small percentage of the receipts of the traveling companies.

Simultaneously with the advent of the Klaw & Erlanger firm, a Mr. Greenwood of Texas conceived a similar plan for booking the South and he became a rival of K. & E. for the South's business. Mr. Albert knew that Klaw and Erlanger, with their big producing house, were in a better position to serve the South, so at a manager's meeting that convened in Atlanta, he made a brilliant speech to them and it was this talk and his deciding ballot that swung the business to Klaw and Erlanger and ended booking troubles of the Southern Manager. Abe Erlanger, the head of the firm, never forgot this and hundreds of the world's greatest stars showed their wares in a city that was in reality too small for them to make money in.

In the olden days, the local Manager of the Opera house or Theatre was an outstanding character. He was a type all by himself and the South has produced some of the greatest examples of the old-time manager. Among them may be listed Paul R. Albert of Chattanooga; Fritz Staub of Knoxville, the only manager to ever build a theatre and pay for it with passes; Charlie Scott of Lexington, who got in bad with the profession by posting a telegram on the box office warning his patrons to stay away from the theatre as the show was 'rotten'; Billy Sheetz of Nashville; Henry DeGive of Atlanta; Jake Tannenbaum of Mobile, of whom more humorous stories are told by the profession; and Mr. Douglas of Birmingham, who was well known in my early days as 'Old Man Douglas.'

Mr. Albert had one outstanding characteristic, at least to me, and that was superstition. I believe he was the most superstitious man I ever saw. I worked for him a great many years and he never spoke a cross word to me save once and that was prompted by his superstition. I was taking tickets on the Balcony door one night and the house had opened and there were two elderly ladies standing in the foyer and I suggested to them that they come on in and rest. They did and Mr. Albert saw them go in, he knew they had a pass, and he knew that they were the first to go in. He rushed out of the office and, oh boy, did he tell it to me. He said, "Never again let a pass go in before you take a paid ticket, we won't do any business, it's bad luck," etc. After the storm had subsided, I had to laugh for at that moment the Standing Room Only sign was in the lobby and we could not have possibly done any more business.

Another pet superstition of his was the number thirteen. The Opera House had the first electric sign to ever be displayed in Chattanooga. It was built by the Chase Electric Co. of Chicago and was quite an elaborate affair. It was customary in those days for the companies to share in the cost of the burning of the electric sign, they paying the same percentage of the cost as was their percentage of the receipts. Mr. Albert used to count the letters in the sign and if they amounted to just thirteen, he would omit or add enough letters to get away from that fatal number. I remember once when Warde and Vokes played here, Mr. Albert counted the letters in their names and found there were thirteen, and he would not allow it to burn until Chase and Co. could send him, by express, the figure "&."

Mr. Albert was a devout spiritualist, and in those days there were quite a few members of that faith here and they held many séances in which he was always very muchly interested. He was quite an amateur Hypnotist and I have acted as a 'subject' for him several times.

CHAPTER FOUR

Stars that have shown in Chattanooga

In the preceding chapter, I told how and why many of the stage's greatest stars played Chattanooga. I could name hundreds of them but it is not my purpose to bore you with such a list, so will confine myself to some of the most outstanding. Old timers will possibly recall many of these and perhaps they will revive old memories that have been shelved in this hurly-burly day and time.

• Booth and Barrett in Shakespearian Productions—having seen these two great actors is a memory I'll ever cherish.
• Joseph Jefferson in his immortal role "Rip Van Winkle"
• Madame Adelina Patti in concert
• Lily Langtry, The Jersey Lily, famous English Actress in "Mrs. Deering's Divorce"
• Madame Sara Bernhardt, the world's greatest Actress in "L'Aiglon" and "Camille"
• Stuart Robson, co-starring with William H. Crane in Shakespeare's "Comedy of Errors"
• William H. Crane, as one of America's most beloved fiction characters, "David Harum," also "Business is Business"
• Nat C. Goodwin, he of the many wives, in "The Gilded Fool"
• John Drew, the immaculate, in "The Mummy and the Humming Bird" (in this same company was the now great Lionel Barrymore, and he was a great actor then)
• Ethel Barrymore in "Cousin Kate"
• Maude Adams, America's greatest actress, in "Chanticleer" and Barrie's immortal "Little Minister"
• Frederick Warde and Louis James, co-starring in Shakespearian roles
• Richard Mansfield, with his fiery temperament, in "Monsieur Beaucaire" and Stevenson's masterpiece "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde"
• Lewis Morrison in his eternally perennial "Faust"
• James O'Neill in another perennial "Monte Cristo"
• Weber and Fields in "Higgledy Piggledy" (in this company the late Marie Dressler was co-starred; others prominent were Trixie Friganza, Edward J. Connelly, Sam Lambert, and Sam Collins)
• McIntyre and Heath, with their famous "Ham Tree" (supporting them was W.C. Fields, now Hollywood's most famous comedian)
• Lillian Russell, America's most famous beauty in "Wildfire"
• Amelia Bingham, America's first woman manager in "A Modern Magdalene." Co-starred with her were Wilton Lackaye, Henry E. Dixey, Hobart Bosworth, Madge Carr Cooke, and Ferdinand Gottschalk
• Dustin Farnum in "The Virginian" (in this company were also Wm. S. Hart, Guy Bates Post, Frank Campeau, and Frank Monroe)
• E.H. Sothern and Julia Marlowe in "Romeo and Juliet"
• Edith Taliaferro in "Polly of the Circus"
• Madge Carr Cooke, supported by Mabel Taliaferro, Ruth Finley, Edith Storey, Bessie Barriscale, and Oscar Eagle in "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch"
• Montgomery and Stone in "The Wizard of Oz"
• The Four Cohans, including the famous George M. in "Running For Office"
• Fritzi Scheff in "Mlle. Modiste"
• DeWolf Hopper, supported by Marguerite Clark in "Mr. Pickwick" (No matter what character Mr. Hopper played, he was always forced to recite "Casey at the Bat" as a curtain speech)
• Kyrle Bellew in "Raffles"
• Charles Hawtrey in "The Messenger from Mars"
• Otis Skinner in "Taming of the Shrew"
• Walker Whiteside in "The Hindu"
• Joseph Murphy in "The Kerry Gow"
• Chauncey Olcott in "Terrence"
• William Faversham in "Imprudence" and "The Squaw Man"
• Blanche Walsh in "The Third Degree" and "Resurrection"
• Viola Allen in "Twelfth Night" and "The White Sister"
• David Warfield in "The Auctioneer"
• Robert Edeson in "Ranson's Folly"
• Jeff DeAngelis in "The Toreador"
• Anna Held in "The Little Duchess" (Miss Held was reputed to always bathe in milk)
• Madame Modjeska in "Macbeth"
• Alla Nazimova (the name of her show has escaped my memory)
• Eleanor Robson in "Merely Mary Ann" with H.B. Warner, also in "Audrey"
• Richard Carle in "The Mayor of Tokio" and "The Tenderfoot"
• The Rogers Brothers in "The Rogers Bros. in Harvard" with Hattie Williams, Pat Rooney, Clara Palmer, and Pauline Frederick

Minstrel Shows

This list would not be complete without naming the Minstrels that always paid their yearly visits to our town. Heading this list is, of course, Al G. Fields, with his famous singers Jack Richards and Billy Church; Primrose and Dockstader; George ("Honey Boy") Evans; J.A. Coburn; Hi Henry; Barlow and West; Lasses White; Neil O'Brien.

And then there were several troupes of colored people that came every year. At those times, we reserved the two upper floors for colored patrons, but the lower floor was always filled with white patrons. Among them were Black Patti, Richards and Pringle Minstrels, Rusco and Holland's Minstrels, The Smart Set, Shuffle Along, Billy Kersands (born and raised on 9th St.). Billy had the largest mouth ever on a human, even larger than Joe E. Brown's.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Perennials and How They Were Received

Some of the greatest stars scarcely had an opportunity to display any versatility, as the public demanded them year after year in the same role and, in fact, would not receive them in any other vehicle other than their original. Probably the foremost example of this was the beloved Joe Jefferson in "Rip Van Winkle." Mr. Jefferson played this immortal role for years and years and paid us annual visits, and a complete sellout was always in order. I believe there are patrons in this town that have seen him in that familiar role a dozen times. Once, since I became connected with the Theatre, he attempted to bring us "The Rivals," and while a crowded house was in order, still the patrons demanded he go back to his unforgettable "Rip."

Another one, Denman Thompson, as Uncle Josh Whitcomb, in "The Old Homestead." Not in my memory did Mr. Thompson ever do any other role. He was an annual visitor to Chattanooga until he died, and it was a dead sure fact that no seat could be obtained by the time the curtain rose. James O'Neill in "Monte Cristo"—I saw him so many times that I almost memorized his part myself. I can hear him cry "The World is Mine!" right now. Rose Melville, she of the pig-tail curls, returned again and again in "Sis Hopkins," that old rural comedy with its "we'uns" and "you'uns." Its popularity lasted as long as Rose lived.

"Human Hearts"—no celebrity ever played this, but it came to us each year with the regularity of the seasons, and a sellout always greeted this heart-throb story of the village blacksmith and his faithless wife. Probably one of the most outstanding ones was Lewis Morrison in "Faust." It became quite a joke about him and his farewell tours. Mr. Morrison would come every year and his advance billing would read "Positively the last time here," "Morrison's Farewell Tour," "Goodbye all," etc., yet every season's bookings would include Lewis Morrison in "Faust."

Charles H. Yale's everlasting "Devil's Auction" was one of the earliest repeaters I have memory of. He quit coming a few years after I started with Mr. Albert, but a program in my scrap book of 1902 announces that season as being the 31st year. Can any attraction boast of that many months?

The most consistent of all the perennials was, of course, Al G. Fields and his Minstrels. He always opened our regular season; sometimes we had a supplementary season in which one or more Repertoire companies would display their wares, but the regular season was always, with hardly an exception, opened by Al G. Fields. Mr. Fields had a peculiar contract with Klaw and Erlanger, the only one of its kind in existence to my knowledge. It was agreed between Fields and the K. & E. office that no Minstrel show was to appear in the principal Southern cities either thirty days preceding or thirty days following the Fields' engagement. How he rated this agreement I do not know, but this I do know: it was lived up to by all parties concerned, and in my many years with the Theatres, as long as Fields was alive and traveling, his Minstrels were the first to play Chattanooga every season. Primrose and Dockstader's Minstrels were consistent visitors until the dissolution of their firm, and then each used to appear regularly at the head of their own companies.

CHAPTER SIX

Theatres Box-Office Returns and Performers Then and Now

You can hardly compare the Legitimate Theatres of today with those of the past, chiefly because there aren't any, that is, scarcely any left, as the Movie Palaces have superseded them just as the Automobile superseded the horse. Yet it is hard to realize that, once, with population less than half what we have now,

Chattanooga supported very well six theatres devoted to 'Flesh and Blood' attractions. Yes, there were six. Count them: The Lyric, The Bijou, The Albert, all devoted to the drama; The Majestic and Airdome presented high-class vaudeville; and The Olympia Park (now Warner) Theatre was used for summer Vaudeville and in the winter held a legitimate show now and then.

In addition to these, there were six or eight moving picture houses, but of course they were small, for the pictures were in their infancy then and the price of admission was a nickel, with an occasional film charging a dime. All of the above houses fared fairly well, and when the stars that I have named in a previous chapter came, crowded houses were the rule. And now it is hard to fill one picture house once a day with entertainment greater than ever and with stars as great and some greater, and the price of the admissions one-fifth as much. No wonder with half-full houses or empty seats the modern theatre manager grows gray so young.

I recall one week in Chattanooga in the days gone by when every theatre presented a mammoth production—and when I say mammoth, I mean just that—and everyone did great business. This particular week saw the biggest stage show ever sent into the provinces at the Albert: I refer to Gen. Lew Wallace's "BEN HUR." It played three nights and two Matinees. Up at the Bijou was "Bedford's Hope," a big spectacular melodrama featuring a race between an automobile and an Express train. Down at the Lyric was "Little Nemo," probably the biggest musical show ever to tour South, and out at Olympia Park was Blanche Bates in "The Girl From Out Yonder," produced as only David Belasco could produce it. In addition to this, the two Vaudeville houses presented their usual Vaudeville menu, and the nickel picture houses clicked on and on, and strange as it may seem, they all did good business.

Now when we condescend to lay the pictures off for a day and bring you some international star or stars, we can't fill one house. Shades of the departed Legitimate Theatre, what has happened? Any one of the above-mentioned shows would be a sensation today—and think, four of them in one week on the same days of the week and business very good.

A familiar sight in the old days and an extreme rarity today was the 'line-up' at the box office on the opening day's sale. It was the usual rule that if you did not get down real early in the morning or hire some boy to stand in line for you, you were simply out of luck. I remember two Negro boys by the names of Ike and John Beason that used to make a good living by standing in line all night before a sale and then selling their places the next morning to the highest bidder. I have seen as many as a hundred white and colored men and boys in line as early as seven o'clock in the morning waiting for the box-office to open at ten. This wasn't a novelty but was the general rule.

About the time I came to Chattanooga, there was a system in vogue called the 'turn-number' system. Persons on their way to work would stop by the box-office and receive a ticket with a number on it. Then when the office opened, they would gather outside and wait until their number was called. I stood at the outside door of the box-office and would call four numbers at a time; for example, I would call out numbers one, two, three, and four. Those holding these numbers would be admitted to the office and select their seats, eight tickets being the limit anyone could buy. Then four more numbers would be called and so on until everyone was served or the house sold out.

At this time, Joseph Jefferson was billed to play our house, and on the day of the sale, the crowd was so large and there were so many turn-numbers issued that those holding large numbers began to get impatient and finally rushed the office. The outside door was broken in and I was pushed aside, and the crowd became so unmanageable that it was necessary to turn the fire hose on them to quiet them. At this same time, a sale for Jefferson was being conducted at Nashville, Tennessee, under the same turn-number system, and the Legislature happened to be in session and many of the Senators and Representatives were unable to get seats, so they promptly passed a law prohibiting the issuance of turn-numbers. So it became necessary to either stand in line or hire someone to do it for you. How times have changed! If I were to open a sale now and found five or ten waiting in line, I don't think my heart would stand it.

When an attraction comes to town nowadays, they make a big hullabaloo about the massive production and the tremendous electric effects. With the exception of the production of "Dodsworth" with Walter Huston and "Green Pastures," there has been no outstanding heavy show here in quite a while. Big attractions used to be the rule and not the exception. Such attractions as "Little Nemo," "Bedford's Hope," "Under Two Flags," "The Virginian," "The County Fair," "The Judge's Wife," "Resurrection," "Monte Cristo," "The Ham Tree," "Polly of the Circus," "The Wizard of Oz," "Chu Chin Chow"—and well, I could name them indefinitely, but these will suffice. Every one of the above was bigger than anything we have had in late years.

I purposely left off two attractions in the above list because I wanted to describe them separately. The first and biggest was Gen. Lew Wallace's "Ben Hur"—that was the biggest thing ever to troupe the provinces. They sent a special stage crew a week ahead to prepare the stages for the immense treadmills that were used in the great chariot race scene in which eight horses raced for dear life beside each other. They also put up the giant moving cyclorama that revolved behind the Chariots, giving them the effect of moving round the great arena with its thousands of spectators.

The other show was the all-star cast of "The Two Orphans." Outside of "Ben Hur," this was the heaviest show I ever worked. They carried the original English settings for this show, and they were many and heavy. Instead of being built of light white pine lumber as is American Scenery, this stuff was made of heavy wood and was made out of two-by-fours, two-by-sixes, and two-by-eights. Every old deck hand will well remember that show and the misery it caused.

"The Two Orphans" had probably the greatest galaxy of stars of the first water than ever was carried on the road before or since. Just glance at this list and wonder how they did it—and mind you, the man got highest-priced ticket was two dollars and the Opera House was a small-seated house. Here are some of the cast: James O'Neill, who starred for years in "Monte Cristo"; Louis James, who co-starred with Frederick Warde longer than I can remember; J.E. Dodson; W.E. Bonney; Thomas Meighan, afterwards a big star in pictures; Jameson Lee Finney; Isabel Irving; Sarah Truax; Elita Proctor Otis; Bijou Fernandez; and Clara Morris. Eleven names to conjure with—any one of them would get $2.75 a seat today without trouble, and they were all in one show for $2.00 a seat.

Other big all-star casts were "A Modern Magdalene," starring Amelia Bingham, and supporting her were Wilton Lackaye, star of "The Pit" and many others; Madge Carr Cooke, who starred in "Mrs. Wiggs of The Cabbage Patch"; Henry E. Dixey, star of "The Man on the Box"; Hobart Bosworth and Ferdinand Gottschalk—both of these latter names have appeared in some of the biggest pictures turned out of Hollywood.

John Drew, featured in "The Mummy and the Humming Bird," had in his support Sir Guy Standing and Lionel Barrymore, both great lights in the cinema, and Margaret Dale, a star in her own right, was his leading lady. "Rogers Brothers in Harvard" presented such names as Gus and Max Rogers, Hattie Williams, Pat Rooney, Clara Palmer, and Pauline Frederick, who was a great screen star and who was seen last here with Helen Hayes in "Mary of Scotland."

Weber and Fields in "Higgledy Piggledy" boasted not only of the two greatest Dutch comedians, Joe Weber and Lew Fields, but also in the cast were Sam Collins, Ernest Lambert, Edward J. Connelly, Trixie Friganza, and last but far from least, the beloved late Marie Dressler. These are but a few of the big casts that came to Chattanooga in the good old days and at $1.50 and $2.00 prices with no tax included.

Another big week in Chattanooga comes to my mind, and this one happened in one theatre. In this particular week, there was a big show every day at the Opera House, each one different and of a different type. The list follows:

• Monday—Creston Clarke in "Monsieur Beaucaire"
• Tuesday—Henrietta Crossman in "All of a Sudden Peggy"
• Wednesday—Weber and Fields Company in "Hoity Toity"
• Thursday—"Way Down East" with a big cast
• Friday—Robert B. Mantell in "The Light of Other Days"
• Saturday—"Peck's Bad Boy"

Taken as they read, there was a 'swashbuckling' romantic drama, a society play, a musical comedy, a rural comedy-drama, a romance of heroic days, and a farce comedy.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Billy Climate, Jack Richards, and The Minstrels are Coming

"Al G. Fields is coming to town"—that simple announcement was enough to fill the house, for everyone knew Al, and they knew he had a good show for them, and he never disappointed an audience. Some of the greatest lights in minstrelsy got their start with Al G. Fields. Among them were Doc Quigley, he with the comedy legs, probably one of the best eccentric dancers ever; Billy Beard, that party from the south; Black Face Eddie Ross, with his banjo; Eddie Leonard, the original "Ida" singer and originator of the broken voice singing that was so imitated later; Billy Clark; and many others.

Fields himself was a great personality; he had one of the most remarkable memories ever given a man. It is said of him, and I have good reasons to believe it to be true, that he never forgot a name or face no matter how much time intervened since seeing it last. The Fields show carried more spectacular scenery than was carried by any other Minstrel troupe, and his featured transformation scenes that closed his show were things of beauty and grandeur. As many as 15 or 20 drops were used in this scene alone, and each one was a marvel of the scenic art.

Primrose and Dockstader were two Minstrel names to conjure with. Both artists in his line, they could always be depended upon to chase the worst case of blues away, and they always carried a large company of versatile performers. Primrose was the world's greatest soft shoe dancer, and his two protégés, the Foley Brothers, owe a great debt of gratitude to George Primrose, for he taught them the art of soft shoe dancing, and their greatest hit in Vaudeville was when they gave an imitation of George Primrose. Dockstader was a great black-face comedian. He specialized in take-offs on local politics and civic problems. He always sent a special agent into town a week ahead of the show to gather data for him, and the way he put the local politicians and civic enterprises on the gridiron was a thing of beauty.

Probably the most outstanding Minstrel show that ever played Chattanooga was when George ("Honey-boy") Evans brought his Honey Boys to town. He had the most expensive array of stars ever presented in a Minstrel Show. Here are a few of them: James J. Corbett, former world's heavyweight boxing champion, was his interlocutor or middle man; Julien Eltinge, the greatest female impersonator that ever donned a woman's garb, was featured, as was W.C. Fields, the world's greatest juggler and at present Hollywood's greatest comedian.

Lasses White got his chance to star as an understudy for Evans, and when Evans died, Lasses carried on for him until the end of the season and then headed his own company for a number of years after that. Lasses is now a big star on the radio and has a large following of fans.

Many other Minstrels of lesser light showed in Chattanooga, among them J.A. Coburn's, Hi Henry's, Barlow and West, William H. West, Neil O'Brien, Quinlan and Wall. There were quite a few colored Minstrel troupes, the principal ones being Richards and Pringle's, Rusco and Holland's, and Billy Kersands.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Repertoire Companies

The Repertoire ("Rip and Tear") or "ten, twenty, and thirty" Companies, so called because that was the price of admission, used to play us in flocks. They were really traveling stock companies, and they presented a new show every Matinée and Night. They also were the forerunners of Vaudeville as they carried several specialty people with them to introduce specialties between the acts, and they were also the introducers of the popular illustrated songs that had such a vogue in those days. The boys backstage always welcomed the "Rips" as, if business was good (and it usually was), the company would treat the deck hands to a 16-gallon keg of beer and eats after the last show on Saturday night. At these Dutch suppers, the members of the troupe used to do impromptu skits and otherwise entertain the boys until the wee small hours.

Prominent among the Repertoires were: Mable Paige Company, Gagnon and Pollock, Middleton Stock Co., Woodward and Warren, Myrkle-Harder Stock, Jewell Kelley, and The Payton Sisters Comedy Co. Some of the greatest stars in both the Legitimate and Pictures got their start in these traveling stock companies.

CHAPTER NINE

Oddities; Funny and Pathetic in the Box Office

I really began my box-office career under the expert tutelage of Paul R. Albert and his daughter Sophia. They taught me the rudiments of ticket selling, and as I stated in my thumbnail sketch of Mr. Albert, he was honest to a fault with his patrons, and he taught me to ever be fair with them. He used to say, "My boy, they are your bread and butter—don't bite the hand that's feeding you." I have sincerely tried to maintain this policy all my life, and I dare say there is no patron who can conscientiously say that I willfully misrepresented an attraction or led them to buy a seat to a show that I had the least doubts about.

What knowledge of human nature I may have has been gleaned from behind the bars of a box-office window. There is no place, with the exception of a ticket agent at a large railroad station, where one can have the opportunity to study human nature as in a box-office. It is there that the real self in a person comes out, and traits are exhibited that no one ever dreamed they possessed. There you are called upon to answer some of the most foolish and, may I say, asinine questions, and no one ever made a mistake save the box-office man—everyone else is right, the poor ticket seller is wrong. Well, I am a glutton for punishment, and I like it.

I have had hundreds of humorous situations as well as pathetic ones to deal with, and it is not my purpose to tire you with very many of them, so a few of the outstanding ones will suffice. In my association with the Theatre, I have had the pleasure of personal contact with many of the stage's greatest personalities, and it is around them that some of the following episodes revolve.

One of the keenest in my memory concerns the late beloved Will Rogers. It was my very great pleasure to meet him personally when he played the Bijou some seasons past with a quartette of men called The DeReske Singers. I was occupying the dual role as Manager and Treasurer of The Bijou and at that time was conducting a ticket sale for two attractions at the same time. Mr. Rogers was billed to play the Bijou on Saturday Night, and Raymond Hitchcock, another great personality, was to play in "Hitchykoo," a big musical show, on the following Monday night. People ordering seats were greeted with the usual question, "Do you want them for Will Rogers or Raymond Hitchcock?"

A day or two preceding the Rogers date, a tall, angular fellow clothed in an auto shirt or coveralls approached the window. His height brought his mouth about even with the little round opening in the box-office window. When I asked him what I could do for him, he replied, "Say, I wanna get a couple of tickets." I replied as per above, "Do you want them for Will Rogers or Raymond Hitchcock?" "Naw," he grunted, "I want 'em for myself." I nearly fell off the stool; it was with difficulty I kept a poker face and refrained from laughing in his face.

The night of the show, after I had checked up, I went back and met Mr. Rogers and had quite a pleasant chat with him in his dressing room. I told him this story and he had a hearty laugh and remarked, "Such is fame." He asked if he might use that story some time and I told him it was his to do with as he saw fit. Whether he ever told it I know not, but I do know this: I was trouping with Fred Stone and his daughter Dorothy in "Criss Cross" during the season of 1927-28, and we played Chicago for nine weeks. While there, Rogers used to come backstage and visit with his greatest friend and pal Fred Stone. One day he saw me and recognized me and, believe it or not Mr. Ripley, he remembered this story.

Another story has to do with Miss Amelia Bingham, who was the first woman producer and manager in show business. She sent us several companies and starred herself in two, to my certain knowledge. The time I have reference to was when she was starring in "A Modern Magdalene." Sometime in the afternoon, she came out to the box-office and introduced herself and asked if I minded if she came in and lolled about for a while. She said she liked to study human nature and found a box-office an ideal place to do it. I readily consented, and our words had hardly died on our lips when a man, a sort of rural type, came up to the window with this remark: "Say young feller, what's the fare?" I replied that seats downstairs in the orchestra were $2.00 and those in the balcony were $1.00 and $1.50. He hesitated a moment then said, "Humph, same show on both floors?" Miss Bingham and I had a good laugh, and she remarked, "See what I told you? I wouldn't have missed that for anything." In the late years of the Bijou's life as a Legitimate theatre, business began to wane and at times it was awful. In one of these periods came Mr. Walker Whiteside, who most probably was, at that time, America's foremost Tragedian and Romantic Actor. Critics were agreed that he was the logical successor of the late Richard Mansfield. He brought a splendid company with him and was presenting a romantic play entitled "The Hindu." On the billboards and in the newspapers was this announcement which read: "Mr. Walker Whiteside, the eminent American Tragedian in 'The Hindu,' a Romantic Play—Not a Motion Picture." On the posters was a likeness of him in character wearing the usual Hindu headdress, the turban.

A very good customer, whose name I will not repeat, came up to buy three seats at $2.75 each, and he laid down $8.25 as nonchalantly as I would a dime and asked, "Say Karl, what is this I am going to see? Is it one of those fellows that makes pianos go upside down?" I nearly died. Here was a man, known from coast to coast with relatives near and distant in Chattanooga—enough to nearly fill the house—mistaken for a mind reader or a magician, simply because he wore a turban. Mr. Whiteside spent several hours in the box-office with me and, as business was so terrible, he asked me why it was he could never do any business in Chattanooga. I related this story to him and he replied, "That's enough, it speaks for itself." Business was so bad with him that I had to identify him at the bank so he could cash his personal check for $700 to meet the weekly payroll that day.

One of the most pathetic cases I had to deal with was when "Alexander the Great," a mind reader and clairvoyant, played the Lyric during the World War. He played here a week and we did a land-office business. I noticed that every day an old lady would come up and purchase a seat in the orchestra, paying $1.65 for same. This kept up until about Thursday when I asked her why she liked the show so well. She replied that her son had gone across to France and that she had not heard from him for a long time, so she wanted Alexander to tell her where he was and if he was safe. Well, I was between the Devil and the deep. I knew that Alexander couldn't tell her any more than I could—that his performance was for entertainment purposes only—he always stressed that fact in his talks from the stage. I knew that this old lady could not afford to buy those tickets, for that last time she had to dig around in her purse and scrape some pennies together to make up the price. So I told her not to spend her money that way as Alexander couldn't tell her what she wanted to know, and would you believe it, she proceeded, in no uncertain terms, to bawl me out. That ended my efforts to sympathize with people who were foolish enough to believe such things.

Another incident that is bright in my memory is a joke that I played on the late Jim Harris, who was a captain on the police force until his death a few years back. Jim scouted the idea that Alexander could tell anyone anything about themselves, so I suggested that he write a question and put it in the box that night. He agreed to do so and remarked that he'd sure be there that night to see what Alex had to tell him. During the lull between the matinee and night show, Alex used to come out and sit in the box-office with me, and we had many a pleasant chat during that time. Well, after the matinee, I told Alex about Jim and that he was going to put a question in the box for him that night. Alex asked me to tell him all I knew about Jim, and I told him he was police captain, that he was the eldest man in point of seniority on the force at that time—that he had a finger shot off one of his hands during a pistol fight with a Negro desperado at the same time Capt. Russell was also shot in the hand and was left a cripple the rest of his life.

So that night when Alex started answering questions, pretty soon he said, "Comes to me the name of Harris, Jim is the first name." He then described Jim minutely and told him everything that I had told him. I honestly believe that Jim died believing that Alexander was a real mind reader.

It's strange how many people fall for anything mystic—no matter how educated or ignorant—the great and the small—they all fall hard and some harder.

A well-known social leader came to see Alex every day, bringing friends with them; in fact, they spent, as well as I can recall, about $60.00 for tickets that week. I related this fact to Alex, and he asked me to tell him where they were sitting that night. I described the row and seat to him, and during his séance that night he walked slowly down the aisle and when opposite this certain party he stopped suddenly and turned to the occupant of the seat on the aisle and said, "Will you please quit working? You are a psychic yourself and your thought waves are interfering with mine; please remain passive and let me work." They fell for it hook, line, and sinker and were back for every show after that.

CHAPTER TEN

THe Show Must Go On

There is an unwritten law in all forms of amusement that the show must go on. Stars may fall seriously ill or die—theatres may be partially destroyed by fire or explosion or whatever—circuses and carnival companies may have their equipment blown down, but if there is the slightest chance of repair at once, the show must go on. I have seen episodes both grave and sad that would halt any other form of business but show business. As I said, illness, accident, or death itself may overtake a star, but there is an understudy and the show goes on.

Many a bright light is hiding under a bushel in these understudies that never gets a chance to shine unless some misfortune overtakes the star; then the understudy gets his or her chance, and many a new star is born overnight by some understudy getting their chance. I have seen, on numerous occasions, telegrams bearing death messages to performers just prior to their entrance on the stage, and I have seen them go out and play their part as if nothing had ever happened. It seemed as if, spurred by the determination that the show must go on, they played their part even better than under less adverse circumstances. I have seen them exit from the stage and break down and sob as if their heart would break, only to brace up when they heard their cue and return to the stage to do some ridiculous stunt that would evoke side-splitting laughter from the unsuspecting public.

In most cases in every other walk of life, business slows up or is stopped entirely when sickness or death overtakes a principal, but not in show business—the show must go on. I have seen ropes break and scenery come crashing to the floor to be broken in many parts, only to be repaired before the next act that the show might go on.

One of the most heart-rending examples of the fortitude of performers comes vividly to my mind as I write this. A Repertoire Company, The Payton Sisters Comedy Co., played the old Opera House the first week in January quite a few years ago. They had with them the daughter of one of the Payton Sisters, a little tot of five years. She was every bit as talented as the present Shirley Temple. Her name was Baby Josephine. During their engagement, the company lived at the Tschopik House (or "Tooth-pick house" as the actors were wont to call it). The rooms at the Tschopik were heated by open grates. Baby Josephine arose early one morning before her mother had awakened. She was clad in a canton-flannel nightgown. The fire was burning brightly in the fireplace. On the mantle was a little toy that Santa had brought Josephine just a few days before. In trying to reach it, she got too close to the grate and in a second she was a mass of flames from head to foot and was burned to a crisp before her mother could extinguish the flames. The mother suffered severe burns trying to save her child. This was a terrible catastrophe, yet in spite of that, the show went on that day. With breaking hearts, that family and their associates faced an audience and played a comedy-drama. And so well did they do it that there was no one who did not know the true facts that even suspected there was anything wrong. The show went on.

Another time was when George "Honey Boy" Evans played here with his Honey Boy Minstrels for a Matinée and Night engagement. Evans seemed at his best—was never funnier—members of his company remarked what fine fettle he was in—yet Evans was dying on his feet of cancer of the stomach and did pass away a few days later in a hospital in Baltimore. Lasses White was Evans' understudy, and it was through this bit of misfortune that he got his chance. He carried on for Evans for the rest of the season and then headed his own companies for years after. Thus, the show went on.

The same ailment that took Evans caused the death of our beloved Marie Dressler. Friends close to her say that Marie suffered the agonies of death for two years. During that time, she made some of her best pictures, with a body racked with pain. Marie worked day in and day out, uncomplaining—seemingly at her best—with death ever at her elbow, beckoning, ever beckoning, and all this because a public must be amused and the show must go on.

There is a legend with the Circus that no matter how badly a performer is hurt, if they can move a muscle, they insist on walking off the scene unaided, only to collapse in their dressing room. An example of this happened a few years back at Olympia Park (now Warner). We had an outdoor attraction there each week, and on this particular week, a man who called himself "Leonda the Valiant" was appearing. His act was to ride a bicycle down a long incline then leap over a gap 20 feet wide to land on another platform from which he rode onto the ground. He had successfully accomplished this feat twice a day until the Wednesday Matinée. On this fateful day, he came down the incline as usual and across the gap, but when he landed on the other side, his front wheel crushed like an eggshell and he was catapulted over the handlebars onto the hard ground.

A fellow worker, Odo Shoff, and myself were the first to reach him. We attempted to aid him to arise, but he waved us aside and rose to his feet and walked between us to his dressing room, a distance of two city blocks, where he immediately collapsed and was unconscious for several minutes. However, he pulled himself together, and he and I went to the city [shop] where he gave the repair man minute instructions to repair his wheel. He then returned to his hotel where he remained for several weeks under a doctor and special nurse's care with a severe case of brain concussion. He was never quite the same after that accident, but he returned to Chattanooga some time later while the Fair was on and brought with him an automobile, a very rarity in those days. He established himself at the race track at the fair and hauled passengers around the track for so much a trip. People then were glad to pay to get to ride in a horseless carriage.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SUperstitions and Temperament Among the Profession

Much has been said about superstition and artistic temperament among the profession. I suppose they are no worse than people in other walks of life, but being under the limelight of publicity at all times, it is more noticeable in them than others. Performers are affected by the usual superstitions that affect us all, such as broken mirrors, black cats, number thirteen, spilled salt, etc., but there are many superstitions peculiar to the profession, and some of them are very odd and funny. To the average layman, some of these will sound absurd, but they are deep-rooted among the profession.

One peculiar one is whistling in the dressing rooms. If you want to get in bad with a member of the profession, just start to whistle in the dressing room. Don't be a bit surprised if you are thrown bodily from the room. Another seemingly 'nutty' one is passing on the stairways leading to the stage or dressing rooms. I have often seen a performer nearly miss his or her cue because someone started to pass them on the stairway. I have seen them be nearly up or down the steps only to turn and run back from where they started because a fellow member intercepted them on the stairs.

One of the oddest superstitions that I ever encountered in the profession was a pet one with a director of the Peruchi Players when they appeared several years ago at the Bijou. I was property man at that time, and this incident is well rooted in my mind. This particular Director had a horror of peacocks, either the sight of them or to hear their peculiar call. In one particular set we were making for the presentation of some play, there had to be a fire-screen. It was very important as some particular lines were spoken from behind this screen, so it could not be dispensed with. I built a folding screen and the Scenic Artist, Hugo Miller, painted a beautiful peacock with its fan-like tail spread in all the beautiful colors that distinguish this pretty bird. When the Director saw it, he raised Cain—said it was bad luck—that the company would close and would all lose our jobs. Well, it was too late to make a new one and it was so important a prop that we had to use it come what may, and believe it or not, Mr. Ripley, just two weeks from that Saturday the company closed and we were out of jobs, although prior to that we had no inkling that the company was thinking of closing. I can hear that Director saying to me now, "I told you so."

Regarding 'artistic temperament,' which I would rather call by another name not so pretty: there is scarcely a performer that is not more or less affected, especially after they have reached the heights of stardom, by this distressing fault. It is very prevalent among Grand Opera Stars, so much so that whenever a star in any other profession such as ball-players, golfers, tennis players, swimmers, etc., develops a trait of artistic temperament, they are quickly dubbed a 'Primadonna' because they are hard to handle or have a bad case of exaggerated ego. Some performers are able to control this bad fault to a great degree, but others make no such effort and at the least provocation fly off the handle and display a stubbornness and disagreeableness that would do credit to an army mule.

It has been said of the great singer Madame Adelina Patti that she would make up for the stage, dressing completely save her slippers, which she would not don until her manager had brought to her dressing room the exact amount that was coming to her for that night's performance. It is reputed that she received as much as two thousand dollars for a single night's singing, and until the last dollar of it was paid, she would not put her slippers on and consent to go out and sing.

I personally remember the late Richard Mansfield. He was, no doubt, America's greatest actor in his time. It is related of him that when he prepared himself to play a role, he studied his character to the minutest detail, visiting the public libraries, gleaning wherever he could authentic information concerning the smallest traits of the character he was to portray. When he appeared in this role, he lived his character—he was the character himself, and it was perhaps this rigid preparation that made him so sensitive to slight interruptions that would perhaps be passed over lightly by any other performer. But whatever it was, he was the fieriest-tempered man I have ever known in the profession.

I remember him in Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," and he was marvelous. All the boys on the stage knew of his peculiarities, and we resolved not to irk him if possible. All during his performance, we were quiet as mice—every time we moved someone would "shush" us, and the show came to a close without any untoward incident to mar it. I said "came to a close"—well, it got as far as the final curtain, and we were all beginning to congratulate ourselves that we had had a perfect day when, horror of horrors, the final curtain hung and Mr. Mansfield was forced to stand for possibly a full moment and bow to the audience until we could get the curtain down. I'll never forget it—I've never seen a raving maniac, but if they behave any worse, I never want to see one. He raved—he swore—he even frothed at the mouth. Never before or since have I seen such a display of temper.

It has been said of Fritzi Scheff, when she trouped in "Mlle. Modiste," that they carried a special dressing room that was portable and could be placed on the stage close to the wings. Over this dressing room door was a little sign with her name in small electric lights, and if that sign wasn't there and burning, she would throw a temperamental fit. It is a very common occasion when two or more stars of the same caliber are on the same show that fits of temperament are apt to be displayed. If the local printer where they are playing should put one name in a little bolder type than the others, then hell would break loose, and if one's name appeared in the electric sign out front and the others did not, it was nearly as much as the manager's life was worth. And woe to the stage managers who assign the dressing rooms if there happens to be only one room on the lower floor and one of the stars is forced to dress upstairs.

The most amiable star I was ever associated with or ever saw was Fred Stone; next to him in order comes the late Will Rogers, Mr. Stone's daughter Dorothy, and Miss Maude Adams. These are my favorites, and of course Fred Stone and his daughter are closer to me as I trouped with them both in "Criss Cross" during the season of 1927-28. In all the 33 weeks I was with Mr. Stone, I saw him lose his temper only once, and he certainly was justified at that time, and there were several other times he could have reasonably displayed his displeasure.

Mr. Stone, to me, is the personification of all that is good in a man, a perfect gentleman at all times; he never resorted to filth to be funny. There was never a line in any of his shows or a situation that you could not hear or see even if you were accompanied by your mother, sister, sweetheart, or wife. In Mr. Stone, there is a shining innocence—the innocence of a pure old trouper who, notwithstanding the heavy annual dirt-fall in our drama and musical comedy, still believes in Santa Claus, children, and God. He is the father of three lovely daughters, each of whom has reached stardom unspoiled by temperament.

Miss Maude Adams was in her time probably America's greatest actress, yet she was never spoiled, or at least she never displayed it in public. She was always welcomed by everyone connected in the theatres she chose to play. There was one thing she did not like, and that was commendable, and that was the profanity that is often heard around the stage. This dislike of hers was communicated to the deck hands, and her wishes were carried out, and whenever she played a theatre, it was like a Sunday school. At the conclusion of her performance, she would personally thank each stage hand and pass out to them bright new two-dollar bills. That is one time a deuce-bill was not unlucky.

As to Will Rogers, too much can't be said, but suffice it to say that he had rather be in the property room surrounded by the gang, perhaps shooting craps or indulging in some horseplay, than to be surrounded by royalty and dignitaries. He was another example of cleanliness in thought and mind, and that was displayed always in the pure simple dramas that he chose to appear in. There is no one who can say a derogatory word about Will Rogers. He was an institution within himself—an example it would be well for us all to follow.

CHAPTER TWELVE

An Olio of Various Happenings in and Around the Theatre Just as They Come to My Memory

I wonder how many of the old-timers remember the night that the Negro, Ed Johnson, was lynched on the County bridge. It is indelible in my memory and vitally affected the theatre for several days.

Rose Melville was appearing in "Sis Hopkins" the night that Johnson was taken from the jail and carried to the bridge where he was hung and his body riddled with bullets. I remember how tense the excitement was that night and how the actors were so wrought up, but the tenseness was nothing compared to the night that followed.

Miss Grace George was billed to appear that night in "The Marriage of William Ashe." Rumors began to fly thick and fast that the Negroes were going to let the Opera House get full of white people and then dynamite it, and we refunded several hundred dollars that day. As a result, only a few people, the more hardy, saw the performance that night. George Gardenhire's brother Frank was in charge of the transfer wagons that hauled the show, and the only way he could keep his Negro drivers on the job was to keep them full of whiskey and intimidate them with a revolver. A police guard surrounded the Theatre, and I remember going out on the fire-escape about nine o'clock and looking up Market Street. It looked as if the town had refugeed. Only an office here and there was lit, and when a white man did appear, he was shouldering a rifle. I carried a shotgun when I went home that night around midnight, and I was so keyed up with excitement that I believe if anyone, even a friend, had stepped out to ask me a simple question, I would have shot them. Nothing happened as the Negro population was conspicuous by their absence, and in a day or two things were normal again.

Among my first memories of the box-office was the time that George Primrose and Lew Dockstader came to the parting of the ways and dissolved their long partnership. I never knew just what the real trouble was, but the day the show played here, things had reached the point where Primrose was in Atlanta, Georgia, with an injunction against him prohibiting him from appearing in Tennessee, and Dockstader was ill in a hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, with a throat infection. The company was more or less demoralized and quite a few had quit, so it became necessary for the local stage boys to black their faces and sit in the circle in the first part to make it look like a real show. A very creditable performance was given and though an offer was made to refund tickets to any that so wished, no one took advantage of it. I don't remember how long the show continued on, but Mr. Albert refused to settle with either party that night, and we held the receipts of that performance for a long time until the courts finally settled their troubles. After that, both Primrose and Dockstader headed their own companies and both played Chattanooga several times.

George M. Cohan sent his "45 Minutes from Broadway" company headed by a famous star by the name of Corinne. While they were here, Corinne claimed to have lost or had stolen several thousand dollars' worth of diamonds. It created quite a bit of excitement around the stage. Police searched everyone on the stage from actors to stage boys, but nothing was found. It was always my belief that it was a publicity stunt, and if so, it served its purpose for the news went all over the country.

When the Four Cohans, including the famous George, played here in "Running for Office," a very spirited dispute arose between him and his father. It seems that George exited through an entrance that his father was supposed to come on stage from. This was wrong as they were supposed to be looking for each other without finding each other. As it was, they passed each other and made it look funny to the audience. This brought on a dispute that waxed very warm and ended by the elder Cohan hitting George over the head with the butt end of a revolver, cutting a slight gash in his head. The Cohans were of pure Irish extraction. They spell their name Cohan instead of the Jewish way Cohen.

It has become quite the vogue these days to give away automobiles at the theatres. I well remember the first one that was ever given away at any theatre in Chattanooga. I don't remember the make of the car, but it was given away by a combination of merchants and the drawing took place at the Opera House during the performance of "Alphonse and Gaston," a farce comedy. John Robinson's Circus was here that day and played to capacity. Notwithstanding this fact, we turned 'em away that night ourselves.

I spoke in a former chapter about the fight in the Gallery that nearly caused a panic. A situation arose at another time that was never generally known that was even more serious than the fight and would have cost many lives had it not been discovered and stopped in time. Grace Van Studdiford was playing a return engagement in "Red Feather," and the house record for attendance was broken. No colored people were admitted as we sold the entire gallery to white patrons. Some of the best people in Chattanooga sat in the gallery that night and seats were at a premium.

During the progress of the show, the janitor of the house, Frank Calhoun, happened to go into the men's room and looking down around the lavatory, he saw a thin wreath of smoke curling up around the water pipes. He came to the gallery and got me, and we went through the ushers' cloak room and through an opening that led beneath the gallery stairs. We discovered a streak of fire some four or five feet long creeping up the wooden gallery stairs. It required only one bucket of water to extinguish the fire, but had it gone a few moments longer, the entire fire department would not have been able to put it out.

It seems that when they remodeled the old house, a carpenter in sawing one of the steps to fit an offset left an opening probably an inch wide. As time went along, this hole filled up with waste matter and peanut hulls, and some cigarette smoker between the acts carelessly dropped a lighted cigarette into this opening. There it smoldered until it came to life and started on its way to destruction.

I'll never forget that night. It seemed as if the show would never end. The more I studied about it, the more nervous I got. I visualized what might have happened had it come to the worst. My wife was sitting in the very front row of the Balcony, and I sent a buddy of mine to sit in the aisle beside her with instructions that if anything happened to keep her from jumping or being forced over the rail to the orchestra row. Mr. Albert paced the office praying for the show to end, and I wore a path up and down the gallery steps doing the same thing. The janitor, Mr. Albert, and myself were the only ones that knew anything about it, and there were three happy souls when the show finally ended and the house was evacuated. Suffice to say that that hole was promptly plugged and everything else was done to safeguard against a repetition of this night's misery.

I stated above that the house record was broken. Well, it held for some time but was finally broken by Maude Adams when she played Barrie's "Little Minister." The demand for seats was so great to see her that we took the music stands out of the orchestra pit, built a temporary floor there, and installed a couple of extra rows of seats in the pit. The orchestra played before the show and between acts in the Foyer in the front of the house.

One of the most hectic engagements during the time I was associated with Mr. Albert was the coming of "The Clansman." As all former patrons well know, this great show was dramatized from the novel written by Thomas Dixon Jr., who also wrote "The Leopard Spots." It was one of the greatest sensations of all time. In fact, it was more than a sensation—it was a menace, especially in the South because of the racial prejudice it provoked, and to make matters worse, the promoters of this play used some highly sensational methods to stir up interest in its coming. They would even send emissaries ahead of the show to quietly stir up antagonism to its showing. These same methods often proved a boomerang as the showing was prohibited in many towns and cities. This fact made everyone crazy to see it in the cities in which it was allowed to play, and seats were sold out a short time after the sale opened.

Of course, no Negroes were allowed to see it, and the lines and situations were so sensationally strong that I have seen quiet and sedate patrons stand in their seats and cheer, especially in the Ku-Klux-Klan sequences. The company that toured the South the first time it was presented was very strong. There were no specially well-known stars in the cast, but it was so well balanced and each one so fitted their part that it was exceptionally well done. Many of the featured players later on became very well-known screen stars of the silent days. Among them were Charles Mailes, Violet Mersereau, Claire McDowell (the heroine of many of the popular Western pictures of those days), Virginia Alberta Lea, Franklin Ritchie, and Charles Avery. Probably what is known as the greatest silent picture, at least from a financial point of view, "The Birth of a Nation" was picturized for the screen from this play by the silent picture's greatest director, David Wark Griffith.

One of the most amusing things that ever happened, theatrically speaking, in Chattanooga was the widely heralded cornerstone laying at the Shubert (later called The Albert) Theatre, which was in the building now occupied by The Bennett Hubbard Candy Co. on 11th Street. The world's most distinguished actress, Madame Sara Bernhardt, was supposed to preside over the ceremonies. She was to appear at the old Auditorium on 9th Street that night in "Camille," and about 4 P.M. that afternoon she was to appear and lay the cornerstone.

The fact had been played up for several weeks in both the daily papers, and great preparations were made to make this a gala event in local theatrical history. How it became one of the greatest publicity flops is worthy of a pen mightier than mine; however, I will tell it as I remember it. I am sure there are many Chattanoogans left that stood that eventful day on 11th Street hoping to get a look at the Divine Sara. To those who were not there and the younger generation, this may be very interesting.

It was on March 16th, 1906. The Bijou had just been completed and opened as a legitimate theatre playing Stair & Haviland attractions for an entire week at popular prices. "The Yankee Consul," a big musical show, was at The Opera House, and the members of this company had been invited to take part in the ceremonies. The day was typically a March one; it opened mild and clear. The rites were scheduled for 4 P.M. Suddenly in the early afternoon, out of the North there came roaring one of the worst northers ever experienced in Chattanooga. Chilling rain drops that soon changed to sleet and snow began to fall and pelt the thousands that had gathered to do homage to the Divine Sara. So great was the enthusiasm and desire to see Bernhardt that most of the crowd waited nearly two hours, then half-frozen they sorrowfully wended their way home saying unpleasant things. And Sara, who a short time before was their idol, turned to clay in their estimation.

The explanation of her failure to appear was never given, but to those of us who could look behind the scenes, we knew it was another case of "Artistic Temperament"—the whims of a great actress to whom in her last years of stardom the public were but puppets. Notwithstanding the fact that she was to appear at the Auditorium that night and that hundreds had paid their good money to see her and that thousands had gathered on 11th Street to do her homage, the great Sara had an attack of temperament and preferred to rest comfortably in her private car and even refused to come out or to give a reasonable explanation of her whims and conduct.

The most amusing part about the whole proceedings, however, was the magnificent write-up of the whole affair, written in advance by one of the local papers and sold broadcast on the streets while the proceedings were supposed to happen and which did not happen. This article was well written and described minutely in picturesque words how the Chattanooga Military Band played French National Airs while the carriage bore the famous actress to the scene of the ceremonies. How she was introduced to Mayor Frierson and the Chattanooga Public. How she rose from her chair that was draped with the French Colors, etc. The manner in which she accepted the silver trowel, that was specially made by O.K. LeBron, and in words of her own language dedicated this great theatre to posterity to come. How she was presented with a gorgeous bunch of Calla Lilies and how, at the conclusion of the ceremonies, she re-entered her carriage while the band played American Airs.

All this was printed in cold black type and sold on the streets while in reality the Divine Sara rested comfortably in her private car, caring nothing for the program or the role she was supposed to enact or for the half-frozen multitude waiting to give her an ovation. I remember the mad scramble of agents of this paper as they hurried through the streets gathering up all the unsold copies of the paper that they might save face, but too many had been sold and one of them rests in my scrap-book, a prized possession of mine—a glorious depiction of something that was never depicted. A satirical article by one A.K. Kidder in the next day's paper also rests in my scrapbook, and it's a work of art.

Among the nationally known athletic stars that have been featured in shows in Chattanooga may be noted James J. Corbett, or "Gentleman Jim" as he was well known to all his following. Corbett appeared here with Honey Boy Evans Minstrels as Interlocutor. He also did a monologue in which he told of his pugilistic career. He was a very fair actor and appeared for a long time on the American Stage.

Another world's champion to appear here was James J. Jeffries, who toured the country while he was still champion in a play called "David Crockett," a story of the famous Kentucky Pioneer. He was not so hot as an actor, and the interest in him rested in the fact that he was a champion. He always gave a three-round exhibition of boxing with a sparring partner that he carried with him. The reason they would not take on local aspirants to box with him was that Jeffries was one man who could not "fake" a real fight. Should his opponent hit him a little too hard, he would wade right in, and the sparring partner always came out a bad second. Just a day or two before playing Chattanooga, he forgot himself and broke a couple of ribs and otherwise bruised one of his partners and left him to recuperate in a hospital.

Still another outstanding star in the field of sports to show his wares here on the stage was Tyrus Raymond Cobb, the Georgia Peach. Cobb has been unanimously acclaimed by all baseball writers as the greatest player ever to don a uniform, and he has set a record that will probably never be equaled, let alone excelled. He appeared here in a play called "The College Widow" and was only a fair actor. Cobb certainly knew what to do with his hands on the ball-field, but on the stage they seemed to be in his way and he never knew where to put them.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Amateurs

A story of the theatre would not be complete without a word about the Amateurs and their part in the entertainment of the patrons of the arts. In the days gone by, there were many of them and most of them were very creditable presentations. One of the perennials that was an annual event for many seasons was The TROOP "B" MINSTRELS, sponsored by the popular Cavalry troop of State Guards here.

One of their presentations in the year of 1902 comes to my memory, and in its personnel were many Chattanoogans prominent in its civic life. Some of them have crossed the Great Divide, others have removed to other fields, and quite a few remain in Chattanooga. Those that have crossed over, that I can remember, are: Strang Nicklin, M.J. Horan, Dub Henderson, Mark Hutchins, John D. Key, and Col. J.P. Fyffe. Those that have gone elsewhere are: Dr. Jack Dye, Laurence Tschopik, Fred Henderson, Billy Walsh, Harry McQuade, Sol Alexander, and J.P. Byrne. Some of those that remain with us are: Ishmael Payne, Tyler Wilson, Bill Shepard, Mell Wight, Jesse Gagahan, Bruce Freeman, and John and Billy Martin.

Another outstanding Amateur Production of the early 1900's was "Princess Bonnie," a musical comedy, produced under the personal supervision of Miss Rieta Faxon, who is now Mrs. W.H. Pryor. It was given as a benefit for the Old Ladies Home, and in its cast of principals may be noted: Mrs. L.B. Hatcher, Mrs. James A. Willard, and Miss Bessie Patten; Messrs. Jo H. Carothers, Will Shepard, Bryson Webb, Clarke E. Bradford, DeWoolford Henderson, Bruce L. Freeman, Eugene Smith. In the chorus were Messrs. Adolph Biese, Warren Dewees Jr., Richard L. Park, Albert E. Caldwell, W.F. Gates, Tyler Wilson, Edwin Pratt, Harvey Grant, J.P. Byrne, Frank Well, and the Misses Marie and Minnie Quentell, Maurine Hall, Ethel Jerauld, Louise Wilson, Mary Rossington, Florence Risley, Gussie Keith, and Laura Smith.

Then there was "Charley's Aunt," that rip-roaring farce in which Robert (Bobbie) Strauss, who afterwards turned professional and supported some of the big stars in Shakespearian productions, starred. Supporting Mr. Strauss were: Lon Clark Jr., Marion Hope, Barton Strang, Clem Finley, Mrs. W.E. Anderson, and the Misses Estelle Jackson, Gladys Brown, and Mary Key.

Then came "Professor Napoleon" with a cast of 120 persons, the largest and most ambitious Amateur attraction ever attempted. It was a musical comedy and in its cast may be noted: Miss Nina Thatcher, Mrs. Browne, Miss Georgia McMillan, Ishmael Payne, Eugene Smith, Dick Park, Charles Fouchee, Erle Cherrey, Edwin Pratt, Howard Smith, Bruce Freeman, Clifford P. Johnson, Bill Shepard, and Misses Willie Mae McIsaac, Helen Lewis, Nadine Jones, Rose Frank, Gladys Plummer, Bernice Ellis, Ada Stone, and Louise Wilson.

In the years that followed these came many annual productions sponsored by The Rotarians, Civitans, Kiwanians, and The Mystic Shrine. All of these featured the best of our local talent, and many very fine and pretentious productions were given. Among the most noted dramas were "The Man of the Hour," "The Tailor Made Man," "Grumpy," and "Daddy Long-Legs."

Following this type of Amateur presentations came the Little Theatre, and it has grown from a swaddling babe to a real healthy adult organization, and their presentations are always received with favor by a large membership clientele, and they are all well done. There have been some very ambitious undertakings by The Little Theatre Group, and so well have they succeeded that they have built up quite a large organization with their own Theatre building, which stands at the corner of Fairview and Eighth St., a site formerly occupied by number four fire-hall.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Accidents and Near Accidents

There is always potential danger lurking around a Theatre Stage, and the fact that there are so few serious accidents lies in the fact that only skilled men are allowed to work backstage and the performers are self-trained to always hold their head and keep cool in the face of some impending danger. I remember a few situations that have arisen in the local theaters as well as elsewhere. Most of them had a comic side though they might have been serious in the hands of less capable people.

A freak and funny accident occurred one night at the old Opera House during the performance by one of those ten, twenty, and thirty companies I spoke of in a preceding chapter. They were playing one of those hair-raising melodramas that were so popular then. There was a fight between the villain and hero, and the villain was supposed to stab the hero. Instead of using a "fake" knife, he used a real hunting knife that had a real keen blade. In some manner, it slipped from his hand and flew into the Orchestra Pit, hitting the Bass Violin player on the hand, nearly severing one of his fingers and cutting two of the strings on his bass fiddle.

Another time, a sand bag counterweight weighing some two or three hundred pounds fell from the fly floor to the stage below during the performance of "The Bird of Paradise." A member of the cast, a real Hawaiian, was passing underneath and the bag just grazed his shoulder. A split second sooner and it would have driven him through the floor. He was by nature a very dark-complexioned man, but he sure turned white when he saw how near the angel of death had been to him.

One of the most serious accidents to finally turn out alright was when Charlie Thompson, of Martin and Thompson, fell from the fly floor to the stage. Charlie had gone up in the flies to see the show and in crossing the bridge that leads from one side of the fly floor to the other, he stumbled or slipped on some drops that were lying folded up on the bridge and fell 32 feet to the stage below. A stage worker by the name of Carl Jaques was passing underneath, and Charlie's body glanced off Carl against a hanging drop which broke his fall somewhat, and had it been otherwise, Charlie would not be alive today. As it was, he was seriously hurt and was laid up for quite a while.

When The Peruchi Players were at the Bijou the first time, they produced a show called "The Broken Wing" in which an aeroplane crashed through the walls of a Mexican adobe hut. I was working the effect, and when the time came for the crash, I cut the rope that held the plane high up on an inclined ramp from which it came rushing down to crash through the side of the house. The rope tangled itself around my leg, dragging me across the ramp, and when it crashed through the wall, a falling timber hit the leading man on the head and knocked him out completely. However, he recovered quickly and was able to go on with the next scene. As for myself, a few lacerations of minor character and a bruise or two was the extent of my injuries.

There have been many cases of breaking ropes and falling scenery, but strange as it may seem, everyone happens to be out from under most of the time. An exception to this case nearly caused the death of George Wintz in Little Rock, Arkansas, a few seasons past. George used to bring us some very big shows, among them being "Rio Rita," "White's Scandals," and "The Music Box Revue." He was standing under a draw curtain or Traveler, as they are known on the stage, when a rope broke and the steel track in which the curtain slides fell to the stage, striking him on the head. Seventeen stitches were necessary to mend the gash that resulted.

Another near-serious accident of this sort occurred when I was trouping with Fred and Dorothy Stone in "Criss Cross." We had a big garden wall that weighed around 2,300 pounds, and on New Year's Day at the Matinée Performance in Chicago, while we were lowering this wall to the floor, all four ropes that held it broke and it came crashing to the floor. A second or two before that, some thirty or so people were playing beneath that hanging wall and had just moved down stage to allow us to make a change in the scene when down it came. Mr. Stone was the last to pass beneath it, and he couldn't have been more than a step or two from under it. When I realized what might have happened, it made me real sick to think of it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Beginning of the End of the Legitimate

How well do I remember the showing of the main thing that was to take the place of the Legitimate Theatre—The Moving Picture. Of course, there are other contributory causes to their passing; the Automobile is another of the principal things, for the owning and operation of a car takes up the part of the budget that was allowed for amusements. Another cause was the mediocre quality of the average show that went South in the last years of its life. People were compelled to pay high prices for companies of mediocre talent, boosted by a record of a long run in New York. Then the advent of the "Talkie" capped the climax, for you not only saw the action but heard the voice of the world's greatest stars at a fraction of the cost that it would necessitate to bring them here in person.

As I said, how well I remember the first movies. Quite a while before Mr. Howell Graham built his first Theato, and by the way, few people realize that Chattanooga was the second city in the entire South to have a picture theatre, Birmingham having the first. Mr. Graham lived in Birmingham, and when the first one was established there, he saw its possibilities but thought that Birmingham would not support two houses, so he came to Chattanooga and built the first movie theatre in the city. This was called The Theato and was located where the State Theatre now stands, next door to Luther Williams' "Rosebud" Saloon, that flourished in the days before prohibition.

Well, quite a while before this all happened, there were two men, Archie L. Shepard and Lyman H. Howe, who had several companies on the road presenting Moving Pictures. They necessarily carried all the equipment with them as no houses were so equipped yet. Instead of Electricity, the light for the Picture machine was derived from a chemical and was called "Calcium." The subjects shown were of necessity very short ones, as the connected story was not born yet, and consisted mostly of short comedy sketches and events similar to the news reels of today—in fact, that was the birth of the news reel that has become so popular. There were no sub-titles in those days, and you had to refer to a printed program to know what you were seeing.

I well remember how they ballyhooed a certain film then—how they spoke of its tremendous length of 600 feet (a news item today sometimes runs over that), and this same 600 feet of film was supposed to depict the life of Marie Antoinette. This film was, by the way, the first colored picture ever shown, the pictures then being colored by hand. Little did one think, as they looked at those flickering, jumping pictures, that a giant was born that was destined to be among the first four ranking industries of the world.

And as we look at the marvels that unfold to us now, we wonder what will be the entertainment of the future. Will it be television, or will the spoken drama rise Phoenix-like from its ashes and once more future Booths and Barretts tread the Thespian Boards and all the mystery and glamor of the stage intrigue and entertain the generations yet to come?

A Personally, I can't help but think that, in some form or other, the flesh and blood will supersede the Robot and machine and the pendulum will swing back to the drama. These things run in cycles, and as the drama survived the ages from the Ancient Greek and Roman Theatres or Arenas until the present day, I still believe that the spirit of the Drama is not dead but sleeping. The interest taken in the Little Theatres and the dramatics in our schools will suffice to keep alive the spark of life until such time it will awaken in its new and probably more gorgeous dressing.